[Meetings 02] - Wanderlust

by Mary Kirchoff; Steve Winter - (ebook by Undead)

  "What's that?" Tanis peered closely at Flint. "That's not a raisin bun, is it?"

  "Want one?" answered Tas. He reached into his pouch and produced another of the sticky buns and handed it to Tanis. "Don't wolf it like Flint," he cautioned. "They're a little dry."

  Tanis looked from Flint's sheepish face to Tas's satisfied one, then snatched the sweet from the kender's hand. "Let's go, before you two eat me out of house and home."

  "I found enough to keep us going for at least a couple of days," Flint told him. "But what about my things? Did you remember my warm hat? How about those woolen socks that fit so nicely inside my leather hiking boots? And what about my axe?"

  Tanis clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I got everything." He held out a pack containing the items Flint had asked for, including the dwarf's beloved old axe. Over the years, its smooth wooden haft had developed two grooves in the shape of Hint's meaty hands; it was as comfortable in his grip as a pair of old shoes on his feet.

  Anxious to be on the road, Flint took up the pack and the axe and marched toward the door, then suddenly looked apprehensive as he remembered something. "What about Selana? Did you see a tightly hooded woman with unusually pale skin anywhere?"

  Tanis shook his auburn head. "I saw no one."

  Flint looked measurably relieved, and the tension seemed to slip from his thickset shoulders. "Wonderful. Now maybe we'll see some good luck for once." Settling the blanket pack into a more comfortable position, Flint opened the half-elf's front door and called to his companions over his shoulder as he stepped over the threshold. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll be coming home," he said, popping the last bite of raisin bun past his lips. Flint turned back around to watch his step. Suddenly, bits of dry, sticky bun flew out of his mouth with a gasp of surprise.

  "Hello, Master Fireforge," said the extremely fair-skinned, green-eyed woman in the blue robe, wisps of whitish hair escaping the confines of her cornflower-colored scarf.

  "I've been looking for you."

  PART II

  Chapter 7

  The Crashing Boar

  The paunchy human born Waldo Didlebaum some thirty-five years earlier, took pride in his ability to recognize and seize opportunity. Consider his newest occupation, now barely twelve hours old—prognostication. Actually, it had a lot in common with his previous profession, which lasted two weeks: barding.

  Both had potential for great prestige and an accompanying lifestyle; they sometimes secured wealthy patrons or received court appointments. At the least they made good money in the streets and inns among the common folk. A comfortable life was all Waldo sought. After all, wasn't that his right?

  The avaricious former pickpocket/juggler/brick-maker/sailor/blackmailer had recently entered the bard's profession after seeing a smartly dressed bard perform to rave reviews and bags of coins at Thelgaard Keep in the north. Waldo was newly employed there (and underutilized, in his humble opinion), as third household steward. He saw the position as a temporary setback, the result of some bad judgment and even worse luck as a blackmailer—he'd put the squeeze on the burgher of Clonnisborough over a romantic indiscretion, only to discover the man was also the overlord of the most ruthless smuggling ring in Solamnia. In the interest of prolonging his life, Waldo had dropped everything and fled to Thelgaard.

  For all the years of his common life he had watched with envy the deference granted to those of noble birth. To simply dress and speak like nobility might get him the respect he desired; unfortunately, respect doesn't fill a man's empty belly. But professional respect, coupled with high financial rewards, Waldo had thought, would give him all that he desired from life.

  Some fancy clothes, a high-falutin' name, and a story or two, he decided, were the only requirements for a successful career as a minstrel. That very night Sir Delbridge Fidington was born, and the name he'd assumed as steward, Hector Smithson, was lost forever.

  Using skills vaguely learned during one of his earlier professions, Waldo lifted some fine clothing from his employer, including the green jacket and breeches he now wore. He also had helped himself to a number of priceless items from the manor, knowing that proceeds from their sale would allow him to live comfortably until he established himself as a bard.

  Unfortunately, that process took much longer than he had expected or budgeted for. He repeated the stories he'd heard from the bard at Thelgaard Keep, but they never went over quite as well for him. He blamed that on the crowds. The farmers and other riffraff he was obliged to entertain certainly weren't sophisticated enough to appreciate the sort of stories that amused nobles at Thelgaard Keep. Still he was certain that success would come as soon as he managed to tell the right story in front of the right crowd.

