Part IV

Atma looked out of her front window with a sigh. Business had not improved as expected when Sir Eddy of Fos and his henchmen had left town after cleansing the Cult of the Claw Vipers and reopening Tal Rasha's tomb. Indeed, the restoration of commerce with Kurast had utterly failed to materialize, while the wagon trains from the West that passed through the Anorauch Desert arrived neither on time nor wholly intact. All demon slaying aside, the influence of the Wanderer was still being felt to the detriment of honest tavern owners such as herself.

Greiz was still collecting protection money, Jehryn had not eased the tax burden thanks to the extensive repairs his palace needed . . . on the inside. With a shake of her head, she looked inside at the usual crowd of midafternoon drinkers and deadbeats that had become her regular customers. The sameness of the scene soon irritated her to such an extent that she stepped out into the dusty street to check for signs of life beneath the noon day sun. Looking north presented her with a sight that caused her to catch her breath.

Trouble had just arrived in Lut Gholein, and was headed her way.

A large, shabbily dressed and bearded man walked casually from the marketplace and turned toward her tavern, a dark haired, leather clad woman on his arm. A woman whose gait and dress Atma had come to know only too well the previous season. A woman who had wrecked three bars on three consecutive evenings before Lord Jehryn had personally escorted her to Meshif's ship and paid for her first class passage East. Of course, his generosity had been a matter of self preservation, once he had discovered that his dungeons were unable to hold her on three consecutive nights after her three consecutive arrests, and a blade had been found quivering above his headboard on the third instance.

Rusti the Nail was back, and from the look of it, had picked up a specimen of even lesser quality than she had previously been known to reject via fisticuffs. Atma ducked inside and began furiously lowering the shades. A quick glance to Durbek the bartender and a cutting motion across her neck galvanized him into action to start rousting the drunks from their benches and barstools -- toward the back door.

She was not quick enough.

As she lowered the last western shade and fastened it, that unmistakable voice gave forth a sharp assessment of her preemptive move.

"What's all this, Bono? Atma seems to be shutting down right before happy hour. That's not her style, is it?"

A deeper, and surprisingly recognizable, voice responded.

"Not as I recall. Many was the afternoon I spent here pouring her cheapest wine down my throat." The man's tone lightened. "Perhaps she knew we were coming?"

Two shadows fell across the door, soon followed by a pair of black leather boots and a larger pair of heavily worn chain boots on the feet of a broad shouldered, bearded man whose posture and carriage betrayed him for what he was: a Warrior.

Atma stopped what she was doing to stare at the couple who had just entered her tavern, and whose sharp eyes were already assessing Durbek's confusion as he paused in his move to wake Geglash from his daily drunken slumber. Of all people for that leather clad hellion to drag into her bar, the Drunken Dreamer of Westmarch was the last man Atma expected to see with her: or at least, what was left of him. He had lost quite a lot of weight since his days as one of her customers, and Greiz' most heavily recruited prospect.

Atma stepped toward the door.

"Hail and farewell, gentles, we are closing for a few hours. I am sure Elzix can help you slake your thirst, if that is your need. Just head north and turn east at Greiz' recruiting office. You can't miss the sign: three golden balls over a barrel of beer."

She began unfastening the western door as the man spoke.

"Atma, is my custom no longer welcome here? Have I done something to offend you after all of the money I spent here for . . . a small eternity? After all of the fights I broke up?" His tone betrayed bewilderment rather than hurt, but pierced her to the quick nonetheless.

"Biondi, I almost did not recognize you. You have shaped up since you left us last fall. However, I have been a tavern owner here for seventeen years, and wish to have a tavern to run come morning. So, while you are always welcome," she continued, "your comrade is not. I have neither the money nor the time to rebuild my bar once she has had her fun, since taverning is my only business, unlike some in this city."

The black haired woman gave Atma a contemptuous look and shook her head.

"Right, I'd not known this tavern was owned by a werecat. Lut Gholein is such a welcome and friendly town. A lady busts her arse fighting demons, heads to a tavern or two for a few well deserved pints, gets molested by drunks, defends herself, a melee erupts, and it is all her fault so she gets arrested? Even when she pays for her drinks in cash up front? I thought you ran a class place and had hoped to try out your hospitality, which I somehow missed on my last visit. Guess I can't try out what doesn't exist, eh? Has Jehryn tucked you into his pocket like every other tavern owner in this fish smelling hole you call home?"

The acidity of her tone could have etched her disdain in rock.

Atma did not even bother to look up.

"Take you business elsewhere, Mistress Rustina, your money is no good here. Nor is that of anyone in your company." She looked up at Biondi without apology, and held the door with the obvious intention of shutting it behind them when they left.

Biondi bowed, and stepped back into the street. Rusti paused and looked directly into Atma's eyes.

