Through the door behind him came a woman’s voice: ‘Get away from there!’
The former mercenary guard sat back in his chair on the porch of his inn, settling his feet upon the hitching rail. In the background the usual evening serenade was commencing. While rich travelers stayed at the large hostels in the city or at palatial inns along the silvery beaches, the Inn of the Dented Helm, owned by Ghuda Bule, catered to a rougher clientele: wagon drivers, mercenaries, farmers bringing crops into the city, and rural soldiers.
‘Do I have to summon the city guards!’ cried the woman from inside the common room.
A large man, Ghuda had found enough hard work keeping up the inn that he hadn’t run to fat and he still kept his weapons finely honed; more times than he cared to recall, he had been forced to toss one or another customer through the door.
Evenings, just before dining, were his favorite time of the day. Sitting in his chair, he could see the sun set over the bay of Elarial, the brilliant glare of the day dimming to a gentler blush that colored the white buildings soft oranges and golds. It was one of the few pleasures he managed to reserve for himself in an otherwise demanding life. A loud crash sounded from within the building, and Ghuda resisted the urge to investigate. His woman would let him know when he was needed to intervene.
