The Desert Spear

to reassure them.
    But the Painted Man had yet to meet a guard in any city or town who didn’t turn welcoming at the sight of a gold coin, and he had many in his saddlebags. Soon after, they were inside the walls, stabling their mounts outside a bustling inn. It was early evening, and the Bridgefolk were returning home from a day’s toil.
    “Don’t like it here,” Renna said, looking around as people passed them in the hundreds. “Half the folk’re starvin’, and the other half look as if they expect us to rob them.”
    “Ent nothin’ for it,” the Painted Man said. “I need news, and that can’t be had out in the wilds. Get used to towns for a while.” Renna didn’t look pleased with the answer, but she kept her mouth closed and nodded.
    The taproom of the inn was crowded at this time of day, but much of the activity was centered at the bar, and the Painted Man spotted a small empty table in the back. He and Renna sat, and a barmaid came to them after a few moments. She was young and pretty, though her eyes had a sad, tired look to them. Her dress was clean for the most part, but it was worn, and he knew at once from the tone of her skin and the shape of her face that she was Rizonan, probably one of the first of the refugees, lucky enough to find work.
    There was a raucous table of men seated next to them. “Ay, Milly, another round here!” one of them cried, and slapped the barmaid’s rump with an audible crack. She jumped and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before putting on a false smile and half turning to the men. “Sure as day, boys,” she said cheerfully.
    Her smile vanished when she turned back to them. “What’ll ya have?”
    “Two ales and dinner,” the Painted Man said. “And a room, if there’s one to spare.”
    “There is,” the girl said, “but with all the folk passing through town, price is dear.”
    The Painted Man nodded, laying a gold coin on the table. The maid’s eyes bulged; she had probably never seen real gold in her life. “That should cover our meal and a night’s drinking. You can keep the change. Now, who should I speak to about that room?”
    The girl snatched up the coin instantly, before any of the surrounding patrons could see it. “Talk to Mich, he owns the place,” she said, pointing to a large man with rolled sleeves and a white apron, sweating behind the bar as he tried to keep all the mugs being thrust at him full of ale. As he turned to look, the Painted Man saw her thrust the coin into the front of her dress.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    The girl nodded. “Have your ales right away, Tender.” She bowed and scurried off.
    “Stay here and keep to yourself while I get us a room,” the Painted Man told Renna. “Won’t be long.” She nodded, and he moved off.
    There was a tight press at the bar, men looking for a last few ales before retiring behind their wards for the night. He had to wait at the end for the innkeep’s attention, but when the man glanced his way, the Painted Man flashed another of his gold coins, and he came swiftly.
    Mich had the look of a once burly man gone fat. Formidable enough to toss an unruly patron, perhaps, but success and middle age seemed to have sapped the strength of his youth.
    “A room,” the Painted Man said, handing him the coin. He pulled another from his purse and held it up. “And news of the South, if you have it. Been out Tibbet’s Brook way.”
    Mich nodded, but his eyes squinted. “Ent nothin’ passing for news out there,” he agreed, leaning in a bit to try to see under the Painted Man’s hood.
    The Painted Man took a step back, and the innkeep immediately backed away, glancing nervously at the coin, afraid it might disappear.
    “South’s all anyone talks about these days, Tender,” Mich said. “Ever since the desert rats stole the Hollow’s Herb Gatherer as a bride for their leader, the demon of the desert.”
    “Jardir,” the Painted Man growled, clenching his fist. He should have snuck into the Krasian camp and killed him the moment they came out of the desert. He had once thought Jardir a man of honor, but he saw now it was all a façade to mask his lust for power.
    “Word is,” Mich went on, “he came there lookin’ to kill the Painted Man, but the Deliverer’s up and disappeared.”
    Rage welled up in the Painted Man, burning like bile. If Jardir harmed Leesha in any way, if he so much as touched her, he would kill him and scatter his armies back to the