Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  Rhys looked over his shoulder, as did everyone around him.

  “Did you hear something, Gregor?” asked one of the men to whom this statement had been addressed.

  “No, Tak,” said his friend, “but I sure do smell something.” He laid heavy emphasis on the word. “Must be driving a herd of swine through town today.”

  “Ah, you’re mistaken, Gregor,” said his friend in mock serious tones. “It’s not swine they’ve let into town this day. Swine are sweet-smelling, clean, and wholesome beasts compared to this lot. They must’ve let in an elf!”

  Both men laughed uproariously. By their leather aprons and brawny arms and shoulders and soot-blackened hands and faces, they were metal-workers of some kind, ironmongers or blacksmiths. The man who was the butt of their joke wore the green garb of a forester. He had his cowl pulled up over his head so that no one could see his face, but there was no mistaking the lithe body and graceful movements and the soft and melodic tones of his voice.

  The elf said nothing in reply. Stepping out of line, he walked around the two humans, and stepped back into line, in front of them.

  “You damn grass-eater, get the hell outta my way!” The man called Gregor seized the elf by the shoulder and spun him around.

  Steel flashed, and Gregor sprang backward.

  The elf held a knife in his hand.

  The two humans glanced at each other; then, doubling their huge fists, they came surging forward.

  The elf was ready to lunge, when he suddenly found his way blocked, as Rhys stepped between the combatants. Rhys did not raise his staff, nor did he raise his voice.

  “You may have my place in line, gentlemen,” he said.

  The men—all three—stared at him, mouths agape.

  “I am near the front, at the foot of the stairs,” Rhys continued pleasantly. “There, where the kender and the dog are waiting. We are next to go up. Take my place and welcome, all three of you.”

  Behind Rhys, the elf said vehemently, “I do not need your help, monk. I can handle these two myself.”

  “By spilling their blood?” Rhys asked, glancing around. “What will that accomplish?”

  “Monk?” repeated one of the humans, eyeing Rhys uncertainly.

  “By his weapon, he is a monk of the Mantis,” said the elf. “Or Majere, as you humans know it. Though I never saw one wearing sea green robes,” he added scornfully.

  “Take my place, sirs,” Rhys repeated, gesturing toward the stairs. “A mug of cool ale to quench a hot temper, eh?”

  The two humans eyed each other. They eyed Rhys and they eyed his staff. There was no good way out of this. If they’d had the support of the crowd, they might have continued the fight. As it was, Rhys’s offer had clearly captured the crowd’s fancy. Perhaps these two were well-known bullies, for people were grinning at their discomfiture.

  The two men lowered their fists.

  “C’mon, Tak, I’m not hungry anymore,” one said scathingly, turning on his heel. “The stench has killed my appetite.”

  “Yeah, you can drink with their kind if you want, monk,” sneered the other. “I’d sooner suck down swamp water.”

  The elf glowered at Rhys. “That was my battle. You had no right to interfere.”

  He, too, walked off, heading in the opposite direction.

  Rhys returned to his place in line. Several in the crowd applauded and an old woman reached out to touch his shabby, travel-stained robes “for luck.” He wondered what she would think if she knew he was not truly a monk of Majere but a sworn follower of Zeboim. He realized, with an inward sigh, that it probably wouldn’t make any difference. He had pleased her, pleased the crowd, as they would have been pleased by a Punch and Judy puppet show.

  Rhys took his place in line, next to Nightshade, who was all agog with admiration and excitement. The kender’s eager questions were interrupted by the man who regulated the flow of traffic into the inn.

  “Go on up, monk,” he called with a flourishing gesture, “before you drive off the rest of my customers.”

  Everyone laughed and the crowd cheered as Rhys, Nightshade, and Atta climbed the stairs, with Nightshade waving and leaning over the rails precariously to shout out, “Would any of you like to make contact with a loved one who has passed over? I can talk to the dead—”

  Rhys took hold of the kender by the shoulder and gently guided him through the open door.

