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There was a kender at the Hart's Leap. The race's
heretical status didn't bother kender enough to keep them
out of Istar, though no few of that free-worshiping kindred
had met the heretic's fate there. Ah, but you know kender:
those light-fingered thieves don't worry about much. This
one was young, a likable-looking fellow, the way kender
can be when they're not torturing you with their eternal
chatter and endless nonsense. Red-haired and slim, with a
thief's long, nimble fingers, he wore kender motley - yellow
leggings, blue shirt, green cloak and purple-dyed buckskin
boots. He had six or seven pouches and wallets about him,
all stuffed full with pack-rat junk.
Except for me and the kender and the barman, the
tavern was empty. Careful people were still at devotions or
keeping discreetly out of sight. There were plenty of tables
to choose from, but the kender was sitting at the table by
the Hart's only window, the one with the knife-scarred top,
where Toukere and I used to sit reckoning a bounty's split
and drinking ale. Chance, the barman, always kept that
table clear for me, no matter how crowded or empty the
place was. Now he only shrugged when I scowled to see
the table occupied
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