“What kinds of caps do you install?” Kestrel asked. “Five silvers is a lot.”
The blacksmith sent his assistant into the forge, and the boy came immediately back with a staff, which he handed to Kestrel. Kestrel held the staff in front of his face as he examined the metal ends. The caps were heavy; they’d throw his balance off until he got used to them. But they were intriguing; one end had a number of small spikes that jutted out, while the other end had a pair of sturdy looking hooks.
He thought immediately of the additional abilities the tools would provide, both lethal and useful. “Step back,” he motioned for some open space, and then he began to practice the forms and positions Arlen had taught him, feeling the extra weight, and adjusting to it as he swung and poked and ripped the wooden staff in the space all around him.
“Alright; it’s a deal,” he agreed, as he walked back to the blacksmith.
“You know how to handle that; you’ve had training. Where are you from, and why are you here?” the blacksmith asked as he watched Kestrel count the coins out of the purse on his belt.
“I’ve been in Estone, and I came here because I’ve never been here before,” Kestrel answered easily.
“How long will we keep the horse?” the stable boy asked.
“This afternoon, maybe into the night,” Kestrel said. “Will you be here when I return?”
“I sleep in the loft, with three blankets,” the boy answered.
“Try to find a clean doxy,” the blacksmith advised. When Kestrel looked at him blankly, he added, “You don’t want to get a pox do you? Try to pick a woman who hasn’t been in the house long. It probably won’t help, but you ought to have the sense to try.”
Recognition dawned in Kestrel. “I’m not here to try that,” he said, finally understanding what he had seen earlier in the town. His cheeks grew red, and the blacksmith laughed.
“You take that staff along to protect yourself from the doxies and you’ll be fine. Watch out for the pickpockets and the drunks too,” the smith turned and carried Kestrel’s staff into the smithy. Kestrel went back to his horse and grabbed his sword, wrapping the belt around his hips, and for good measure he pulled his bow and arrows free as well.
The rain had stopped falling as he talked to the smith, so he pulled his hood down as he started walking back into town. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see or accomplish, but he had been sent all the way to Green Water, and he wasn’t going to turn around to leave without seeing something of the town.
The trip was slower, and dirtier, as he traveled afoot, stepping repeated around or over droppings from the mules and horses that were prevalent along the main road. With the end of the rain the mist began to dissipate, and Kestrel became aware for the first time of the full view of the ring of mountains that came virtually to the edge of the water and the town. They were imposing, tall mountains. They looked stony, with cliffs and steep rock slide areas interspersed among the evergreen trees. They were the Water Mountains, a large, impenetrable chain of mountains that separated the lands of the North Sea from the lands of the Inland Seas. They were the home to yetis and gnomes and miners and outlaws, an area as unknown to the elves of the Eastern Forest as the lands of the humans.
Kestrel continued to walk along the side of the road, and soon passed the house of the doxies again, but drew no sales pitch as he walked modestly along on his own feet instead of an expensive horse. Looking down side streets he saw similar establishments too, he now realized.
As he passed by one large, nondescript building, there was a loud and sustained roar of delight from inside, and several men came flowing out of the wide double doors, happy and flourishing cash in their hands. Curious, Kestrel turned towards the building and started to enter, only to be stopped at the door by a pair of bulky men. “No weapons allowed,” one of the men told him.
“What’s in there?” Kestrel asked.
The two men grinned at each other.
“Dreams,” one said. “Hope,” the other said.
“Suckers,” they both laughed.
“It’s gambling!” said the first who had spoken to him. “Did you just arrive in town fresh from your mother’s apron?”
“I’ve never been around it, I guess,” Kestrel answered, abashed.
“Well, if you leave your weapons here, we’ll let you in. Then you can probably leave your money here too,” the guard grinned at Kestrel’s naivete.
“Go in Kestrel. Help our people,” Kestrel heard a woman’s voice softly whisper.
He turned his head to look around, but saw no one.
“Are you going in? If so, put your weapons in the locker; if not, move out of the way,” the second guard spoke to Kestrel.
Unnerved, Kestrel stepped over to the row of open lockers, and placed his weapons within one of the empty ones. “Goddess, was that you?” he asked silently, but there was no answer.
Cautiously, Kestrel entered the doors of the gambling hall. “Save some money for breakfast, tomorrow,” one of the guards advised as he passed them.
The hall was much larger than he would have guessed from the outside, as it seemed to stretch for a city block or more. It was dim and noisy and smelled of alcohol. Men, and a few women, stood or sat around various tables, focusing on the activities before them. Some laughed and talked, but most were silent, and a few looked desperate or anguished.
Were these people the ones the goddess wanted Kestrel to save, he wondered. There was no evidence that they needed his help, but the goddess had sent him in. He walked around the room, occasionally looking at the tables, trying to understand the games, failing to see the appeal. By the time he reached the far end of the game room he had concluded that there was no obvious need for his help for anyone in the building. Yet he knew the goddess would not have spoken without reason, if he really had heard her voice.
He stood against the wall, and watched as a door opened, and a pair of workers began to limp across the room, carrying a large platter of food to serve to the customers. Kestrel idly examined the tray, wondering what kind of food was eaten in the hall, when his attention was dramatically drawn to the limping workers who carried the trays — they were elves!
The two men were elves, each wore chains between their legs, and each was missing most of a foot. They looked thin, haggard, and scarred extensively — scars on their faces, their arms, their shoulders and backs that were visible through rents in their clothes. He recollected Silvan’s bleak report that elves in the battle against the human fire-starters had been captured and turned into slaves. Here were two of them, somehow transported all the way from the western border of the forest to this lawless corner of Estone.
Kestrel blanched at the thought. He understood now — the voice he had heard had been the elven goddess Kere, not the human Kai. She was an elven goddess, commanding him to set these elven slaves free. He needed to find a way to do it, and then he could transport them back to Firheng and return them to their own people, to freedom and their families, away from captivity. He could even give them a dose of healing water to fix the injured feet and the scarred bodies they had suffered.
Carefully, Kestrel began to walk towards the elves, to study them closely, to possibly talk to them, to figure out how best to set them free. He was only steps along his route when a man stepped in his way, blocking his access to the slaves.
“I’m sorry, that food is reserved for our paying customers, the ones who are in the gambling hall to gamble,” the man said forthrightly. “We don’t serve food to people who just stand against the wall.”
Kestrel was taken by surprise; he hadn’t realized he was under observation.