Making sure the man’s body was reasonably well concealed, Grallik stepped out on the street and looked around for a clothier’s. The outfit wouldn’t suit him for very long; someone might recognize it as belonging to the now-deceased merchant. However, it was better to walk around in than his ruined undertunic.
His gait felt stilted because the boots were so tight. He shuffled past a small district of stone and wood buildings, only a few of them two stories tall. Some were residences; most were businesses, marking the place as a thriving port town. The town seemed to offer a little of everything, and Grallik’s next stop was a public bath, where he used the first of the merchant’s coins. It wouldn’t do to bring out any of the precious sapphires there; just one would have paid for a thousand baths.
He slipped into the warm copper tub and washed the salt and dirt and dried sweat off, allowing his mind to drift for several long minutes as a young woman added perfumed oils and began to cut his hair. He’d enjoyed no such bath in years. He’d been afforded few luxuries in Steel Town, nor in his previous post. Though, in his days with the black-robed wizards, he’d enjoyed plenty of costly unnecessary extravagances.
The woman was speaking to him in a low, musical, pleasant voice, but he paid no attention. Instead, he thought about the red-skinned goblin and her promise to teach him her peculiar earth magic. He had no doubt she would live up to her end of the bargain … provided he could help lead the goblin horde to the Qualinesti Forest.
“So long I’ve been from home,” he murmured.
“Pardon, sir?”
He stared at her. She was not as young as he first thought, a little plump, and her nose was crooked. Her eyes seemed too small for her face, but it was a sweet, kind face. And her hair was a dull shade of brown that had been cut too short for his liking.
“A shave too.”
She was quick to comply, briefly staring at the scars on the left side of his face as she worked, noticing the scars on his left arm and side as well. His beard had grown unevenly because of all of the scars, and he imagined he looked vile to her.
“You’re half-elf, sir.” She was trying to make polite conversation, though his scars worried her. “Where are you from?”
He wondered if he should answer honestly. “Steel Town,” he said after a few moments. “Iverton.”
“I’ve never heard of that place, sir.”
“And no one will ever hear of it again,” he said softly.
He closed his eyes and felt the razor continue to move slowly across his cheeks. He ought to purchase a shaving kit-two because Horace would also be pleased to be given one. Grallik decided he would not allow himself to look so unkempt ever again.
He refrained from purchasing the woman’s company for anything else, though he was sorely tempted. Perhaps, if there was time later, he would return to that soothing bath house. Perhaps there would even be a more comely and younger woman available.
His next stop was at the finest tailor shop in that part of town, one whose windows displayed completed garments. It had been too many years since Grallik had felt soft, new fabric against his fire-scarred skin. With a dozen coins, he purchased a padded linen shirt with brown trim at the elbows and down the front. The shirt fit too loosely, and the tailor offered to take it in. Grallik had spotted nothing in the shop small enough for his gaunt frame.
“I will grow into it,” he mused softly, “when I eat properly again.” The breeches were green and stopped at mid-calf, inches above the tops of his too-tight boots. The hoodlike hat he purchased helped to conceal his facial scars and matched the breeches. “Can you refer me to a cobbler? The best in town?”
The tailor was quick to give Grallik directions, and the wizard purchased two more outfits before leaving. He burned his purloined clothes in another alley and replaced the stolen boots at the cobbler’s. The new ones were soft leather, dyed a brown so dark that they looked nearly black. They laced up to his knees, where he could tuck his breeches in. He bought a pair of comfortable slippers, three pairs of leather gloves, and a backpack to carry his other clothes, the gloves, and the slippers.
The only thing left before finding passage for the goblins was to fill his stomach.
“The finest place to dine in this neighborhood, please,” he told the cobbler.
The recommendation was nearby.
Only minutes later, fruit preserves and fresh cheese were sitting in a polished oak bowl in front of him. Grallik had asked for the table farthest from the door so he could watch the rest of the establishment and inspect all the customers as they arrived. The aroma of the place was intoxicating- from the polishing cream used on the walnut furniture, to the scented candles, to the fruit, to the many delights simmering in the kitchen.
Breakfast was being served, but another dozen coins convinced the cook to whip up more substantial fare. His first course was smoked fish on toast rounds. That was followed by roasted turnips, an onion tart, and sauteed cabbage. He had to wait quite some time for the salomene-the rare, twice-cooked fish in a light sauce, complemented by saffron rice and tiny sausages. His feast ended with sugared pears, wafers, and grape juice.
Grallik staggered from the inn, stuffed and sated. His stomach had so shrunken while in the company of the goblins that he was not used to eating so much. On his way to the docks, he stopped in another alley and leaned against a wall and pressed his hands against his stomach. He fought to keep the rich meal down.
“Horace could have shared it with me. He would have enjoyed it.” Grallik moaned. “Too bad he couldn’t have joined me on this little adventure.” Yet the priest might have objected to killing the merchant for his clothes and coins and for putting personal needs-the bath and the meal- ahead of the main job: seeking passage for the goblins. Grallik thought Horace evinced too many scruples for a Dark Knight. But then, thinking it over, again he wondered whether the priest might have gotten it in his head to bolt with the gems, knightly honor notwithstanding.
Grallik chuckled to himself, despite his stomach discomfort. “We’re not Dark Knights any longer, though the goblins still think us such. We’re hardly men anymore.” Grallik and Horace had left the Knighthood when they left Steel Town. They’d left scruples behind.
They’d left everything.
Grallik looked toward the wharf. It was late morning, he guessed, by the length of the shadows. He couldn’t spot the sun from his position. But when he looked up and stared around, he spied gulls circling, their cries mingled with the sounds coming from the docks-ships creaking against timbers, sailors shouting, the clomping of boots against the planks and decks.
The odors of fish and shrimp were strong, and while they were not unpleasant, they made his eyes water. That, coupled with his struggling stomach, was too much. Grallik finally stopped resisting and bent over behind a crate of refuse, retching until he felt better. His throat burned and his mouth was filled with a horrid taste, and he was annoyed with himself to have wasted such a fine meal.
“But there will be at least one more fine meal before I leave,” he vowed. And it would not be fish; he had a taste for beef, which he hadn’t eaten for a long, long time. Yes, he’d return to that inn or, more likely, another on recommendation. He wasn’t about to go back to the goblins without having dined well a second time, as he didn’t know when he would ever get such an opportunity again.
Grallik swallowed repeatedly in an attempt to get the sour taste out of his mouth. It helped only a little. He brushed at the front of his new shirt and adjusted it at the waist so the folds were more even. Then he headed down toward the wharves.