Mark Shepherd - Bard's Tale 05 - Escape From Roksamur

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ESCAPE FROM ROKSAMUR

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events por-

trayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to

real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

The Bard's Tale characters and descriptions are the sole

property of Electronic Arts and are used by permission.

The Bard's Tale is a registered trademark of Electronic

Arts.

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-87797-6

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

First printing, August 1997

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Ckapter One

Home, at last, Bard Alaire thought as he rode his mare

through the open gates of Silver City. The searing sum-

mer heat wrapped its arms around him even now, as the

sun set behind the great capital of Althea. Despite the

bandana wrapped around his head, sweat dripped onto

his already perspiration-drenched clothing.

Shade and water will come soon enough, he thought,

as the closing gate's shadow passed over him.

Exhausted and thirsty, as was his mare, he made for

the nearest well. Alaire shared a bucket of water with

her before proceeding to the palace, wishing the news

he'd gathered for his brother, King Derek of Althea,

had been more helpful than it was. It did little for his

spirits to deliver more evidence of the Althean drought,

as the kingdom already had other problems.

Better to present my report now and get it over with,

Alaire thought grimly.

The Bard led his mare to a stable and started off

towards the palace, an ominous, square structure domi-

nating the horizon. Merchants and tradesmen waved

greetings but did not attempt conversation.

The guards at the front door bowed as they recog-

nized him, allowing him to enter the palace unchal-

lenged. But, as Alaire had feared, King Derek was in

conference with someone. His temper short and his

patience fragile, he might have barged in unannounced

if he'd known who the king was speaking with. But to

do so would only have embarrassed himself; familiar-

ity with the king, even when he was your big brother,

was something better expressed in private.

He sat on a lumpy, padded bench in the gallery and

tried to relax. The summer heat had seized the palace

and a hot, muggy blast blew through the gallery's open

windows. This was not the sort of summer Alaire or

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anyone else in Althea had expected, and it was cer-

tainly not one the Bard enjoyed.

"King Derek will see you now," a young servant said

from the open doors of the royal chambers. "Please

forgive the wait," the boy said. "With the situation as

it is, we have been rather busy today."

Bard Alaire nodded. He understood fully. "That is

quite all right," he replied, starting for the door. "I've

seen firsthand what the problem is."

Alaire recognized the two noblemen, representa-

tives of the Farmer's Guild, as they left the king's

chambers. Their long faces tilted toward Alaire re-

spectfully before they took their leave of the gallery.

And I am nowhere close to finding a solution to

the problem, Alaire thought morosely as he entered

his brothers chambers.

Two years of rule had added lines to Derek's face.

When their father, King Reynard, had died after a

long illness, Derek was well prepared mentally for

taking over the duties of the King, as he had been

in training since he was thirteen. Emotionally, as

Alaire recalled, Derek took more time in adjusting to

the loss of their second parent; Crania, their mother,

had died a year earlier. Alaire's seven brothers had all

assumed the roles they'd been trained for, including

war lord, seneschal and priest. Of these positions and

others, Alaire reasoned, the role of king would have

to be the most difficult. Derek's sudden aging, and a

new swath of gray in his hair supported this.

"Dear brother," Derek said warmly, turning from the

open window of his chambers, along which was a long

marble table with a pewter pitcher and tankards. "I

was expecting you back a fortnight from now," he added,

with an audible touch of anxiety. Unsurprisingly, his

ermine cloak hung from the gilded throne, and he wore

only a tan silk shirt, light breeches and boots. The kings

beard, usually trimmed neatly, had grown bushy lately,

and Alaire suspected he might even consider shaving

it off altogether if this heat kept up. Derek's smile

seemed forced as he embraced Alaire; the Bard had

heard, since arriving in this part of Althea, that the king

had been up at all hours lately, calming his staff and

placating the nobles. Alaire had assumed this had been

a rumor, but seeing his brother in person confirmed it.

And the news I bear will not improve the situation,

Alaire thought, forcing a smile of his own.

"I saw what I needed to, on the Fox River," Alaire

said, though what he had found was no river, but a

trickle of water running across a long bed of mud. "The

situation is as reported. The eastern region, around

the Fox in particular, has seen little rainfall since

spring. The few crops that managed to sprout are

dying." Alaire paused, wondering how much detail he

should go into. "The harvest will be very bleak, if there

is one at all."