  In recent days, however, Waldo had begun suspecting that perhaps a bard's job was not as easy as it looked. Perhaps it actually required talent; perhaps he had none. Indeed, perhaps he stank. He couldn't even draw applause in an ale tent in a backwater such as Solace.

  And then, like a gift from the blue, he met a tinker with a magical bracelet and a loose tongue.

  After knocking out the tinker the night before, Waldo had slipped posthaste from Solace, walked the five miles east to Que-kiri in moonlight, then camped alongside the road on the north edge of the village. Hitting the trail early, he was headed for the nearest port on New Sea, to put as much ground between him and the conked-out tinker as possible. But the first ride he got was with a farmer who was not going to the sea. Instead, he was headed for his hometown, with a stop along the way, a remote village called Tantallon, high in the Eastwall Mountains, which, not coincidentally, was also as far as the road went.

  Having no love for sailing ships—actually, he was frightened of them—Waldo decided a remote village was as good a place as any for a prognosticator who wanted a comfortable life and anonymity, at least temporarily. Besides, his motto was "Never turn down anything free," and that included rides.

  There was room on the wagon's front bench for only one, so Waldo rode in back atop heaped burlap sacks filled with rutabagas. In spite of the lumpy bed, he clasped the lucky copper bracelet and thought smugly, "I think my luck is about to change." He slipped the bracelet into his pack for safekeeping. Reclining on the rutabagas, he silently thanked the unfortunate tinker for his new good fortune.

  One bumpy, bruised hour later, the wagon rattled into a small village.

  "Ravenvale," called the farmer as he reined in the wagon before the grocer's shop on the village square.

  Delbridge hopped down to stretch his short legs. Brushing road dust from the hem of his green jacket, he asked, ""How far to Tantallon?"

  The farmer squinted as he hefted a rutabaga sack over his shoulder. "Don't know for sure. Eight—no, probably ten miles north. The trail gets a bit rough from here on, and it's slow going." With that, the farmer stepped into the store and began negotiating a price for his wares with the greengrocer.

  The sight of fresh produce made Delbridge's stomach rumble, and he smacked his thick lips. Remembering the adage by which he ran his life—"Never buy what you can steal—" he looked quickly about and snatched up a wedge of yellow cheese from a vending cart outside the store. Passing the potent-smelling chunk under his pug nose for approval, he dropped it in his meager pack for a snack along the trail. Next he plucked two shiny red Goodlundian apples and gulped them in three hungry bites each.

  Before long, the farmer emerged from the store and clambered back onto the buckboard. Delbridge lowered himself onto the somewhat smaller but still lumpy heap of rutabaga bags and contemplated his immediate future as they rattled northward out of town. Delbridge glanced ruefully at what the farmer had optimistically called a road; it could easily have been mistaken for a goat path, and a well-churned one at that.

  First thing in Tantallon, Delbridge decided, he would need to purchase himself a new look. Fortune-tellers wore flowing, colorful robes and those odd little hat things, which were really just bits of cloth wrapped around
their heads.

  Fortune-tellers also had unusual-sounding names, like Omardicar or Hosni. He settled on Omardicar. Omardicar the Omnipotent.

  The trees were budding, tiny green leaves poking out around the bark-covered limbs, which were still bleak and gray from winter. Dotting the foothills that climbed up toward the mountains were fluffy clumps of white and pink crab apple and plum trees in full bloom. Their soft-looking branches scraped along the sides of the wooden wagon as it jolted along the narrow trail, showering Delbridge and the rutabagas with fragrant, multicolored petals.

  The pastoral beauty was wasted on Delbridge. Lulled by the warm spring sun on his face and the swaying and bumping of the wagon on the rutted road, the bard-turned-soothsayer leaned back on the filthy bags and fell asleep.

  He was rudely awakened some time later when the hard wheels of the wagon struck a very large rock in the road and sent the cart bouncing high into the air. Delbridge spun about to look ahead of the wagon but could only see the back of the farmer's head. He struggled to raise himself to his knees among the bags.

