"Then you never looked, as I'm sure Tavis has." The retort came from Runolf Sacmon, who sat on the other side of Tavis. A tall, wiry fellow with a hooked nose and pale eyes as blue as mountain columbines, Runolf was the only man in the room who could chastise the lord mayor in such a manner. As Sergeant of the Northern Frontier, he commanded a full company of the Border Guard, and not even Earl Dobbin would risk the king's wrath by speaking lightly against such a man. "Before Tavis came to look after this inn, he was the best scout in the Border Guard."
Tavis felt the heat rising to his cheeks. The compliment did not embarrass him, for he was well aware of his reputation. But he found it disconcerting to hear his fame vaunted by the man who had taught him everything he knew. He turned to his mentor and said, "If that's true, it's only because I had the finest teacher in the kingdom."
"Your admiration for each other is most touching," sneered the lord mayor, "but it fails to convince me you can learn so much about a marauder from his footfalls. Even if he's a verbeeg, how can you know he carries a heavy load?"
Before Tavis could point out the unsteady rhythm of the marauder's steps, Princess Brianna said, "I'm sure Tavis is a better judge than you of verbeeg gaits." Seated between Tavis and the lord mayor, the princess had endured their debate with atypical patience. "If you don't believe him, perhaps you should run along and see for yourself."
To emphasize her point, Brianna glared at the earl. From what Tavis gathered, most humans did not consider the princess beautiful. She was extremely tall for her race, with a frame as sturdy as a man's and a height just a few inches shy of seven feet. But to the former scout, a firbolg who stood over eight feet himself. Brianna was the picture of elegance. She had a striking face with clear skin, a dimpled chin, and sparkling eyes as purple as the flowers in her hair. Her long tresses were as fine as spider silk and more yellow than gold, while her figure was distinctly feminine, with long graceful limbs and gentle curves.
Earl Dobbin finally withered under the princess's stare and looked away, glancing around the hall with an air of distaste. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you in this inn alone," he said. "My guards are quite capable of dealing with the marauder-whatever his race-without my supervision."
"I'm sure that's true, but I still don't want him trying to hide in the Weary Giant." Tavis glanced down the table, where eleven orphans of various ages sat gathered around the end. All residents of the Weary Giant, they were the reason the firbolg scout had left his beloved Border Guard to become an innkeeper. "Avner, go and close the courtyard gate."
A sandy-haired boy of fifteen rose from his chair. "I'll close the gate," he said. His eyes were steely gray, much too hard and cunning for his years. "But that won't slop a thief. Hell just slip the bar or climb the wall. I would."
Tavis gave the boy a reproving frown. "Not anymore, I trust," he said. "Besides, with Earl Dobbin's guards after him, he won't have time for that."
Avner rolled his eyes. "Those oafs never stopped me."
"Now, Avner!" Tavis snapped, grimacing. No good could come of reminding the lord mayor that most of the Weary Giant's orphans had lived as street thieves before coming to the lodge.
With a cavalier shrug, Avner went to the door. The boy had not even stepped outside before Kwasid's voice pealed down from the rafters.
"Now I dance?"
The scout nodded, drawing an ivory-toothed grin from the giant. Against the dark background of the roof, the smile looked like a crescent moon that had slipped and fallen on its back.
The musicians, a brother and sister whose parents had perished in a blizzard, raised their instruments and once again the melodies of the fire giant's fervent song rolled through the chamber. Kwasid stomped in a circle. Each time a foot struck the ground, sparks of orange shot from beneath his ironclad boots, and platters and mugs jumped off the surface of the banquet table. The entire hall resonated to the giant's performance, the rough-hewn posts and timber rafters all shuddering in time to the beat.
Kwasid's eyes glazed over. Wisps of fire flickered upon his ebony fingertips, then he spread his arms and began to spin. Ribbons of golden flame arced through the hall's murky heights, licking at the gray rafters and roof planking. The giant's mouth opened, and he sang with the voice of fire, filling the hall with a crackling chant more eerie than it was beautiful.
The performance unnerved Tavis's guests as well as mesmerized them, but the flames did not worry the scout. He had seen enough fire giant dancers to know that their control was absolute. As terrifying as the performance appeared, Kwasid would not allow the ancient timbers of the Weary Giant to burn.