Derek's face fell more, which Alaire would not have

believed possible a moment before.

Alaire took a seat on a long marble bench, which

was not as cool as he'd hoped. Derek looked forlornly

out the window, as if the intensity of his gaze would

bring the much-needed rain to Althea.

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"I found twenty abandoned farms on the way," Alaire

continued, knowing that however negative the report

was, the king needed to know precisely what was going

on in his land. "Dead cattle, withered crops. Some farms

are managing with wells, but these are growing shal-

lower with each passing day. Springs are drying up.

The Fox River itself was a mere stream." He left out

the part about the dying, rotting fish, with a notion

to mention it later if it turned out to be important.

"So unless we see rain soon, there will be a fam-

ine," King Derek said softly. He turned slowly and fixed

his brother with a hopeful, pleading look. "Can you

do anything about it?"

Which meant, could his Bardic magic bring the rain?

"I don't know," Alaire said, though he really did.

"Famine is not inevitable. We do have Suinomen to the

north. News from their traders indicates their harvests

have been bountiful this year."

Derek shook his head, as Alaire expected. When

will he learn there is no disgrace in seeking help? "I

don't want to depend on Suinomen to keep Althea

alive, dear brother."

"For one season?" Alaire countered. "If not that,

then what?"

"What will we trade?" the King argued. "Our coin

does not spend very well in Suinomen markets!"

"Barter, of course," Alaire countered. "Our gems

from our mines . . ."

Derek groaned. "You know as well as I do that

spending gems on the market devalues them. No,

brother, there must be another way. We still have a hope

for a crop, if rain comes soon."

Alaire avoided meeting his eyes. Row do I tell him

that what he asks is next to impossible?

The Bard took the harp off his shoulder and re-

garded it as if it were an oracle. This was his older

harp, the one with which he trained under his Bardic

master, Naitachal. It was sturdier and more suitable for

travel than his newer harp, which he'd left in his quar-

ters. What would the Dark Elf do in this situation?

Would his opinion be so colored by familial ties as

mine seems to be right now?

Alaire shook his head slowly, but resolutely. "Derek,

I don't know how to tell you this," he began hesi-

tantly. "Bardic magic has its place in healing, in spell-

casting, in other things as well. I am good, but I am

not a master, and may never be one. What you are

asking is nothing less than the total upheaval of the

worlds climate." He paused, regarded his harp briefly,

as his own spark of hope 'came and went Can Bardic

magic bring rain?

"You don't have to tailor your words for me," Derek

said. "I know that what I ask is probably impossible.

But we must try something." He yawned expressively,

and rubbed his eyes. "It need not be major. Just a

light rain at least, to break up this oppressive heat."

Alaire relented. "I will try, brother. But not now.

I need water, a bath and rest, in that order. Tomor-

row I might be able to attempt something."

"Why didn't you say so?" Derek said, reaching for

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the pewter pitcher and pouring clear water into a

tankard. >

"I thought it was wine," Alaire said, taking the

tankard of water thankfully.

The king chuckled. "Not this afternoon, little brother.

We're thirsty enough today without the spirits."

A knock sounded at the chambers door. Alaire drained

the tankard, grateful for the water, paying only slight

attention to the interruption.

"Enter," Derek said, in a deep baritone voice.

The young servant who had admitted Alaire entered

sheepishly, evidently under orders to interrupt only when

necessary.

"Your Majesty," the servant said. "There is a mes-

senger from Suinomen. Just arrived, sir. He claims to

have urgent news for you, which he must deliver

personally."

The King frowned, but didn't hesitate to say, "Show

him in, then."

The servant mumbled something unintelligible to

someone in the gallery, then a rider, wearing the uni-

form of the Suinomen army, entered and bowed gra-

ciously. He clutched a flat leather pouch and had

evidently shed certain parts of his uniform, no doubt

because of the heat, giving him a disheveled, road-

weary appearance. The Suinomese generally enjoyed

cool temperatures, even in the summer, and no doubt

the messenger had been sent without regard to dress.

"I beg forgiveness for my ignorance of your lan-

guage," the rider said, in a heavy, Suinomese drawl

that sounded rehearsed. "King Kainemonen has sent

word to you about your ambassador."

