Page 52 of Tusks & Saddles
By the time Gimdor had finished his sixth ale and needed to be pulled off the sticky ground, Welborn had started to panic. It wasn’t that he necessarily needed Miss Eaves to be the one to help him. More that it was terribly convenient for her to give him even the smallest insight as to what was ahead. She clearly knew Irongarde better than anyone he or Amaldona knew. If there was anyone Welborn would put his trust in, it would be her.
“Y’all sure ya don’t wanna roll one more time?” Gimdor slurred from the ground.
“Gimdor, go home. I’ve cleared you of ten gold pieces and you’ve forgotten how math works,” Beatrix scolded.
“I don’t wanna—”
“Gimdor Hammerhead, what in tarnation is going on here?”
A dwarven woman with bright red hair and a neatly combed beard was standing above Gimdor’s head. She looked like she was maybe a few inches taller than him, dressed in heavy boots, thick trousers with suspenders that came up over her dusty blouse. A simple dark blue kercheif hung around her neck. Her hazel eyes looked down disapprovingly at Gimdor.
“I wa…” Gimdor smacked his lips. “Wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”
“Uh-huh,” the woman said. “How much has he had, Bee?”
“Enough. He’s been—”
“—A right jackass, I’d imagine,” the woman sighed. “Sorry about this.”
“It’s fine, Orna. Just take it easy on the walk home.”
“Always do,” Orna replied before squatting to gather Gimdor by the torso. “C’mon, ya old brick, let’s get some water in ya and lay you to bed.”
Gimdor grumbled, but Orna managed to get him to standing. Welborn didn’t want to assume, but he highly suspected that she and Gimdor were married. There was something in the way Orna’s rough hands lingered on Gimdor’s back. Or perhaps theway her sly fingers found his coin purse near his behind, causing Gimdor to flush a deep red as he let out a squeal of protest.
“This is for any trouble he gave you,” Orna said, dropping three gold onto the table. “Y’all have a good night.”
“You too, Orna,” Beatrix said. “Tell the guild I said hello.”
“Always.”
Welborn stared after the pair.
“Don’t worry about them. Orna’s been taking care of Gimdor for almost twenty years now,” Beatrix said, collecting one of the gold coins as she sank into her chair.
“They’ve been married that long?” Welborn asked.
Beatrix offered the other gold to him. He didn’t want to take it, but given he would likely need to find a stable and buy a horse, Welborn could use every piece of gold he could get his hands on. He wasn’t very good at haggling prices.
“Less,” Beatrix replied. “They were married over ten years ago. Divorced now, but friends for life.”
The concept wasn’t unusual so much as unexpected. Welborn’s first example of a marriage had been his parents. From a child’s point of view, Welborn thought his parents had been happy. And based on how Larok spoke about Welborn’s mother, it supported his opinion. However, that didn’t make the sight of his father looking out at the beach between not one but two empty chairs any less heartbreaking.
A widower not once but twice.
Welborn wasn’t certain if it was because his father’s heart had been too broken or if he had decided the gods didn’t want him to have a life partner. Whatever the reason, Larok had never taken up any woman’s offer to dance or look at flowers. And the only time he had accepted gifts from admirers was to feed his sons.
“That’s very mature,” Welborn said, staring at the last dregs of the same ale he had ordered hours ago.
“I know it’s hard to think of Gimdor that way. He’s an ass, but being a mercenary is knowing you’ll likely die young. Living hard and fast is normal. Nobody retires from being a mercenary.”
Miss Eaves’ words lingered in the air, along with the slow dulcimer strings being plucked by a bard. Stale food, old beer, and the last hours of sunlight hit Welborn suddenly. If he meant to find the High Cleric, Welborn would need rest.
Reluctantly, Welborn stood from his seat. He could feel Miss Eaves eyes on him, despite her ever present veil. How she had managed to eat dinner with it firmly in place was a mystery to Welborn. He tended to get lost in his own robes, arms lost in the heavy sleeves in the early mornings.
“Well, Miss Eaves, it’s getting late. I think I’m going to bed,” Welborn said. “I have an early day ahead of me tomorrow.”
“I suppose you do. Good night, Welborn.”
