“That might be an ancient poodle,” Yuri said in disgust. “It’s certainly not a dragon.”
The kender dropped the skull back into the pouch and kept looking. “Not interested in any maps, are you?”
Yuri shook his head.
A shiny rock fell from the pouch as Trapspringer dug deeper inside. The rock was a silver nugget easily the size of a man’s fist. Yuri bent down and picked it up. “What about this?”
“That? My paperweight? Oh, sure, if you really want it. I have better rocks than that.”
Yuri held the nugget up, examining it. Theros, just by looking, figured that the nugget was easily worth thirty gold pieces. Yuri counted out another thirty from the purse. The kender was still short by about thirty pieces of gold. Theros kept quiet, waited to see what Yuri would do.
The kender had doffed his old jacket and was transferring all of the items from the old to the new. Half an hour later, after “oh, that’s where that went,” and “I didn’t know I had one of these!” he put the new jerkin on.
“Is it a deal?” the kender asked eagerly.
Yuri obviously liked the kender and was pleased with the fact that the kender liked the jacket so much.
“A deal,” Yuri said at last.
Theros frowned.
Trapspringer shook Yuri’s hand, pumping it up and down, and thanked him for the jerkin. Yuri extracted himself, quickly, checking that he still had the purse and the silver nugget.
Trapspringer ran off and Yuri went back inside the forge.
Theros put down his work. “So, did he pay what he promised?”
“No, sir, not exactly. He had thirty pieces of gold and a silver nugget worth at least thirty. I think-”
Theros smacked the young man across the face.
“An honorable deal is an honorable deal. He should have paid what was agreed, or you should have kept the jacket and called the guard on him!”
Yuri shrank back. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that I-”
“That’s all I want to hear from you. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it when honor is breached! He will spread the word that I can be made a fool of!” Theros went back to his work and began pounding with vigor again.
Yuri crept back to his work.
The young man certainly had a lot to learn.
* * * * *
Near closing time, when the sun was casting long shadows across the town, a man entered the smithy. He was dressed in a brown cloak. His hood was pulled low over his head and face. He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the contrast of dark intermingled with the bright fire from the forge. Saying nothing, he pulled the hood from his head.
The man was probably in his late forties or early fifties, judging by his short-cropped gray hair. His teeth were jagged, with a few missing, and he sported at least two scars across the left cheek. At this, Theros had the feeling that the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him.
A soldier, Theros determined. A veteran, at that. Theros knew he’d seen him before. But where? Probably in the street or the tavern.
Theros kept hammering. He had finished with the raw shape of the new sword, and was now honing the blade to a fine edge. A minute later, he put down the hammer and thrust the sword back into the fire. He turned to the newcomer.
“What can I do for you, stranger? New sword, or a dagger perhaps?”
The man stood motionless for a moment, studying the smith. “You are Theros Ironfeld, once a slave to the minotaurs, now a member of the Hrolk Clan. Am I right?”
The old names and faces returned to memory after a long absence. “Yes, I am Theros Ironfeld. Not that it should matter to you who I am. Do you want a weapon or armor?”
The man raised a leather-clad hand. “All in good time, Ironfeld. I understand that you charge high prices for your services and that you won’t bargain. Are you truly as good as you claim to be?”
Theros shrugged. “Ask anyone in Sanction. They’ll tell you whether or not I am worth the price. You judge the quality of my work yourself.”
The man glanced at several swords lying on a table, but did not touch them.
“I also understand that you came to Sanction looking for Dargon Moorgoth. But you lost interest, apparently. You never came to see him. Would you be interested in seeing him now?”
“I am making money, and I don’t have to go looking for anyone now,” Theros replied. “No, I am not interested in meeting Baron Dargon Moorgoth. Why?”
The brown-robed man studied him intently “It turns out that Dargon Moorgoth is looking for you, Ironfeld. He wants to meet with you tonight. Will you come?”
The idea of finally meeting the great Baron Dargon Moorgoth was an appealing one. Theros was going to close down his shop for the night anyway. He had no one to go home to, so why not? Perhaps Moorgoth needed a fine sword. Behind the man, Yuri was listening and nodding wildly. This could make both their fortunes.
“Tell Baron Moorgoth that I will meet him at the Belching Fury Inn and Pub on Center Street. Tell him to bring his purse, because he’s picking up the tab. I will be there an hour after my shop closes.”
Theros turned his back on the stranger. Taking the sword out of the fire and going back to the anvil, he picked up the hammer and began pounding again. The stranger left.
At least, Theros thought, I’ll get a free meal out of it, if nothing else.
Chapter 15
The room in the Belching Fury was dark and smoky. The fire on the far side wall wasn’t vented very well. Some days, it was difficult to see through the haze of wood smoke and smoke from pipeweed. The food was tinged with the same taste as the smell; smoke permeated everything.
Theros didn’t care. It wasn’t half as bad as standing near a hot forge all day, pounding metal into shape. The real secret of the pub’s success was its method of keeping ale cold. No one-at least no one who was talking-would reveal the secret of how the kegs were kept chilled. The barmaids would descend to the basement and retrieve large mugs of the brew and bring them back up. No one else was allowed down there.
The contrast from hot food and hot fire to the icy cold drink was truly something to cherish. Theros finished his first mug at a draught and hungrily tore into half a loaf of bread and a bowl of chicken stew. He couldn’t taste the smoky flavor that everyone complained about. It was lost on him. Minotaurs were far less delicate in their eating habits.
Theros remembered back to his lean days working as a slave on board the minotaur ship and he was thankful for the change. Then he’d had to wait until his betters were served before him. He’d had to make do with the scraps and leftovers.
Now he ate and drank enough for three men, but he did the work of three men. He was just finishing his third bowl of stew when the man with the brown cloak entered the inn and stood to one side of the door, looking around carefully, much as he had done when he’d entered Theros’s smithy. After a few moments, the man threw back the hood and walked up to the table.
People in the inn, catching sight of the man, rose to their feet. The innkeeper dashed out from behind the bar, bowing and bobbing until it was a wonder his head didn’t tumble off. The barmaids dropped curtsies and anything else they were carrying.
Theros kept on eating. The man in brown walked straight up to him.
“Theros Ironfeld. I am glad that you decided to keep your appointment. Very glad indeed.”
Theros looked up, still chewing. “Why should you care? Does Baron Moorgoth pay you extra if I show up?”
The man sat down without invitation. Theros motioned for the barmaid.
“I’ll have the usual,” the man said, “and I’ll have the same stew as my friend here.”