Fortunately, we found no hell-creatures inside—just a dozen men, who seemed to be locals in for a quiet evening of cards and gossip, plus a couple of serving maids and a portly man behind the bar, whose eyes lit up with honest pleasure as he spotted my father.

“Dworkin, my old friend!” he cried, coming around to greet us. “It has been far too long!”

Laughing, the two clapped each other on the back like old drinking buddies.

“This is my son, Oberon,” Dworkin said with a nod to me. “Oberon, this is Ben Bayle. Not only is he a good friend, he is one of the best vintners I have ever found.”

“One of the best?” said Bayle.

“All right,” laughed Dworkin, “the best of them all!”

“That's more like it!”

“A tavern-keeper who makes his own wine?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“And who better?” said Bayle, but he grinned happily. “You must try last year's red,” he said to Dworkin. “It was a very dry year, and the wine has an extra piquancy. I think it's one of our best, on par with the red of '48.”

“That good!” said my father. “Set us up.” He glanced around the room; nobody paid us the slightest heed now, wrapped up in their own drinking and conversation and a couple of card games. “The corner table,” he said to me, indicating the one he wanted with a quick jerk of his head.

I headed over and sat with my back to one wall, my sword on the chair next to me. Dworkin sat with his back to the other wall. We could both see the door.

“You should like this place,” he said to me. “I spent a lot of time here when I was your age.”

“I didn't think the Shadows were that old. How old were you when you created them?”

“You are fishing for information,” he said.

“Better to get it from you,” I said. “Provided you tell me the truth.”

“There is truth in everything I say.”

“You didn't bring me here to drink, did you?” I said.

“You look like you need it.”

“It has been a difficult few days.”

“What has happened?”

I told him, leaving nothing out—not even Rhalla. He chuckled a bit when I got to the part about the stinger in her mouth and the welts on my chest.

“Lucky Aber found her out—you might well have ended up her slave, or worse,” he said with a chuckle. “They have powers over men. I hope she was worth it.”

“I heal fast,” I said. “And sometimes it's better not knowing everything about a woman.”

Then I told him how she had turned against Ulyanash and been murdered for her trouble. He sighed sympathetically.

“Lords of Chaos do not take betrayal lightly,” he said.

“I know. So why did you take the Jewel of Judgment, then? That seems like a pretty big betrayal.”

He looked like he was about to answer, but Ben Bayle arrived first with two cups and a dark green bottle, which he uncorked and then poured for us. Dad took the first sip and gave a happy exclamation.

“Excellent!”

Bayle beamed.

I took a sip, too, and had to agree. It was among the finest wines I had ever tasted, and I had dined at King Elnar's table at more that one occasion. Elnar had fancied himself an expert on wines, though I found his favorite selections ran a little too sweet for my tastes.

“Did I tell you it would be worth the trip?” Dworkin said.

“Not really,” I said. But I quickly added, “It is, though.”

Dworkin drank deeply, let Bayle refill him, then raised his cup in a toast. “To Ben Bayle—always the best!”

I joined in enthusiastically. There were cries of, “Here! Here!” from other patrons.

“Now,” said Dad, leaning forward and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I need two fast horses.”

Bayle chuckled. “You always do. I'll get them. Anything else?”

“Wine and provisions for three days.”

“Lots of wine,” I added. “This red, if it travels well.”

“Of course it does! My daughters will pack everything up for you. What else?”

Dworkin said, “That will do this time.” He reached under the table, drew out a pouch that I knew he hadn't been carrying a moment before, and slipped it across to Bayle. I heard the clink of coins inside and guessed it held gold. Our host nodded, gave Dworkin a wink, tucked the money away, and headed for the small doorway behind the counter.

“I don't understand,” I said. “Why bother with Bayle? If I understand the way Shadows work, you could get any horses you wanted just by traveling to a place that had them waiting for you.”

“True,” said Dworkin. “But I enjoy coming here, and I am a creature of habit. Also, Ben Bayle is a good man; I like him. I do not have many friends, but he is one.”

“And the wine…”

“That too.”

I had to agree, finishing mine and pouring more. If we ever returned to Juniper and rebuilt, assuming we could deal with the troll problem, we would have to persuade Bayle to join us.

It took nearly an hour for Bayle to get everything ready. I sat impatiently at the corner table, watching those around us, half expecting an army to come rushing through the door at any moment.

No army came, however, and I learned far more about hog breeding than I ever wanted to know from a lively discussion of that topic from the next table.

Dworkin laughed at me quietly.

“What's so funny?” I demanded.

“I will tell you later,” he said.

Bayle finally reappeared at the back door and gave a small jerk of his head for us to join him. He seemed positively conspiratorial. He seemed to enjoy aiding us on our mission—whatever it was—and milked it for all it was worth.

“Our host also runs the local livery stable,” Dworkin whispered sotto voce as we left.

“Quite the entrepreneur,” I said.

He chuckled. “Create nothing but the very best,” he said, “and you will never be disappointed.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“Do not worry about it. Accept him for what he is, no more or less.”

I puzzled over that. Out back, I discovered Bayle also ran several other businesses, all of which bore his name on the signs over their door: Bayle's Tannery, Bayle's Boots and Saddles, even Bayle's Fine Meats and Slaughterhouse. From the prosperous look of things, he seemed equally adept at all of them.

Now he stood before the stables, next to two boys who looked so much like him that they had to be his sons. They held the reins of two fine black geldings, long of leg with tall arched necks, braided manes, and long silky tails. Mine—I picked him on sight and came around front to let him smell my hands—had a splash of white on his forehead, Dworkin's a pair of white socks on the left. They had already been saddled, with packs and bedrolls tied behind. Several skins, which I assumed held wine, hung from the saddle.

I mounted, and Dworkin did the same.

“Thank you,” he called to Bayle.

The tavern-keeper grinned. “Good luck, and good speed! Come back soon, old friend!” Dworkin waved. We rode.