Good morning.” The dark-haired young man in brown nods to the two older and full-bearded men who enter the chandlery.
“Good morning, Farsenn. Rastr said we ought to stop by. . . . Something about wanting . . . You know, I don’t remember.” The taller and ginger-bearded man who has led the way into the building bobs his head.
“I think I know,” Farsenn says quietly. “It’s in the back room. Let me check.” He smiles politely, and steps through the doorway out of the dimly lit main room.
The ginger-bearded man picks up one of the leather saddlebags on the table. “Better stuff than old Forse. He was more interested in what woman he could get out back. Farsenn looks after the stock more than his father did.”
“He liked the women, Forse did, all kinds,” answers the other brown-haired farmer. “Till that sorceress turned him into a bonfire.”
“Bitch . . . Don’t like uppity women like that. Next thing you know, Mostan, she and that Lady Gatrune be telling us how to wear our trousers.” A raucous laugh follows.
The sound of a low drum rumbles from the back room, getting louder as Farsenn returns, leaving the door open. “Deurn, Mostan . . . I’d like to show you what Rastr was talking about.”
As the three enter the small windowless room and Farsenn closes the door, the young drummer in the corner beats his drum slowly . . . thurummm . . . thurumm . . . thurummm thurumm . . .
On the pedestal is a life-sized statue of a slender blonde woman, breathtakingly beautiful and so lifelike that the spun golden hair seems to move in the faint movement of air caused by the door’s closing, and the open blue eyes seem to follow the men. The statue—or the woman—totally naked, does not move.
“Real pretty, Farsenn.”
“. . . like it better were she real. . . . Ha!”
“That’s the way sorceresses should be.” Farsenn’s voice remains warm and friendly. “Now . . . if you’d listen for a moment . . .”
“Sure. . . . Let me look. . . .”
Farsenn begins to sing, his bass voice weaving around the rhythm of the drum.
“Men of Pamr, heed no woman’s song,
for Farsenn will make you proud and strong
so put your trust and all your heart
behind the chandler and his part . . .”
When he finishes, Farsenn smiles slightly. “You see? We men need to stand together these days, don’t we?”
“Sure do. Whatever you say.”
“Like your statue, young feller.”
As the drumbeat dies away, Farsenn blinks rapidly and shakes his head, as if to clear it, then offers a conspiratorial grin. “Just don’t tell any of the women . . . you know what I mean?”
Both visitors grin.
“It was good of you to come to see me.” He makes a vague gesture toward the door, and both men turn as though commanded. The chandler follows them back into the main room of the chandlery.
“Got to tell Enslam about this,” remarks the ginger-bearded Mostan.
“You can tell your friends,” says Farsenn conversationally. “It would be better if you didn’t mention it to any of Lady Gatrune’s armsmen. They might not take it well.” He shrugs. “No sense in stirring up trouble.”
“Makes sense.” Deurn picks up the worn leather saddlebag. “How much?”
“Silver and a half. Might let it go to you for a silver. . . .”