XIII. THE HEIRLOOM
One day in Uktar, Gudenny was wandering twenty miles from town when he saw a hovel set against one of Thar’s desolate hillsides. Goats and thin sheep gnawed scraggly vegetation nearby, and smoke rose from its little chimney. It would be dark before he could reach Melvaunt. He suddenly felt very tired. The temptation of warm food, drink, and a cot or corner was unusually strong.
The hovel had no door. He strode in. An old woman was sitting on a chair weaving on an ancient-looking loom. The floor consisted of tidy, packed dirt. A small fire burned in a central firepit. Over it simmered a pot of mutton and cabbage soup. The woman greeted him in Damaran. When he didn’t respond, she switched into thickly accented Common.
“Good day. Sit by the fire. You’re not orc nor ogre, I see, so you’re welcome here. If you’re a cutthroat, I’ll give ya’ this poor broth withouten need for cuttin’.”
Gudenny sat by the fire and studied the woman, who kept weaving. Her eyes hadn’t strayed from her loom. She was thin, with a beak-like nose and topaz-colored eyes. Her surprisingly smooth hands moved deftly. Several soiled inches of her long, gray gown must often drag along the floor.
He scanned the rest of the room and started. On an otherwise bare table opposite him lay a jade hammer. Too small and brittle to use as a tool or weapon, it was apparently just an ornament–if an unusual one for such a squalid setting. But no–it meant something, it had a kind of power, it drew Daumar Gudenny’s eye in a way that mere art did not.
“What is that?” he asked the woman.
“Oooh that. ’Tis a key, she said.”
“Who said?”
“She that gave it to me for keepin’. She that was my mother, years ago.”
“Why have you not traded it? You could have sold it and lived well.”
“’Twas my mother who gave it, and she’s been dead many a year, and there’s nothin’ worse than greed for makin’ ghosts angry.”
“Why don’t you hide it? Why is it there for any thief or orc to steal?” he asked almost angrily.
“There’s no place for hidin’ in these barren wastes, no hole deep enough. Not even if I cast it into the Moonsea would it be hidden. No, better safe, here, where I can see it and watch it myself.”
She served the soup. The little meat imparted no flavor, only gristle to chew, but it satisfied him. It was getting cold. Night was approaching.
“Curl up there,” said the woman kindly, “and I’ll see you off at dawn.”
***
Gudenny rose before the sun did and killed her. A witch, he thought. Then he stole the hammer. Four hours after he left the hovel, he was attacked by four half-orcs and left for dead himself.
And so, the jade hammer that had been an heirloom for centuries was stolen twice in one day.
