The woman sighed.

Explaining that talking had worn her out and she only wished now to sit and enjoy her ale, she wished Locklear and Owyn well, then called for another round to be brought to her.

They were ignored.
Despite several attempts to regain the patron's attention, both Locklear and Owyn realized their efforts were futile and decided to leave him alone.

If in the Anchorhead Tavern (Silden):

A tattooed dwarf stared at them.

Smiling, he revealed a mouth full of teeth which had been filed into shark-like points and his black eyes seemed just as deadly. "Sa a'kai, enconsi," he said, speaking with a thick Keshian lilt. He motioned to a table that was nearby. "Please, gentlemen. The game awaits you."

Not feeling like beginning an argument with the strange skashakan cannibal, Locklear allowed himself to be escorted to a table where a deck of pokiir cards was stacked.

The man was a gambler.

Withdrawing a deck of cards thicker than those used for Lin-Lan or Pashawa, he slapped it down on the table, withdrew a strange looking card and flipped it over. A woman was drawn on the face of the card.

"Called a Blue Lady," the man said with a drawl. "The game is Pokiir, the latest thing played by the Keshian dog soldiers. Have you heard of it?"

Locklear nodded. "I've even had occasion to play it with mercenaries passing through the local tavern."

Although the gambler seemed disappointed, he continued. "Uneven bet. I'll pay you half of what you bet since you already know how to play. What will you put up?

The gambler tapped a deck of cards.

"Pashawa," he said, pushing the brightly colored deck towards Locklear. Seeing that his offer didn't seem attractive enough, he sweetened the bet. "If you win, I'll pay half again what you wager. What do you wish to bet?"

The gambler looked up.

Making a fist, he shook it under Locklear's nose, then smiled wickedly as he opened his palm to reveal a pair of dice. "The game is dice, my friend," the gambler said, sitting back down. "Winner wins half as much as he bets. How much gold will you wager?"

The gambler tapped a deck of cards.

"For a small wager, I'll play you Lin-Lan," he said. "Winner takes as much as he bets. What's your wager?"

The man frowned.

On the table before him was a small chessboard with carved wooden pieces, arranged in such a way that whoever was playing white seemed to be in quite a bad situation. Without looking up, he moved a piece. "Do you play?"

Gorath shrugged and took a seat. "I'm not bad."

"Excellent. Then you won't mind placing a small wager on our game," the man said with a smile, moving a piece from the opposite side this time. "Even bet. You win what you bet. How much shall you wager?"

The lute was old.

From the looks of it, it had probably been beaten over a wandering minstrel's head for an unsatisfactory performance.

Owyn strummed the lute.

"Before you get started, I think you should know we've tapped out our entertainment fund," the tavern keeper said quietly. "If you play here, it'll only be for your own amusement."

Owyn struggled with the lute.

As soon as he had begun to play, he felt he was not so much playing a song as he was wrestling a beast a hundred times his size. Numerous times the song eluded him, slipped out of his reach only to fall into an obscure pit of noise.

"Out, out, out," the tavern keeper urged, yanking the lute from Owyn's hands. "Be glad this crowd isn't in a worse mood. Give them time to calm down and then you can come back, but only if you're coming back for food."

Owyn yawned.
"Looks like this is the way to the sleeping quarters," he said.

The nightmaster looked tired.

"[X] sovereigns for the night," he grumbled. "Though, if you louse my beds I'll charge you double. We turn you out at sunrise -- oh, and there's a chamberpot in the corner if you need it. Shall I sign you in for the night?"

Locklear yawned.

"Sleep well?" the nightmaster asked.

"Not exactly," Locklear replied, rubbing his eyes. "The fellow that was sharing our bed tossed all night. Kept burying his elbows in our guts."

"And his fingers in our money pouches!" Gorath growled, examining their finances. "He stole a handful of golden sovereigns."

The nightmaster smiled nervously. "You understand that nothing...that...the establishment can't be held responsible. I can sign you up for another night, though. Are you...uh, interested?"

The man accepted their company.

Owyn chatted idly with the rough looking fellow as Gorath looked on, making certain that in his ebullient mood the magician didn't slip and give away the true purpose of their travels.

"So, where are you headed?" the man asked, describing a large arc with his ale cup. "Anyplace interesting?"

"Actually, we're not headed in any specific direction," Gorath intervened. "We're wandering. Looking for an employer. Treasure to watch, caravan to guard..."