Derek's eyebrows raised. "Is that so," he said, taking

the pouch, but the rider only bowed. Apparently, these

were all the Althean words the messenger had memo-

rized; his look was blank as he handed the message

over.

King Derek carefully unfolded the parchment and

gazed down at it as if it were tinged with poison.

"Dear gods," Derek said softly, as his complexion

turned a horrid shade of gray.

Alaire was too tired to react; he remained seated,

holding the tankard, as the messenger remained stand-

ing, however nervously. The Bard recalled another time,

with another messenger, in another place far to the north,

when a message had led himself and his master,

Naitachal, on a rather eventful trip to the country of

Suinomen.

A trip I very nearly didn't return from, he reminded

himself, when I spent those terrible days, or weeks,

or moments, in the Prison of Souls. Alaire shuddered

at the memory. My dear mother, gods rest her soul,

is the only reason I escaped.

"Our ambassador to Suinomen, Sir Erikson, has been

assassinated," the King said woodenly as he collapsed

on his throne.

Alaire stood up, the tankard clattering to the tiled

floor. The messenger jumped at the sudden noise, then

bowed to Alaire in embarrassment. The Bard waited

several long moments for his brother to continue. "He

was stabbed to death in his sleep," Derek continued.

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"What they have sent," he said, holding up the parch-

ment, "is an apology, as well as a statement that the

Suinomen government had nothing to do with it."

Then who did? Alaire wondered, but waited for

Derek to recover from the news.

"Is the message from Kainemonen himself?" Alaire

asked.

"Yes," Derek replied. "It bears his seal. But who

would want to see our ambassador dead?" The hand

holding the message dropped limply to one side, and

Derek stared forward at nothing Alaire could see.

"May I read it?" Alaire ventured, and Derek ab-

sently handed the parchment over to him. The note

had been composed by a scribe, complete with all

the fancy calligraphy and seals mandated by a royal

message. The information was brief, and to the point.

Your Majesty, King Derek of Althea,

We so very much regret to inform you that your

Ambassador to Suinomen, Sir Erikson of Gnarwald,

was found stabbed to death in his chambers at mid

morning. We cannot express the grief we feel to-

day, and we fear this message will not convey suf-

ficient apology. I can say with absolute certainty

that none in the Suinomen government is respon-

sible for this ghastly deed, and we will spare no

expense or resource to get to the bottom of this

crime. As King of Suinomen, I respectfully request

that you send two most capable emissaries, Bard

Alaire and Master Bard Naitachal. I am acquainted

with them both and would be honored by their

presence, even under these less than favorable cir-

cumstances.

Youre Sincerely, and most regretfully,

King Kainemonen

Ruler of Suinomen

Alaire's gaze wavered from the message to the man

who brought it. Not much older than the messenger who

brought the other news to Naitachal and myself, six

years ago. And he looks worse off than I do.

"Come with me," Alaire said, and led the young

messenger to the gallery where the servant was wait-

ing with obvious anxiety.

"Give him the best guest room in the palace," Alaire

said o^ickly. "And a bath and a meal."

"Yes, sir," he replied quickly. "Yes, indeed." He bowed

and excused himself, leading the messenger quickly down

the hallway.

Alaire returned to his brothers chambers and col-

lected the tankard he'd dropped to the floor, and

poured himself more water. The King hadn't moved from

the throne and continued to stare vacantly.

"I believe," Alaire said slowly, "that the King of

Suinomen is telling us the truth." The Bard pulled

a chair up near the throne, to better speak with his

brother, who did not look very well at the moment. He

also didn't look as though he was hearing anything Alaire

said, but the Bard knew better. He's listening, and think-

ing.

"You know Kainemonen," Derek said after a lengthy

pause. "And you've been to Suinomen before. What do

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you think might have happened?"

Alaire studied the tankard, the water sloshing around

inside. "Kai's government is not to blame," Alaire said

with certainty. "He might know, or suspect who did

it, but he wouldn't have included that information in

the message."

Derek roused himself from the slouch he'd

descended into and rubbed his temples. "Any chance

this note is a forgery?"

Alaire looked at the parchment. "Possible, but

doubtful. The only reason for anyone to send a forgery

would be to incite a war between our two countries,

or at the very least strain our relationship. But it would

take more than a mere forgery to accomplish that."

