Elven Star

12

Involved in his sister’s letter, Paithan was aware of footsteps entering the tavern, but he didn’t pay any attention until the chair he was using for a footstool was kicked violently out from underneath his legs.

“About time!” said a voice, speaking human.

Faithan looked up. A human male stood staring down at him. The man was tall, muscular, well built, with long blond hair that he wore tied with a leather thong at the back of his head. His skin was deeply tanned, except where his clothes covered it, and then Paithan could see that it was white and fair as any elf’s. The blue eyes were frank and friendly, his lips curved in an ingratiating smile. He was dressed in the fringed leather breeches and sleeveless leather tunic popular among humans.

“Quincejar?” said the human, thrusting out a hand. “I’m Roland. Roland Redleaf. Pleased to meet you.”

Paithan glanced at the chair, which had been knocked over and kicked halfway across the common room. Barbarians. Still, it didn’t do any good to get angry. Standing up, he stretched out his hand, clasping the human’s in the odd custom that both elves and dwarves found so ridiculous.

“The name’s Quindiniar. And please join me,” said Paithan, retrieving his chair. “What will you have to drink?”

“You speak our language pretty good, without that silly Ksp you hear with most elves.” Roland yanked over another chair and sat down. “What are you drinking?” Grabbing Paithan’s almost full mug, he sniffed at it. “Stuff any good? Usually the ale around here tastes like monkey piss. Hey, bar keep! Bring us another round!

“Here’s to the toys,” Roland said, lifting his mug. Paithan took a swallow. The human downed his at one gulp. Blinking, wiping his eyes, he said moistly, “Not bad. You going to finish yours? No? I’ll take care of it for you. Can’t let it go to waste.” He drained the other mugful, slamming it down upon the table when he was finished.

“What were we drinking to? Ah, I remember. The toys. ’Bout time, as I said.” Roland leaned across the table, breathing beer fumes into Paithan’s face. “The children were getting impatient! It was all I could do to placate the little darlings … if you know what I mean?”

“I’m not certain that I do,” said Paithan mildly. “Will you have another?”

“Sure. Barkeep! Two more.”

“It’s on me,” said the elf, noting the proprietor’s frown. Roland lowered his voice. “The children—the buyers, the dwarves. They’re getting real impatient. Old Blackbeard like to took my head off when I told him the shipment was going to be late.”

“You’re selling the … er … toys to dwarves?”

“Yeah, you got a problem with that, Quinpar?”

“Quindiniar. No, it’s just that now I understand how you were able to pay top price.”

“Between you and me, the bastards would’ve paid double . that to get these. They’re all worked up over some kid’s fairy tale about giant humans. But you’ll see for yourself.” Roland took a long pull at the ale.

“Me?” said Paithan, smiling and shaking his head. “You must be mistaken. Once you’ve paid me the money, the ‘toys’ are yours. I’ve got to return home. This is a busy time for us, now.”

“And how are we supposed to transport these babies?” Roland brushed his arm across his mouth. “Carry them on our heads? I saw your tyros in the stables. Everything’s packed up neat. We’ll make the trip and be back in no time.”

“I’m sorry, Redleaf, but that wasn’t part of the deal. Pay me the money and—”

“But don’t you think you’d find the dwarven kingdom fascinating?” The voice was a woman’s, and it came from behind Paithan.

“Quincetart,” said Roland, gesturing with his mug. “Meet my wife.” The elf, rising politely to his feet, turned around to face a human female.

“My name’s Quindiniar.”

“Glad to meet you. I’m Rega.”

She was short, dark haired and dark eyed. Her well-muscled body was scantily clad, like Roland’s, in fringed leather, leaving little of her figure to the imagination. Her brown eyes, shadowed by long black lashes, seemed filled with mystery. Her full lips kept back untold secrets. She extended her hand. Paithan took it in his. Instead of shaking it, as the woman apparently expected, he carried the hand to his lips and kissed it.

The woman’s cheeks flushed. She allowed her hand to linger a moment in Paithan’s. “Look here. Husband. You never treat me like this!”