  The Inn of the Last Home had achieved ever-lasting fame during the War of the Lance, for it was here that the legendary Heroes of the Lance began a quest that would end with the defeat of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. The Inn was owned by the descendants of two of those heroes, Caramon and Tika Majere. Listening to the gossip as he’d been standing in line, Rhys had learned a considerable amount about the Inn, its owners, and Solace in general.

  A daughter, Laura Majere, ran the inn. Her brother, Palin, had once been a famed sorcerer, but was now the Lord High Mayor of Solace. There was some sort of scandal involving his wife, but that was apparently resolved. Laura and Palin had a sister, Dezra. People rolled their eyes when she was mentioned. The Sheriff of Solace was a friend of Palin’s, a former Solamnic knight named Gerard. He was a popular sheriff, it seemed, with a reputation for being tough, but fair-minded. He had a thankless job, as far as most of the gossipers were concerned, for Solace had grown far too fast for its own good. In addition, it was located near the border of what had once been the elven kingdom of Qualinesti. The dragon Beryl had driven the elves from their homes and Qualinesti was now a wild, lawless and uncivilized no-man’s land, refuge to roving bands of outlaws and goblins.

  The Inn of the Last Home had undergone a number of changes down through the years. Those who recalled it from the days of the War of Lance would not have recognized it now. The inn had been destroyed at least twice by dragons (maybe more times, there was an argument on that score) and besides being rebuilt had undergone a series of expansions and renovations. The famous bar, made from the vallenwood tree, was still there. The fireplace beside which the infamous mage Raistlin Majere once sat had been shifted to a different location to make room for more tables. An additional wing had been built to accommodate the growing crowds of travelers. The kitchen was no longer where it had once been but was in a different place entirely. The food was still as good—better, some said—and the ale was still spoken of in near reverent terms by ale-connoisseurs all over Ansalon.

  Upon entering, Rhys was impressed by the atmosphere of the inn, which was merry without being boisterous or rowdy. The busy barmaids found time to laugh and exchange friendly barbs with the regulars. A broom-wielding gully dwarf kept the floor spotless. The long wood plank tables where the customers sat were clean and neat.

  Nightshade immediately launched into his spiel. The kender spoke extremely fast, knowing from experience, that he rarely got far before he was summarily stifled. “I can talk to dead people,” he announced in a loud voice that carried clearly over the laugher and the shouting and the clanking of pewter and crockery. “Anyone here have loved ones who have died recently? If so, I can talk to them for you. Are they happy being dead? I can tell you. Have you been searching for Uncle Wat’s will? I can find out from his spirit where he left it. Did you forget to tell your late husband how much you loved him? I can pass on your regards …”

  Some customers ignored him completely. Others regarded the kender with expressions that ranged from grinning amusement to shock and indignation. A few were starting to look seriously offended.

  “Atta, away,” ordered Rhys quietly, and the dog leapt into action.

  Trotting over to the kender, Atta pressed her body against his legs, so that he had no choice but to back up or tumble over her.

  “Atta, nice dog,” said Nightshade, patting her head distractedly. “I’ll play with you some other time. I have to work now, you see—”

  He tried to circle around the dog, tried to step over her. Atta dodged and wove, and all the while continued to force the kender backwar
d until she had him wedged neatly into a corner, with a table and chairs hemming him in on two sides and the patient dog in front.

  Atta dropped down on her belly. If Nightshade moved a muscle, she was back on her feet. She did not growl, was not menacing. She just made certain the kender stayed put.

  As the patrons of the Inn watched this in awe, a barmaid hastened over, offering to guide Rhys to a table.

  “Thank you, no,” he said. “I came for information, that is all. I am looking for someone—”

  The barmaid interrupted him. “I know that the monks of Majere take vows of poverty. It’s all right. You’re a guest of the Inn this day. There’s food and drink for you and mats in the common room for you and your friend.”

  She cast a glance in the direction of Atta and Nightshade, but whether by “friend” she meant the dog or the kender was left open.

  “I thank you, mistress, but I cannot accept your offer, which is kind, but does not apply in my case. I am not a monk of Majere. As I said, I am searching for someone and I thought perhaps he had been here. His name is Lleu—”

  “Is there a problem, Marta?”

