Father Pelletyr smiled and nodded. As a priest of the Cormyrean Synod, he was celibate, an obligation
he took as seriously as his vows of poverty and abjuration of the shedding of blood. But he was a goodly man by nature, and polite.
"It is good to see you allowing the feminine part of you to come to the fore, Zaranda Star," he said.
Stillhawk, who stood brooding by the dark fireplace, greeted his employer and comrade-in-arms with a nod, which she returned.
She smiled at the priest. "Thank you, Father. It's an indulgence I enjoy as well, although I have little oppor-tunity for it on the road."
She walked to the chair at the table's head. The priest's face fell as he noticed the dagger—with jeweled hilt but eminently businesslike blade—that she wore in a gilded sheath at her girdle.
"Ah, but can't you lay aside the implements of war, even for a moment, even in the shelter of your home?" he asked sadly.
"Such implements won me this house, Father," she replied, "and guard it still—as well as my guests within."
"When you have traveled a bit farther with Zaranda Star, Father," a voice said from the doorway, "you'll re-alize she seldom strays far from her lethal toys."
They turned. Farlorn had arrived, fashionably late, dressed in silken hose and velvet doublet with puffed-and-slashed sleeves, all in shades of dark green, as was his wont. He was a figure of striking elegance, with his hair hanging in ringlets to his shoulders and his yart-ing slung over his back. He walked to the foot of the table, unslung his yarting and rested it against the table, then flung himself into a chair.
"The battle-axes crossed beneath the ancient shield on the wall, the boar-spear over the fireplace . . .
I've not guested in our hostess's hold before, yet I can as-sure you, none of these is purely for show,
Father."
Pelletyr shook his bald head sadly. Zaranda smiled a slight smile and gestured. Flames roared suddenly to life in the fireplace. The father jumped, then looked sheepish.
"The beasts are tended, the men fed," Zaranda said. "Shall we be seated, gentlemen?"
They sat. The door to the kitchens opened. The bug-bear bustled in, wearing a leathern apron and carrying a tray laden with silver bowls and a great tureen of steaming soup. Father Pelletyr's eyes bugged slightly, and Farlorn stiffened, one fine hand straying to the ball pommel of the dirk he wore at his own hip. Stillhawk showed no sign of reaction to the huge creature's ap-parition.
"I swear, Zaranda, those men of yours eat like a herd of dragons," the bugbear rumbled as he set the tureen down in the middle of the table and began to distribute bowls. "That's the reason soup is late, in spite of all my efforts."
"I don't believe dragons come in herds, Gisbertus," she said with a smile as he began to ladle out portions. "And you're my chamberlain and chief steward. Don't we have under-servants so that you need not serve us with your own hands?"
The bugbear tut-tutted and shook his head, making his bat ears wag. "Not one of them could be trusted not to spill soup all over that stunning gown, Zaranda, not a solitary one. You cannot conceive how hard it is to come by competent help these days. They're all fearful of bandits—or eager to run off and become brigands themselves. The cook took off a fortnight ago, and the best replacement I've yet turned up scarce knows a gar-lic clove from a common thistle, so I've to oversee the cooking in addition to all my other chores."
Father Pelletyr glanced up sharply, having found something even more alarming than the immediate presence of a monster in an apron. "Are we liable to at-tack here?"
The bugbear's eyebrows crawled up its flat skull. "Good heavens, no, Father! This is Zaranda Star's house. None would dare attack it, never knowing when she might return to avenge such a slight." And he turned and went out with the empty tray.
"Not to mention the fact that the premises are guarded by a bugbear," Farlorn murmured. "How did you manage that, Zaranda?"
"Gisbertus? Oh, he's harmless. He's been with me forever." She attacked her soup with her customary ap-petite.
Seeing that no further explanations were forthcom-ing, Father Pelletyr picked up his own spoon. "How is it that you came to forswear the practice of magic, Zaranda?" he asked.
"The practice of magic?" She glanced up from her own spoon. "I never did, Father."
"I realize that, child; I saw how you lit the fire, and I've seen you in action. Let me say, the study, then?"
She shrugged. "Too sedentary a life. I like being able to stretch my limbs betimes."
"Few even attempt the transition from the way of the wand to the way of the sword."
"It's never been my ambition to be like anybody else, Father."
Gisbertus came back, bearing small fowls baked in clay vessels. These he cracked open with deft strokes of a mallet, leaving neither shards nor dust, then served out the steaming birds.
"What are the tidings, Gisbertus," Zaranda asked, "aside from the difficulties entailed in keeping a domes-tic staff?"
"Banditry on the rise, and the roads are nowhere safe. Your larger inland cities yet harbor dreams of con-quest, but after the fall of Ithmong's tyrant Gallow-glass, they've grown quite circumspect. And from Zazesspur comes great talk of restoring the monarchy."
Zaranda laughed. "I asked for fresh tidings, Gisber-tus, not the same news as last time I visited, and the time before."
The bugbear sniffed, tucked the serving tray be-neath his furry arm, and rose to his full height, endan-gering the age-blackened timbers of the high ceiling. "The change winds are blowing, Zaranda, mark my words. From every street corner in Zazesspur, halflings preach redistribution of the wealth while the Earl Ravenak preaches the expulsion by force of all nonhu-mans from the land. Bands of darklings ravage the streets by night, fell creatures who spring from no-one-knows-where to sow terror and dismay."
The bugbear hugged himself and shivered as if to a thrill of horror, eliciting wide-eyed glances of surprise from Farlorn and Pelletyr and, perhaps, the flicker of a smile from Stillhawk.
"The people cry out for a strong man, a Man on Horseback to bring order from chaos."
Zaranda laughed and flared the nostrils of her aris-tocratic but somewhat skewed nose. "Such a man is like a shooting star: he may portend great fortune or may crash through your roof." She picked up her fowl and tore at it with strong white teeth, and no great dainti-ness. "I've seen more roofs in need of mending than folk blessed with fortunes fallen from heaven," she added, chewing thoughtfully.
"Nonetheless," Gisbertus said huskily, "great things are expected from Baron Faneuil Hardisty. He himself seems one of those so blessed. Or so I hear it said. He's the man, not just for Zazesspur, but for all Tethyr. Or so the travelers say."
Zaranda put down her bird and gave him a look of surprise. "Oh, so? Such talk might have gotten a body torn asunder by a mob not so many years ago."
"The change winds, Zaranda. They blow and blow."
"Ah, well." She shrugged and picked up her fowl again. "Air grows stale where no winds blow, as water grows stagnant where there's no flow. Though I've no love for men on horseback, myself."
The bugbear went out again.
"Your help is rather familiar," Farlorn said.
"He's pretty much all the family I have—save my comrades of the road." She glanced at his plate. "You're picking at your food. If you don't want it, I'll take it."
Farlorn's laugh sounded a trifle forced. "Oh, no you don't, Zaranda. It's just that the presence of such a fell creature throws off my appetite."