The Human town of Hilltop had its uses, Sandorin thought, as he guided his horse along the busy, muddy road that cut through the center of the town. Its proximity to Kinza'an afforded the Elves an easy source of trade, and since the townsfolk were used to dealing with Elf-folk Sandorin did not attract too much attention. A few people glanced at his fine garb, while a few others looked him over with benign admiration.
Sandorin ignored them all, except to ask a nearby blacksmith his opinion of where he might find the best inn.
"'Three Daughters,' without a doubt," the man replied promptly, his gaze fixed avidly on Sandorin's armor. "It's just up the road, about two leagues." He pulled a rag from his pocket and mopped at his sweaty brow. "May I ask, sir, was your armor made by Morlund Silverhand? No one does wirework as beautifully as he does."
"He did," Sandorin replied. "You know him?" Odd that the reclusive Morlund would know a Human.
"He comes here, now and then, for supplies and a chat. I can get materials that are a little difficult for Elves to come by. May I take a look?"
Sandorin nodded, allowing the man a closer view of his chest-plate. The materials the man spoke of were no doubt from Giant lands, where Elves had been unwelcome for almost a thousand years.
"Wonderful work," the blacksmith said with a sigh. "Thank you, sir, I'll have to compliment Silverhand the next time I see him."
Sandorin thanked him and continued on his way, and it wasn't long before a large inn came into his view, a solid, gray stone structure with a well-kept thatched roof. A faded red sign hung above the large wooden door, emblazoned with the carved silhouettes of three women. After taking his horse to the stables and paying for feed and grooming, he went back to the entrance, pushed the door open, and went inside.
He stood just inside the entrance for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the change in light. The inn's common room was a lively, noisy place, with guests chattering, arguing, and occasionally breaking out into raucous song. Wooden tables were piled with platters of food and tankards of various drink, and the savory aromas coming from the tables around him were making Sandorin's mouth water.
The door opened behind him, and Sandorin stepped aside, moving to stand in the middle of a group of tables while he scanned the room for a place to sit.
"Hey, there, aren't you a pretty one?" said a drunken voice to his immediate left, and a hand groped at his rear. "A bit boney-arsed, but that doesn't matter."
In an instant Sandorin had his dagger out and pressed up against the man's throat. "Remove your hand, dog, or I will remove the blood from your body."
The man's hand dropped away, and he looked up at Sandorin with a fearful, suddenly sober gaze.
"Oi, Dandren, quit bothering my customers," the innkeeper yelled from across the room. "I'm so sorry, sir, he can get a bit handsy when he's drunk. He's sorry, aren't you, Dandren?"
"I'm sorry," Dandren whispered, his eyes flicking down to the dagger and back up at Sandorin. "Very sorry."
"He's sorry, friend," called a voice from the back corner of the room, "and I'm sure he'll pay for whatever quenches your thirst, to make good his apology."
'Y-yes, a-absolutely," Dandren said, risking a minute nod.
Sandorin let the dagger rest for another few seconds against the man's neck, for good measure, and then he sheathed his weapon and walked over to the bar. Dozens of glasses twinkled on the shelves on the back wall, reflecting the dancing light of the candles in the wrought iron chandeliers that hung in the center of the room. The counter appeared to be a sawn slice of a tree trunk, and Sandorin ran his hand along the knobby, bark covered edge.
"Sorry about that, sir," the innkeeper said, "and Dandren is definitely paying for your drink. What can I get you?"
"Mead, if you have it," Sandorin said, "and I would also appreciate it if you can recommend anyone in town that I can hire as a guide." He figured the man would value his reputation enough to recommend someone trustworthy.
"I have mead a'plenty, sir, and Dandren will be treating you to our finest." The man fetched a tankard from one of the back shelves. "A guide? I know a couple of good men, let me think on who might be around." He busied himself with filling the tankard from a nearby barrel.
"Who is he?" Sandorin asked, nodding his head toward the stranger in the corner, the one who had spoken up earlier.
The man followed his gaze, and then he smiled. "Oh, that's Gojen Shand," he said. "I didn't know he was back in town. If you're looking for a guide, he's one of the best in these parts, and he's a fast as a demon with that sword of his. Honest, too, although I wouldn't play dice with him." He set the tankard on the bar in front of Sandorin.
"Thank you," Sandorin said, and he tossed a silver melidar on the worn, gleaming wood.
The innkeeper picked up the square, intricately engraved coin. "Haven't seen one of these in a long while. This is too much, good sir."
"Not if your recommendation holds true," Sandorin said.
"He's good people," the man said, and after he pocketed the coin he set down a chipped glass and poured in a generous splash of liquor. "Here's a conversation starter, this is a favorite sip of his. Dandren's buying that, too."
Sandorin took both drinks and headed over to the table in the corner. Its lone occupant lounged against the wall, tapping his fingers against the side of his tankard as he watched the crowd with apparent disinterest. When he saw Sandorin approach, he sat up, swept a fall of red hair back away from his face, and grinned at him.
"I see Dandren bought you some mead," the man said. "Erndel's best, too—I'm sure Erndel appreciated your relative patience with our local drunk." He thrust out a hand. "Gojen Shand."
Sandorin shook his hand. "Sandorin of Kinza'an," he said.
"Ah, one of our neighbors from the City in the Mist," Gojen said, and then he eyed the glass in Sandorin's hand. "That wouldn't happen to be a glass of Dwarven Ruin, would it?"
"I don't know its contents, but it is for you," Sandorin said, setting the glass on the table in front of Gojen. "I am in need of a guide to the Western Wastes, and the innkeeper had good things to say about you."
"Is that so? I'll have to make sure I tip his daughter well tonight," Gojen said, and he gestured at the seat opposite his. "Have a seat, and tell me why you need to go to that gods-forsaken place."
Over the course of several more glasses of mead—and spirits—Sandorin told Gojen of the attack on Kinza'an, his father's death, and the theft of the Jewel of Light.
"My sorrows for the loss of your father," Gojen said. "Komon was well regarded in all the places I have traveled." He sipped at the amber liquid in his glass. "So you need to visit Hakkien the Green, eh? I've not met him, but I have heard others speak highly of him, especially concerning his skills in the healing arts. I also heard he has an impressive collection of maps, which you can imagine would be of interest to me." He regarded Sandorin in the dim lamplight and then named a price. "For that amount, I will see you safely to Hakkien, as well as your further destination, and you can count on my steel. Of course that does not include our room and board along the way—I expect to be well fed and sleep in a decent bed whenever possible."
Gojen's fee was high, but not outrageous, and Sandorin had no problem agreeing to it.
"You have a horse?" Gojen asked.
"Yes, but no other gear for the journey. I thought to pay you to procure we we need, since I imagine you would be able to get a better bargain."
"Damn right," Gojen said with a laugh. "People will take one look at you and your fancy Elven clothes, and you'll be paying top dollar. I'll get us kitted out for a fair price, add a small commission, and you'll still come out ahead." He drained his glass, and then he rose from his bench and stretched as he yawned, his fingers almost touching the heavy timbers of the ceiling. "You might as well stay here tonight," he said, "Erndel's got nice enough rooms, and he'll probably make Dandren pay for it. Maybe this will teach the silly sot to keep his hands to himself." He dug in his pocket to toss a silver and a few coppers on the table. "I'll meet you here in the morning, and then we'll be on our merry way."