"Aie, it would," Derek agreed. "Then we should

assume the worst. He asked for you and Naitachal.

If I recall, both of you went up there to straighten

something out."

"Yes, we did, and we very nearly didn't return,"

Alaire replied. "Up until then, Althea barely acknowl-

edged Suinomen."

"Well, we never traded with them," Derek said.

"And they don't have nearly the population we do."

"You might be surprised," Alaire said, remember-

ing the size of Rozinki, the capital city. "Rozinki was

a major port before we even began trading. For centu-

ries we missed the boat, as it were, in trade with them.

Anyway, I was training under Naitachal in Fenrich, which

wasn't far from the border."

The memory of the enigmatic Dark Elf brought a smile

to Alaire's features.

"You miss him, don't you?" Derek said, with a smile

of his own.

"Of course I do," Alaire replied. "Ever since I

became a Bard, he's been off wandering by himself.

Occasionally traders coming through Silver City tell

stories about him. He's been all over Althea and

Suinomen, two or three times over."

Alaire wondered what Naitachal found so interest-

ing about travel—but then, trying to figure out any

Dark Elf usually led to frustration. That this particu-

lar elf had become a Bard only added to the confu-

sion—Necromancers tended to remain Necromancers,

and Naitachal had done a radical about face in his ca-

reer when he became a Bard. "Kai, of course, prob-

ably wouldn't know that Naitachal is off doing Bardic

things on his own."

But evidently Derek's mind had wondered off, as

he stared off into nothing again. "When you and

Naitachal were up there, you interrupted a coup of

sorts."

"That is correct."

"Carlotta had attempted to seize the throne . . . again.

And you destroyed her, I believe."

Alaire nodded, "When we left for Suinomen, I had

already assumed Carlotta was dead. The stories passed

around the family, as well as the overheard conver-

sations, had suggested as much. Yet, the sister of our

long ago king proved to be more resilient than we

thought. Not only had she survived the original at-

tack from bardling Kevin, she disappeared for many

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years. Later, she surfaced in Suinomen and began

manipulating Sir Jehan, a nobleman of the Suinomen

court."

The king took a long drink of water. "We had won-

dered what happened to you up there." Derek set the

tankard down, and fixed Alaire with a direct, somewhat

accusing look. "Are you certain Carlotta is dead?"

Alaire might have taken offense at this question, which

cast doubt on his own abilities. But Derek was king,

and Alaire himself had wondered whether or not the fairy-

human hybrid had survived Naitachal's attack.

"It was a horrible thing to behold," Alaire said softly,

remembering the unmaking spell Naitachal had woven.

When the Dark Elf finished, there was nothing left

of her except the limp remains of her clothes. "But

yes, I am certain of her demise. And no, I don't think

she is behind Sir Erikson's assassination."

"What of ... certain elements, left over from the

previous coup attempt?"

Alaire had to think about that one for a moment.

"The political struggle resulted in Archenomen s over-

whelming victory. The only thing holding the oppo-

sition forces together was Carlotta's magic, and once

she was dead, the coup dissolved. All that was left was

the resultant mess, which consisted of a confused rabble

of Carlotta's pawns, who hadn't fully realized they were

being used."

"Possible then, but unlikely," the king supplied. Alaire

nodded.

"We won't know anything until we go up there

ourselves," Alaire said, but even as he uttered the

words he dreaded the prospect of more travel. Par-

ticularly across the parched countryside of Althea.

Gods, not again, not already . . .

His distaste evidently showed on his face. "Perhaps

a seagoing vessel, to take you there. There are regular

routes between Silver City and Rozinki," the king sug-

gested.

He hadn't considered going by ship; the prospect

changed the complexion of things altogether.

"The weather would be much more agreeable," the

King pointed out. "Plenty of water. You could even

use the time to rest up."

"That is a splendid idea," Alaire said, though he ques-

tioned how well he could sleep on a moving ship.

"In view of the fact that you were nearly subdued

the last time you traveled to Suinomen, how many

troops would you like to take as bodyguards?"

"Soldiers? Don't be silly," Alaire said, but even as

he replied, he noticed a sly smirk on the king's tired

features. "I know Kainemonen quite well," he

continued. Perhaps too well; he was a little embarrassed

at the familiarity he had with the King of Suinomen.

