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bard; I sing.”
    “You’re the hero of Quaervarr,” Stonar replied in an incredulous tone. “Dharan ‘Quickwid’—er—’Quickfinger’ Greyt, hero of the blade and yarting. All the young men want to be you, all the young women want to chase off Lyetha….”
    Greyt smiled at the mention of Lyetha. The most beautiful woman in the town, she had been his wife for fifteen winters, much longer than any woman before her. No children, but he hadn’t needed more. The last of the children he’d had from previous women, Meris, was the only one he needed—it was only too convenient the others had died early in life.
    His smile faded remembering that Stonar had almost used his less-than-complimentary nickname “Quickwidower,” playing on his foul luck with women before his marriage to Lyetha.
    “You worry too much, Lord Speaker,” Greyt said, flipping idly through the papers. The papers reiterated what Stonar had just told him but in a much longer, very wordy format. That was what happened when one turned a blacksmith into a lord-redundancy. Or gruffness. It was certainly not the elegance upon which Greyt prided himself. “Look on the lighter side. At least Jarthon haven’t resurfaced, after those adventurers dealt with the Black Blood. There hasn’t been a murder in six months, and none of the guards have reported sighting any of the Malarites. Maybe Jarthon finally got what he deserved.”
    “Maybe he ran afoul of the Ghostly Lady,” agreed Stonar.
    Greyt’s face turned stony and annoyance flashed across his face before he gave Stonar a bemused smile. “Please, Ston—Lord Speaker. The Ghostly Lady? ‘Tis a fairytale, nothing more.” He sipped his wine. “I have been all over the Moonwood, and I’ve never encountered this ‘golden spirit.’ You sound as naive as the rest of the simpletons who live here.”
    Stonar looked flustered, but he laughed nevertheless. “They may be naive, but as long as you are their hero, they are in good hands, Greyt,” he said. He rose and gathered up his cape. “I’m leaving you in charge of Quaervarr during my absence. See that you protect the people while I am away in Silverymoon. I shall be back before Greengrass, seven days hence, I expect.”
    Whatever difference your absence makes, Greyt mused silently. Instead, he offered a winning smile. “Of course, my lord,” he sighed. “Consider them safe.”
    When Stonar opened the door to leave, Greyt stopped him with a soft call. “Stonar?”
    “Aye?”
    “What do Clearwater and Unddreth have to say about this?” he asked.
    “Why, nothing,” Stonar said. “I was elected to represent these people, I make the decisions. I trust Unddreth to do his job; he always does. As for Amra Clearwater… well, the Silvanites have a festival to prepare for. If you even see her, I’d be surprised.” With that, Speaker Geth Stonar passed out the inlaid doors of Greyt’s lavish sitting room.
    Greyt nodded, smiling. The appointment of the task was unexpected, but the trust Stonar exhibited amused him. Particularly since Greyt could easily use the position to undermine the Speaker’s authority. Perhaps now was the time to set long overdue plans in motion.
    He looked out the window and saw that the rain was clearing outside. It was turning out not to be such a bad morning after all. There would be no hunting, but at least it wouldn’t look so dismal outside. The fading drizzle on the rooftop was pleasant.
    He began singing to himself, a tale of Thadax Gray wolf, a mighty warlord of the north and an ancestor of his, as he considered what he would ask the servant to bring him for a noon meal.
     

     
    Quaervarr was a simple frontier town in the southern depths of the untamed Moonwood. A crude wall of felled trees encircled no more than fifty buildings. The cobbled main street—the greatest thoroughfare of the town—ran from the single gate straight to the plaza. The side streets were narrow and twisting, giving Quaervarr the feeling of