suspiciously.
She blinked in surprise, suddenly realizing that he must be jealous. Touched, she didn’t mock him. “No, actually. I thought he was a bit of a pain-I mean,” she added, “I think he talked too much. But I have some research to do that I must do on my own. I’d like to meet some other Neidar and speak with them. I want to get to know this town, and I suspect there’s a lot more to it than Harn Poleaxe.”
Five minutes later, the Aghar and dog were secure in their room, happily munching their food. Gretchan got settled in her own room, opening the window and pulling back the curtains to air out the somewhat stuffy chamber. Opening her backpack, she found her hairbrush and ran it through her hair a few times.
She was putting it back when she noticed the strange bottle that the Aghar had brought out of the wizard’s lair. She reached for the bottle, looking it over carefully. The label, Midwarren Pale, suggested a brand of dwarf spirits from Thorbardin, but her senses tingled as she held the flask, and she knew that it held something stranger and far more powerful than even the most potent alcoholic beverage. She removed the stopper and sniffed at it, wincing at the smell-which was very reminiscent of dwarf spirits.
Shrugging, she decided that mystery would have to wait. She set the bottle on the stand next to her bed and closed up her pack. Then she strolled out the inn’s front door and into the lamplit streets of Hillhome. She turned away from Moldoon’s, heading instead toward the newer parts of town, the wooden neighborhoods on the outskirts. Soon she found another amiable inn-the dwarven town was full of them-and seated herself at an outside table, watching passersby: loggers returning from the woods, soot-stained coal-diggers coming from the smithies; teamsters bringing their horses, mules, and oxen into their corrals.
She quickly struck up a conversation with a young dwarf who had stopped by to wet his whistle. Garrin Hammerstrike was his name, and he seemed to know a lot about the town.
“Well, the mayor has been running things while Harn Poleaxe was gone, but now that’s bound to change,” Garrin said before taking a big gulp from his mug.
“Oh? How long was Mr. Poleaxe gone?”
“About two years, give or take. Went all the way to Kayolin, he did.”
“Kayolin?” Gretchan was impressed. Perhaps she had underestimated Poleaxe; few travelers from those parts made it as far as the northern kingdom, and she would be interested in Harn’s observations. She thought it odd that, for all of his boasting, Poleaxe hadn’t mentioned his trip to that distant place.
Her eyebrows raised as Hammerstrike continued. “Yep. Word is the Mother Oracle asked him to go.”
“Really?” She was intrigued by the connection. “I’ve heard of her. I understand that she’s not well?”
Hammerstrike shrugged. “Couldn’t say, myself. We never see much of her; she stays inside that little hut, right up at the end of that road, there.”
Gretchan saw the little side street, extending toward the wooded ridge that flanked the edge of Hillhome. She made a mental note of the location, then turned back to the talkative local.
“So Harn Poleaxe returned from Kayolin just a few days ago?”
“Only yesterday, it was. Even brought a Kayolin dwarf back with him, they say. Turned out to be a spy-they got him locked in the brig right now.”
“You say there’s a dwarf from Kayolin right here in Hillhome?”
“Aye-uh. Big fellow too, I hear. But he got the stuffing knocked out of him by Harn, of course. My friend Slate Fireforge helped to bring him in, just today.”
“Where is this brig?” she asked.
Garrin chuckled. “Well, it’s right around the corner there. But you won’t be able to get in. Old Shriff Keenstrike guards the door like a hawk morning, noon, and night.”
“Well, I might give it a try. Thanks for the information,” she said. She called over a barmaid and handed her a copper. “Give my friend here another drink when he’s ready.”
A few minutes later, she was approaching the brig, a sturdy building with narrow, barred windows. She guessed that the armed dwarf standing vigilantly at the door must be the reputed Shriff Keenstrike. He was a disreputable-looking fellow with about a week’s worth of spare food stored in the tangled mat of his brown beard who watched warily as she neared.
“Hi there,” she said, sauntering up the steps and offering him her most dazzling smile.
“Well, uh, hi there, yourself,” Shriff stammered, blushing. “What kin I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to one of your prisoners,” she said, leaning close. “Do you think that would be all right?”
“Well, really… um, no one’s supposed to go in there. Them’s the rules. I don’t make the rules up; I just enforce ’em.”
“Oh, I promise not to disturb anything,” she breathed. “And it will just be for a few minutes. Surely a big, brave fellow like you can make sure that nothing bad happens. I mean, you look like you really know how to use that sword.”
“Well, yes, of course, I do know how to look out for myself,” Shriff said. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm for a few minutes or so.” He hesitated, frowning. “What’s your business, ma’am?”
“I’m a historian,” she said proudly, batting her eyelashes. “I’m here in town to learn about the area, and I always like to take a look at the important government buildings. Who knows, a handsome guy like you, you may end up in my report.”
Shriff stared at his shoes, blushing again. He looked up and down the street then turned back to Gretchan. She smiled again, and he was unlocking the door a second later.
Men, she thought. They are so predictable.
She hesitated slightly when the stench of the place reached her nostrils but quickly gathered her determination and marched into the brig. She had certainly smelled worse in the course of her research!
As soon as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she picked out the mountain dwarf. The other prisoners-she counted four, in two separate cells-were listless and filthy, while the prisoner from Kayolin didn’t look quite as abject. Indeed, he glared fiercely at her from his cell at the end of the hall. She advanced purposefully, stopping just outside the barred door.
The prisoner said nothing but stared at her suspiciously. He was unusually tall, and quite handsome under the dirt and bruises. When she smiled her most pleasant smile at him, his expression didn’t change. He glowered even more.
“Hi there. I’m told you’re from Kayolin,” she said. “Is that true?”
“Who wants to know?” he growled. “And what are you doing here?” The Kayolin prisoner was squeezed into the small space, his knees bent, his back against the wall. She realized his hands were behind him and that they were probably bound. His cell was the smallest unit in the place, with barely room enough for him to stand or turn around.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said sympathetically. “My name is Gretchan Pax. I’ve been compiling stories, histories, anecdotes about the dwarves of Krynn for some time now, with the goal in mind of writing a book about my travels and observations. I’ve never had the chance to interview someone from Kayolin, though. I talked my way past the jailer.”
“What makes you think I’d want to talk to you?” he snapped.
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything special about me, particularly,” she replied, taken aback by his rudeness. After all, every male dwarf wanted to talk to her! “I mean, just, you know… I’d like to hear about your nation, anything you’d care to tell-I mean, talk about.”
Damn, she was stammering like a child!
“Looks like you made someone pretty mad,” she said, changing course. “That’s quite a bruise under your eye. The word is that you’re accused of being a spy. Is that true?”
“True that I’m accused, not true that I’m a spy,” he replied stonily. “But why should it matter to you anyway?”
She tried to catch his eye and put some of her usually reliable flirting ability to use, but his head was slightly downcast so his eyes were partly masked by strands of brown hair that hung across his forehead.
“I see your hands are tied,” she said, shifting tactics. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t untie them. You’re not dangerous, are you?” She tried to say that last as a joke, but he snorted contemptuously at her feeble humor.
She hesitated. There was something undeniably dangerous about him.
Then, with a shrug, he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. He turned his back and presented his bound wrists to her, pressing his hands between two of the bars on his cell door.
