“Aren’t always what?” Alias called after him.
“Good and evil,” he called back.
Alias watched until his retreating form disappeared into the darkness. She had no idea what he meant, but she was grateful for the light.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Then she jumped. She thought she heard the old man whisper, “Ye’re welcome, Alias,” right in her ear. Only a freak breeze and my imagination, she tried to assure herself. Even so, she scurried down the path and headed back to town, tired of the night’s adventuring.
Back atop the hillock that once held the hut of the river witch Syluné, the old man used a stick of charred wood to sketch out Alias’s five sigils on one of the flagstones. He tapped the unknown one with his stick and frowned.
“Why is it,” he muttered, “that the years seem to fly by, but the nights seem to last forever?”
15
Olive’s Deal and Dragonbait’s Secret
It was long past midnight when Olive weaved her way to bed. The local merchants had been thankful for the figurative nose-tweaking Ruskettle and her companions had given the Iron Throne by destroying the kalmari, and they showed their appreciation in the form of several kegs of Jhaele’s finest ale.
It was no Luiren Rivengut, Olive thought, but still a potent brew. With Akabar off kissing up to some high sage, her high-and-mighty ladyship disappearing into the night, and the lizard watching everything mutely from a corner, someone had to accept all the congratulations and free brew being passed around.
Actually, Olive had a dim recollection of Alias returning to the inn. At the time, the bard had feared the sell-sword might resume her foray into musical entertainment, but Alias had simply hurried to her room.
The trouble with humans, thought the halfling as she rested on the second story landing, is that they’re no fun at parties.
She glared at the stairs she had yet to climb. And their buildings are the wrong size, she added. No doubt her ladyship thinks it amusing making me climb steps that come up to my knees.
Olive wondered if some servant would carry her up to her room if she pretended to pass out. More likely, she realized, they’d call out her ladyship or her pet lizard to dispose of my body. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’d never willingly suffer the indignity of being carried by a human. It’s bad enough putting up with the pats on her head. Some day, Olive knew, she’d take a bite out of one of those hands—when she could afford to be considered a “tempermental” artist.
“Happy thoughts, Olive-girl,” she muttered to herself. That was her motto when living among humans. No matter how patronizing or cruel or stupid they are, she told herself, keep a smile plastered to your face. Tonight wasn’t too hard. This celebration, she realized, was the group’s first tangible reward since they rescued me from the dragon.
Olive ordinarily would have considered herself a fool for offering to share the loot she’d secreted from the red’s lair, but the halfling had been grateful to Alias for her rescue. She’d even forgiven the sell-sword for lugging her around like a sack of potatos as they made their escape.
For a foolish human, Olive thought, her ladyship sure knew what made dragons tick. Olive shivered at the thought that, were it not for Alias, she would still be a prisoner beneath the Storm Horns, wasting away until she was too feeble to sing. Then the dragon would make a light meal of her, an appetizer before a hearty meal of a herd of cattle or a brace of villagers.
This thought distressed Olive so badly that she craved the comfort of a late snack. However, the thought of all those stairs deterred her from raiding the kitchen.
She scrambled up the remaining stairs quickly, to get them over with, then zigzagged down the long corridor to the Green Room. She was sober enough, however, to notice the bits of shaved wood on the floor before the door.
Olive had put the wood shavings between the door and the jamb at halfling waist-level, where a human was unlikely to spot them fluttering to the floor should they open the door. In her mind rose the image of someone malicious pawing through her things, looking for treasure.
The halfling knew that the mage hadn’t come back yet and the lizard was still sitting by the taproom hearth. Could it be her high-and-mightiness? Olive wondered. Or an outsider?
Olive turned the knob slowly and eased the door open a crack. With her eye to the opening, she could see the human-sized overstuffed chair and tea table that stood opposite the bed. A single, tallow taper illuminated the room, affording Olive a sight to warm the chilliest of halfling hearts. A small figure seated in the chair was counting and recounting high stacks of thin, glittering, silverish coins.
“Ahem,” Olive coughed politely.
The small, seated figure looked up. An inhumanly wide grin spread across his childish face. He was a male halfling dressed in the robes of a southerner.
“Excellent,” her guest said. “I wondered how long it would be before you stopped taking bows and decided to retire for the evening.”
“An artist never tires of her audience,” Olive replied as she entered the room, scanning it for other intruders. There was no one else. “Though, alas, the opposite is often true,” she added.
“But there are audiences, and there are audiences.”
“True enough. But that is a discussion for another day. Who now graces my presence with this display of breaking and entering?”
The little figure slid from the chair and took a moment to smooth his robes. Then, he thrust out a hand and said, “Call me Phalse.”
Olive closed the door behind her and stepped forward. She gave Phalse’s hand a single, brief squeeze, as was the custom among halflings. “False what?” she asked.
“Just Phalse will suffice for now,” the intruder answered, smiling smugly.
He had the most peculiar eyes, Olive noted. Dark blue where the whites should have been, sky blue irises and pupils the blue-white of hot iron. It must be some trick of the candlelight, she decided.
“You are Olive Ruskettle, companion to the warrior Alias?”
“We’re traveling in the same direction,” Olive corrected, hoisting herself onto the mattress and perching on the edge. Phalse hopped back into the chair and leaned back against the cushions with his legs stretched out across the seat.
“And your destination is …?”
“I’ll know when I get there,” Olive replied. “Bards need to travel, to gain information, pass on tales.”
“I see,” Phalse said. “I think I have a tale for you.” Carefully, he pushed a single stack of coins across the tea table in Olive’s direction.
The bard kept her eyes on the coins. From the bed, she could see they were not silver, but platinum. Keeping her voice as level as she could, she said, “I’m always interested in tales.”
“I thought you might be,” said the other halfling, flashing another wide grin, a grin too wide for a human and almost too wide for a halfling. “It’s a tale about two people who were traveling in the same direction. One was a woman, the other a human female.”
“Is this woman a bard?” Olive asked.
“If it makes a suitable story,” Phalse replied, pushing another stack of coins toward Olive.
“This human female had done something horrible. She was a very sick human female—she carried a curse, you see, a curse which could not easily be removed. Fortunately, certain powers were seeking to capture and imprison her until such time as a cure might be found for her.
“Unfortunately, part of this human female’s curse was that she deliberately avoided these powers. As a matter of fact, this human female killed all the agents sent to bring her back to those who would help her. Of course, the woman who was a bard knew nothing of this; she did not realize what peril she was in.”