Krondor: The Betrayal. Raymond E. Feist

      ‘Just down the street. Can’t miss it. Sign out front of a dwarf.’

      They made their way to the indicated establishment, which showed a faded sign of a comically drawn dwarf, obviously once painted with vivid colours.

      They went inside and found several townspeople sitting by, waiting for a priest in the robes of the Order of Silban who was in the corner ministering to a sick child. A couple of local workers were waiting, one with a bandaged hand, the other looking pale and weak.

      The priest looked up as he finished with the boy, who leaped down from his mother’s lap without prompting and raced for the door. The priest looked at Locklear and said, ‘Are you dying?’

      ‘Not quite,’ answered the squire.

      ‘Good, because these fellows were here first and I’ll only make them wait if you’re near death.’

      Mustering as much dry wit as he could under the circumstances, Locklear replied, ‘I’ll try to let you know when I’m about to die.’

      Gorath’s patience vanished. He moved to confront the priest and said, ‘You will see my companion now. These others can wait.’

      The glowering dark elf towered over the small priest and his expression and voice left no room for argument this side of violence. The priest looked once more at Locklear and said, ‘Very well, if you think it urgent. Bring him over to this table.’

      They half-carried Locklear to the table and laid him out on it. The priest said, ‘Who bandaged this?’

      ‘I did,’ said Owyn.

      ‘You did well enough,’ said the priest. ‘He’s alive, so that counts for much.’

      After Locklear’s tunic and the bandages were removed, the priest said, ‘Silban preserve us! You’ve got three wounds fit to fell a bigger man.’ He sprinkled a powder on the wounds, which brought a gasp of pain from Locklear, then the priest began a chant and closed his eyes.

      Owyn felt power manifest in the room and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had only been exposed to a little clerical magic in his life and it always seemed odd and exotic to him.

      A faint glow from the priest’s hands threw illumination over Locklear’s wounds and as Brother Malcolm droned his chant, Owyn could see the wounds begin to heal. They were still visible, but no longer fresh and angry. When the priest stopped, they looked old, past the danger stage. The priest was pale from the exertion when he stopped. He said, ‘That’s all I can do now. Sleep and food will do the rest.’ Looking at Owyn and Gorath, he asked, ‘Do you have wounds, as well?’

      ‘We do,’ said Gorath. ‘But we can wait until you tend to those two.’ He pointed to the two locals waiting for treatment.

      Malcolm nodded. ‘Good.’ As he moved past Gorath, he said, ‘Your manners may be in question, moredhel, but your instincts serve you well. He might have bled to death had we waited another hour.’

      Gorath remained silent in the face of being recognized for what he was. He moved to sit next to Owyn and wait.

      When the two farmers, one with a smashed finger courtesy of a badly-aimed hammer and the other with a bad case of fever, were finished, Malcolm turned to Gorath and Owyn. ‘Who’s next?’

      Gorath indicated Owyn and the magician went to sit before the priest. He watched with interest as the priest quickly treated and bound his wounds. They spoke little, for Owyn was almost out on his feet.

      When Gorath replaced him before the priest, the dark elf said, ‘You recognize my race, yet you do not call for the town guard. Why?’

      The priest shrugged as he examined Gorath’s wounds. ‘You travel with men who do not look like renegades to me. You are not here killing and burning, so I assume your mission a peaceful one.’

      ‘Why do you assume I have a mission?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘Why else would you travel in the human world?’ Malcolm asked rhetorically. ‘I have never known the moredhel to travel for pleasure.’

      Gorath grunted, forgoing comment.

      Malcolm was quickly done and said, ‘You should have come second; this wound was more severe than your friend’s. But you’ll live.’ He washed his hands and dried them with a towel. ‘It is my mission to aid and serve, but it is custom that those served donate.’

      Gorath indicated Locklear, who was now sitting upright at the table upon which he had lain. Locklear said, ‘Brother, I fear I may only give you a scant token of our debt, but should you come to Krondor any time soon, visit me and I will repay you tenfold.’

      Locklear dug into his purse and judged how much he would need for a room that night, and other costs, then drew out a golden sovereign and two silver royals. ‘It is all we can spare.’

      ‘It will do,’ said the priest. ‘In Krondor, where might I find you?’

      ‘At the palace. I am one of the Prince’s men. I am Squire Locklear.’

      ‘Then I shall call upon you when next I’m in Krondor, young squire, and you can settle accounts with me then.’ Glancing at Locklear’s freshly-bound wounds, he said, ‘Go easy on those cuts for another day. By tomorrow you’ll feel better. If you avoid being stabbed again any time soon, you’ll feel like your old self by week’s end. Now, I must go rest. This is more healing in one afternoon than I usually experience in a week.’

      The priest left and Locklear slowly rose to cross to the bar and found the innkeeper cleaning up. The portly man said, ‘Welcome to The Dusty Dwarf, my friends. What may I do for you?’

      ‘Food and a room,’ said Locklear.

      They returned to a table and the innkeeper followed soon after, putting down a large platter of cold meats, breads baked earlier that morning, cheese and fruits. ‘I’ve got some hot food cooking for later this evening, but this early in the day, cold fare is all I have.’

      Owyn and Gorath were already stuffing food into their mouths as Locklear was saying, ‘That will be fine. Some ale, please.’

      ‘Right away.’

      The man was back with the ale in a moment, and Owyn asked, ‘Sir, what is the story behind the name of this place?’

      ‘The Dusty Dwarf?’ said the man.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Well, truth to tell, it’s not much of a story. Man named Struble owned this place. Called it The Merry Dwarf. Don’t know why. But it had a bright sign. He never had the sign repainted in all the years he owned the place, so by the time I bought it from him, the sign was badly faded. All the locals called it The Dusty Dwarf by then, so I just went along. Saves me the cost of getting the sign painted, too.’

      Owyn smiled at the story, as the barkeep hurried off to meet the demands of another customer. Locklear looked nearly asleep as he said, ‘All right. We have two choices. We can take the main road down to Questor’s View, or the back way through Eggly and Tannerus and lose a few days.’

      Owyn said, ‘I’m only guessing, but from what Gorath has said, this Nago or Narab is keeping in contact with their agents by mind speech. As I said before, I know only a little about this speech, but what I do know is it can be very taxing. The magician Pug’s daughter is known to be among the most gifted in the world at this and can speak across vast distances, but she is rare, even unique. For lesser magicians, it requires much rest.’

      Gorath looked on impassively, but Locklear said, ‘Come to the point, if you don’t mind. I’m having trouble staying awake.’

      ‘The point is whoever this magician is, he’s lying low in one place, probably guarded, and probably has one or two key agents in a given area. The rest of his orders are being run by messengers, I’m thinking. So they know where we’ve been, and may have even guessed where we are today, but they don’t know which