Mest woke to the sound of steady chewing.

  The stag’s mounted head stared down at him with its black, lifeless gaze. Beside him sat Omba, a broad wooden platter before him. He ate with solemn concentration, shovelling generous pieces of crusted bread into his mouth along with steaming ragu. He must have been there for some time; only a modest portion remained of what, in its heroic youth, had likely been a meal fit for two grown men.

  He lifted his tankard and drained it in a single pull.

  “Ahhh!” A long, satisfied belch followed without apology. “You’re awake, then? You were sleeping so still a careless fellow might have thought death had carried you off. I asked the innkeeper if I might sit here and keep watch — wouldn’t do for some quick-fingered knave to rummage through your pockets.” He barked a crackling laugh. “I may start calling you Sleepy, you know.” His grin returned in full force. “There’s food for you as well.” He pointed to the bowl waiting before Mest. “I was just weighing whether to eat it myself if you didn’t stir soon. It’s no good cold.”

  Mest rubbed at his eyes wearily.

  “My dear óbalgúr… or Omba. Forgive me — but I am in need of solitude.”

  “Solitude?” Omba snorted. “The best remedy for that is a meal in good company! Fall to, or I swear I’ll snatch it from you.”

  Mest exhaled at length.

  “Very well. I see you are like the dirt on my cloak — impossible to scrape off.”

  Omba began slapping his knees, howling with laughter.

  “I thought sorrow was the only thing that ever fed on you, but look — there’s a scrap of humour hidden in there after all, even if it’s sour as a mouthful of lemon. Come then, let us eat while there’s food. What you swallow is yours. But mark this — when eating with me, one does not chatter with a full mouth. I am a dwarf of quality.”

  He said it through a mouth crammed with bread, then laughed straight through it.

  “And I warn you,” Mest replied, “I detest conversation during a meal.”

  “Never mind. If I grow bored, I shall speak enough for both of us.”

  Mest turned to his bowl. After a few mouthfuls, he gave a surprised murmur of approval.

  “Omba, if I may ask — purely from idle curiosity — why have you chosen to attach yourself so thoroughly to my person?”

  The dwarf scratched at his nose.

  “I liked your speech.” He gestured at him with his spoon. “Did you not hear me applaud?”

  “I heard applause from somewhere behind the counter, but saw no one. Now I understand.”

  “So it goes. Small fellows like me vanish in a crowd. I must compensate with volume.”

  “Kind of you to honour my intellectual labours,” Mest said dryly. “Yet something tells me that is not your only reason.”

  Omba shook a finger for patience — droplets of gravy scattering dangerously.

  “You are sharp, sir. I cannot compete with that. So I shall be serious. And I ask in advance that you not take offence. I did not mean to listen in — but I have good ears.”

  Mest brought his fingertips together. For a fleeting moment it seemed a small, ominous cloud gathered above his brow.

  Omba lifted both shovel-like hands defensively.

  “Peace. I am no hound of the blackcoats. No need to sour at once. I heard you speak of healing… of plants you meant to turn into bread-money. If you were merely a hedge-healer, I doubt you would struggle so.” He tapped his own temple, producing a dull, hollow thud. “I am not witless. I concluded you are not carrying lavender.”

  Mest inclined his head with exaggerated courtesy.

  “I cannot stand against such piercing intellect.”

  “Careful — it may cut you,” Omba grinned, enjoying himself for a moment before clearing his throat. “Right. Serious again. I reckon you are either one of the ‘Greys’… or some dubious scum of the underworld. But as I am an excellent judge of character, I exclude the latter.”

  Mest placed a hand over his heart and bowed slightly.

  “I am deeply moved that you do not consider me vermin. And surely your excellent discernment has also revealed that, were I scum, I would not waste time on healing. Nor on you.”

  Omba pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “Truth be told, that had not occurred to me.”

  Mest’s head dropped between his shoulders like a sack of stones.

  “But that is not the point,” Omba waved away. “The point is this: I am not like these straw-headed bumpkins.” He gestured broadly around the tavern. “I spare you a long tale. Life has seen to my education. I have not trod every distant mountain or ‘lost shard’ as your kind do, yet I have witnessed enough strangeness with my own eyes to see through simple superstition. I do not believe every foolish tale, mind — an educated dwarf knows the difference between children’s tales and truth. And I know well enough what it is to be looked at like a filthy rag just dropped in the mud. I need not explain from where.”

