time in Telflamm drinking and fighting. The ham-fisted man had even registered himself for a death duel in an arena. John and Kiri had managed to talk Mal out of fighting, but the temptation was great to let him go through with the duel. The last the fletcher had seen of the soldier, he was holed up in a stinking little waterfront tavern called the Broken Lance.
It was this establishment that John sought as he wound his way through the narrow, dirty alleys of Telflamm's harbor. Homeless refugees and resident beggars lined the streets. Some offered black market goods or services in exchange for money, others merely pleaded for a few copper pieces to get them through the day. The pitiable pleas tugged at the fletcher's heart, but he didn't dip his hand into his purse for the ragged children or diseased old men. John had no money left. He'd given much of his wealth to the poor his first day ashore; the rest had been stolen by cut-purses soon after that.
Razor John thought longingly about the crowded marketplace in Cormyr. How different it was from the squalor in Telflamm. He looked up at the sky, but could see little of it. The dilapidated buildings to either side of the narrow alley leaned together so that they almost blocked out the sunlight completely. It's probably for the best, the fletcher decided bitterly. Too much direct sun and the garbage that filled the side streets would stink worse than it already did.
As quickly as he could, John walked the rest of the way to the Broken Lance. A thief was searching the pockets of an unconscious soldier resting facedown at the front door. As the fletcher got closer, the pickpocket looked up at him and ran off. John was glad the thief had fled, since he wasn't quite sure what he would have done otherwise. After checking to see that the soldier was alive, he entered the bar.
The Broken Lance was a small, dark place. Weak light filtered through sooty windows on one side of the room, and sour-smelling tallow candles burned at some of the tables. A large fire sputtered across from the door, sending oily peat smoke up toward the ceiling, where it swirled around before leaking out through various gaps in the poorly constructed roof. The sound of raucous laughter mixed with bawdy sea chants and bursts of swearing. Rats scurried freely across the floor, ignored by most of the patrons.
Razor John spotted Mal immediately. The big soldier was locked in an arm wrestling contest. A few men stood around Mal's table, cheering and cursing. Most of the inn's patrons sat huddled over their tarnished tankards, swilling watery ale. Mal won the contest just as the fletcher reached his side. The soldier slammed the other man's hand to the table, sloshing wine from the large wineskin that rested there. Coins exchanged hands, and most of the men drifted back to their own tables. Mal rubbed his arm and only nodded to John as a greeting.
'We're supposed to be ready to march by highsun,' the fletcher said softly. He took off his black felt hat and held it before him, twisting it nervously.
'Is that what you're here for?' Mal asked incredulously. He leered and added, 'Shouldn't you and your lady love be off somewhere? I hear Kiri's-'
'That's enough!' John said forcefully. His feelings for Kiri Trollslayer had grown steadily over the trip to Telflamm, and he wasn't about to let a drunken soldier-especially one who was supposed to be her friend-start ugly rumors about her.
Mal looked in turn at each of the other two men who sat at the table. One of them, a dalesman by the roughspun tan tunic and breeches he wore, grinned broadly. The other was a dark-eyed, well-armed mercenary, with a sizable and rather ugly scar running along his cheek. He simply snorted and took a long draw from the large tankard set before him. It amazed John to see Mal, who claimed to hate Sembians and dalesmen, drinking with these two soldiers. But then, the fletcher knew that Mal would drink with almost anyone.
John frowned. 'The king's back from the north with the Zhentish troops. It's time to go.'
'Zhentish troops!' The dalesman spat. 'I hear they're orcs, the whole bunch of them. Fine lot of good they'll do us in a battle.' He swilled some wine into his tankard. 'More'n likely they'll slit our throats when we're sleeping.'
'Maybe they're here for us to warm up on,' Mal suggested darkly. He lifted the wineskin to pour himself another tankardful, then stopped. He swished the wine around in the skin and announced, 'Last swallows.' Both he and Razor John looked about the room.
The Sembian mercenary watched the two Cormyrians for a moment, then asked, 'What do you think you're doing?'
'Looking for someone of the nobility,' John offered. 'It's a Cormyrian tradition that the nobleman of the greatest lineage or the highest ranking officer in the taproom gets the last drink from a cask or wineskin.'
'If there were any officers in this place, you'd not be giving that wine to them,' the dalesman snapped, making a feeble grab for the skin. Mal slapped a hand over the man's thin face and pushed him back in his chair.
As Mal was dealing with the dalesman, the mercenary snatched the wineskin from his hand. 'The person who bought it gets to decide what to do with the last swallow,' he said loudly. A few heads turned toward the table.
Mal swore and stood up. As he leaned forward to grab the skin from the Sembian, the mercenary drew a dagger and held it to Mal's throat.
'No weapons!' the barkeep cried, then ducked into the back room. A few men and women drew their swords. One or two made for the door.
Mal slowly sat back down and slid his hand around his tankard. The Sembian's evil grin only made his scar turn red and, if possible, more ugly. He handed the wineskin to the dalesman. 'You bought it, archer. It's yours.'
As the dalesman smiled and uncorked the wineskin, Razor John reached for his own dagger. He certainly didn't intend to fight over something as ridiculous as a mouthful of cheap wine, but he wasn't about to let someone attack him either. 'Let's go, Mal,' he rumbled, taking a step away from the table. 'This isn't worth it.' When his countryman didn't stand, John looked down in amazement.
Mal sat hunched over his tankard, which he gripped tightly in his left hand. Beneath a tangle of blond curls, his broad, thick-boned face was caught somewhere between an expression of bewilderment and rage. 'Damn Sembians,' he muttered. 'Damned dalesmen. I should've known better than to drink with merchants and farmers.'
'At least this wine's going where it belongs,' the dalesman said happily, He pulled the cork and upended the wineskin. The last of the red liquid poured onto the dirty floor, startling a few insects. Before the wine had drained through the widely spaced floorboards, the tan-clad soldier repeated a short, ritualistic prayer to the God of Agriculture.
A few people at nearby tables laughed. The Sembian mercenary stood, slack-jawed and staring. Mal, his alcohol-numbed brain only now registering what had happened, cursed again and stood. His dirty, sweat-soaked clothes clung to his muscular form like a second skin.
'No hard feelings,' the dalesman said, offering his hand to Mal. 'You've got your traditions; we've got ours.'
John saw Mal tense his arm, but the realization that he was going to lash out came to the fletcher too late for action. The warrior swung with his left in a vicious backhanded slap. The dalesman, his reflexes dulled by wine, couldn't get out of the way of the tarnished tankard. With a dull clang, the heavy metal mug hit him square in the face, shattering his nose and more than a few of his teeth.
The dalesman hit the floor with a muffled thud, his blood mixing with the dregs of the spilled wine. The skitter of a dozen swords leaving their sheaths underscored the muttered curses and oaths.
Mal, the tankard still dangling in his left hand, stared dumbly at his victim. 'Get up,' he said roughly, kicking the body with his mud-caked boots.
With a gasp, Razor John dropped to his knees. He put his ear close to the dalesman's bloody mouth. 'He's not breathing.' A few tears began to well in the fletcher's eyes. 'You idiot!' he screamed. 'You killed him over a tankard of wine!'
The Sembian mercenary took a step back and sheathed his dagger. 'The generals'll hang you for this. They'll not let murder go unpunished.'
The dented, bloodied tankard dropped to the floor with a hollow clang. Mal shook his head, started to speak, then kicked the dalesman again instead. 'Get up, you bastard. You're not dead.'
Razor John stood and turned toward another commotion that was breaking out near the door. The innkeeper, followed by two soldiers and a member of the city watch, was pushing his way through the crowd. The fletcher
