“That is, and I say this having known you for years, just amazingly paranoid,” Gabrielle commented.
“Better paranoid, than dead,” Grumph said, momentarily looking up from the spellbook he’d had his face buried in for hours. How he walked and read at the same time was a mystery to all of them, yet the lack of tripping clearly indicated that he had a system and it worked.
“Precisely, old friend,” Thistle agreed. “Anyway, a few daggers and a pony can be explained away as things grabbed hastily in battle. A set of armor is far more conspicuous, hence why I didn’t accept the offer. If anyone asks why I’m an unarmored paladin, I’ll just tell them a set of armor was one of the things we lost in the capture.”
“We lost my set of armor,” Eric said.
“What I said is still technically true,” Thistle pointed out.
“Oh yeah, now that you’re a paladin, does that mean you can’t lie?” Gabrielle asked.
“Different gods have different rules. Given that minions constantly have to lie to their master, if only to assuage their egos and assure them they’re brilliant and unbeatable, I doubt Grumble objects much to an occasional fib. Still, I find lying to be more dangerous than expertly telling the truth, so I avoid it whenever possible.”
“Whatever floats your galleon,” Gabrielle said, adjusting the axe strapped to her back for the umpteenth time since setting out. The actual sheath was one of the things lost in the fire, so the goblins had rigged a makeshift sheath from a canvas grain sack and some leather straps. It wasn’t pretty, and it wouldn’t allow her to draw quickly, but it allowed her to heft the weapon along without tiring out her arms. Grumph had offered to carry it for her, but Gabrielle’s own paranoia had reminded her to stick to her role. She was the barbarian; she would carry her own axe.
They continued on in near-silence after that, save for the clopping of Thistle’s pony, each lost in the thoughts of what they were trying to do, and how in the names of the gods they had any hope of accomplishing it.
Two days later, a party of four adventurers wandered into Appleram a few hours before sunset. Three of them were on foot, while the fourth was mounted on a very weary-looking pony. Dust from the road coated their boots and pants, and two wolf pelts were slung over the back of the pony, no doubt the glorious prize from a random encounter on the road.
The quartet made a beeline for the local inn, which was also the tavern, where the pony was hitched and the gear quickly handed out. A blonde woman with a two-handed axe strapped strangely to her back took the wolf carcasses, heading off toward the tannery with her male companion, while the half-orc and the gnome went inside the inn.
On most days, this would have been a sight worth noting. Appleram was a large town, easily the biggest one between Solium and Piro, the next kingdom south, but its townspeople were still interested in hearing tales from adventurers and sometimes in negotiating services from them. That was most of the time. These days, nearly every villager of Appleram who saw them lope through town had, roughly, the same reaction:
“Oh shit, not more of them.”
Grumph and Thistle realized something was amiss as soon as they entered the tavern. This particular establishment, much like Grumph’s and many others throughout the land, utilized the downstairs floor for food and alcohol, while the upper floors were lodging rooms travelers could rent. Years of running an inn had taught Grumph to expect a rush at dinner, a few constant customers at the bar, and occasional clusters of adventurers. Once, during a season where there was rumored to be a dragon in the area, there had been three parties in his tavern at the same time, but that was the most he’d ever seen.
Walking in the door, Grumph counted seven distinct parties, all huddled together at their own tables, many throwing suspicious glances at the others in the room. Any regulars that might have normally dined here had long since abandoned the room to the new patrons.
Grumph and Thistle were both assessed as soon as they walked in and dismissed just as quickly. Neither minded this in the slightest. Making their way to the bar, they passed a set of five humans, all of whom grew silent when they walked by. Whatever was going on, it seemed even those who were deemed not to be threats still weren’t allowed within earshot.
Thistle scrambled his way up a bar stool, dearly missing the rungs Grumph had installed on his for the smaller customers, finally coming to a perch with only a minimum of embarrassment. He surveyed the tavern, making note of the strapping human behind the bar serving drinks, as well as the waitresses running to and fro around the tables. From their similar noses and eye color, not to mention the variety of ages, Thistle deduced they were either the bartender’s daughters or some other close kin. He filed this away in case it would be of use later and turned his attention to ordering a drink.
“Two meads, kind sir,” Thistle called to the sizable fellow behind the bar, a man whose salt-and-pepper hair somehow made him seem more distinguished than aged. It was strange how every bartender seemed to convey a sense of toughness that three-day-old kobold steak couldn’t match, but Thistle had always taken it as simply one of those things.
“One silver,” the bartender replied, drawing them each a mug from the barrel nearest to him.
Thistle resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow, but only barely. That much, for two drinks, was outrageous. Clearly, this man intended to get all he could from the influx of adventurers that had happened into his bar. With a quick motion, Thistle set a coin on the bar, which the large man promptly scooped up.
“I was also hoping to find some lodging tonight,” Thistle added, taking a quick nip from the mug in front of him. It was tolerable; he’d have even thought it good, if not for years of drinking Grumph’s homebrews.
“Got two rooms left, going for twenty gold apiece,” the bartender informed him.
If getting back up wouldn’t have been such an issue, Thistle would have fallen out of his chair just to make a point. Twenty gold apiece was ludicrous, beyond mere gouging and well into outright theft. Before he could voice that opinion, Grumph set the mug he’d been draining on the table with an audible thud.
“Too weak,” Grumph announced, meeting the bartender’s immediately incredulous eyes. “Good process, poor ingredients. Where you get your hops?”
Thistle quickly noticed that Grumph had affected his “ignorant half-orc” speech pattern. It mostly consisted of growling at the end of sentences, and leaving out unimportant words. Base as it was, the tactic was effective for getting people to underestimate his intelligence. Plus, and Thistle hated to admit this, it would make Grumph less memorable, which was a big priority. Everyone expected half-orcs to be dumb, so this would make him as uninteresting as the tables or stools.
“I’ll have you know I buy my hops from one of the top Solium grain merchants and he sells me the Abstanial Silver,” the bartender announced proudly.
“No,” Grumph rumbled.
“No? ‘No’ what?”
“Abstanial Silver brew tart, but with undertone of pine. This have undertone of nut. It’s Grebthon Silver,” Grumph informed him. “Look almost the same. Yours have occasional veins of red in leaves?”
“Actually, yes,” the bartender admitted.
“Grebthon Silver. Abstanial has no veins. Merchant is cheating you.”
“That weasely little son of shit,” the bartender cursed. “I’m going to wring his neck next time I see him. You’re sure about this?”
Grumph nodded. “Had one try to pull same trick on me. Got good guy now, I’ll give you his name. Bartenders have to look out for one another.”
“Oh, you’re a bartender, too?” The man stuck his hand out to Grumph. “Bertrand, pleasure to meet you.”
“Grumph.” The handshake was delicate, since both were clearly strong men, and neither wished to hurt their new friend.