  “My heart breaks.”

  “Blast your wicked tongue,” Omba muttered, mildly offended. “I speak sincerely and you make sport of me.”

  “As though I had not heard that today already.”

  Mest began carefully rolling a leaf. As he worked the tobacco, his face grew so severe that the air about them seemed to tighten. One could almost feel him weighing the matter. When finished, he lit the small cylinder on a candle.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “I believe you mean no harm. My experience of dwarves tells me you are far too instinctively intrusive to be malicious.”

  Omba exhaled in relief.

  “You thought so long I feared to move, lest I startle you off like a sparrow.”

  Mest released a slow breath of smoke across the table, as though both a burden had rolled from his shoulders and all the world’s troubles had taken its place.

  “In that case, perhaps fortune favours me. I may not leave without coin. What can I do for you, dwarf of quality?”

  “My leg’s troubling me.”

  Mest’s head dipped forward involuntarily. Every line of his face seemed to ask: what?

  “Your leg.”

  “My leg.”

  A silence followed in which even time seemed to hesitate.

  “And what’m I meant to do with your leg then?” Mest asked. ?Knead it for you, eh? That’ll cost you dear.”

  “If only it were so simple. I would pay handsomely. But no. An axe once found its way into it — just above the left knee. It healed. I can walk well enough, as you have seen — within the limits of my dashing physique. Yet now and again foul temper creeps into it and it begins to ache.” He pointed toward the window. “Especially in weather like this. It hates cold wet. And then I do too.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Outside, rain lashed ever harder. Thunder rolled closer. Wind forced itself through the window frames with long, hollow cries, like distant horns lamenting.

  “I have tried every worldly healer, wise woman, herbalist, priest. None could help.” Omba went on more quietly. “I even went to a witch.”

  Mest raised a hand to his mouth in theatrical astonishment.

  “You don’t say. And did she anoint it with a goat’s head?”

  Omba stared at him flatly for a moment, then continued as if nothing had happened.

  “I asked them all whether they had something to dull the pain when it grows bad. They all said nettle and lavender. I tried the nettles — all that achieved was that my leg hurt on the outside as well. Later I learned they meant nettle tea. That does about as much good as a kiss to the dead. And sometimes the pain is so bad I cannot rise at all.”

  Mest steepled his fingers once more.

  “So, to summarise — from time to time your left leg pains you when the weather turns, or when you’re encumbered — say, by a heavy sack?”

  Omba bristled.

  “That’s what I’ve been saying! Aye, it aches when a sack encumbers me!”

  Mest’s head tilted.

  “Enc-Omba-ers you, does it?”

  Omba blinked.

  “What?”

  “Enc-Omba-ers,” Mest repeated gravely. “Sounds a serious affliction. Quite rare.”

  For a heartbeat Omba stared at him.

  Then comprehension dawned.

  “Don’t you start with that.”

  “With what?” Mest asked mildly. “I said it encumbers you — the sack.”

  “You twisted it.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “You did. You stuffed my name in there.”

  Mest’s lips twitched.

  “If your ailment insists on sounding like you, I can hardly be blamed.”

  That undid him.

  Mest burst into laughter — sudden and unrestrained.

  Omba’s brows drew low.

  “Did I not say I dislike jests upon my name?”

  Mest raised both hands defensively, still grinning.

  “Forgive me, dwarf lord, truly. But if you could have seen your own face! Worth every moment!”

  Omba snapped at him.

  “If I did not know you were otherwise shaped like a melancholy dumpling, I would thrash you soundly! You have wounded me gravely!”

  He folded his arms and turned away with exaggerated offence.

  Mest regarded him with a broad, infuriating smile.

  “Be honest — you enjoyed it. You should drink what Hobb keeps pressing upon me. It loosens the mood. I told him it holds such power it might rouse the dead — and if it stirs them, it will surely do something for you.”

  Omba thrust out his lower lip in growing sulk.