Is he really the king now? he thought, remembering

the drunken crown prince he'd met while pretending

to be Naitachal's "secretary," and the sudden and dra-

matic change in him when they were both nearly killed.

Becoming the king was the last thing Kai wanted, and

he found himself on the throne sooner than anyone had

expected.

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"It would be very troubling, brother, if any rem-

nants from the coup attempt remained," Alaire said.

"If such folk had been lying low for this long, that would

suggest a true dedication to stirring up trouble."

"So you'll go, then," Derek said. "I mean, if I ask . . ."

"Of course I'll go," Alaire replied. Did he think I

would refuse? "I need to get out of this stifling heat

somehow, and what better way than to go north,

where its cold."

"Excellent," Derek replied. "Who then, will you take

with you?"

Alaire didn't have to consider this for long. "Reykir,

my apprentice, of course."

"May I make a suggestion?" The king's tone hinted

that Alaire might not like the suggestion. To Alaire's

hesitant nod, the king continued. "Do you think brother

Craig would be a suitable traveling companion?"

The question, at first, stunned him. That drunk? But

why would Derek even suggest . . .

"I know, I know. Irresponsible, even if he is your

older brother."

"All my brothers are older brothers. I'm the baby,

remember?"

Derek shrugged. "He hasn't been doing much really.

I'm embarrassed to have him on the council, as he

usually shows up drunk. And the women . . ."

Alaire held a hand up. "You don't have to tell me.

I know that he is a bit . . . free, I might say, with

the womenfolk. Of all classes." He frowned, consid-

ering an unpleasant possibility. "If he went, would we

not be running the chance of embarrassing Althea?"

The king looked ready to disagree vehemently, then

sighed. "It has occurred to me. But the possible benefit

of his going along may outweigh that risk."

The Bard was confused. "What benefit?"

The words came with visible difficulty. "The king of

Suinomen was once a bit of wastrel, wasn't he? And

now . . ."

So that was it. Teach by example. Particularly when

everything else has failed.

The king continued, as if to fill the air with words,

to prevent Alaire from objecting. "I can see to it that

the ship does not stock wine. So at least he will be

sober when you reach Rozinki."

"At least," Alaire said, liking the idea of taking Craig

along, if not altogether certain why. "I see a good

deal of merit in the plan. Kai, if anyone, will under-

stand what it's like to be a royal drunkard. He might

even have some suggestions." Even though it took a

near-death experience to get Kai's attention six years

ago.

"Craig is not very dependable, true, but he is your

brother," Derek said. Alaire heard the anxiety behind

his voice. "I will extract a solemn oath from him that

he will do nothing to humiliate the family, the crown,

or Althea."

"And?"

"I will direct him specifically to keep his hands off

the native girls."

"And?" Alaire was enjoying this.

Derek held his hands up in frustration. "What, keep

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his manhood locked away in a box while he's away?'

"Hmmm," Alaire said. He hadn't considered that. "That

would eliminate about half our problem. But no, I

think that would be a bit extreme."

Derek tried to bite back a grin, but was unable to

hold it in, and he broke down in a fit of laughter. "We

can always threaten him with that later, if he doesn't

behave."

"And speaking of not behaving ..." Derek said,

his tone indicating a clear change of subject. "Your

student, Reykir. The lad is not well bred, that is true,

but do you think you can get him to leave the kitchen

girls alone? There have been . . . complaints."

"Oh? From the girls or jealous boyfriends?" Alaire

said, trying to sound innocent. Yes, Reykir. I should have

known he would find some sort of mischief while I was

surveying muddy rivers.

"Are you certain you don't want to take a foot

soldier or two along . . . ?" Derek was serious again.

"To what, deal with a couple of rowdy boys?" Alaire

sniffed. "I think I can manage."

"I certainly hope so," the king said. His lack of faith

was disturbing to Alaire.

After all, it hasn't been att that long since I was a

randy youth. As he considered this, he frowned. Has

it?

Chapter Two

But I can't swim! the bardling thought, alarmed at

the prospect of going to sea. He forced his expres-

sion into neutrality as Alaire, his master, watched him

with growing curiosity.

"Yes, Reykir?" Alaire asked as he opened a ward-

robe, a piece of heavy, wooden furniture that looked as

though it was a part of the palace. "Is there something

wrong with traveling north by ship?"

