to Silverymoon, and their horses return without riders. Who could be doing such a thing?'
The Lord Singer sighed. 'Why bother me with all these things?' Greyt asked. 'You're the Speaker. Call Unddreth if you want to keep things in order-that is, after all, the job of the watch. What do you want me to do? I'm a bard; I sing.'
'You're the hero of Quaervarr,' Stonar replied in an incredulous tone. 'Dharan 'Quickwid'-er-'Quickfinger' Greyt, hero of the blade and yarting. All the young men want to be you, all the young women want to chase off Lyetha…'
Greyt smiled at the mention of Lyetha. The most beautiful woman in the town, she had been his wife for fifteen winters, much longer than any woman before her. No children, but he hadn't needed more. The last of the children he'd had from previous women, Meris, was the only one he needed-it was only too convenient the others had died early in life.
His smile faded remembering that Stonar had almost used his less-than-complimentary nickname 'Quickwidower,' playing on his foul luck with women before his marriage to Lyetha.
'You worry too much, Lord Speaker,' Greyt said, flipping idly through the papers. The papers reiterated what Stonar had just told him but in a much longer, very wordy format. That was what happened when one turned a blacksmith into a lord-redundancy. Or gruffness. It was certainly not the elegance upon which Greyt prided himself. 'Look on the lighter side. At least Jarthon haven't resurfaced, after those adventurers dealt with the Black Blood. There hasn't been a murder in six months, and none of the guards have reported sighting any of the Malarites. Maybe Jarthon finally got what he deserved.'
'Maybe he ran afoul of the Ghostly Lady,' agreed Stonar.
Greyt's face turned stony and annoyance flashed across his face before he gave Stonar a bemused smile. 'Please, Ston-Lord Speaker. The Ghostly Lady? 'Tis a fairytale, nothing more.' He sipped his wine. 'I have been all over the Moonwood, and I've never encountered this 'golden spirit.' You sound as naive as the rest of the simpletons who live here.'
Stonar looked flustered, but he laughed nevertheless. 'They may be naive, but as long as you are their hero, they are in good hands, Greyt,' he said. He rose and gathered up his cape. 'I'm leaving you in charge of Quaervarr during my absence. See that you protect the people while I am away in Silverymoon. I shall be back before Greengrass, seven days hence, I expect.'
Whatever difference your absence makes, Greyt mused silently. Instead, he offered a winning smile. 'Of course, my lord,' he sighed. 'Consider them safe.'
When Stonar opened the door to leave, Greyt stopped him with a soft call. 'Stonar?'
'Aye?'
'What do Clearwater and Unddreth have to say about this?' he asked.
'Why, nothing,' Stonar said. 'I was elected to represent these people, I make the decisions. I trust Unddreth to do his job; he always does. As for Amra Clearwater… well, the Silvanites have a festival to prepare for. If you even see her, I'd be surprised.' With that, Speaker Geth Stonar passed out the inlaid doors of Greyt's lavish sitting room.
Greyt nodded, smiling. The appointment of the task was unexpected, but the trust Stonar exhibited amused him. Particularly since Greyt could easily use the position to undermine the Speaker's authority. Perhaps now was the time to set long overdue plans in motion.
He looked out the window and saw that the rain was clearing outside. It was turning out not to be such a bad morning after all. There would be no hunting, but at least it wouldn't look so dismal outside. The fading drizzle on the rooftop was pleasant.
He began singing to himself, a tale of Thadax Gray wolf, a mighty warlord of the north and an ancestor of his, as he considered what he would ask the servant to bring him for a noon meal.
Quaervarr was a simple frontier town in the southern depths of the untamed Moonwood. A crude wall of felled trees encircled no more than fifty buildings. The cobbled main street-the greatest thoroughfare of the town- ran from the single gate straight to the plaza. The side streets were narrow and twisting, giving Quaervarr the feeling of a larger city, but rarely cobbled, as in Silverymoon or Everlund, maintaining the rustic atmosphere. Moon elves lived in the southern fringes of the Moonwood and existed in a state of benevolent neutrality with the human town, allowing it to stand as a symbol of peace and cooperation between the races.
