Murder in Halruaa by Richard Meyers Read Free Book Online Page A

like bottles, tankards, and casks of liquor when he was distracted by a booming voice. “You don’t have to tell me who this is!” Azzoparde Schreders, the proprietor of the establishment, had made himself known.
    Who else could he be? Pryce wondered with amusement as a full-bearded, ruddy-faced man in a white shirt, black pants, and brown apron stood before him, arms spread wide. His head was as round as the moon, and his thick black hair came down from an equally round bald spot. His arms, torso, and legs were round, thick, and sturdy, and his expression, like his restaurant and bar, was open and inviting.
    “It took you long enough to get here, eh? Eh?” he jibed in a voice that sounded like a sack of gravel dragged behind a cart. ‘You expected us to wait for you forever? Fall Festival time is almost upon us!”
    Pryce smiled pleasantly. “I had far to come.”
    “I’ll say,” his host said conspiratorially, moving his elbow like a bird’s flapping wing. “I should say you did! Eh? Eh?”
    Rather than deal with this increasingly confusing conversation, Pryce continued to admire the rough-hewn beauty of the extensive place. An inviting series of alcoves featured both transparent and darkly colored window panes. To his added pleasure, magical illumination made everything clearly visible to the eye without unnecessary brightness.
    “Welcome to the most exclusive epicurean drinkery in an already very exclusive city,” Schreders boasted. “Just smooth enough for the gastronome—” he elbowed Lymwich and gave a knowing wink—”and just rough enough for the earth-salters!”
    “Nice place you have here,” Pryce told him, then leaned toward the inquisitrix. “Cliches for every occasion.” Lymwich barked out a polite bray.
    “Perhaps you are as great as they say!” Schreders marveled. “Getting the great inquisi-witch to laugh is no mean feat! Eh? Eh?” Berridge hit Azzo on the arm as he rocked back and forth, clutching his solid belly.
    Lymwich could only sigh with resignation. “Anyone who’s anyone will eventually show up here,” she reluctantly admitted. “The comfort and privacy are topnotch.”
    “So’s the security.” Azzo winked at the inquisitrix again before rising to his full height to study Covington’s face. “What’ll you imbibe, my good sir? If we don’t have it, you can’t drink it.”
    ‘Truer words have I rarely heard,” Pryce said appreciatively, rising to the challenge. “I know a town by its brew. It rarely fails. As goes the local liquid, so goes the locality. Rough, coarse ale? A fight is no doubt brewing. Smooth, full-bodied grog? There’s love in the air.”
    Schreders started to slap Pryce on the back, then thought better of it. Instead, he stepped back and pounded the bar. That sound, like almost all his other noises of bravado, was quickly swallowed up by the various nooks and crannies in the large, sprawling room. “And truer words have rarely heard, sir,” Azzo replied. The bar was in the very back of the establishment. It wasp>
    constructed in a horseshoe shape, so those seated there could either maintain their privacy by keeping their backs to the windows and the restaurant, or face toward the front door.
    Azzo slipped between the back wall at the left end of the bar and took his position behind a row of taps. “I like you, sir,” he told Pryce. “I truly do. The first round, at the very least, is on me!”
    Pryce Covington had seldom heard words any sweeter. And if the first brew he soon quaffed was any indication, Lallor was full of promise. It remained so for the second round, personally served by Azzo at a recessed table, where Pryce parried Berridge Lymwich’s questions with the always reliable “Please-Iet’s-not-talk-about-me-I’d-rather-hear-more-about-you” gambit.
    He learned that the inquisitrix was pretty much what she appeared to be: fiercely loyal, dedicated, and ambitious, but with a streak of insecurity. Her slight inferiority complex