The dwarf draws two flagons of ale and a brace of wheat cakes from the counter. ‘That’ll be fifteen Lune, all told,’ he says, pushing two carved wooden platters with their mouthwatering cargoes a little closer. You flick open your Belt Pouch and take out four Crowns.
‘This should cover it,’ you say, sliding the gold coins across the bar. He tests them between his teeth before nodding his approval.
‘No offence t’you two gentlemen, y’understand, but I’ve been caught with snide coinage afore an’ it’s made me a might careful like. These be Dessi mint, if I’m not mistaken?’ he enquires, his eye twinkling at the thought of hearing tales of that distant magical land.
‘Could be,’ says Paido, guardedly. ‘The coins of Magnamund mix freely in Garthen’s markets—there’s no telling when those four last saw their birthplace.’
‘How about you, innkeeper?’ you interrupt, steering conversation away from Dessi. ‘You’re no native Talestrian. When did you last see your homeland?’ The dwarf’s face beams as he prepares to talk on his favourite subject—himself. By the time you have finished your food and ale you have heard the life story of Lardin, son of Kardon of Bor.
‘What news have you of Luukos?’ asks Paido, as the dwarf takes a rare pause for breath.
‘News of a kind that’s becomin’ only too familiar round these parts,’ he replies in a disgruntled tone. ‘But that Zegron’s bitten off more than he can chew this time. Once Lord Adamas an’ the army boys come down on ’im he’ll wish he’d stayed in his stinkin’ city o’ Xanar, mark my words.’
‘Don’t be too sure o’ that, Lardin,’ says a rosy-faced farmer, who has sidled along the bar to within earshot of your conversation. ‘My sister reckons that this time Zegron won’t stop till he’s flattened everything between Luukos and the Tentarias.’
‘That star-gazin’ sister o’ yours is full o’ good news,’ retorts the dwarf. ‘When ’as she ever seen anything cheerful with ’er telescopes an’ charts an’ crystal balls, eh? Answer me that!’ Agreement rumbles from the tavern crowd, now openly listening to the discussion.
‘That’s as maybe,’ says the farmer. ‘But when ’as she ever been wrong, eh?’ An uncomfortable silence fills the inn, and slowly the crowd return to their own business. No one, least of all the innkeeper, chooses to dwell on the matter any further.
If you wish to ask the farmer where his sister lives, turn to 262.
If you decide to leave the tavern and continue your journey to Tharro, turn to 318.