Soon Piggott was yelling numbers through the door, and Kit and Mita were doing their best to keep up. There was only one dish served every night, always some variety of stew, and the numbers signified how many bowls needed to be dished up. It wasn't long before Mita and Kit were filling up bowls whether they had time to clean one beforehand or not.
"Don't worry, nobody expects cleanliness-and-godliness when they eat at Piggott's," Mita advised Kit good-humoredly as he hurried in with a dirty bowl, wiped it with a dirtier towel that dangled from his waist, and spooned in a helping for the next customer.
"Leastwise they don't if they live around here. If they do mind, they're probably just passing through and won't be back anyway. This is the only place for miles around that serves hot food."
Dashing in and out of the kitchen, ferrying empty and filled bowls of stew. Kit hardly had time to look around the public room. A bar and counter stood at one end of the place, near the kitchen door, where Piggott filled drinks and took orders. Along the floorboards stood tight rows of colored bottles—a fixture in lowlife Krynn bars—and at eye level, cheap, framed watercolors of snowy mountain peaks and cascading waterfalls were hinged to the walls.
The clientele consisted mostly of dwarves, plus a few grime-covered humans. Most were miners or loggers; some were from the road crew, which was obvious by their heavystitched clothing, backpacks, and belts of implements. The noise was shrill, and as she passed by the tables, Kitiara could make out only snatches of excitable conversation.
"It's a ploy, some kind of damn trick, if you ask me. . . ."
"They say Sir Gwathmey's son was himself killed. . . ."
"I still don't believe it, and I won't believe it till I spit on the evidence. . . ."
"You drink any more of that stuff tonight, and you'll be asleep and wetting your own pants. . . ."
"Are you going back to work. . . ?"
"What do you take me for, Aghar? I won't be gulled. . . ." Kitiara pricked her ears as she moved easily among the grumbling customers, for nobody was paying much attention to her. And nobody was looking to tie a young woman into the crime—or hoax, some said—they were all steamed about, the hijacking of the road gang payroll. The road builders among them had already packed and made plans to head home.
"Somebody made off with a fortune," Mita said when the dinner rush was over and they had a chance to talk. "The dwarves think it's all a stunt to deceive 'em into working for free a little longer. Dwarves are shifty and suspicious types," he added knowingly, "and they don't like to be made fools of."
"Anybody hurt?" asked Kitiara innocently. At least, she hoped the question sounded innocent.
"Just a nobleman's son," shrugged Mita. "The robbers killed him but good. Made it look like a wild animal, though, which is one reason why the dwarves smell something funny. One thing's for sure, dwarves don't work on credit, and that road's never gonna get built now."
"Won't Piggott's business suffer?" asked Kit.
"Some," conceded Mita. "At first. But seems there's no end to dwarves and travelers. And if you want to get hot food and strong drink and—" he lowered his voice a little apologetically "—female company in these parts, you've got to come to Stumptown." Kit and Mita had served helpings of stew until the black iron cauldron was almost empty, at which point, Piggott had announced that the kitchen was closed. By that time, the crowd in the public room had already thinned out considerably.
"Don't get much of a crowd after dinner time," Mita confided as he limped around the kitchen, stacking empty bowls to be cleaned. "Piggott waters his beer, and the place t'other side of town doesn't."
"What place across town?" Kit asked. "I thought you said this was the only spot to get hot food?"
"It is that," said Mita, lowering his voice again. "The other one is, well, you know . . . what Piggott was talking about before. Women what sells themselves to men. Even dwarves, if they can pay."
Mita's cheeks were flushed. Kit looked at him scornfully, not the least bit offended or embarrassed.
Mita busied himself with banking the fire. Piggott, out in the public room, had fallen asleep. Only one or two customers remained, nursing their tankards. Piggott was sprawled on a table, snoring obscenely.
"Never mind him," said Mita to Kit, who stood at the door to the big room, observing the fat proprietor. "He has a tendency to wake up just as the last customer leaves, and then he usually locks up. We can go now. We got a dwarf, name of Paulus Trowbridge, who comes in most mornings to clean. He didn't show up this morning, which is why the place was worse than usual. Come on, I'll show you where to bed down." Mita led Kit out back where there was a small, sturdy building, less than a barn but more than a shed. Cinnamon was stabled inside, and there was some extra room. The mare whinnied softly when she caught Kitiara's scent. Clean hay was stacked against the wall, and Kit saw that Cinnamon had plenty of water, too. She was grateful to Mita for his thoughtfulness.
"This is it. I sleep in that corner. I added some layers to the wall so it keeps the wind out better." Mita rummaged around in the hay and pulled something out. "I see you have a blanket. Here's an extra. It's not much, but you'll need them both to keep you warm." Numb with fatigue, Kit took the worn blanket and added