"You let that loser sleep on your tables," she grated with a slight gesture at Geglash, as he stumbled toward the front door to Durbek's obvious chagrin, "but you'll refuse my coin based on calumny and Jehryn's cowardice. How do you sleep at night, Miss Claws, with such hypocrisy running rampant in your veins?" She side stepped Geglash as he stumbled out into the street, and unintentionally into Biondi's arms.

"I sleep just fine, no thanks to you," Atma replied, "even with my son's death still haunting my dreams."

With a left hand that moved faster than sight, Rusti grabbed Atma by the hair, jerking the tavern keeper's face to within inches of her own. Her voice lowered a register and came out a in a deadly whisper.

"Well sleep on this, sister. I have never done you an ounce of harm, but may reconsider my policy after this warm welcome. How well are you going to sleep knowing that you have vexed me, and that there is no lock in Lut Gholein that can keep me out?" She smiled with her teeth, but her eyes stared daggers at the older woman. "Sweet dreams, bitch," she muttered as let go her handful of hair stepped quickly out of the door.

Biondi was busy getting Geglash off of his chest and headed north as she stalked past him, and so missed the exchange. Dragging Geglash by the right bicep, he strode after her with growing trepidation. The heat coming off her neck was almost palpable, and her posture betrayed a growing tension that brooked nothing but trouble. Biondi had seen tempers before, but somehow, this lithe woman's body language spelled greater menace than men twice her size-- such as the drunk he was escorting up the street in a spooky deja vu to last autumn. Yes, he and Geglash had staggered through these streets more than once together, after Geglash had returned from the desert as the lone survivor of a battle against a swarm of Spear Cats and Hell Buzzards.

This return to Lut Gholein was turning out all wrong. Fara had been glad to see him, while Drognan was occupied with Lord Jehryn. But the four tavern owners who had all refused their custom should have been a sign. No bills were posted showing new pub closing times, yet every pub in town seemed to be just closing as they arrived. Atma's reaction to him, particularly after all of the long conversations she had shared with him about dreams and family legacy, was the most puzzling. Was Rusti a demon in disguise, or just a natural born trouble maker? He was beginning to regret his quick assessment of her character in Harrogath The menace he had figured out, yes, but the latent danger had not registered until this last encounter. For Atma to turn him from her door was a sign that something significant was amiss.

Rusti was almost moving at a run when she stopped short, came back to him, and then turned to walk at his left side, offering no help with Geglash, who was beginning to wheeze a bit.

"Damn," she exploded, "this body guard job may be easier than I thought. If we end up without a place to stay, we may leave town early, right Bono?" Her eyebrows shot up in mock relief, but her attempt at a light tone failed miserably.

Biondi paused. One word out of place and all of her frustration was likely to end up costing him a broken rib, at best, and serious injury at worst. He shook his head and wisely said nothing for a moment. The silence seemed to do no good.

"Rusti," he ventured at last, "let's go see Warriv. Fara said his caravan was parked by the west gate. At least we can sleep in one of his wagons tonight." Without looking at her, he turned left behind the market place, and strode west, hoping Geglash would figure out by the release of his bicep that it was time for him to leave.

Geglash simply followed him like a dazed dog. Rusti walked next to him in steaming silence. And so, in silence, the three traversed the breadth of Lut Gholein, arriving at Warriv's Caravansary in short order. Just in time for a late lunch, it seemed. Biondi grinned.

Warriv turned to spy him just as he was removing a pair of brown rabbits from a bronze cage. The Caravan master's double take told Biondi that he must have changed a great deal outwardly since his last day in Lut Gholein, those many weeks gone by.

"Buono, what an unexpected pleasure!!" Warriv exclaimed as he dropped the cage. "Come, join me for lunch, and bring your friends." He glance up at Geglash and Rusti briefly, as though they were sleeves on Biondi's shirt. "We were just about to start making rabbit stew in sage sauce, and rest out of the sun for a bit. Your arrival promises a bit more excitement than the usual luncheon. You must have news, eh?" He motioned with the rabbits toward the largest wagon.

Biondi broke into a broad grin. Warriv still held him in high esteem for the fighting he had done on their journey across the desert a year ago, but the genuine welcome in his smile and his voice was such a refreshing change from the reception he and Rusti had received from the tavern owners that Biondi got a thrill of pure happiness. Such a rare feeling, and so uplifting when felt.

"Warriv, you are a sight for sore eyes and a sore heart." He quickly decided that a little white lie would do no harm. "And I cant tell you how much I have missed rabbit stew. This will be a rare treat."

He followed Warriv under an awning spread from the largest wagons, and with a smile to his two companions, sat down to enjoy, or was it endure, another meal of consisting chiefly of rabbit . . .

Forward to Part V >>