Reluctantly, the woman in red nodded and took a seat; her companions followed, and Valder, too, sat down.
“I am Sadra of Pethmor, Pethmor being the rightful capital of all Ethshar. We have come seeking your help.”
Valder interpreted this to mean that Pethmor was indeed one of the Small Kingdoms. Most of them claimed to be the ancient capital. “What sort of help?” he asked.
“We came to Azrad’s city to find someone who might be able to help us, and two men there told us where you might be found. They said that you were the greatest fighter that had ever lived, that you had slain a northern demon in single combat. Is this true?”
“No.” Valder was reluctant to elaborate. “No?” Sadra was taken aback. “But you are Valder of the Magic Sword? They swore...”
“They swore? What did they swear?”
“One of them swore that you had slain a demon...”
“Oh. Well, yes, I did kill a shatra, which is half demon, but I’m hardly a great fighter. I had a magic sword.” It seemed unwise to mention that he still had the sword and that it was in fact hanging in plain sight not ten yards away.
“Ah. The sword is gone, then?”
Valder shrugged.
“Of course it is, or you would not be an innkeeper — but perhaps you could get it back? Or perhaps you might help anyway?”
“You still haven’t said what sort of help you want.”
“Oh, it is quite simple. There is a dragon, a rather large one, that has been scorching the fields...” Again, as seemed to be a habit with her, she let the sentence trail off.
“You want me to kill a dragon for you?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Valder put his palms on the table as if to rise. “I’m sorry, Sadra, but I can’t help you. I wouldn’t stand a chance; the only time I ever fought a dragon single-handed, I wound up running for my life.”
“Then you have fought dragons before?”
“Just a little one and, I told you, it almost killed me. I will not fight your dragon for you. Talk it out of burning your fields, or hire a dragon-tamer from the city, if no one will fight it. Now, will you have supper here, or a room for the night, or will you be going?”
The party from Pethmor stayed for supper and for the night, and for breakfast as well. Sadra made several more attempts to enlist Valder as a dragon slayer, but without success.
In the morning, as she was about to depart, Sadra stopped and turned back. “Selmer told me you were a hero,” she said. “That you would be glad of an excuse to give up this dreary inn. I think he misjudged you badly.”
Valder nodded agreement. “I think you’re right. I like it here.”
Sadra nodded in turn, plainly disgusted, and left.
Valder thought that was the end of the matter — until the next party turned up, trying to recruit him. This group was not after a dragon, but intended to loot the ruined cities of the north and wanted to hire Valder as a guard. A few surviving shatra were said to linger still amid the ruins, and what better protector could they have than the only man who had ever slain one in fair fight?
Valder got rid of them politely and marveled at how nobody acknowledged the part the sword’s magic had played. They all credited him with far more prowess than he actually possessed. They wanted to believe in heroes, not ordinary, everyday magic.
Valder was no adventurer, no great warrior; he was just an innkeeper and glad to be one. He said as much to anyone who asked. Yes, he had a magic sword once, and yes, he had killed a shatra with it, and yes, he even admitted to having served as an assassin when that story finally surfaced — but all he was now was an innkeeper.
That was what he told the doddering wizard who wanted to hire him to fetch the ingredients for a certain unspecified spell and what he told the self-proclaimed mercenary captain who was trying to raise a company of war heroes to fight in the continuing border squabbles in the Small Kingdoms. From what Valder had heard from his guests, these little conflicts were too small to be considered real wars. The “captain,” who had never risen above sergeant in the Great War, believed a small group of experienced men could make a big difference. Valder suspected he was quite correct in that, but was not interested in being one of those men and said as much.
He liked being an innkeeper. He enjoyed hearing his guests talk of their travels, their hopes, their goals. He enjoyed seeing the weary to bed, feeding the hungry, and serving drink to the thirsty, and watching their faces relax as their problems faded. As an innkeeper, he took no great risks. True, he made no great gains, but that did not bother him. He had not killed anyone since the end of the war, nor had anyone seriously attempted to kill him — he discounted a few drunken threats from men who could barely stand, let alone fight. The worst problem he ever confronted as an innkeeper, once he had found reliable suppliers of food and drink, was an occasional boisterous drunk, and the one advantage he saw in his growing fame as Valder of the Magic Sword was that troublemakers who had heard of his reputation avoided him. As the inn’s proprietor, he was his own man; admittedly, he took orders from his customers, but only when he chose to. It was nothing like the military.
Yes, he liked being an innkeeper. It was infinitely more enjoyable than being an assassin or an adventurer. He preferred Wirikidor over the mantel, not on his belt. He had to repeat this often. The talkative Selmer and the various guests who had overheard his conversation with Sadra or with others who had tried to coax him away spread his fame far and wide. In general, Valder did not mind; he rather enjoyed being famous and suspected that his reputation drew business that might otherwise have passed up the Inn at the Bridge in favor of other, newer inns that had sprung up along the highways.
He turned down offers that ranged from dull and dangerous to downright bizarre, requests for aid from silk-robed aristocrats and starving children — the latter leaving disappointed, but always well fed. He refused to rescue princesses, slay dragons, depose tyrants, locate lost siblings, kill pirates, loot tombs, battle wizards, terrorize witches, dispose of demons, settle boundary disputes, and search for everything from ancient magical treasures to a missing cat. Whenever possible, he tried to suggest someone who might serve in his stead. He was dismayed that, even safely sheathed, Wirikidor was still affecting his life.
He suspected that nobody ever believed him when he said that he enjoyed innkeeping, that many thought him a coward or a fraud. When a messenger from Gor of the Rocks came to ask if he had reconsidered his retirement, Valder turned him down politely, as he had all the rest, and was relieved when the man departed peacefully, apparently convinced that Valder was a harmless coward.
Nobody, not even Tandellin, believed that all he wanted was to be an innkeeper, but it was the entire truth.
CHAPTER 23
The Inn at the Bridge flourished. Valder flourished with it, and in fact all the world seemed to be doing well once the initial confusion had passed.
In 5000 the three overlords of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars announced that the last northern stragglers had been eliminated and the last vestiges of the Empire destroyed. In celebration, the annual Festival that began 5001 ran for seven days instead of the traditional five. A few realists pointed out that this corrected astrological errors resulting from wartime neglect of the calendar, but they were generally ignored in the widespread merry-making.
That was the year that Valder finally got glass panes in all his windows.
In 5002 the northern territories surrounding Sardiron of the Waters refused to acknowledge the rule of the Hegemony when tax collectors came around. Instead they set themselves up as an array of baronies under the erstwhile officers of the occupying armies, with a high council meeting at Sardiron itself. The triumvirate, well aware that the people of the Hegemony wanted no more war, did nothing about it. The rumor circulated that Azrad and Gor had decided to wait, outvoting Anaran, in hopes that the baronies would tear themselves apart in petty rivalries as the Small Kingdoms had done, allowing the Hegemony to move in and pick up the pieces. If the rumor was true, this appeared to be a miscalculation; no reports came of internecine strife in the north. Instead, caravans came down the highways and barges down the Great River, filling Valder’s guest rooms and his purse.