  “Oh, here we are,” Mest sighed. “One of the worst sights in the world: a sorrowful dwarf. A moment ago you were a merry tree trunk. Now you brood?”

  He leaned closer, placed a hand upon the dwarf’s broad shoulder, and extended the faintly glowing leaf.

  “Here. I have no wish to untie my sack just yet. This is what I can offer for now. When there are fewer curious eyes about, we shall examine your leg properly. Such matters take time, so we must find somewhere quiet. A friend of mine — Ben — lives in a nearby village. I treated his son on my way here. I mean to visit again in two or three days — perhaps tomorrow, at latest the day after. The folk there are not like these. I know them. They are not superstitious — and they despise the Order.”

  He scratched his head.

  “I surprise myself by saying it — but come with me when I go. There I may tend you without interruption. I will do what I can.”

  Omba placed a hand solemnly upon his chest and bowed from his seat.

  “I do not jest now. I thank you sincerely. You are a good man.”

  “A good man? Hardly. You don’t know what wood I’m carved from. Do not thank me yet — I may not succeed. And gratitude does not suffice as payment. I trust you have coin. I do not sell my time or my knowledge cheaply.”

  “That is only right!” Omba snorted. “Even if you begged to heal me for free, I would pay. What do you take me for? Some grasping leech? You wound my noble dwarf honour.”

  Suspiciously he accepted the leaf, studying it.

  “If you only stare at it, nothing will happen,” Mest said. “Except that it will burn away, and then I shall be the sorrowful one.”

  Omba inhaled deeply — then promptly coughed as though expelling his lungs.

  “By thunder, that has a pull to it. And a strange taste.”

  “If your exalted tongue craves sweetness, eat strawberries. This is no common weed. Nor is it easily come by. In truth, it is chiefly come by through me.”

  Omba narrowed his eyes at him, then tried again — more cautiously this time. He exhaled slowly.

  “Not bad, on second acquaintance. Must treat it like a fiery dwarf-maiden — gently, respectfully. Otherwise it strikes.”

  “And bites out your lungs.”

  “Exactly,” Omba laughed in his now familiar bubbling tone. “I feel quite loose. Could one pack this into a pipe? That is more my way.”

  “Pack it where you please.”

  Omba took another pull or two. His eyes suddenly widened.

  “Mest… something’s amiss. You’re falling into the wall.”

  Mest removed the leaf from his hand.

  “That will suffice for now. Before you decide to leap in after me.”

  The dwarf seemed almost to float as he leaned back, grinning lazily at the ceiling.

  “Imagine — the pain is gone! As though I had a new knee. You are a true wizard.”

  He chuckled low, then released a sound remarkably akin to his speech.

  “Forgive me. Too relaxed.” He wagged a finger. “From the moment I saw you I knew there was mischief behind that long face. Tell me — why do you smoke it yourself?”

  Mest drew once more upon the leaf, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  “You give me a headache.”

  Omba burst into delighted laughter.

  “Oh, go hang!”

  A sudden shadow fell across Omba from behind.

  Resting one club-like arm upon his thigh, he turned heavily over his shoulder.

  Jasu was looking down at him.

  As ever, his hands were thrust into his pockets — his unmistakable badge. Omba tilted his head questioningly.

  “Well then, what might you be wanting, good sir?” he said casually. “You’re stealing the fire’s warmth.”

  “You’re sitting in my place, dwarflet,” Jasu replied in his raised, rasping, gravel-dry voice. “You too, you reeking nest of filth.” He jerked his chin towards Mest. “I suggest you clear off. You’ve fouled the air enough already. Loud and stinking, the pair of you.” He hiccupped, then leaned in close, jabbing a finger towards Omba’s chest. “This is a respectable tavern.”

  Hobb’s rag stilled in his hand.

  He lifted his tired eyes to the ceiling. His face showed that peculiar blend of secondhand shame and quiet anger. The familiar noise of the inn thinned. Some guests watched with interest; others held their heads, or shook them — in some cases both at once.

  After acknowledging the demand with a small nod, Omba raised a thick forefinger in a gesture of patience. It slipped, entirely by accident, slightly into Jasu’s nostril.

  Jasu staggered back with a curse.