  From where they perched at the crest of a hill, he could see that they were past the foothills and well into the mountains. Below them, nestled in a small valley already in shadows from the surrounding mountains, was a town about the size of Solace—Tantallon. Although it was not yet dusk, lanterns were winking through the trees and the wind was tinged with the smell of wood smoke from home fires. A swift, cold stream ran from the west, where the largest mountains of the range lay.

  And there, rising majestically out of a rocky outcropping beyond the stream was an imposing stone facade,

  its tall turrets, towers, and defensive barbican reflecting purple in the fading light.

  "What's that?" Delbridge called ahead to the farmer, who had signaled the horses to continue on the road, which spiraled down into the valley.

  "Castle Tantallon."

  Delbridge was intrigued. "Who lives there?"

  "As the story goes," said the farmer, warming up to gossip, "it's owned by a Knight of Solamnia whose family, if one believes the tales one is told, left Solamnia in the north shortly after the Cataclysm, when the persecution of the knights was just beginning.

  "Our province of Abanasinia, as you may remember from your history lessons, was in chaos as well. So when the current knight's ancestor and his armed retinue arrived in exile here, they brought a bit of law and order with them. Such survivors of the Cataclysm as they found were organized and well led so that the family and everyone under it prospered. Even through hard times, the family fortune remained intact."

  The farmer beamed with community pride. "The Curston line has since lived, uninterrupted, in that castle above the town that the first Lord Curston established more than three hundred years ago."

  Riding down into the town now, Delbridge was surprised to find such an isolated village so prosperous; the roads were skillfully cobbled, and not a scrap of waste littered them. The buildings were whitewashed, their stones neatly tuck-pointed with mortar, thatched roofs thick and in good repair. Very few businesses or homes had oiled paper for windows—expensive stained or opaque glass was the norm. It looked like a storybook village. Such prosperity could only be a good omen, Delbridge decided.

  Abruptly, the wagon rattled to a stop on the south edge of town before a cheery-looking inn whose shingle identified it as The Crashing Boar: A large, snorting boar smashed through a gate while a man snoozed peacefully on its back. Newly planted flower boxes graced the two windows, whose interiors were framed by ruffled white curtains.

  "End of the line," called the farmer.

  Delbridge thanked him and hopped off the wagon to look at the inn. Certainly it was as good a place as any to find out what was happening in Tantallon, and Delbridge needed a meal and a place to sleep. But while people would often give away information for free, room and board cost money.

  This was also a good a place to test the abilities of the bracelet, he decided, which he must certainly do before investing money in a new ensemble. He reached into his shabby pouch and pulled out the bracelet. Cupping his hand, he forced the slim copper band over his fingers and onto his pudgy wrist. "Who was this made for, a pixie?" he snarled as it pinched his soft flesh. He needn't have worried about losing it, for he doubted that it would ever come off his wrist.

  As he pulled the door open, he paused to examine an obviously new piece of parchment nailed to the door. It was an official announcement of some sort. Delbridge stepped close to read it in the fading light.

  Royal Court

  His Lordship Sir Curston will, on the third day of Yurthgreen, 344, hear and judge the grievances, pleas, and boon requests of his loyal subjects. All those wishing an audience with His Lordship must appear in the hours between sunup and the beginning of the evening watch.

  "Quit blockin' the door, you great hog. Are you comin' or goin'?"

  Delbridge blinked and stepped back. His sight fell on an angry, hawk-nosed fellow wearing a sparkling white apron: the barkeep, apparently.

  "Huh? That is . . . Pardon me, I was just reading the door," Delbridge stammered.

  The owner frowned. "Well, shut it. I'll not be heatin' the outdoors."

  Delbridge remembered himself. "My apologies, good sir." He straightened his back and smoothed the bulging front of his velvet jacket, but the man had already returned to his work inside.

  Delbridge waddled his way inside before the door closed fully. The room was cozy and warm with a haze of smoke in the air. Eight other patrons sat around several tables. Most appeared to be laborers or craftsmen, but two were obviously soldiers. A small fire burned in the hearth, just right for the warming season. All eight stopped their conversation to see who had rushed in.