The man snickered. "Or a caravan to steal from, eh? Freebooters then. Well, theres not much going on in the Kingdom these days, not in the west. The Prince has seen to it his roads are safe and his vassals happy. For the likes of us, he's taken all the fun out of life."

Locklear nodded. "You're not the first one to say so."

Locklear cleared his throat.

Glancing up from the business of cleaning his fingernails with a bootknife, the man regarded them frostily, motioning with the tip of his knife for them to quickly make their business known.

"That's a very nice knife. Keshian isn't it?" Locklear commented carefully. "Where did you chance to purchase it?"

The man smiled, showing uneven brown teeth. "Who said I bought it?"

"Ah," Gorath said, taking hold of Locklear's shirtsleeve. "Well. I think my companion here promised me a drink before we came in and I think it's well nigh time I collected on it. Good day to you. Perhaps we can speak again."

A table was cleaned for them.

Sitting down on an splintered bench across from the man, Locklear shared a bit of the mercenary's bread as he listened to a story about a failed love affair with a married woman. As the story progressed from a sentimental recounting to a drunken blubber, it became evident the man had no intention of finishing the tale any time soon.

"That's terrible," Locklear intoned a round a mouthful of bread, his attention fixed instead on the wooden boards behind the mercenarys head. "Awful. Tragic..."

"Ah, there you are," a steward said, laying a heavy hand on Owyn's shoulder. "Are you lads still going to help me carry in those bags like we talked about?"

Initially at a loss, but suddenly understanding they had been rescued, Owyn clapped his hands together. "Yes, yes, of course. If our drinking companion will forgive the absence."

Blearily the man looked up at them and nodded, waving for someone to come and fill his cup.

The man scowled.

Apparently far more intent on something going on across the common room, he seemed uninterested in Locklear's repeated attempts to chat. At last he glanced up and gave an exasperated sigh. "What exactly do you want?"

"Just a little friendly talk," Locklear said with a companionable smile. "News, gossip, a song perhaps..."

"Well, go and find a bloody jongleur then and leave me be. I've got better things to do than entertain every jackaboot that comes through that door."

Locklear slapped the man on the back.

Immediately he regretted doing so as the mercenary gasped, his face contorting into a mask of pain.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize... Is your shoulder broken?" Locklear asked.

"Don't worry yourself about it," the man spat between gritted teeth. "I haven't exactly made the fact known." A faint popping sound issued from the man's back as he moved his shoulder, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "I was a courier for the dwarves. I reasoned there would be less chance a brigand would try to intercept me if he wasn't aware I was injured."

Locklear nodded sympathetically. "Did you break it in a fight?"

"No, a fall," the man said. "Stupid man I am, I was in the dwarven caves and I came to this pit -- part of the caves had collapsed so there were all kinds of sinkholes everywhere. Since there wasn't a plank I could walk over and I didn't have any kind of rope...I jumped. I think if I had the chance to make the decision again, I'd have waited until I got my hands on a coil of hemp."

The man kept Locklear laughing.

After a string of bawdy tales about mercenaries and blushing maidens, he launched into a tale about a lord's daughter he'd once tried to win, though with quite a bit of resistance from a man named Luc.

"He demanded to arm wrestle you for the girl?"

"Actually, no. Alas, it was the girl's idea," the man sighed.

"I'd have strangled her!" Locklear said with a laugh, holding his sides. "Ah well, I don't suppose you can win them all."

"Oh but I did win," the man continued, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "The girl knew Luc was the strongest man in the village and so did I, had known it for several days once I'd found out who all her possible suitors were. Any way, I had visited an herb shop and picked up a vial of some wonderful stuff called Fadamor's Formula, a potion which I'd heard mercenaries say helped sustain their strength during long fights. I waited until a few moments before the contest before downing it because I knew it would last only a short while. I marched in, sat down at the table, and very nearly took the poor fellow's arm off. When it seemed his personal honor was at stake, I took him aside and told him I would let him soundly beat me in front of everyone and let him have the girl if he gave me half the amount of the dowry. Half an hour later, I was a very wealthy man."

The man belched.

Though not initially in the most companionable mood, he eventually gave in to Locklear's attempts to make conversation and told a story about a foiled robbery thanks to the sword skills of his brother-in-law.

"Sounds like it's lucky you had him along," Locklear said.

"Hmm. Probably, but if he hadn't been out looking for one of those bloody damned fairy chests, we'd have been to LaMut on time. Could've watched Earl Kasumi and the rest of those Tsurani warriors of his humiliating Baron Gabot's men in the archer's tourney. That must have been quite a sight, especially since the Baron himself is generally considered an archer only second to Duke Martin of Crydee."

