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. It flapped strongly toward the
source.
But when the feeder reached the source, it wasn't the
dwarf or the kender after all.
Parris the trader shouldered his duffel wearily, brooding
over a bad night. First he had been abused and robbed by
goblin guards. When he finally came to the inn, it was in
chaos - something about a dwarf, a mixed-race company,
and magic had the place upset. Then he was told to leave;
the goblin guards had closed the inn to strangers. Solace
had never been good luck for him; years ago he'd made a
very bad bargain with a sharp-eyed dwarf here.
He rambled toward the lake, looking for a sheltered spot
to spend the night. Suddenly, silhouetted against the water,
he saw a strange group: slender man or elf, barbarian,
knight, more humans, kender, dwarf. The dwarf was
closest, hanging back from the water.
He squinted at the figure, who was arguing about a
boat. The gruff voice was familiar; he squinted, trying to
think where he had heard it before. He could almost hear it
again, wheedling, grunting, bargaining over a dagger. . . .
"By all the gods the Theocrats sell," he breathed. "It's
himself. It's Flint. What's he doing here, and that crew he's
got with him?"
In a quick mental leap, he connected the grumpy dwarf
and his party to the incident that had closed the Inn of the
Last Home, and realized that the goblins were looking for
Flint
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