  The barkeep had barely stepped behind the bar when he looked up and saw the man he had just spoken to in the doorway already standing at the rail. He glanced back toward the door, then squinted at Delbridge. "What do you want, stranger?"

  "Nothing, I'm sure," replied Delbridge, trying to look surprised. "I only wanted to discuss a simple business arrangement with you."

  "I don't give out no free rooms." Having settled the matter, the barkeep turned back to his work behind the bar.

  A hand flew to Delbridge's breast. "Heavens, I never expect anything for free! Did I say free? I don't believe so.

  "No, what I propose is a legitimate business transaction. I get something, you get something. As you so insightfully guessed, all I want is supper and a room for the night. But you . . . you get my services for the evening."

  The barkeep snorted. "And what is it you do? Wait, let me guess. Sing? Dance? Tell stories? And for that, I get to feed and house someone who eats like a pig and snores like a siege engine."

  He blew his hawk nose into the hem of his white apron. "Sorry, stranger, we don't need any entertaining. Why don't you try the Stumbling Goose Inn, down the street."

  Several of the other guests laughed out loud at the bar-keep's insults, but Delbridge was unperturbed. Instead of bristling, he drew himself up as tall as possible.

  "I am no common entertainer. I am an oracle. The future is mine to see and predict."

  A chorus of snickers and guffaws rattled the room. The barkeep leaned in close and said, "I can predict your future, stranger. I predict that if you don't haul your shifty, fat carcass out of here yourself, it's going to get tossed out." The volume of laughter rose, and Delbridge noticed for the first time that it had a distinctly unpleasant edge.

  Bracelet or no bracelet, Delbridge knew it was time to plunge in and either sink or swim. In the past this sort of life-and-death pressure had always sharpened his wits wonderfully. He closed his eyes and placed one hand against his forehead while gripping the counter with the other. His mind raced ahead, searching for some sort of vague prediction that he could make and then verify moments later.

  He was lucky that he had one hand on the counter, otherwise he would have fallen when the stream of images burst into his mind. As it
was, he reeled sideways and prevented a fall only by clutching the bar reflexively.

  In his mind Delbridge saw one of the other patrons, a balding, middle-aged gent with arthritic hands, gulping an enormous mouthful of baked trout. Instantly he began choking and gasping for breath. His eyes bulged out, his hands circled his own throat, and his tongue swelled obscenely until, within moments, he fell from his bench to the floor. There he kicked and squirmed several moments more before lying still.

  A stumble was not what Delbridge's hecklers expected. They watched with genuine curiosity now, wondering what this apparent con artist would try next. When he stood and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, he saw them staring, half amused, half bewildered.

  If this was the work of the bracelet, thought Delbridge, the tinker from whom he had stolen it was prone to gross understatement. But, as he liked to remind himself with pride, years of experience had taught him to seize opportunity immediately whenever it presented itself. Hesitation was a luxury he could ill afford.

  With all the dignity at his command, Delbridge took two bold steps away from the bar, then he swept his arm up and pointed toward the group. "I have seen what is to be. Death is watching over this room and stalking one of you right now. I could tell you who—or I could hold my tongue and let the man die, since no one believes me anyway." He dropped his arm to his side again and looked at them sadly. "I pity you."

  Several members of his audience blanched, which filled Delbridge with enormous satisfaction. The man who had appeared in the vision waved his arm as if to brush Delbridge away, then turned back to his meal. Delbridge saw with mixed elation and horror that it was indeed a plate of baked trout!

  One of the soldiers spoke up. "All right, oracle, at least tell us who it is. I'd like to know which of us is about to keel over so I can buy him a drink before he goes."

  Even without this facetious invitation, Delbridge would have acted. As the man from the vision raised a forkful of fish to his mouth, Delbridge lunged forward and seized the man's wrist. The customer recoiled in anger, trying to twist his arm away, but he didn't have the strength or the leverage to get free. Delbridge pushed the man's plate away and then dumped the contents of the fork onto the table. Turning to the next fellow on the bench and inwardly praying for all he was worth that this was the fatal bite, he asked, "Examine this closely, and tell us what you find."