Dezra's Quest

5

Caramon followed his daughter across the Ranging walkway to the Inn of the Last Home. He stared at her back, trying to control his stewing anger. He'd spent the afternoon dealing with the wreckage Dezra had left behind. He'd paid the merchants she'd robbed for their troubles, made amends with the one whose tent she'd collapsed, then gone to the jail to get Dezra out.

Retark, the town sheriff, had led him to her cell. She'd been leaning against the door, flirting with one of the guards. Seeing Caramon, she'd rolled her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she'd asked.

Caramon let out an explosive snort and stopped walking. Dezra sauntered on a moment, then glanced back, smiling crookedly.

"Coming?" she asked. "I must have a good talking to lined up for me. Let's get it over with."

Caramon stared at her, simmering, then shook his head. "Where did I go wrong?" he muttered at the vallenwoods' boughs as he followed his daughter.

"Nine of Leaves," said Borlos, tossing a green card on the table. "Take that, you dogs."

Smiling lazily, he reached for his lute and plucked its strings. The song he played was either The Lady of Thelgaard or My Love Came Sailing Home. Both songs had the same tune, but different words.

"Spit," groaned Osier, running a hand through his red hair. He threw down the Six of Leaves. "You always know when I've got a weak suit."

Clemen sorted his cards, frowning. Rotund and almost totally bald-a contrast to tall, slim Osier and short, wiry Borlos-he resembled a monk at prayer. Finally, he pulled out a silver card-the Two of Fates, marked with the symbols of the gods Shinare and Hiddukel-and laid it atop the other two.

"Sorry," he smirked. "I'll just have to trump you."

Borlos's fingers froze upon his lute. "Son of a-" he blurted, then laughed. He ran his plectrum across his strings. "Fair enough. Just you wait, though. I'll get you back."

Beaming, Clemen studied his cards again, then threw down his lead: the Mage of Winds. "Try me," he said.

Borlos was glowering at the card when the door bashed open. The players looked up and saw the hulking figure of Caramon. Dezra was with him, her arm gripped in her father's massive hand.

Caramon gaped at the card-players, bewildered. "How'd you three get in here? This place is supposed to be closed!"

"Laura let us in," Clemen explained cheerily. "We figured we'd play a quick game before we went to the feast."

"She's already gone, if you're looking for her," Borlos added. "We promised to watch the Inn till you got back from the jail."

Caramon nodded, then stopped, eyes narrowing. "How'd you know I was at the jail?"

Borlos shrugged, grinning. "Where else would you go after they hauled Dez away in irons?" He raised his full mug. Behind the bar, a keg's spigot was dripping. "Good show, Dez. The whole town's probably heard about your little adventure by now."

Snorting, Caramon dragged Dezra inside. She shook off his grasp, then stormed over to the bar. Caramon watched her, then glared at Borlos, Clemen and Osier.

Chairs scraped against the floor. "Sounds like the feast's about to start," Borlos noted as the card-players rose.

They left, Borlos plucking his lute. When they were gone, Dezra frowned. "Where's Mother?"

"At Elise's" Caramon replied, naming one of Tika's friends. He stomped to the door and bolted it. "She'll be gone till morning."

"Oh," Dezra said. "So you're in charge of discipline tonight, then."

Caramon stiffened, his hand on the door's handle.

Dezra picked up an empty tankard and poured herself a beer. "Usually you start with 'if your brothers were around to see you,' or 'when I was your age'. "She blew the head off her ale, spattering it on the floor, then took a long quaff. She nodded, wiping her lips. "Pretty good. Not the best I've ever had, but-"

"Damn it, Dezra!" Caramon thundered.

She took another drink, then set the mug down. "Mother would understand. Or have you forgotten she was a thief too, when she was young?"

"That was different. Your mother was an urchin. She stole so she could eat, until Otik took her in. She isn't proud of her childhood, Dezra."

She shrugged.

"Stop treating this like some big joke!" Caramon roared, hammering his fist against the wall. The windows rattled. "You made an ass of yourself today, in front of most of Solace! Don't you care?"

"No," she shot back. She spread her hands. "I don't give a damn what a bunch of idiot fanners and woodcutters think."

Caramon sputtered, looking around as if seeking someone to share his incredulity. "What in Paladine's name is the matter with you, girl?" he demanded. "Why can't you be more respectful, like-"

"Like Laura?" Dezra interrupted, laughing scornfully. "She's just like the rest of them. All she wants from life is to stay here, pour ale, and cook your damned spiced potatoes."

"There's nothing wrong with that. It's honest work."

"It's boring. You and all those dead friends you're always carrying on about? You didn't stay holed up in this wretched little village."

Caramon's gaze turned icy. "All right, then," he said. "You don't want to live here? I'll help." He unlocked the door and yanked it open. The sky outside was darkening. Pale moonlight spilled into the tavern. "Go," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me." He folded his massive arms across his chest. "You want to leave? Here's your chance."

Dezra stared in amazement, then shrugged, turning toward the stairs. "Fine. I'll get my things, and-"

"No. No things. If you need anything, go ahead and steal it."

She stiffened, her lip curling. Her eyes glistened in the red hearth-glow. Then she reached for the keg behind her and opened the spigot. As ale gurgled onto the floor, she strode across the taproom. "To the Abyss with you, then," she told him, and walked out of the Inn.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Caramon stood quietly, quivering with rage. He listened as Dezra's footsteps moved across the balcony, then down the stairs. Soon they were lost amid the din from the fairgrounds, where the feast had begun.

When he could no longer hear her, Caramon shook his head. He jogged to the bar and closed the open spigot. The floor was awash with foamy ale, but he didn't pay it any mind; instead he leaned on the bar, beside the tankard Dezra had left behind, and stared into the shadows. His youngest daughter was gone. He'd thrown her out.

Tika was going to kill him.