reason to deny his identity if the man did know him; but on the other hand, he was not in the mood for reminiscing about good old days that had, for him at any rate, been relatively miserable. Calling himself an innkeeper made clear that he lived in the present, not a nostalgic, glorious past such as many veterans seemed to prefer.
Of course, peace appeared to have treated this pair far worse than the war had; they were thin and hungry, and their clothes had obviously been lived in for months, probably months without shelter.
“Valder?” The man stared at him. “You mean Valder of Kardoret?”
“That was I,” Valder admitted.
“The man who killed a shatra in single combat?”
Startled, Valder asked, “How do you know about that?”
“I was with the party that found you standing over the corpse. Gods, that was a weird thing! That body had all this strange black stuff in it — I’ll never forget it. When we burned it, it stank like nothing I have ever smelled. And it was you! It was! You look different now, without the uniform, and you’ve put on a little weight, I think, but it’s you.”
“Yes, it is,” Valder agreed.
“And you’re an innkeeper now? Valder of the Magic Sword, an innkeeper?”
“Better than starving, isn’t it? The war is over — not much call for magic swords anymore.” He smiled.
The other grimaced. “Anything is better than starving, I’d say. I’ve had a little more experience of it than I like. Still, a man like you — you weren’t any common soldier, you could have made your way in the world.”
“I am making my way in the world. I own this inn and the landing on the river, don’t I?”
“Oh, but you could have been rich! A man who could kill a demon, you could have done almost anything!”
“It was the magic sword that killed the shatra, not me; I’m happy here.”
The man shrugged. “If you say so,” he said.
“I say so. Now, what can I get you? Supper was over hours ago, and there isn’t any ale, but I can find some cold food, if you like, and we have wine and good clean water.”
The man looked embarrassed. He called out to his companion, “Hey, Tesra! Have you got any money?”
Valder sighed inwardly. These two were obviously not going to make him rich.
Tesra produced five copper bits, and after a little dickering Valder conceded that that was a fair price for staying the night on the floor by the hearth with a meal of scraps and water. When that was settled and the two tattered veterans were gnawing on pigeon bones — rabbits had become quite scarce, due to extensive hunting, but pigeons made a decent pie — Valder asked, “Where are you headed? You must have been on the road quite some time.”
Tesra looked up at him. “We thought we’d try our luck in Azrad’s Ethshar; it’s been no good anywhere else. We’ve been on the road since the war ended, been up to Sardiron of the Waters and on through the Passes, and then came down the Great River from there.”
Valder felt a twinge of guilt. “Was that five bits your last money? Ethshar’s expensive these days, and, from what I hear, there isn’t much work.”
“Oh, we’ll get by,” said Selmer, the man who had recognized Valder. “We’re not picky.”
Valder shrugged. He had made his gesture, given his warning; if the two of them chose not to heed it, that was not his problem. Rather than continuing with the subject, he asked about Sardiron. He had heard of the town, captured almost intact from the Northern Empire when it fell, but he knew little about it.
He talked with the pair until almost dawn. Tesra fell asleep, utterly exhausted, while the conversation continued, but Selmer lasted several hours before his eyelids, too, drooped. Finally Valder rose and left the two of them asleep on the floor. He left a brief note for Parl, the man who was to handle morning business, saying the two had paid in advance for the night but not for breakfast, and then retired. When he awoke, the sun was high in the eastern sky, and the two veterans were gone. Parl reported that they had left an hour or so earlier, hoping to reach the city by nightfall.
Valder knew they would not manage it; one had to leave the inn within an hour after dawn to reach Ethshar before dark, traveling on foot. He wished them well and forgot about them.
At least, he forgot about them for a sixnight or so.
Supper was being dished out, a thick chowder and stale bread being all that Valder had on hand, when a late arrival knocked. Valder happened to be free, so he answered the door himself, admitting a party of four. First in the door was a young woman in flamboyant red velvet trimmed with white fur; behind her came two huge men wearing what looked like military uniforms, but in a pattern and color Valder had never seen before. Last came another woman, this one short and plump and wearing blue satin.
“Welcome, all!” Valder said. “Supper is just being served, if you would care to join us. The meal is a copper each with water, or a silver bit with wine. I’m afraid we have no ale or strong spirits.”
“We did not come here to eat,” the woman in red announced.
“A room, then? We have a few still available, two coppers the night.”
“We are looking for someone.”
Valder noticed that the woman spoke with a peculiar accent. He had taken it to be nervousness at first, but now thought she might be from somewhere where the language was spoken differently. He had noticed a slight difference between the people of Azrad’s south and Gor’s northwest previously, but this was far more marked. It made judging her tone difficult. Valder guessed she was from some obscure corner of the Small Kingdoms.
“This is my inn,” he said. “And I want no trouble. You will have to tell me whom you’re looking for and why.”
“We seek Valder of the Magic Sword.”
The woman insisted on speaking quite loudly, and the entire population of the room — three of Valder’s employees and fourteen guests — were now listening closely, the chowder forgotten for the moment.
“I’m Valder, now the Innkeeper,” he said. “Come inside and close the door.” He had no idea why anybody might be looking for him and was not at all sure he wanted to find out. This group hardly looked like anything Gor might send after him. He remembered Tesra and Selmer, who had insisted on calling him Valder of the Magic Sword, and wondered if they had anything to do with it.
He was about to suggest a more private conference when the thought struck him that Gor of the Rocks might not care to send anyone obvious on a mission to deal with his former assassin. Gor was tricky enough to have contrived a group like this. Valder decided abruptly that privacy was not called for. When the woman in blue had closed the door, he led the way to an unoccupied table and gestured for the newcomers to sit.
The woman in red hesitated, and the others were all obviously following her lead. “Is there no place more private?” she asked.
That convinced Valder that he did not want to be alone with his group. “No,” he said. “We speak here if you wish to speak with me at all.”
Reluctantly, the woman in red nodded and took a seat; her companions followed, and Valder, too, sat down.
“I am Sadra of Pethmor, Pethmor being the rightful capital of all Ethshar. We have come seeking your help.”
Valder interpreted this to mean that Pethmor was indeed one of the Small Kingdoms. Most of them claimed to be the ancient capital. “What sort of help?” he asked.
“We came to Azrad’s city to find someone who might be able to help us, and two men there told us where you might be found. They said that you were the greatest fighter that had ever lived, that you had slain a northern demon in single combat. Is this true?”
“No.” Valder was reluctant to elaborate. “No?” Sadra was taken aback. “But you are Valder of the Magic Sword? They swore...”
“They swore? What did they swear?”
“One of them swore that you had slain a demon...”
“Oh. Well, yes, I did kill a shatra, which is half demon, but I’m hardly a great fighter. I had a magic sword.” It seemed unwise to mention that he still had the sword and that it was in fact hanging in plain sight not ten yards away.
