The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II by Don Bassingthwaite Read Free Book Online

account book. Dandra guessed that it was holding the dagger she had heard drawn. She made a show of moving her hand away from her spear and he relaxed. Slightly.
    Chain sat back, his chair creaking under his weight, and lookedthem over with such intensity that Dandra felt as though he was committing their appearances to memory.
    As soon as Natrac had finished introducing himself and them, Chain asked, “So what do you want?”
    Singe was just visible out of the corner of Dandra’s eye. She saw his face tighten. “Blunt, aren’t you?”
    “People don’t hire me for my charm. You want charm, hire an elf.” The big man reached out and picked up a mug of
gaeth’ad
. “You want the best, hire me.”
    Chain’s manners grated across Dandra’s nerves worse than Tetkashtai’s bitterness. “We didn’t say we wanted to hire you,” she said.
    “Then you’re wasting my time.” Chain turned his head and nodded to the goblin. The little creature look back to the account book and began babbling in his harsh language as he ran thin fingers down a column of close-written text.
    Natrac winced at the dismissal and shot Dandra a glare. She felt her stomach flinch—and Tetkashtai’s silent derision—at her misstep.
    Natrac leaned forward.
“Poli
, Chain—my friend tends to talk before she thinks. We do want to hire you. We’re told you know the western barrens of Droaam better than anyone.”
    “I know all of Droaam,” Chain said. The goblin paused as soon as his boss spoke, one finger still pressed against the account book.
    “I’m sure of it,” Natrac agreed quickly. “But the west is really all that—”
    “Just get to the point. Who do you want found?”
    Natrac coughed. “Not who. What. We’re looking for a place.”
    Chain’s eyes narrowed and he looked them over again as he drank from his mug. The goblin pursed his lips and spoke a few words. Chain nodded, his face darkening. He sat forward and slammed the mug down on the desk. “You’re treasure hunters.”
    “What?” asked Dandra. “What makes you think we’re treasure hunters?”
    “By the look of you, you’ve seen a lot of traveling very recently, but if you’re looking for some place in Droaam, you’re not finished yet. And you’re an unlikely mix—a well-dressed half-orc who’sbeen through rough times, a kalashtar, and an Aundairian who, unless I’m wrong, has served with the Blademarks.”
    Dandra saw Singe stiffen.
    Chain snorted. “Don’t look surprised. You sweat Deneith discipline.” The bounty hunter leaned back and crossed his arms. “Treasure hunting and war are the only things that bring together a mix like that and as far as I know, the war is still over.”
    “Fine,” said Singe. “Call us treasure hunters. Does it make a difference?”
    “Rates go up. I help you, I get a cut of whatever you find.” Singe raised his head and gave Chain a hard look. “That’s mercenary.”
    “You’ve worked for Deneith. You should know all about that.” Chain rubbed a rough hand across his chin. “What’s on the schedule, Preesh?”
    The goblin flipped ahead in the account book, checked a column, and said in words Dandra understood, “You’re clear.”
    Chain leaned across the desk. “Tell me more.”
    Natrac glanced at Singe and Dandra, then looked back to Chain. “Have you ever heard of a place called the Spires of the Forge?”
    Chain rapped his fingers against the tabletop. “Ten silver,” he said.
    “What?”
    “Ten silver,” Chain repeated. “Sovereigns, trade bits, matching weights—I don’t care. You’ve just asked me a question. You want an answer, it’s ten silver.”
    “You said to tell you more,” Dandra protested.
    “Tell, not ask.”
    “Ten sovereigns is a steep price for a simple answer,” said Singe. “Either you’ve heard of the place or you haven’t.”
    Chain picked up his mug and took another drink. “You’re taking up my time,” he said. “A man needs to eat and Preesh doesn’t