“You’re my wife,” said Roland, shrugging, as if that settled the matter. “Have a seat, Rega. What’ll you have to drink? The usual?”

“A glass of wine for the lady,” ordered Paithan. Crossing the common room, he brought a chair back to the table, holding it for Rega to sit down. She slid into it with animallike grace, her movements clean, quick, decisive.

“Wine. Yeah, why not?” Rega smiled at the elf, her head tilting slightly, her dark, shining hair falling over a bare shoulder.

“Talk Quinspar here into coming with us, Rega.”

The woman kept her eyes and her smile fixed on the elf. “Don’t you have somewhere to go, Roland?”

“You’re right. Damn beer runs right through me.” Rising to his feet, Roland sauntered out of the common room, heading for the tavern’s backyard.

Rega’s smile widened. Paithan could see sharp teeth, white against lips that appeared to have been stained red with some kind of berry juice. Whoever kissed those lips would taste the sweetness …

“I wish you would come with us. Ifs not that far. We know the best route, it cuts through SeaKing lands but on the wilderness side. No border guards the way we go. The path’s occasionally treacherous, but you don’t look like the type to be bothered by a little danger.” She leaned closer, and he was aware of a faint, musky odor that clung to her sweat-sheened skin. Her hand crept over Paithan’s. “My husband and I get so bored with each other’s company.”

Paithan recognized deliberate seduction. He should have; his sister Aleatha could have taught it on a university level and this crude young human could certainly benefit from a few courses. The elf found it all highly amusing and certainly entertaining after long days on the road. He did wonder, though, why Rega was going to all this trouble and he also wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, if she might be prepared to deliver what she was offering. I’ve never been to the dwarven kingdom, Paithan reflected. No elf has. It would be worthwhile going.

A vision of Calandra—mouth pursed, nose bone white, eyes flaring—rose up before Paithan. She’d be furious-He’d lose a season, at least, in getting back home.

But Cal, look, he heard himself saying. I’ve established trade with the dwarves. Direct trade. No middle men to take a cut…

“Say you’ll come with us.” Rega squeezed his hand. The elf noted that the woman possessed an unladylike strength, the skin of her palm was rough and hardened.

“The three of us couldn’t handle all these tyros—” he hedged.

“We don’t need all of them.” The woman was practical, businesslike. She let her hand linger in the elf’s grasp. “You’ve packed toys for cover, I assume?

Get rid of them. Sell them. We’ll repack the … er … more valuable merchandise on three tyros.”

Well, it would work. Paithan had to admit it. Plus, the sale of the toys would more than pay for the trip back for his foreman Quintin. The profits might moderate Calandra’s fury.

“How can I refuse you anything?” Paithan answered, holding the warm hand a little tighter.

A door from the rear of the tavern slammed. Rega, flushing, snatched her hand away.

“My husband,” she murmured. “He’s frightfully jealous!” Roland came strolling back into the common room, lacing up the leather thong on the front of his trousers. Passing by the bar, he appropriated three mugs of ale that had been set out for other customers and carried them over to the table. He slammed them down, sloshing ale over everything and everyone, and grinned. “Well, Queesinard, my lovely wife talk you into coming with us?”

“Yes,” answered Paithan, thinking that Redleaf didn’t act like any jealous husband the elf ever’d known. “But I’ve got to send the overseer and my slaves back. They’ll be needed at home. And the name’s Quindiniar.”

“Good idea. The fewer who know about our route the better. Say, you mind if I call you Quin?”

“My given name’s Paithan.”

“Sure thing, Quin. A toast to the dwarves, then. To their beards and their money. They keep one and I’ll take the other!” Roland laughed. “Here, now, Rega. Quit drinking that grape juice. You know you can’t stand it.” Rega flushed again. With a deprecating glance at Paithan, she thrust aside the glass of wine. Lifting a mug of ale to her berry-stained lips, she quaffed it skillfully.

What the hell? thought Paithan, and downed his ale in a gulp.