Keeper's Justice
Copyright© 2025 by Charly Young
Chapter 15
Quinn
When Quinn and the Dragon’s assassin, whose name turned out to be Feredir, entered Mr. Whiskers’ tavern, he found Kurt in the back corner flirting with a barmaid. The air was heavy with the aroma of strong malt liquor and pipe smoke. From the kitchen came the smell of hearty soup or stew, depending on the day’s bargain from the market’s greengrocers.
Mr. Whiskers, whose given name was Draga Stonecutter, stood behind the bar. He was over a century old, middle-aged for dwarven-kind; old enough to have the beginnings of a true grandfather’s beard, three feet long and pure white. Thus, the name “Mr. Whiskers” was given to him by the street urchins he employed.
On most afternoons, the grandfathers of the five biggest dwarven clans gathered there, quaffing ale and trading gossip, away from the bustle of Oldtown’s noise and strife. These were the beings Quinn needed to talk to. Dwarven-kind valued their elders for their wisdom; the length of their beards served as evidence of high status. And dwarven-kind were one of the keys to his plan. They were the builders and makers of Oldtown.
The dwarf gave the assassin a respectful nod and Quinn a grumpy glare.
“What do you want, troublemaker?”
Quinn laughed. He reached behind the bar, picked up the old dwarf, and kissed his bald pate.
“Greetings to you, old master.”
“Put me down, Highpockets. By the lady, you have not learned your place. I should have sold you off long ago.”
One of Mr. Whiskers’ dire threats to the street urchins he sheltered was to sell them off to slavers if they didn’t behave and produce. Dwarven-kind do not tolerate the lazy. Of course, his innate kindness would never let him follow through. His go-to punishment was to make the recalcitrant being miss meals and sleep out in the yard in the cold. The urchins all knew this, but they pretended to be scared and repentant. He was an odd mixture of ruthlessness and kindness, greed and generosity. He was a fence and an ombudsman between the hidden alleyways of the street and the parlors of the rich and powerful in Oldtown.
“Where are the two dwarf females the Bear brought in?”
He pushed a mug of ale across the bar to him. “They are in the kitchen with my wives and daughters. You and that shifter have saddled me with more mouths to feed. Poverty lurks just around the corner for this old dwarf.”
“Why, that is certain, master.” Quinn’s eyes twinkled. “All know of your generosity and resultant poverty.”
“Enough of your foolishness, boy. I can tell you are up to something, Highpockets. What is it?”
“I need you to talk to the Grandfathers. I need to speak to them.”
“Out of the question, Highpockets. You know the custom. They will not talk with you.”
“I know the customs. Nevertheless, please ask them. It is important.”
Quinn sipped his ale and watched as the old dwarf reluctantly went back to the group of grandfathers who were holding forth at their table in the corner. The eldest shook his head and summarily dismissed him with an irritable wave.
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