  “Just a moment, my golden lad,” Omba said pleasantly. “I shall seek the counsel of this poor wretch.”

  He turned back to his companion.

  Mest lay slack in his chair, eyes closed.

  “Mest…”

  “Hmmm?”

  “There is a young gentleman here who requests our seats, on the grounds that his noble rump is of such generous dimensions it requires not only his own chair but two beside it, lest he tilt.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Jasu leaned closer again, voice thick with threat.

  “What’s that about my arse, dwarflet?”

  Omba glanced back briefly — and released a monstrous belch straight into his face.

  Jasu recoiled again, swearing.

  “My humblest apologies,” Omba said gravely. Then, turning back to Mest: “Do you think it proper that I first offer our deepest apologies for the offence of existing, and then kindly advise the gentleman to seek two chairs of similar height to his own, so that his seating arrangement may be level and dignified?”

  “Hmmm.”

  Omba turned back.

  “The poor wretch says you are mangy.”

  Jasu’s eyes flew wide.

  A guttural sound escaped him.

  He rounded the table and jabbed a finger hard against Mest’s temple.

  “Oi, you stinking vermin. If you don’t clear off with the stump, I’ll throw you out myself — sack and all.”

  Mest slowly sat upright.

  Calmly he took one final pull on the leaf, then ground it out with deliberate care upon the table.

  His face twisted abruptly into bitterness.

  He raised both hands to his eyes and stood, sniffling loudly.

  “I am so sad,” he lamented in a wavering voice. “Everyone is cruel to me. Is it because I am dirty? Because I am ragged and foul? What sort of world is this?”

  The tavern fell quieter still.

  As though gathered for a spectacle, all stared in stunned attention.

  Hobb gripped the edge of the counter so tightly it creaked beneath his fingers. He waited — tense — for the miracle he knew was coming.

  The miracle of healing.

  Mest rubbed at his imaginary tears once or twice more. Then his hands stopped.

  He drew them slowly down his face, groaning mournfully.

  “I do not take kindly to being treated as refuse.”

  Jasu’s expression faltered between fury and confusion.

  He half-raised one brow.

  “What in the twilight are you prating of, you reeking badger?”

  Mest extended his left hand sideways, as though weighing an invisible argument.

  “On the one hand,” he began solemnly, “this business of casting men aside is in truth a cry for help. It reveals to the attentive that your heart is wounded and sorrowful. You are uncertain of your past, present, and future actions. Thus you seek to prove — to others and to yourself — that you are strong. Capable.”

  Jasu’s second eyebrow now joined the first upon his forehead.

  “What are you on about?”

  Mest extended his right hand as well, completing the invisible scale.

  “On the other hand, perhaps — by cruel misfortune — at this moment of fragile instability your ailing heart has been touched by darkness, which now drags your already diminutive mind towards decay.”

  Jasu’s voice rose, shrill with disbelief.

  “What bloody rot are you talking?!”

  Mest looked directly into his eyes.

  “By my wondrous power I shall now release your suffering soul and heal you.” He paused, then added gently: “And I apologise in advance.”

  His left hand moved first.

  Then the right.

  Two thunderous, open-palmed slaps cracked against Jasu’s face — one from each side — so violently that the sound rebounded from the walls, and Jasu spun once left, once right, in place.

  When he stopped turning, he staggered a few uncertain steps towards the counter, then collapsed to the floor with a dull thud, expression blank, mouth hanging open.

  He lay there like a felled ox.

  Mest lowered himself back into his chair, exhaled deeply, and closed his eyes once more.

  Omba erupted into shrieking laughter.

  With sausage-thick finger he pointed first at Mest, then at Jasu, while his other hand hammered the table so hard it nearly split.

  The inn’s cheer returned as though a cork had been pulled.

  Laughter rolled between the tables.

  From here and there came sympathetic calls:

  “Poor Jasu!”

  “Twice in one day!”

  “He brings it on himself!”

  Even the hearth seemed to burn warmer.

  Hobb slumped forward against the counter, head in hand — then lifted his gaze to the ceiling with a smile.

  The air thickened once more with warm, drunken ease.

  And then —

  The entire mood was torn away in a single breath.

  A violent gust of wind burst through the entrance.