“I was thinking the same thing,” Nightshade returned.
“Nor do I think this would be a good time for you to borrow anything from anyone.”
“There never does seem to be a good time,” Nightshade said cheerfully. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my hands in my pockets.”
“And,” Rhys added, “if my brother is here, let me do the talking.”
“I’m to be seen and not heard,” said Nightshade. He looked a little daunted. “I miss Atta.”
“So do I,” said Rhys. He opened the door.
A fire burning sullenly in a fire pit at the back of the tavern was the only source of light, and it was smoking so much that it wasn’t doing a very good job of that. Rhys peered through the murky interior of the tavern. The song fell silent in midnote when he and the kender entered, except for one drunk who was not singing the same song anyway and who droned on without pause.
Rhys saw Lleu immediately. His brother sat at a table by himself in the middle of the tavern. He was in the act of taking a swig from an earthenware jug when Rhys entered. Wiping his mouth, Lleu set the jug back on the table. He glanced at the new visitor, then glanced away, not interested.
Rhys crossed the room to the table where his brother sat. He was afraid that his brother might try to run, once he recognized him, so he spoke to him first.
“Lleu,” said Rhys calmly, “do not be alarmed. I’ve come to talk with you. Nothing more.”
Lleu looked up. “Fine with me, friend,” he said with a smile that was meant to be genial but which had a strained quality to it. “Sit down and talk away.”
Rhys was disconcerted. This was not the reaction he had expected. Rhys stared at Lleu, who stared right back, and Rhys realized that his brother did not recognize him. Given the shadowy, smoky atmosphere of the tavern and the fact that he was no longer wearing orange robes, this was perhaps understandable. Rhys sat down at the table with his brother. Nightshade plunked down beside him. The kender regarded Lleu with a round-eyed gaze, then glanced at Rhys and seemed about to say something. Rhys shook his head and Nightshade remembered that he was supposed to keep quiet.
“Lleu,” said Rhys, “it’s me, Rhys. Your brother.”
Lleu cast him a bored glance, went back to his jug. “If you say so.”
“Don’t you recognize me, Lleu?” Rhys pressed. “You should. You tried to kill me.”
“Obviously I failed,” Lleu grunted. He lifted the jug, took a long pull at the liquor and set it back down again. “So you’ve got nothing to complain about, that I can see. Have a drink?”
Lleu held out the jug to his brother. On Rhys’s refusal, Lleu offered it to the kender. “How about you, little fella?”
“Yes, thank … uh, no, that’s all right,” said Nightshade, catching Rhys’s eye.
“Just as well,” Lieu continued, shoving the jug away in disgust. “Damn spirits must be more than half water. This is my second jug and I can still see just one of you, monk, and just one of your little friend there. Usually after three tips, I’m seeing six of every-thing and pink goblins to boot.”
He turned his head, yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, where’s my supper?”
“You ate already,” said a voice from the vicinity of the bar, that was lost in a gloom of smoky haze.
“I don’t remember eating,” Lieu said angrily.
“Well, you did,” said the voice dourly. “Yer empty plate’s sittin’ in front of you.”
Lieu frowned down at the table to see a battered pewter plate and a bent knife.
“Then I’m hungry again. Bring me some more of whatever that slop was.”
“Not ’til you pay for the last meal you ate. And them two jugs of spirits.”
“I’m good for it,” Lleu snarled. “I’m a cleric of Kiri-Jolith, for gods’ sake.”
A snort came from out of the smoke.
“I have part of a meat pie I couldn’t finish,” said Nightshade, and he brought out the pie wrapped in a grease-spotted handkerchief.
Lleu snatched up the pie and devoured it hungrily, as if he’d not eaten in days. “Any more where that came from?”
“Sorry,” said the kender.
“I don’t know why it is,” Lleu muttered. “I eat and eat and never get full. Must be the damn food in this part of the country. All tastes the same. Bland, like these dwarf spirits. No kick to em.
Rhys took hold of his brother’s arm, gripped it hard.
“Lleu, quit talking about food and dwarf spirits. Don’t you have any remorse for what you’ve done? For the terrible crime you committed?”
“No, he doesn’t,” said the kender.
“I told you to be quiet,” Rhys ordered impatiently. Nightshade leaned close to Rhys and put his hand on his arm. “You do realize he’s dead, don’t you?”
“Nightshade, I don’t have time—”
The words froze on Rhys’s tongue. He stared at his brother. Slowly, he relaxed his grip, loosened his hold on his brother’s arm.
Unfazed, Lleu sat back in his chair. He picked up the jug, took another swig, and then set it back down with a thump. “Where’s my food?” he yelled.
“Ask me again and you’ll get your food, all right. I’ll stuff it straight up your arse.”
“Nightshade, what are you talking about?” Rhys whispered. He could not take his gaze from his brother. “What do you mean, ‘he’s dead’.”
“Just what I said,” the kender replied. “He’s dead as a coffin nail. He just doesn’t know it yet. Would you like me to tell him? It might come as a shock—”
“Nightshade, if this is some type of jest—”
“Oh, no,” Nightshade protested, appalled at the mere suggestion. “I may joke about a lot things, but not my work. I take that very seriously. All those poor spirits waiting to be set free…” The kender paused, cocked an eye at Rhys. “You truly can’t see he’s dead?”
Lleu had forgotten they were there. He stared into the smoke, every so often taking a pull from the jug, more by force of habit, seemingly, then because he took any pleasure in it.
“He is acting very strangely,” Rhys conceded. “But he is breathing. His flesh is warm to the touch. He drinks and eats, he sits and talks to me—”
“Yeah, that’s the odd part,” said Nightshade, screwing up his face into a puzzled expression. “I’ve seen plenty of corpses in my life, but they were all quiet, peaceful sorts. This is the first time I ever saw one sitting in a tavern drinking dwarf spirits and wolfing down meat pies.”
“This is not funny, Nightshade,” Rhys said grimly.
“Well, it’s hard to explain!” The kender was defensive. “It’s like you trying to tell a blind person what the sky looks like. I can see he’s dead because … because there’s no light inside him.”
“No light …” Rhys repeated softly. He recalled the Master’s words: Lleu is his own shadow.
“When I look at you or those two men playing bones over in the corner, I see a kind of light coming off them. Oh, it’s not much. Not bright like the fire or even a candle flame. You couldn’t read a book by it, or find your way in the dark or anything like that. It’s just a wavering, shimmering glow. Like the very tip tiptop of the flame before it trails off into smoke. That sort of light. When you had hold of him, did you feel a pulse? You might see if he’s got one.”
Rhys reached out, took hold of his brother’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” Lleu asked, regarding Rhys with a frown.
“I am afraid that you are not well,” Rhys said.
“That’s an understatement,” muttered the kender.
“I’m fine, I assure you. I never felt better. Chemosh takes care of me.”
“Well?” the kender asked Rhys eagerly.
Rhys felt something that might have been a pulse but was not quite the same. It did not feel like the rush of life beneath the skin. More like turgid water moving sluggishly beneath a layer of thick ice.