Free Sojourn: The Legend of Drizzt by R. A. Salvatore Page B

considerably.
    “Tsk, tsk,” the dwarf replied, immediately moving his hands back to the dirty spot on the woman’s cloak. He brushed frantically, but the ranger’s continual shifting kept him from accomplishing much. “Why, Mistress Falconhand I do believe that you would do well to consult a few books on proper behavior.”
    “I just rode in from Silverymoon,” Dove Falconhand replied indignantly, tossing a wink to Gabriel, the other fighter in the room, a tall and stern-faced man. “One tends to collect some dirt on the road.”
    “Nearly a tenday ago!” the dwarf protested. “You attended the banquet last night in this very cloak!” The dwarf then noticed that in his fuss over Dove’s cloak he had smudged his silken robes, and that catastrophe turned his attention from the ranger.
    “Dear Fret,” Dove went on, licking a finger and casuallyrubbing it over the spot on her cloak, “you are the most unusual of attendants.”
    The dwarf’s face went beet red, and he stamped a shiny slipper on the tiled floor. “Attendant?” he huffed. “I should say …” “Then do!” Dove laughed.
    “I am the most—one of the most—accomplished sages in the north! My thesis concerning the proper etiquette of racial banquets—”
    “Or lack of proper etiquette—” Gabriel couldn’t help but interrupt. The dwarf turned on him sourly—“at least where dwarves are concerned,” the tall fighter finished with an innocent shrug.
    The dwarf trembled visibly and his slippers played a respectable beat on the hard floor.
    “Oh, dear Fret,” Dove offered, dropping a comforting hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and running it along the length of his perfectly trimmed, yellow beard.
    “Fred!” the dwarf retorted sharply, pushing the ranger’s hand away. “Fredegar!”
    Dove and Gabriel looked at each other for one brief, knowing moment, then cried out the dwarf’s surname in an explosion of laughter. “Rockcrusher!”
    “Fredegar Quilldipper would be more to the point!” Gabriel added. One look at the fuming dwarf told the man that the time had passed for leaving, so he scooped up his pack and darted from the room, pausing only to slip one final wink Dove’s way.
    “I only desired to help.” The dwarf dropped his hands into impossibly deep pockets and his head drooped low.
    “So you have!” Dove cried to comfort him.
    “I mean, you do have an audience with Helm Dwarf-friend,” Fret went on, regaining some pride. “One should be proper when seeing the Master of Sundabar.”
    “Indeed one should,” Dove readily agreed. “Yet all I have to wear you see before you, dear Fret, stained and dirtied from theroad. I am afraid that I shall not cut a very fine figure in the eyes of Sundabar’s master. He and my sister have become such friends.” It was Dove’s turn to feign a vulnerable pout, and though her sword had turned many a giant into vulture food, the strong ranger could play this game better than most.
    “Whatever shall I do?” She cocked her head curiously as she glanced at the dwarf. “Perhaps,” she teased. “If only …”
    Fret’s face began to brighten at the hint.
    “No,” Dove said with a heavy sigh. “I could never impose so upon you.”
    Fret verily bounced with glee, clapping his thick hands together. “Indeed you could, Mistress Falconhand! Indeed you could!”
    Dove bit her lip to forestall any further demeaning laughter as the excited dwarf skipped out of the room. While she often teased Fret, Dove would readily admit that she loved the little dwarf. Fret had spent many years in Silverymoon, where Dove’s sister ruled, and had made many contributions to the famed library there. Fret really was a noted sage, known for his extensive research into the customs of various races, both good and evil, and he was an expert on issues demihuman. He also was a fine composer. How many times, Dove wondered with sincere humility, had she ridden along a mountain trail, whistling a cheery melody