Akabar was puffing on smoky, sparking pine needles when Alias and the lizard returned to the dark camp under the trees. While Akabar prepared dinner, Alias, wrapped in a cloak from the cache, patrolled the edge of the clearing, occasionally glancing at the bard.
Ruskettle was short, even for a halfling. Not even three feet high. There was nothing childlike about her figure, though. She was in the full bloom of womanhood, with plenty of curves, but she also had a slender waist and none of the plumpness most members of her race had. Her leanness, the muscles of her calves, her deep tan, all indicated to Alias that the bard was an adventuress like herself. Yet, Alias was not prepared to like or trust her at all. The bard hadn’t made the slightest effort to help Dragonbait and Akabar set up camp or prepare their meal. Besides, halflings were trouble. Alias had never met an exception to the rule.
She joined the others for dinner, seating herself opposite Ruskettle, still watching her intently.
“I don’t know how to thank you properly,” the halfling bard mumbled between bites of smoke-cured mutton. “The halflings of the south have a saying: I owe you my life, your belongings are safe with me.”
The mutton leg, which might have lasted Alias and Akabar another two days, was quickly disappearing. Ruskettle tossed her long, curly hair over her shoulder and motioned with her clay bowl for another helping of soup, still chewing as though her life depended on it.
Akabar furrowed his eyebrows at the small creature’s gluttony, but he ladled out another portion of the hearty gruel, a thick barley stock with bits of salted coney seasoned with herbs from the merchant-mage’s copious pockets.
“I can see you’re keeping our food safe,” Alias joked. “Are you sure it’s the musical ability of Olav Ruskettle that is renowned, and not her appetite?”
The bard swallowed and wiped her mouth. “The name’s Olive, dear. Olive Ruskettle. Don’t worry. Everyone makes that mistake.”
“Dimswart said it was Olav,” Alias muttered as a tiny fear crept over her. Perhaps she had rescued the wrong person.
“Well, I should know my own name, don’t you think? The problem is that some fool clerk made a mistake writing it down once on some official document and ever since I’ve had to correct people.”
“I see,” Alias replied suspiciously, wondering whether Mistress Ruskettle wasn’t wanted under the name of Olav for something more serious than straining rhymes.
“As for my appetite,” Olive Ruskettle explained, washing down a loaf of bread with a long pull on a waterskin, “you should know that that witch of a dragon, while having a civilized appreciation for my musical talents, had a lot to learn about the care and feeding of a halfling. Her own eating habits were anything but regular, and I had a devil of a time convincing her that I could not live on raw venison. Then I discovered that her cooking technique left something to be desired. If you had not come along, my dear,” she said shaking her head sadly and patting Alias’s boot, “I’m afraid my little bones would have joined those of the heroes littering the floor of the dragon’s lair.”
As the bard continued to make up for a ride’s worth of lost meals, Alias thought of the heroes’ bones littering the caverns of Mist. Heroes with all the bravado and lack of sense of the halfling. Alias shook her head remembering the bard’s outrageous behavior at the mouth of Mist’s lair.
Alias’s first adventuring party, the Swanmays, had been like that, all flash and fanfare. One encounter with trolls had taught them the wiser course of stealth and surprise.
She remembered the battle with the trolls clearly, as though it had happened last week. So why can’t I remember last week? she thought with frustration. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that Akabar nudged her.
“I’m sorry, what?” she asked.
“I said, ‘Do you think we’ll return in time?’ For the wedding, I mean.”
“We’d better, or all this effort was for nothing,” Alias answered, oblivious to the feelings of the halfling.
Olive Ruskettle apparently took no offense. Her mind was also on other things. “As anxious as I am to make my Cormyrian debut, I simply haven’t the strength to keep pace with you. I shall have to have a mount.”
“I don’t care for sore feet and aching muscles any more than you, Mistress Ruskettle,” Alias replied. “We walked here for secrecy’s sake, but, since we seem to have eluded the dragon, horses sound like an excellent idea. How lucky for us you managed to acquire so much of the dragon’s wealth while I was fighting for your freedom and life. We can purchase mounts at the first farm we come to.”
Olive moved the mutton bone away from her face long enough to give Alias an unabashed grin. “I assure you, my feet made a bee-line for safety while you so valiantly risked your life to rescue me. My hands would have felt left out if they’d been any less useful, don’t you know?” She waved the bone in the direction of the sacks of treasure. “Please, feel free to consider this the party’s treasure to be used to cover expenses. Whatever remains should be divided evenly among those who survive our encounters. Even—” she cocked an eyebrow in Akabar’s direction “—if some were less useful than others.”
Akabar’s brow furrowed in astonishment at the woman’s nerve. “That is very human of you, small one,” he said. “Particularly since that spellbook you pulled from the dragon’s lair was my own. Most strange, though, because that book was missing from my wagon since the first day out of Arabel, which was, I believe, where you joined our caravan, several days before the dragon attacked us.”
“Most strange, indeed,” Olive agreed, returning Akabar’s level glare. “But”—her eyes returned to her soup bowl, and she took a gulp of broth before continuing—“these are strange times, so the sages say. Mannish kingdoms war and plot while old gods, long forgotten, stir in their restless sleep.” She lifted the soup bowl as if making a toast. “Let’s celebrate your good fortune at having your valuable tome returned to you, instead of probing into yet more mysteries.” She drained the soup bowl and held it out again. “Is there, perchance, any more soup?”
Akabar drained the last of the pot into Olive’s bowl. Olive leaned toward the treasure pile, plucked the magical book from the coins and carvings, and held it out to the wizard as he held out her soup bowl. Both parties gave the other a smile that was less than earnest as the exchange was made.
Akabar inspected his book for signs of damage. Alias reached for a tiny pouch near the treasure pile and loosened the string about its neck.
“Not that,” Olive objected. “Those are some of my personal effects.” But Alias had already dumped the contents of the pouch on the ground. A collection of keys, picks, and wires glittered in the dirt. A small gold ring rolled toward the fire.
“Oops, sorry,” Alias said nonchalantly as Olive snatched the ring from the ground. “You know, that ring looks familiar,” she added before the bard had a chance to pocket it.
“Oh, this? I picked it up in the dragon’s lair as well.”
“I have one just like it. Same blue stone set in gold.”
“Maybe you dropped it when you were fighting the dragon,” Olive suggested. “Can you prove it’s yours?”
Alias regarded the halfling’s nervy challenge with considerable amusement.
Olive slipped the ring on her finger. At first it jangled about, too large for her tiny digits, but a moment later it shrank to a perfect fit. “Oooo. It’s magic. Was yours magic? What did it do?”
Alias was unable to reply since she had not bothered to experiment with the ring she’d looted from the assassins. But she knew now as well as Akabar just how safe her possessions were in the care of the halfling bard.