"Fairy chests?" Locklear interrupted.

"Treasure chests," the man clarified with a scowl. "Not that I ever believed we would find one, but he says they are usually hidden in out of the way fields or back in little canyons. Only a damn fool would believe something as stupid as that, but I suppose I should expect as much from any husband of my sister."

The mercenary demanded ale.

Initially suspicious of Locklear, he began to loosen up as his drink took hold, speaking eventually at length about his colorful career as a Midkemian freebooter.

"So, how did you get the scar?" Locklear said, commenting on the red slash which traced the man's jawline. "Escaping from a Quegian press gang?"

"Nothing so daring," the man laughed, speaking into his ale cup. "Though I shall have to remember that one when next I have the chance to show it off at court. No, I simply ran afoul of a group of bravos who were bucking for a reward at the Mac Mordain Cadal. They didn't wish to have the competition and so we had...words."

"Must have been pretty sharp words, Locklear said. "What was the reward for?"

The man shrugged. "Some monster the dwarves called a Brock Noor or something of that nature. Apparently they couldn't split up their time between trying to kill the thing and digging out a mine shaft collapse the thing had caused. So, they called in mercenaries for help."

The common room grew quiet.

Turning so his face could only be seen by the man whom he had approached, Locklear greeted the man loudly, then pitched his voice lower, "Are you a swordsman or a storyteller?"

A smirk appeared on the man's lips. "And what makes you think I am either?"

"Because when a common room falls this unnervingly quiet, it means the locals expect either a fight or a tale," Locklear muttered. "So which is it to be?"

Looking down at the counter near his elbow, the man sighed. "Seeing as how I've left my sword at home and I've only a butter knife at my immediate disposal...I suppose a tale to pass the time would be more prudent at this juncture."

Mostly his stories were about battles, large and small, fought sometimes for fame and glory but always for the coin of the right color. He had travelled up and down the Kingdom of the Isles, but never had he found a minute's peace in any place that he slept. When at last he had come to the conclusion of his storytelling, he thanked Locklear for listening then stumbled off looking for something closely resembling a bed.

Fire leapt from the man's fingertips.

Feeling sure the man meant to attack them, Locklear reached for his weapon and surveyed the exits, his gut knotting as he dreaded the possibility they would have to fight in the confined space. But rather than unleashing some hellish spell on them, the bemused looking fellow merely withdrew a pipe from his belt and lit the embers with his magical flame.

"I really hadn't intended on frightening you," the man said, drawling heavily. "For some reason, this happens with unnerving regularity."

"You could do everyone the common courtesy of warning them," Locklear snapped, shoving his sword back into its sheath. "It's not quite so commonplace it won't go without notice."

The magician puffed, then said, "Rather like your breath."

Their company was welcomed reluctantly.

In a generally foul mood, the man had a list of complaints about things in the Kingdom, though he seemed most interested in venting his complaints about a shopkeeper he had recently visited.

"He tried to saddle me with one of those moredhel blades," the man said, taking a sip from his ale cup. "You know, a lamprey."

"What's wrong with using a lamprey?" Locklear asked.

"Too long," the man said, "You take a moredhel or an elf like your friend here, it's the perfect length and balance for their reach, but for a human or Tsurani -- damn hard to control the thing. Same thing's true of a Griefmaker or any other elven blade."

"Such as?" Locklear pressed. Immediately he sensed that his drinking companion was growing suspicious, and so he quickly amended his question. "Forgive me, but I've only recently purchased a shop of my own and I don't know much about weapons. I want to make certain that I buy weapons my customers can use, not just pretty trinkets."

"Understandable." Putting down his cup, the man ticked off names on his fingers as he recalled the other makes. "First off, I know a greatsword is of elven manufacture and I think a few goblin stickers are also made by the fair folk, though I couldn't be certain of it. Humans also seem to have a little difficulty using elven crossbows and armor for similar reasons, so that's another thing you might want to keep in mind before you stock."

He seemed glad to have the company.

Looking around nervously, the man appeared concerned his actions would be observed. After hesitating for a few minutes, he bent closer to whisper in James' ear. "What would you fellows know about the Guild of Assassins?"

Chilled as if the blood in his veins had suddenly turned to ice, James regarded the man with a stern look. "Why? Are you looking to have someone killed?"

"No, no," the man said, shaking his head emphatically. "I want to save someone, myself."

"I see. And why would the Nighthawks be after you?"