  A large man with a shock of straw-colored hair and a face that might have been called ugly, but for its strength of character and a genial smile, came up to where Rhys and the barmaid were talking. The man was clad in a leather vest. He wore a sword at his hip and a gold chain around his neck, all of the finest quality.

  “The monk here has refused our hospitality, Sheriff,” said the barmaid.

  “I cannot accept her charity, my lord,” said Rhys. “It would be given under false pretenses. I am not a monk of Majere.”

  The man held out his hand.

  “Gerard, Sheriff of Solace,” he said, smiling. He cast an admiring glance at the dog and the penned-up kender. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for work, Brother, but if you are, I’d be glad to take you on. I saw the way you handled yourself out there in the line this morning, and that kender-herding dog of yours is worth its weight in steel.”

  “My name is Rhys Mason. Thank you for the offer, but I must decline.” Rhys paused, then said mildly, “If you were watching what was happening between those men and the elf, my lord Sheriff, why did not you intervene?”

  Gerard grinned ruefully. “If I rushed around trying to stop every knife fight that took place in Solace, Brother, I’d never do anything else. I spend my time on more important matters, such as trying to keep the town from being raided, looted, and burned to the ground. Gregor and Tak are the local bullies. If things had gotten out of hand, I would have come down to settle those boys. You had the situation under control, or so it looked from my end. Therefore, Brother, you, the dog, and the kender will be my guests for supper. It’s the least I can do for you, seeing as how you did my work for me this day.”

  Rhys felt he could accept this offer and he did so. “That’ll do, Atta,” he called, and the dog jumped up and returned to his side.

  Nightshade was on his way over to join Rhys when the kender was accosted by a plump, middle-aged woman, wearing a black shawl over her head, who said she wanted to talk to him. The two sat down and were soon deep in conversation; the kender looking extremely sympathetic, the woman dabbing her eyes with the hem of her shawl.

  “She’s a recent widow,” said Gerard, frowning at the kender. “I wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of her grief, Brother.”

  “The kender is what is called a ‘nightstalker’, my lord,” Rhys explained. “He can actually do what he says he can do—speak to the dead.”

  Gerard was skeptical. “Truly? I’ve heard of his sort before. Didn’t know they actually existed. Figured it was just another tale the little buggers made up to make nuisances of themselves.”

  “I can vouch for Nightshade, my lord Sheriff,” said Rhys, smiling. “He is not your typical light-fingered kender. He is able to communicate with the dead. I’ve seen him do it. Unless, of course, the spirits have moved on, in which case he can impart that information. Perhaps he can be of comfort to the widow.”

  Gerard eyed the kender. “I knew a kender once,” he said quietly, speaking more to himself than to Rhys. “He wasn’t your typical kender either. I’ll give this one a chance, Brother, especially if you’ll vouch for him.”

  A moment later, Nightshade came hurrying over. “The widow and I are going to the burial ground to talk to her husband. She misses him most dreadfully and she wants to make sure he’s doing all right without her. I’ll probably be gone most of the afternoon. Where shall I meet you?”

  “You can meet your friend here,” said Gerard, interrupting Rhys. “You have a place in the common room to sleep tonight.”

  “No more sleeping in stables! That’s wonderful. I’m getting really tired of the smell of horses,” said Nightshade, and before Rhys could contradict the sheriff, the kender had dashed off.

  Gerard eyed Rhys. “I’m holding you responsible for emptying his pockets when he comes back.”

  “You needn’t worry about that, my lord. Nightshade’s not very good at ‘borrowing.’ If he tries, he’s so inept that he’s almost always caught in the act. He is much more interested in speaking to the dead.”

  Gerard snorted and shook his head. Sitting across the table from Rhys, the sheriff regarded the monk curiously, more interested in him than in the kender, which, the gods knew, Solace had in abundance.

  The barmaid brought over bowls of savory stew, so thick with meat and vegetables that Rhys could barely dig his spoon into it. She put down a bowl of water and a meaty bone for Atta, who accepted the treat after a glance at Rhys and suffered the barmaid to pat her head. Atta dragged her bone under the table, plopped down on top of Rhys’s feet, and began to gnaw at it contentedly.

