Jean Rabe - Downfall

Dhamon winced.

"Worth it, my friend. Grim is the best. Unfortunate, however, he is not so powerful as to stop all of this rain. I doubt these mountains have seen this much in the past few years. At least it's giving all of Bloten a much-needed bath," Maldred chuckled, then instantly grew serious. "The wagon?"

Dhamon nodded toward the street.

"Did Thwuk demand anything else for watching it?"

Dhamon shook his head. "Nothing else. I'm a shrewd negotiator."

"That's why I like you." Maldred strolled toward Fiona, his eyes sparkling merrily and catching hers. "Now on to that matter of gaining you some ransom, Lady Knight."

Dhamon cleared his throat. "We've an appointment this evening."

Maldred raised his eyebrows as if to say, "you negotiated that as well?"

"We're to have dinner with Donnag this evening to discuss various matters."

"Then I'd best find something presentable to wear," Maldred returned. "Join me, Lady Knight?"

"My ransom?" Fiona's face was still wrinkled with worry. "Is the ransom part of the various matters?"

"Yes. We should gain you some wealth tonight, I think." Maldred did not see Dhamon's hard expression and narrowed eyes, as he was devoting all of his charm and attention to the Solamnic. The big man extended his arm, and she took it, strolling out of the shop with him and meeting the glare of the half-elf. Fiona looked across the street, but the mariner was nowhere in sight.

Rig had wandered down a cobblestone side street, one of the very few of its kind in Bloten. Nearly all of the streets seemed to be wide streams of mud. He skirted the largest puddles, avoiding them entirely was impossible. As the cobblestones ended and another swath of mud began, the businesses and dwellings that lined it became more rundown. He could tell a few of them were owned, or at the very least operated, by humans and dwarves, and they seemed to cater to the nonogre population. None of these shops had awnings or planks out front, just strips of deep, muddy clay. He glanced at his reflection in an overflowing horse trough. His stomach rumbled. He'd barely touched his dinner last night, while his companions ate heartily. He'd had nothing to eat today, not wanting any part of this place. But he was feeling a little weak, his head aching and hands shaking, and he knew he was going to have to eat something. He glanced up, looking for an establishment that might sell identifiable foodstuffs.

"Gardi? Izzat you Gardi?"

Rig realized that a gangly young man who had leaned out on a crooked stoop was speaking to him.

"Oh, sorry. Thought you wuz Gardi." He turned and disappeared in the doorway, as the mariner sprinted forward and his arm shot out to catch the man's wrist. The young man spat a foreign-sounding word, then gulped and his eyes grew wide when he took in all of the mariner's weapons.

"S'okay," Rig said. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just want to talk. I'm new to town, and I was wondering…"

"Too bad," the man said, relaxing a bit when Rig released him.

Rig cocked his head.

"Too bad you came here," he said, a genuine look of sadness on his face. "Bloten's not a good place to be-if you have the choice to be somewheres else. And I haven't time to dawdle with you. Got money to earn. Taxes to pay. Taxes and taxes and taxes and taxes."

Rig pulled a steel piece from his pocket and pressed it into the man's hand. "Tell me about this place."

"Taxes," the young man repeated.

"Yea, I know," said Rig. "So tell me where I can get something good to eat."

Evening found Rig and the others across the city, at the home of Chieftain Donnag, the ruler of all of Blode.

The manse, a palace Fetch called it, was a little incongruous compared to the buildings that sprawled around it-and to all of the buildings they'd seen so far in Bloten. It was three stories tall, ogre measurement, making it appear nearly five stories to the humans. And it extended across an entire city block. The exterior was in good repair, the stonework patched and painted a bright white that looked pale gray in the continuing drizzle. Orange-painted wooden trim rimmed the corners, carved in the images of dragons with their wings spread and heads to the sky. Ornamental bushes thick with weeds and in desperate need of pruning spread out beneath windows that were fancifully curtained, and thorny vines were trimmed away from a meandering cobblestone walk that led to massive front doors nestled beneath an arched overhang.

Two ogres stood on either side of the doors, attired in pitted armor and carrying halberds longer than Rig's glaive. Protected from the rain, they were dry and sweating from the summer heat, and they smelled strongly of musk. One stepped forward and pointed to a crate.

"He wants your weapons left outside," Maldred explained.

"I will not!" Rig stepped back and shook his head. "I'll not leave myself defenseless in…"

Fiona slid by him, unfastening her swordbelt and placing it in the crate. She pulled a dagger from her boot and added that weapon. After a moment's thought, she set her helmet next to the crate, combing her hair with her fingers. Dhamon tugged at his sword belt, dangling it and the attached ale skins over the crate as he glanced at the ogre sentries. Then he carefully set it inside. Rikali followed with the ivory-pommeled dagger Dhamon had given her, and Fetch grudgingly deposited his hoopak. The four of them waited for Rig.

"I won't."

"Then suit yourself and wait for us out here," Maldred said. The big man gallantly extended his arm again to Fiona, his eyes sparkling and warm and bringing a slight smile to her heart-shaped face. The Solamnic paused for just a moment before she took his elbow and entered the manse, not giving Rig a second glance.

Rikali waited for Dhamon to copy Maldred's gracious gesture, pouting when he didn't and slipping inside just behind him. "Lover," she whispered as she nudged him. "You should learn better manners. Watch Mai. He knows how to treat a lady." Fetch had squeezed in just ahead of the pair.

"Awh…" Rig rested his glaive against the front of the manse. "This better be here when I come out," he warned.

Then he proceeded to drop his more readily visible weapons into the crate and join the others inside.

The interior was impressive. A long cherrywood table dominated the dining room into which they were escorted, ringed by ogre-sized chairs with deeply stuffed cushions and intricately carved backs. None of the furniture was polished or in the best of condition, but it was better than the furniture at Grim Kedar's and the other places they'd visited. Paintings hung on the walls, rendered by human artists of widespread reknown. Rig's eyes narrowed and fastened on one. It was painted by Usha Majere, Palin's wife-he'd seen enough of her work when he'd visited the Tower of Wayreth to recognize it, and he knew she wouldn't have painted this for an ogre chief. Stolen, he mouthed. Probably like everything else in this room.

A lanky human woman, scantily dressed in pale green scarves, bid them to select a spot at the table, and whispered that they should wait to sit. Then she clapped her hands and an ogress entered with a tray of drinks served in tall wooden cups. Behind the ogress came Donnag.

The chieftain was the largest ogre they'd observed since entering the city. Nearly eleven feet tall, he had wide shoulders on which sat shining bronze disks festooned with military medals-some recognizable from the Dark Knights and Legion of Steel Knights, a few with Nerakan markings. He wore a heavy mail shirt, which glimmered in the light of the thick candles that were spaced evenly throughout the hall, and beneath that an expensive purple tunic. Though dressed as regally as any monarch, he was nonetheless obviously an ogre, with warts and scabs dotting his wide, tanned face. Twin fangs jutted upward from his bottom jaw, and several gold hoops were pierced through his broad nose and his bulbous lower lip. His ears were hidden by a crownlike gold helmet embellished with exquisitely cut gems and grotesquely angled animal talons.