"I halted one of their assassinations not long ago," the man said. "When I saw three of them were about to pounce on a friend of mine, I called out and forced them into an straight fight. Right away we ran through one assassin while his two friends fled, but...the fellow we ran through got up again."

James' eyes widened, knowing immediately what the man had faced. "They're called Black Slayers," he explained. "They're a Nighthawk that's nearly impossible to kill. If this assassin wanted you dead, why didn't he kill you then?"

"I don't know, but he seemed to be concerned that one of us was a magician," the man replied. "I don't know what gave him that idea, but he shouted something about not going to his final rest and for us to keep the sorcerer away from him."

Locklear tapped the woman's shoulder.

Slowly she turned to look at him, but rather than greeting him with a smile, in her gaze was a look he had thought reserved only for things that crawled on the ground or lapped up table leavings in the door yard. "What do you want?"

"I was hoping perhaps we could talk," Locklear ventured. "Pass the time with a little conversation."

"Why?" she said curtly.

Opening his mouth to reply but suddenly finding himself bereft of adequate speech, he made a small sound which he was certain sounded quite unmanly.

Stabbing him with her exquisitely beautiful stare, she smiled. "I thought as much. Good bye, sir. I am sure you have a brilliant oratory career before you."

The question had been innocent enough.

While he had meant nothing by asking the woman what she was doing in the tavern, Locklear found he was suddenly at the mercy of a rather pathetic street hawker.

"I'm trying to sell these," the woman said. She opened up a ruck sack and drew out a handful of cracked seashells, handing them over to Locklear to examine.

"Have you tried to sell them to a merchant somewhere?" Locklear asked.

"A few places, but I've found they won't buy anything they don't already have on their shelves. Why do they just need more of what they already have? I would think they would jump at the chance to stock items they don't have around."

Locklear shrugged and handed the shells back. "I'm no merchant, but it might be a matter of knowing what your regular buyers come after. If you never have anyone asking for shells, it probably doesn't make sense for you to waste your money trying to buy them."

Locklear babbled.

Unthinking, he'd initiated the conversation without knowing what he was going to say and felt the heat of embarrassment rising in his cheeks. Casting about for some topic of common interest, he was fortuitously saved when the woman held up a book which she had been holding.

"Do you read much?" she asked.

Locklear shrugged. "Can't say that I do. My responsibilities don't give me much time for stories."

"Who said anything about stories?" the woman asked, turning it up so Locklear could read the words stamped on the binding, Thiful's Bird Migrations.

"Bird migrations?" Locklear said, a puzzled look on his face. "You'll pardon me, but it doesn’t sound very interesting."

"If the book had confined itself to the subject of birds, I believe I would have been inclined to agree," the woman said with a nod. "Fortunately, he isn't very good about sticking to the subject and he covers more territory than the birds he writes about. I've learned some miraculous things about trading with shopkeepers and playing the lute -- I would highly recommend you find the time to read more."

"You sound like a brother of Ishap," Locklear said.

Mocking a look of horror, the woman gasped. "Ishap forfend! My reputation is ruined. I shall have to make amends. Barkeep, another keg of ale in, if you please!"

Owyn coughed.

"You should see a priest about that," the woman said. "How long have you been afflicted with it?"

"Only just now. I have a small problem with smoke." Owyn replied, gesturing to the corner of the tavern where a wood fire was burning in the hearth. "I doubt the brothers of Sung would be much interested."

She nodded, staring down into the dregs of her winecup. "Unless you've a mortal wound or a plague or you've been stupid enough to fall prey to poison, I've never found that priests are of much use other than to babble on about the trivial."

The woman talked.

Brushing away the hair that was dangling in her eyes, she talked long and passionately about the affairs of the common folk of Midkemia.

"You talk of children as if they were nothing more than pieces on a chessboard," Locklear said with a frown.

"Forgive me, sire, but I was lowborn," she replied. "When a farmer has no one to push his plow for him and cannot hire a strong back, he and his wife conceive a child! When a noble is endangered by ships off his coast, but has a daughter in swaddling that coos in her bassinet, he promises her hand in marriage to the invading lord to save his gold! It is the nature of your Great Freedom..."

Stunned by the flare of rage, Locklear was uncertain how to answer the peasant woman's vehemence. "It is not my plan, miss," he replied pointedly. "And I don't think it was engineered to enslave children, however good your point may be. Yes, many people are forced to do much against their will, but how eager do you think the soldiers have been that have gone down to their deaths to defend those principles? There are prices to be paid on all sides."

"Yes, there are," she said. "But some of us seem to be paying more than others."