Damn, Reykir thought. Alaire either read my face

or my mind. I can never figure out which!

"Oh, nothing," the bardling said, and wondered if

he should sit to make himself look less nervous. "It's

just that it's been so long since I've been on a ship.

I've had my land legs for quite a time now."

"Hmmm," Alaire replied, not looking, or sounding,

convinced.

Reykir was appalled at taking passage aboard a

sailing ship, but he was not about to let his mentor

know it. He had grown up in the streets of Silver

City, first as a hustler and a thief, then as a hustler

and freelance musician. At no time did he learn how to

swim.

"You'll be getting out of this stifling city," Alaire

pointed out as he went through his wardrobe and

tossed clothing into a large wooden chest. "And you'll

be seeing a new land."

"Oh, that I know," Reyltir said. As Alaires bardling

trainee, he had a smaller room adjoining Alaires quar-

ters. The suite had originally been designed for a

master and a personal servant. Not that Reykir minded

his mentor or his quarters; Alaire was a good teacher

and friend, and living in the palace, anywhere in the

palace, beat living on the street.

file:///G|/rah/Mark%20Shepherd%20-%20Bard's...5%20-%20Escape%20From%20Roksamur%20[UC].txt (9 of 153) [2/14/2004 12:53:14 AM]

file:///G|/rah/Mark%20Shepherd%20-%20Bard's%20Tale%2005%20-%20Escape%20From%20Roksamur%20[UC].txt

"Then why," Alaire asked, as he tossed a pair of

breeches into the chest, "do you look so reluctant?"

Think fast, Reykir thought to himself. Tell him the

truth, or tell him something far more interesting?

"Its just th-that," Reykir stammered, a terrible habit

he fell into when he was about to lie. "I wanted to ...

Can I . . . ?"

"What?" Alaire asked.

"Take Rak along?" Of course. Why didn't I think

of her right away?

"I don't see why not," Alaire said, after a maddening

pause. "Its only a one week trip, at the most. There

are ports along the way, I suspect we'll be going

ashore at least once during the trip, if you want to

let her hunt fresh food."

Reykir made a point of looking relieved. "Oh, she

can get by for days on jerky, if needed," the boy said,

patting his waterproof leather pack. "I've got enough

for both of us." When Alaire had mentioned a voy-

age, food was the first thing Reykir had packed. As

it was daytime, Reykir knew that Rak, his hunting

owl and closest friend, human or non, was probably

asleep in the rafters of the King's stables. He knew

she was safe there; since becoming Alaires student,

Rak had become a welcome fixture. Rats and mice had

become only a minor nuisance, and no longer fouled the

grain supply. Knowing his owl could come along did

indeed make the trip more palatable. As long as 1 don't

fall overboard, everything will be just fine.

Despite having soothed his apprentice, Alaire looked

troubled, perhaps by something other than the assas-

sination of Altheas ambassador. Reykir had a mild

talent for telepathy, and a slightly stronger one for

empathy; but reading the signs in his teacher required

neither. He must be tired, or else there's more about

this journey he's not telling me, Reykir thought.

"Who will be traveling with us?" Reykir inquired.

Alaire had mentioned nothing of traveling compan-

ions, but he had a hunch this might be part of the

problem.

"My brother. Craig," he said, with a sigh. "Derek

seems to think this trip might do him some good."

His tone, however, indicated that he didn't agree.

"Do you think so?" Reykir asked. It still felt odd

to be talking about the King of Althea in such famil-

iar terms. To do so with Alaire was acceptable, but he

had to watch his tongue around everyone else, particu-

larly the servant boys. They were jealous enough of

his sudden, dramatic rise in social position. In one day

he had gone from living the life of a gutter child,

culling the streets garbage for food, to becoming a

formal student of Bardic magic, with the kings own

brother as his teacher.

Reykir knew better than to shove the other boys'

noses in his amazing stroke of fortune. He might be

rubbing elbows with Althean royalty, but he was still

outnumbered and small for his age. He'd learned long

ago the hard lessons of the street, and avoided trouble

whenever possible.

The bardling stopped short of referring to Craig's

drinking habits, which were well known in the king-

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Mark Shepherd - Bard's Tale 05 - Escape From Roksamur

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