Free Dragonsight by Paul Collins

winter shirt woven of linen and horsehair, climbed into the driver’s seat and stowed his purchases in the back. He flicked the reins and the horses lumbered into a slow clip-clopping walk down the street. It was only then that Daretor realised Jelindel was not with him. He felt around in the hay and whispered her name frantically, but there was no trace of her.
    Daretor silently cursed Fa’red for his treachery. The fault was theirs, not Fa’red’s. If one chose to trust a scorpion, whose fault was it when the inevitable sting came? He knew enough about magic to know that Fa’red could not have simultaneously sent them to two very different places; magic did not work like that, though it must be said that most of its workings were a mystery. He did not really trust magic, nor did he consider it honourable. Only a sword was honourable, although a good, honest punch in the face did have elements of honour. Magic was slippery. A little too much like life itself, Daretor thought, mocking himself ruefully.
    Brushing aside idle thoughts, Daretor hoped that Jelindel was close by. Her situation might be better or worse than his; he did not know. Resolving to make no bold moves until he knew the lie of the land, he peered through the hole, learning what he could. He yearned for the quiet life that he and Jelindel had discussed not so long ago. Maybe I should learn magic, he concluded. That way I could send other people on adventures.
    The wagon turned into a narrow, muddy lane. Daretor squirmed towards the rear of the tray and made another opening for himself. He peered out. There were few people about and those that passed looked downcast. He was about to jump off the wagon when it rumbled to a stop in front of a small inn. The driver climbed down and went inside.
    Daretor waited till he was sure nobody was about. Jumping from the tray, he brushed himself down. He wondered whether to head back to the busy street, or enter the inn. Inns are wonderful places to acquire news, but strangers are always viewed with curiosity or suspicion. Still, he needed information more than anything else. He had several gold oriels on him, and some silver argents. Precious metals are good currency in any paraworld, so he would not starve. He entered the inn.
    The interior was gloomy. Although it wasn’t a cold day, a fire was burning and by the looks of the smoke-filled room, the flue was choked.
    A bar ran along one wall, and a scattering of chairs and tables stood in front of it. Odd looking devices protruded from the walls: small black spheres that gleamed as if polished and composed of many small-faceted hexagons. Daretor tried not to stare at them. He pulled up a chair at a table away from the bar. Half a dozen idle drinkers had looked up when he entered, but most had gone back to their drinks and conversations.
    A serving maid approached, but she did not smile or greet him. As he looked up, Daretor noticed a chalkboard on the wall. The writing was in a language he understood. It was Delbrian. He relaxed a little.
    ‘What be your liking?’ The girl’s accent was thick and guttural.
    Fortunately, Daretor could make sense of it. ‘I’ll have the house ale, if you please,’ he said. She looked at him oddly. His own accent was as hard for her to follow as hers was to him.
    ‘You be a foreigner, then?’ she asked.
    He nodded. ‘From Skelt.’ He grimaced inside. He had promised himself he would not volunteer information. He was here to learn.
    ‘I’ve heard of the place. A far-off land, isn’t it?’
    ‘It is,’ he said. The maid was obviously less travelled than most. He wondered how he might ask where exactly in Delbrias he was, but that was probably a bad idea. Perhaps there were other ways. The woman was not unattractive and she had eyed him twice now. ‘You are a local lass?’ he asked. ‘I have no ear for accents.’
    ‘Aye, I’m local.’ She fetched his drink and returned. As she leaned down to place it on the table her