Page 2 of Ale Storm

The shopkeeper finally appeared, and Sylin didn’t answer, other than to make a supercilious face that conveyed her disdain for such inferior substances.

“Greetings, greetings.” The bespectacled balding human had wispy white hair around his ears—and numerous strands protruding from inside his ears. He ambled toward them, his hands in the pockets of a leather apron, tools clinking within. Everything from talcum powder to grease spots to breakfast leftovers stained the garment. Had he not been taller than Rylana, she might have suspected him of having gnomish blood.

“Good morning, sir,” Rylana said. “Are you the one who does appraisals of antiques?”

“I’m the one who does everything. I’m Jhazlor, and I own this place. Inherited it from my father who inherited it from his father, and my daughter will run it one day. Good, reliable family business.” Whistling cheerfully, he strode across the miniature train tracks and behind the counter. “What can I do for you?” His gaze locked on the horn. “Oh, isn’t she a beaut?”

"The horn has a sex?” Sylin murmured.

“It’s very beautiful, yes,” Rylana said, though carvings of dwarves didn’t typically make her oooh and aaah. “We were wondering if you could tell us anything about it.”

“You were wondering that,” Sylin said as Jhazlor lifted the horn reverently in both hands so he could examine it from all sides. “I only came along to pressure you into getting me out of the date you set me up on without my permission.”

“Oh, right. That’s this afternoon, isn’t it?” Rylana asked. “Since it takes place at your favorite locale, it shouldn’t be that bad. You don’t have to stay for long.”

“The location doesn’t make spending time with a pompous, self-absorbed dragon more appealing.”

“It must help a little. And, look, I already told you that I feel bad about using your elven beauty to get a favor from Jildarin’s brother, Zilek, but I don’t have the power to talk him out of the date. I did try. He said he couldn’t possibly release you from that promise as he’s grown quite smitten with you.”

“I’ve barely spoken with him, never smiled at him, and, last week, he was smitten with an elven acrobat.”

“The elven acrobat, Layothlee, whom you’ve met and who happens to be your cousin.”

Sylin bared her teeth, not noticeably delighted to have learned—after being lost as a toddler many, many years ago—that she had a newfound family.

“Layothlee’s troupe finished their performances and left shortly after the queen,” Rylana said, though she suspected that Sylin was keeping closer tabs on the royal family than she was implying. “I don’t think Zilek, despite his amazing and handsome dragonness, managed to woo her.”

“Shocking.”

The shopkeeper pushed his spectacles onto his forehead and drew a loupe from somewhere below the counter so he could examine the carvings more closely. He was either ignoring their conversation or so engrossed in studying the horn that he was unaware of it.

“This is dwarven craftsmanship, as I’m sure you guessed.” Jhazlor’s tone had shifted to a neutral register, his enthusiasm for the horn gone—or maybe masked. “And it’s perhaps five hundred years old.”

“So, it’s rare and valuable?” Rylana didn’t care if it was worth money—since Jildarin had made her his partner in their now-thriving diner business, she was no longer in dire financial straits. She did want to know what had made the horn glow after the battle on the rooftop terrace and if there was any danger inherent in keeping it. If it was cursed or some such, she didn’t want to give it to her brother—even if he did deserve such an item after his behavior.

“Oh, it might be worth a bit.” Jhazlor shrugged and leaned back. “A lot of horns like this have been made over the centuries. For a time, you could find one in every dwarf’s home.”

“Mammoths went extinct over a thousand years ago,” Sylin said. “Since one is depicted in one of the carvings, doesn’t that imply the horn may be more than five centuries old?”

“Not necessarily. After all, people paint and carve extinct creatures today, enjoying imagining living in a past era.” Jhazlor gave her a slightly condescending look before focusing again on Rylana. “I have a magical tool in the back that could date this more precisely, but it requires rare spell components, so I would have to charge for that more thorough assessment. As it stands now, I would value this horn at ten gold.”

“That’s not a lot.” Rylana didn’t know much about antiques but had assumed it would be more valuable than that. “Would your magical tool be able to tell why the horn glows?”

Jhazlor blinked, then leaned forward, dropping his spectacles over his eyes again. “It’s magical?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen those little ale mugs glow blue,” she said, pointing to the carvings, “and the whole horn can warm in your hand.”

“Oh?” Jhazlor rubbed it, then blew on it and tapped it on the counter. Nothing happened. “What activates the glow?”

“Uh, last time it was dirt in a pot. Or maybe the elven tree planted in it.” Rylana looked at Sylin, wondering if she knew any of the species of flora that Plant Master Chalora had brought to the rooftop terrace.

Sylin shrugged. Since she’d been educated by wolves instead of her own people, a lack of botany knowledge was perhaps understandable.

“I don’t have any elven plants,” Jhazlor said. “And I’m not— Well, their people don’t let humans into their enclave without an invitation, so I haven’t visited their gardens.”

“If the elves want to interrogate you, they’ll let you amble right through the arch,” Rylana said.

“If this horn is truly magical, it might be worth a little more.” Jhazlor eyed her up and down, as if assessing whether she could be trusted on such matters. “But I’d have to see it glow if I was going to adjust my offer.”