Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,61

you away through the winter at least.”

“You are forgetting my obvious charms,” the halfling replied, none too worriedly.

“And you’re forgetting the many enemies you left behind,” Tasman retorted. He reached under the bar and produced a bottle of dark liquor and Oliver nodded. “Let’s hope that they’ve also forgotten you,” the barkeep said, pouring Oliver a drink.

“If not, then pity them,” Oliver replied, lifting his glass as though the words were a toast. “For they will surely feel the sting of my rapier blade!”

Tasman didn’t seem to take well to the halfling’s cavalier attitude. He shook his head again and stood a glass in front of Luthien, who had retrieved a normal-sized stool to put next to Oliver’s.

Luthien put his hand over the mouth of the glass before Tasman could begin to pour. “Just some water, if you please,” the young man said politely.

Tasman’s steel gray eyes widened. “Water?” he echoed, and Luthien flushed.

“That is what they call light ale on Bedwydrin,” Oliver lied, saving his friend some embarrassment.

“Ah,” Tasman agreed, though he didn’t seem to believe a word of it. He replaced the glass with a flagon topped by the foam of strong ale. Luthien eyed it, and eyed Oliver, and thought the better of protesting.

“I . . . we, will be in need of a room,” Oliver said. “Have you any?”

“Your own,” Tasman replied sourly.

Oliver smiled widely—he had liked his old place. He reached into a pocket and counted out the appropriate amount of silver coins, then started to hand them over.

“Though I suspect it will need a bit of cleaning up,” Tasman added, reaching for the coins, which Oliver promptly retracted.

“The price is the same,” Tasman assured him sharply.

“But the work—” Oliver began to protest.

“Is needed because of your own antics!” Tasman finished.

Oliver considered the words for a moment, then nodded as though he really couldn’t argue the logic. With a shrug, he extended his arm once more and Tasman reached for the payment.

“Throw in a very fine drink for me and my friend,” Oliver said, not letting go.

“Done, and you’re drinking them,” Tasman agreed. He took the money and moved off to the side.

When Oliver looked back to Luthien, he found the young man eyeing him suspiciously. The halfling let out a profound sigh.

“I was here before,” he explained.

“I figured that much,” Luthien replied.

Oliver sighed deeply again. “I came here in the late spring on a boat from Gascony,” Oliver began. He went on to tell of a “misunderstanding” with some of the locals and explained that he had gone north just a few weeks before in search of honest work. All the while, Tasman stood off to the side, wiping glasses and smirking as he listened to the halfling, but Luthien, who had seen firsthand the reason Oliver, the highwayhalfling, had gone north, didn’t need Tasman’s doubting expression to tell him that Oliver was omitting some very important details and filling in the holes with products of his own imagination.

Luthien didn’t mind much, though, for he could guess most of the truth—mainly that Oliver had probably been run out of town by some very angry merchants and had willingly gone north following the caravans. As he came to know the halfling, the mystery of Oliver deBurrows was fast diminishing, and he was confident that he would soon be able to piece together a very accurate account of Oliver’s last passage through Montfort. No need to press the issue now.

Not that Luthien could have anyway, for Oliver’s tale ended abruptly as a shapely woman walked by. Her breasts were rather large and only partially covered by a low-cut, ruffled dress. She returned the halfling’s smile warmly.

“You will excuse me,” Oliver said to Luthien, never taking his eyes from the woman, “but I must find a place wherein to warm my chilly lips.” Off the high stool he slid, and he hit the ground running, cornering the woman a few feet down the bar and climbing back up onto a stool in front of her so that he would be eye-to-eye with her.

Eye-to-chest would have been a better description, a fact that seemed to bother Oliver not at all. “Dear lady,” he said dramatically, “my proud heart prompts my dry tongue to speak. Surely you are the most beautiful rose, with the largest . . .” Oliver paused, looking for the words and unconsciously holding his palms out in front of his own chest as he spoke. “Thorns,” he said, poetically polite, “with which to pierce my