Free Guardians of the Lost by Margaret Weis

gave out that he was a healer, but local opinion held him to be a potion peddler. About the best that could be said for Brother Elias was that he’d not poisoned anyone. Yet.
    Wolfram wandered that direction. Moving around to the side of the Temple, he squatted in the building’s shadow—almost more substantial than the building itself—and settled down comfortably below a hole in the wall that passed for a window.
    Wolfram was now able to hear everything said inside the building. He hoped that the pecwae knew as much about potions as he knew about gemstones, otherwise he was liable to be plucked clean as a cooked goose.
    Brother Elias started off with his best merchandise, offering a love potion guaranteed to make the object of your affection fall swooning into your bed. At this, the pecwae chuckled and the Trevenici took offense. Seeing the way the wind blew, Brother Elias cleverly switched horses in midstream and offered up a salve that was certain to heal any wound received in battle, from an arrow through the throat to a spear taken in the belly, without leaving so much as a scar. This was more kindly received. The Trevenici was interested. At this juncture, the pecwae took charge.
    â€œLet me smell it,” said Bashae.
    A loud snuffling sound, then Bashae said to Jessan in Tirniv, “It’s nothing but bear grease.”
    There came the sound of shuffling feet, a scrape of metal, and Jessan’s voice, cold with anger, “You are no better than a thief. I should cut off your ears.”
    Brother Elias gave a whimper and, by the sounds of it, fell back against the wall that shook most alarmingly.
    â€œNo, don’t do that, Jessan,” Bashae told his friend. “He does have some potions I want and he’ll need his ears to hear what I say to him.” He then added, sternly, “I think you should wait outside.”
    At the sound of footfalls, Wolfram regained his feet and hastily left the Temple. A glance over his shoulder showed the Trevenici youth, grim and glowering, taking up a stance outside the Temple with as much earnest purpose as if he had been assigned to mount guard on the king’s treasury.
    Wolfram sauntered past, head down, apparently deeply absorbed in his own business. Coming to the crossroads, Wolfram glanced back, saw the Trevenici still standing in front of the Temple. Wolfram, moving fast, dove into the cover of a patch of weeds. Ducking down among long, tasseled grasses and sweet-smelling sage, he settled himself to wait for the two to pass by him on their way out of town.

A bout an hour later, the two young men approached the dwarf’s resting place; the pecwae chattering excitedly to his friend, describing the various items he’d purchased from the priest.
    â€œYou acted sensibly, Bashae,” Wolfram said. Rising up out of the grass, the dwarf brushed dust and seeds off his breeches. “Buying the raw ingredients, not the finished product. That man was no true healer.”
    The Trevenici youth glared darkly at the intrusive dwarf.
    â€œKeep walking, Bashae,” Jessan said to his friend.
    â€œHe wasn’t a healer?” Bashae asked, walking backward in order to speak to Wolfram. “Why would he lie about something like that?”
    â€œBecause people pay good money for healing,” Wolfram said, following along. “He mixes up a few potions, then spends his day squatting on that doorstoop underneath that lying sign. People come up and tell him what ails them. He hands over the potion, takes their argents and goes back to sitting on the doorstoop.”
    â€œBut what happens when they’re not healed?” Bashae questioned sensibly.
    â€œOh, sometimes they are, you know,” Wolfram replied. He hadcaught up to the two by now. “Sometimes they manage to get better on their own. Sometimes, by accident, one of his potions works. And, sometimes, his patients die. But then they can’t very well come