“Fascinating, my good man,” said Jeffers, slowly moving his hands to strike at a number of imaginary weapons. “I do appreciate the instruction.”
“If you two are quite finished playing children’s games,” interrupted Praxle irritably, “I wish to find us some good lodgings that provide strong drink, good food, and a large, hot, soapy bath.”
“Lead on,” said Teron.
Praxle stomped off, followed by Teron with his cat, and Jeffers, who continued to practice martial arts in his mind.
With a relaxed sigh, Praxle climbed out of the brass bathtub. It had been designed for someone of larger size, so he had to climb awkwardly over the edge, but the inconvenience was a small price for being able to float in steamy hot clove-scented water until his skin was bright red all over.
He dried himself off and dressed in the new attire he’d purchased earlier that day. Bright red breeches, a gold tunic with puffy sleeves and black highlights: bright and cheery attire to buoy his mood. He was determined to have a good time tonight, to forget that some damned Cyrans stole his relic, that some damned Aundairians hid it from him for decades, and that some damned Thranes stole it from his people years before that; he was determined to enjoy his bath and his dinner and his drinking despite the fact that he’d be dining with an Aundairian monk in an establishment that served Cyran dishes located in the very heart of Thrane itself. And, as he slid the silken tunic over his bare chest, the caress of the cool fabric on his overheated skin succeeded, for a moment, in eclipsing all other considerations.
He walked into the common area of their room. Jeffers sat at the table writing a letter, attired in his usual dapper but nondescript clothing. Teron, dressed in new but plain trousers, soft boots, and a sleeveless leather vest, looked out the window, arms crossed.
“I …” pronounced Praxle loudly, “am ready!”
Jeffers nodded deferentially. Teron remained at the window.
“Well, then, monk, I rather liked that peasant shirt, though it was too large. But the women are going to fall out of their bodices after one look at you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Teron.
“What do you mean, ‘What do I mean?’ Look at you. Thin, agile, muscles like a Valenar stallion …” he stopped short as Teron turned around. “Yipe, hold on there, monk!”
“What?”
“Clean up your face. You’ve a big smear of blood where that Thrane cut you.”
Teron raised one hand to his injured cheek. “I must have reopened it when I washed.”
“Jeffers,” said Praxle, snapping his finger. “See to it. I’m starving.”
Jeffers acquired a large ceramic bowl of hot water and a clean rag. He daubed at the blood, cleaning the skin as well as the wound itself, until all that was left was a red slice across Teron’s cheek and its partner nick just above the tip of his nose.
“Would you like me to stitch those closed, Teron?” asked Jeffers.
“Don’t bother,” said Teron. “I’ve suffered worse.”
“It will be less likely to scar if I do,” persisted Jeffers.
“I won’t notice one more scar.”
“So I see,” said the half-orc, casting an eye down the various pale lines that marred Teron’s sun-darkened arms.
“All right, monk,” said Praxle cheerily. “You’re looking almost civilized. Let’s go.”
The gnome led them out of their rooms and down the hall to the large staircase. “You’ve probably never been to a popular guesthouse before, have you, monk?” Hearing no answer, he continued. “You’re in for quite a treat. The people were fascinating. It’s like watching a herd of sheep all milling about, each thinking that it’s the bull ram. Or maybe wolves. Depending on the mood of the evening, and the quality of clientele, a pack of wolves might be more appropriate.”
The trio descended the staircase. “But remember,” added Praxle, lowering his voice to avoid attracting the attention of the others in the lobby, “we’re in Thrane now, I’m guessing that you were only in Thrane as part of the Last War, right?”
Teron nodded.
“Well then, let me be the first to educate you, monk. Thrane is the bastion of the Church of the Silver Flame, the beacon that will change the world, or so they think. The church is stronger here than the entire Sovereign Host is in Aundair. Everyone in the country sees themselves as a warrior-proselyte with a divine duty to usher in a new age.”
The threesome exited the inn. The nighttime streets in this area of town were well illuminated by everbright lanterns and light spilling from various restaurants and inns. The sounds of merriment washed into the streets from a dozen establishments.
“So you’re saying that they’re a bunch of violent heathens,” said Teron.
“Well, in essence, yes. I’m also telling you to keep calm. We got lucky with those guards in Daskaran that there was no one else around, monk. You need to rein in that temper of yours or the whole town will turn on you. Understand?”
“I will be as a flower in the breeze.”
“Fine,” said Praxle. “I just hope you’re a flower that didn’t leave too many other Thranes remembering your face.”
As they continued down the street, Praxle gestured to one particular establishment. “There it is, the Phiarlander Phaire,” said Praxle. “It was recommended for its good food and bolsterous atmosphere.”
Jeffers walked over and opened the door for the others. Inside, the common room was crowded and noisy. Every table was filled. Teron turned to leave again, but Jeffers gently restrained him.
After a brief scan of the room, Jeffers pointed out a table currently occupied by two half-elves obviously deep into their cups. Praxle nodded. The half-orc led the small gnome toward the table, plowing a clear path for the small illusionist through the careless throng. Teron walked just behind.
As they closed, Praxle cast a spell, conjuring an illusion of a very attractive pair of elf women. He sent the illusion walking around the table. The two drunkards looked up, and the illusory elf maidens winked bawdily and headed for the stairs in the rear. The men stumbled out of their chairs and staggered after them.
“Well, then, here we are,” said Praxle as the threesome took their seats at the vacant table.
After several minutes, a young lass with thick auburn hair stopped by the table. She smiled and brushed a lock of sweaty hair from her face, pulling it behind her ear, “May I help you, gentlemen?” she asked, her voice brassy with the need to speak loudly.
Praxle nudged Teron beneath the table, then remembered that the monk probably had no idea what to say. “Bring whatever the kitchen has the most of,” he said, “and bring it fast. We’re famished. I’ll have a tall mead. What about you, monk?”
Teron shook his head and waved off a drink. Jeffers ordered a tankard of ale.
As the young lass departed, Praxle rounded on Teron. “What’s the matter with you, monk?” he asked incredulously.
Teron looked genuinely confused. “What?”
“That tawny young filly thinks you’re the dragons shard, and you didn’t give her two blinks! You didn’t see that?”
Teron crossed his arms and glowered.
“Her smile brightened like the sun coming from behind the clouds when she laid eyes on you. The intense eyes, unshaven face, fresh scar worn raw, she senses you’re a dangerous and exciting man, I’d wager.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does,” countered Praxle. “Her hair was in her face when she came to the table. She saw you, and pulled it back. Only on the side facing you, I might add. And she used her tray to hide a stain on her apron.”