The minstrel said, “Greetings, Geoffrey. These are companions of mine.”
Geoffrey took Laurie by the elbow and guided him to a table near the bar. “Your companions are as welcome as yourself.” He seated them at the table and said, “Pleased as I am to see you, I wish you had been here two days ago. I could have done with a good singer.”
Laurie smiled at that. “Trouble?”
A look of perpetual trial crossed the innkeeper’s face.
“Always. We had a party of dwarves through here and they sang their drinking songs all hours. They insisted on keeping time to the songs by beating on the tables with whatever was at hand, winecups, flagons, hand axes, all in complete disregard for whatever was upon them. I’ve broken crockery and scarred tables all over. I only managed to return the common room to a semblance of order this afternoon, and I had to repair half of one table.” He fixed Roald and Laurie with a mock-stern expression. “So don’t start trouble, like the last time. One ruckus a week is plenty.” He glanced around the room. “It is quiet now, but I expect a caravan through at any time. Ambros the silver merchant passes through this time of year.”
Roald said, “Geoffrey, we perish from thirst.”
The man became instantly apologetic. “Truly, I am sorry. Fresh in from the road and I stand jabbering like a magpie. What is your pleasure?”
“Ale,” said Martin, and the others echoed the request.
The man hurried away, and returned moments later with a tray of pewter jacks, all brimming with cool ale. After the first draught of the biting liquid, Laurie said, “What brings dwarves this far from home?”
The innkeeper joined them at the table, wiping his hands on his apron. “Have you not heard the news?”
Laurie said, “We’re just in from the south. What news?”
“The dwarves moot at Stone Mountain, meeting in the long hall of Chief Harthorn at village Delmoria.”
“To what ends?” asked Arutha.
“Well, the dwarves through here were up all the way from Dorgin, and from their talk it’s the first time in ages the eastern dwarves have ventured up to visit their brethren in the West. Old King Halfdan of Dorgin is sending his son Hogne, and his rowdy companions, to witness the restoration of the line of Tholin in the West.
With the return of Tholin’s hammer during the Riftwar, the western dwarves have been pestering Dolgan of Caldara to take the crown lost with Tholin. Dwarves from the Grey Towers, Stone Mountain, Dorgin, and places I’ve never heard of are gathering to see Dolgan made King of the western dwarves. As Dolgan has agreed to moot, Hogne says it’s a foregone conclusion he’ll take the crown, but you know how dwarves can be. Some things they decide quickly, other things they take years to consider. Comes of being long lived, I guess.”
Arutha and Martin exchanged faint smiles. Both remembered Dolgan with affection. Arutha had first met him years ago when riding east with his father to carry news to King Rodric of the coming Tsurani invasion. Dolgan had acted as their guide through the ancient mine, the Mac Mordain Cadal. Martin had met him later, during the war. The dwarven chief was a being of high principle and bravery, possessing a dry wit and keen mind. They both knew he would be a fine King.
As they drank, they slowly discarded their travellers’ accoutrements, putting off helms, setting aside weapons, and letting the quiet atmosphere of the inn relax them. Geoffrey kept the ale coming and, after a while, a fine meal of meats, cheeses, and hot vegetables and breads. Talk ran to the mundane, as Geoffrey repeated stories told by travellers. While they ate, Laurie said, “Things are quiet this night, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey said, “Yes, besides yourselves I have only one other guest.” He indicated a man sitting in the corner farthest from them, and all turned in surprise for a moment. Arutha motioned for the others to resume their meal. All wondered how they had failed to notice him there all this time. The stranger seemed indifferent to the newcomers. He was a plain-looking fellow, of middle years, with nothing remarkable about him in either manner or dress. He wore a heavy brown cloak that hid any chain or leather armour he might be wearing. A shield rested against the table, its blazon masked by a plain leather cover. Arutha became curious, for only a disinherited man or one on some holy quest would choose to disguise his blazon - among honest men, Arutha added silently. He asked Geoffrey, “Who is he?”
“Don’t know. Name’s Crowe. Been here for two days, coming just after the dwarves left. Quiet sort. Keeps to himself. But he pays his bill and makes no trouble.” Geoffrey began clearing the table.
When the innkeeper was gone to the kitchen, Jimmy leaned across the table as if to reach for something in a pack on the other side and said quietly, “He’s good. He makes no show, but he is straining to hear our conversation. Guard your words. I’ll keep an eye on our friend over there.”