  “You said you were searching for someone?” Gerard asked, leaning back in his chair, looking at Rhys with a pair of eyes that were a startling shade of blue. “I don’t begin to try to keep track of everyone who comes into Solace, but I do get around. Who is it you’re looking for?”

  Rhys explained that he was searching for his brother. He described Lleu as wearing the robes of a cleric of Kiri-Jolith and spending his time in taverns and ale houses.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Staughton,” Rhys answered.

  The sheriff raised his eyebrows. “You’ve traveled a long way in search of this young man, Brother; gone to a lot of trouble. Seems to me there must more to it than a family worried about a young vagabond.”

  Rhys had decided to keep the truth about Lleu to himself, knowing that if he told anyone that his brother was guilty of murder, Lleu would be hunted down and slaughtered like a wild beast. Rhys found himself liking this man, Gerard, whose calm demeanor accorded well with Rhys’s own. If Rhys did find Lleu, he would be obliged to hand him over to the local authorities until he could be brought to justice by the Prophet of Majere. The Prophet would be the one to determine Lleu’s fate, since his crime had taken place in one of the monasteries. Rhys decided to tell the sheriff at least part of his story.

  “I am sorry to say that my brother has lately become a follower of Chemosh, God of the Dead,” he told Gerard. “I fear that he is the victim of some evil spell cast on him by a disciple of Chemosh. I need to find Lleu in order to have the enchantment broken, if that is possible.”

  “First Takhisis, now Chemosh,” Gerard growled, running his hand through his hair and making it stand straight up. “Sometimes I wonder if the return of the gods was such a good thing. We were doing all right on our own—not counting the Dragon Overlords, of course. We’ve got trouble enough now, what with displaced elves, rumors of a goblin army build-up in southern Qualinesti, and our local robber baron, Captain Samuval. We don’t need gods like Chemosh coming around to complicate matters. But then, I guess you must’ve figured that out for yourself, Rhys, since you’re no longer a monk of Majere, eh? You’re wearing monks’ garb, though, so you must be a monk of some sort.”

  “I can see why you were hired on as sher
iff, my lord,” Rhys said, meeting the blue eyes and holding them. “You have the ability to interrogate a man without letting him feel like he is being interrogated.”

  Gerard shrugged. “No offense, Brother. I’m a good sheriff because I like people, even the rascals. This job is never boring, I can tell you that much.”

  He leaned his elbows on the table and studied Rhys intently. “Here you are, a monk who leads the life of a monk of Majere and follows the ways of a monk of Majere and yet claims he’s not a monk of Majere. Wouldn’t you find that to be of interest?”

  “I find everything involving mankind to be of interest, my lord Sheriff,” Rhys replied.

  Gerard was about to respond, when their conversation was interrupted. One of his men entered the Inn, came up to him in haste. The two conferred in low tones together, and Gerard rose to his feet.

  “Duty calls, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen this brother of yours, Brother, but I’ll keep an eye out for him. I can find you here, I guess?”

  “Only if I can engage in some task to earn my keep,” Rhys said firmly.

  “See? What did I tell you! Once a monk, always a monk.” Gerard grinned, shook hands again with Rhys, and left. He had gone only a few steps, when he turned back, “I almost forgot. There’s an abandoned temple a few blocks off the Town Square in what we locals call ‘Gods’ Row.’ Supposedly this temple was once dedicated to Chemosh. It’s been empty since anyone here can remember, but who knows? Maybe he’s moved back. Oh, and there’s a tavern off the beaten path known as the Trough. It’s popular with young ne’er-do-wells. You might try looking for your brother there.”

  “Thank you, my lord Sheriff, I will investigate both,” Rhys replied, grateful for the tips.

  “Good hunting,” called Gerard with a wave as he departed.

  Rhys ate his stew and carried his bowl back to the kitchen, where he was finally able to persuade the reluctant Laura Majere to allow him to work to pay for their room and board. Ordering Atta to a corner, where she wouldn’t be underfoot, Rhys washed dishes, hauled water and wood up the kitchen stairs and chopped potatoes, destined to be used for one of the Inn’s best known delicacies.