In the recent past, Quaervarr had been a fort, plagued by the werebeasts of the Black Blood, but no more, not since adventurers and soldiers of the Argent Legion had driven the cultists out. These days, travelers could always find a welcoming smile, a warm bed, and a hearty mug of ale at Quaervarr's renowned inn, the Whistling Stag.
With the Greengrass festival fast approaching, however, room vacancies were at a premium. The end of winter and the beginning of spring demanded celebration, and excitement was in the air. Hundreds of men and woman scurried every which way, making preparations.
The three Knights in Silver were acutely aware of the unusually bustling activity in the peaceful town, and the leader hoped they might find any room at all.
Heroes by appearance alone, the knights attracted smiles and shouts from running children, who hopped alongside the horses as fast as they could. The lead knight, slim of build, looked down at each one with a smile barely hidden behind a silver-inlaid helmet. A lance stood up from the rear of the saddle, and a fine Everlundian long sword hung next to it. A shield with a star and nightingale was on the knight's arm. The two others-much less elegant in poise and carriage-rode approximately level with one another, exchanging bemused glances. They were engaged in quiet banter, as always.
'I say, Bars, that didn't seem very wise to me,' one of the knights, a slender man in mail, said to the other. An ornate long sword hung from his saddle, but he looked too small of stature to have much use for such a heavy blade.
'Eh?' his companion, a hulking man in plate, replied. His voice was a growl.
'The watch at the gate,' the slender man said. 'They let us through unchallenged. What if we'd been monsters in disguise, or brigands, or Malarites, or Zhents, or lycanthropes, or, worse, Sembians?' He shuddered. 'They could be allowing truly dangerous men freely into their town. You'd better hide that voice, or you'll be mistaken for a werebear for sure.'
'Derst,' the burly knight rumbled. Two light, flanged maces hung from his saddle, and his hand rested on one. 'You're going to have to watch your tongue. No right-minded citizen of the Silver Marches would mistake you for a werebear, but your shape is right for a wererat.'
'What does that have to do with my speech, pray tell, Sir Hartwine?' Derst asked.
'You're being quite flippant, Sir Goldtook, and only a fool would be flippant, and a wererat would be a fool to wander into Quaervarr, disguised as a Knight in Silver,' Bars said. 'Since you are being flippant, you are definitely a fool, ergo, you might be a wererat.'
'Ah, but could I not be a thief disguised as a Knight in Silver?' Derst asked. 'As you often remind me, brother paladin, I am quite the rogue. Besides, you used a lot of words there that you probably shouldn't-dangerous 'logic,' too. After all, what if some suspicious citizen overheard and questioned you, or reported you to the watch for 'thinking?' I would have a difficult time explaining all that back hair you seem to cultivate-'
'When did we lose the right to be logical?' Bars asked. He glared at Derst. 'And leave the hair alone.'
Derst grinned behind his silver faceplate. 'More to the point, when did we lose the right to be flippant?' he asked. 'My life would be a complete waste of air if I found myself without that right. I mean, I wouldn't be able to speak at all-'
'Bless the Morning Lord,' the burly knight bellowed. 'Were it ever so!'
Derst glowered at him for a moment, but perked up when they entered Quaervarr's main plaza. 'Ah, the Whistling Stag,' he said as they approached the inn. 'At least, so I would assume, by yon hanging, which bears a striking resemblance to Quaervarr's pennant.'
The Whistling Stag was a plain but sturdy building of fir and pine, a great hunting lodge that had become a gathering place for travelers and locals alike. The knights heard laughter, jesting, and the clacking of tankards through the windows. Clearly, they had come to the right place for merry-making.
