Free Murder in Halruaa by Richard Meyers

little fellow. “But you’re not—”
    “No, I am not the Darlington Blade you know,” Pryce said gravely. “I have changed. I’m different.”
    “You haven’t-um, I mean, you have—” The halfling continued to grope for words. “I mean, you are—you aren’t—”
    “Aren’t the same as when you saw me last?” Pryce shook his head sadly but kept talking quickly. “No, I’m not. I have experienced much … learned much.” He threw his arms wide again. “I’m a completely new Darlington Blade!”
    The halfling was reduced to pointing, his head turning from Pryce to Azzo. “But, you’re not—he’s not—”
    “Not willing to talk privately with you, old friend?” Pryce interjected. “No, I will never change that much. How could you even think that? In fact, let us go talk, person to person, this very moment!”
    Pryce moved between the proprietor and his wine expert, put his hands under the halfling’s arms, and half-dragged, half-carried him until he came to a small open trapdoor on the far side of the bar.
    Just as the halfling started to recover from the surprise, Covington dangled the winemaster’s hairy, shoeless feet over the opening and dropped him. Then he grabbed the lip of the trapdoor and jumped, ignoring the ladder that ran between the door opening and the dirt floor of the grotto. As he fell, he closed the thick wooden door after him.
    Twelve feet below, Pryce found himself directly in front of the stunned halfling. The little fellow sat on a small barrel placed beneath the trap door. “Please, please, please!” Pryce begged
    quickly and quietly, his hands together in supplication. “Don’t expose me. It’s all a misunderstanding—an innocent accident. I won’t hurt you. Just don’t say anything… not yet!”
    “The trapdoor opened a crack, and the proprietor’s face appeared. “Gheevy? Is everything all right?” Schreders asked tentatively.
    Pryce’s head whipped toward the sound of the bartender’s voice, then whipped back toward the halfling, fervently praying. The halfling looked at Pryce’s desperate face for a moment, then replied, “Everything is fine, Azzo. We’re just talking over … old times. You’ve heard how entertaining a storyteller Blade can be.”
    Pryce moved his lips, thanking the halfling silently and effusively.
    “Oh, heh, heh, of course,” chuckled the barkeep. “Just checking. Take all the time you need, fellows!” Schreders closed the trapdoor just as Pryce dropped to his knees and kissed one of the halfling’s hairy feet.
    “Don’t do that!” the halfling cried, pulling his leg back.
    “Sorry,” said Pryce, scooting backward on his knees to lean against another barrel. “It’s just all been so … so stressful.” Quickly he took in his surroundings.
    One wall of the grotto was lined with aging casks. Some were installed right in the wall, others were stacked upright, while still others lay on their sides. Directly across from Pryce was a long line of wrought-iron wine racks, the bottles held at an angle. On a wide shelf stood a maze of multicolored glassware, each stoppered glass holding a different rare, esoteric liquid within it.
    The ceiling of the grotto was made of both natural stone and wood. It was fairly high—almost eighteen feet in places. It stretched off in different directions into the gloom. The central area where they were now, however, was a mere twelve feet or so beneath the trapdoor and was dramatically lit by, Pryce guessed, a continual light spell of some kind.
    “What’s all this about?” the halfling asked, his eyebrows wrinkling with concern. “Who are you, anyway? You’re certainly not Darlington Blade.”
    ‘You have a firm grasp of the obvious,” Pryce said dryly. When the halfling looked affronted, Covington quickly continued. “Sorry. Just blowing off some pent-up tension. My real name isn’t as relevant, however, as the question how do you know?”
    “What do you mean?” asked the halfling, taken