Jean Rabe - Redemption

“Aye.”

“It’s a nice change,” he said. “Maybe I’ll let it bother me when I’m done eating.”

Dhamon turned his full attention to the lord mayor. He concentrated, his acute hearing picking up voices through the clink of forks against plates. “They are talking about us,” he whispered to Ragh.

“Why shouldn’t they be?” The draconian chuckled and raised his mug. The inn owner bustled over and refilled it, then topped off Dhamon’s and Fiona’s glasses for good measure. She retreated to the kitchen.

“They are speculating about where we come from, who we are, what we know about the world, and…”

“Why wouldn’t they? This is a small town. Dhamon, eat.”

Dhamon barely touched the rest of his food, pushing the plate away when the eggs were cold. When Fiona and Ragh finally ate their fill, Dhamon stood and dropped a steel piece on the table, not wanting to feel too indebted to the woman. He was about to direct Ragh and Fiona north to where he knew the docks were but was steered out the door in the opposite direction by the lord mayor. His hobgoblin assistant lingered behind, devouring more breakfast.

“I said we’d do something about those threadbare clothes of yours,” the mayor said. “This way, Dhamon Grimwulf. Your lovely companion also needs new clothes. Is she your wife?”

Fiona shook her head. “We’re not even friends any longer. I am to be married soon, to an Ergothian.”

“Ergothian? What’s that?”

“A man from a land far from here,” she breathed.

“You must teach me all about Ergoth,” the mayor said. “In fact…”

Dhamon shut out the rest of the lord mayor’s conversation. He glanced over his shoulder. The inn owner was standing in the doorway watching them, a smile still plastered on her fleshy face. She waved to Ragh. There were a few dozen townsfolk moving on the street, their heels click-clacking, a few of them looking his way. Their clothes marked the majority of them as commoners, but they all appeared clean and healthy and in good spirits. A stoop-shouldered vendor, dressed a little better than most, was setting up a small cart on the corner and was hanging up thick strips of meat, spiced pork from the smell of it. There were other smells, too, floating in the crisp air—cinnamon bread and other goods from the bakery, fish, probably lying on the docks from fishing boat hauls, musky perfume from a woman who passed near them. He could still taste the eggs and goat cheese that heavily coated his teeth.

“How many people live in Bev’s Oar?” Dhamon interrupted the lord mayor’s conversation with Fiona.

“Don’t know,” the mayor said, as he led them to a freshly trimmed birch-paneled building. A spool of thread and crossed needles were displayed on a sign that hung above the door. “But there’ll be three more if you decide to stay. I’d like to learn about this ‘Ergoth.’”

Ragh brushed by them and planted himself on the porch, keeping in the shade of an overhang and studying the passersby. Though most of them glanced his way, not a single one balked or stared. “All right, it’s bothering me now,” he murmured to Dhamon. “Without prejudice is one thing. Without curiosity…”

“Stay on guard,” Dhamon warned quietly, as he followed Fiona inside the small shop. “We won’t be staying much longer,” he said loudly to the lord mayor. “We need to leave for Southern Ergoth as soon as possible. Perhaps with the evening tide.”

The Lord Mayor frowned. “I hope we can change your mind. It’s refreshing, us getting visitors like you.”

The shop was larger than it appeared, but most of it was taken up with shelves. There were racks in the center, all of them holding either finished garments or folded pieces of material, and cloaks hung from hooks in the ceiling. The aisles were small, and the place felt cramped. There was a musty smell and a tinge of oil coming from a small jug next to a row of scissors. A few spiderwebs clung to the corners, dotted with the husks of dead insects. The shop was orderly but dingy.

Fiona almost smiled as the seamstress held up dresses and tunics that might fit her.

“You are…?” the woman prompted.

“Fiona. I am a Solamnic Knight.”

The woman proceeded to fuss over Fiona, helping her into a long, umber skirt and sand-colored shirt.

Though plain, the garments were well-made and a welcome change from the sweat-stained and ripped clothing the Knight had been wearing. The woman wrapped a serviceable tunic and leggings in a sheet of canvas and handed these to Fiona, too.

“We really can’t stay,” Dhamon repeated to the lord mayor. “You’ve got a very nice town, though, and one I’m certain under other circumstances we’d be happy to call home for a time. But there are pressing matters….”

“At least stay the night. We’ll escort you to the docks and put you on a ship in the morning, if you haven’t changed your mind.” The lord mayor held up a tunic next to Dhamon, finding it far too short.

“You can tell us all about the storm and where you came from. Your families and friends. What’s going on elsewhere in the world. We haven’t had news in some time. As I said, few strangers visit.”

“And as I said, we’re in a hurry”

The seamstress fussed over Dhamon now, supplying him with a pair of gray trousers that were a little worn at the knees and a white tunic that hung on his lean frame and also evidenced some wear. She paid no heed to the scales on his leg as she turned up the trouser legs into cuffs so they wouldn’t drag on the ground. Satisfied with his appearance, she draped a thin, wool cloak over his arm “for evenings when the fall wind sets in.” Then she fitted him with a finely tooled leather belt, into which Dhamon was quick to slide his knife. She handed him a second tunic, then stepped away and resumed her ministering to Fiona.

“Nasty sore on your pretty head, Fiona.” She handed the Knight a ribbon for her hair.

“How much for all of these clothes?” Dhamon cut in.

“How much? Why ever would I charge you for them?”

“We can’t accept charity,” Dhamon said tersely, as he eyed a shelf with winter cloaks. “How much for the heavy cloaks?” Free food. Free clothes. No, something was wrong here; something that made his skin itch. “I must insist on paying for…”

The seamstress ignored him. “We’ll make sure the lord mayor gets that sore tended to… Fiona.” The woman brushed the curls away from the Solamnic Knight’s forehead. “Nasty scar on your cheek, too.

Hair a mess. All this from being washed ashore in that terrible storm?”

“It’s from a spawn,” Fiona said. “They breathe acid.”

Dhamon cleared his throat. “I’ve got coins.”

The seamstress turned back to Dhamon, bumping into a rack. She was quick to steady it. “No one pays me for these clothes!” Then she was waving for the lord mayor and—as if she was in charge—directing him to take Fiona to the town’s healer at once. “Don’t need to be losing anyone else,” she muttered, as she nudged them out the door.

Dhamon turned to squarely face her. “Losing people?” he began. “What do you mean? We came through the cemetery. There were no names on…”

She gave him a surprised look, then made her clucking sound, and with a smile shut the door in his face.

The healer looked scarcely older than a boy to Dhamon, yet he seemed to know what he was doing.

He selected dried herbs and roots, many of which Dhamon was familiar with, ground them together, and created a paste that he liberally smeared on Fiona’s forehead. As he worked, he pawed the hair away from his own face, revealing the slightly pointed ears of a half-elf, Qualinesti from the looks of him.