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"Remember, Sturm, you are the son of a knight. Do not
speak to these people unless they address you properly, with
the deference due us."
Soren found an inn off the waterfront. He went in to
dicker with the owner, leaving the women and boy in the
cart. Sturm climbed atop the baggage and watched the
passing crowds with total absorption.
One fellow in particular caught Sturm's eye: he was
short and slender, a green mantle draped over his shoulders.
His ears drew back in sharp points, and his eyes slanted
down at the corners. He walked with smooth, unconscious
grace.
"There's elf blood in him," Mistress Carin said
knowingly.
Across the street, a hulking figure loafed in an open
doorway. A shaggy mane of hair did little to conceal his
ugliness, and his lips could not hide the jagged teeth
protruding from his outthrust jaw.
"Half-orc," said Carin.
Soren returned. "My lady," he said. "The innkeeper has
a small private room for you and Master Sturm. Mistress
Carin may have a place by the kitchen hearth, and I a bench
in the beerhall. All this for four silver pieces."
"Four! That's outrageous!"
"I chaffered him down from seven."
"Very well," she said. "If it is the best we can do
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