The shoemaker�s shop was a poorly lit, dust filled place. The floor was covered with bits of leather and tools scattered around randomly. The walls, however, were lined with neatly placed shoes, put on their shelves in order of size and style. Each style shoe had its own section on the ledges; boots, moccasins, stylish dress shoes for men and women, riding shoes, and sandals were lined carefully in contrast to the disheveled floor. To many this would display a level of insanity that bordered on asylum material, but to Tavia it showed that this shoemaker loved his craft but wasn�t always very neat about it.
The main room ended in a desk that stretched from one wall to the other and separated the room she stood in from an area in the back which was almost completely dark inside. The only access was through a small swinging door such as one would find outside a bar which was to the left of the desk. From the back, the sound of a knife scraping leather could be heard, barely masking the mumblings which were also drifting to Tavia�s sensitive ears.
�Hello?� she called tentatively.
A scrape, a vehement curse, and then a thin voice coming out of the darkened room, �I�ll be right there, miss, in just a minute.�
There was some rustling sounds, another curse, and then the sound of footsteps. An old man tottered out of the room, his joints creaking audibly as he pushed open the swinging door with his hip and went through sideways. His white hair stuck up in wisps, making him look like his head was dusted with flour. He was wrapping his finger in a bit of white cloth. Crimson blood already had begun to soak through.
�Oh, sir, I�m so sorry. I didn�t mean to startle you.� Tavia rushed to the man and reached to look at the wound.
He pulled his hand away replying, �Nonsense, child. I should have been more careful. Danger of the craft I suppose.� He wasn�t projecting too much pain to the fire-mage; it was mostly embarrassment so she dropped the subject.
�Well, if you�ll agree to help me after I made you slice your finger open like that, I need a pair of shoes.� Tavia said.
�Good, good. Here, sit down.� The man pushed a clump of leather and tools off a stool in the middle of the room, �Please pardon the mess. By the way, my name is Gregor.�
�Thank you, Gregor.� Tavia replied, smiling and sitting on the cleared stool.
The old man only nodded absently at her words before kneeling and examining her feet. Tavia had healed the scratches and scrapes on them while eating with Stolin so the shoemaker had nothing remarkable to comment on.
�Did you bring your old shoes with you?� he asked, not looking up from his work.
�No. They got pretty messed up on the battlefield and I figured that they wouldn�t be any help. I�m a mercenary. See?� Tavia motioned to the sword across her back, �Well, I�m in training anyways. I could really use a new pair of sturdy walking boots. The others in my company are always giving me a hard time about lagging behind the group as it is without having to stop walking altogether cause of the sores on my feet.� She lied easily, giving a sheepish smile to the man. Silently she prayed to her Goddess that Gregor would buy it.
Luckily, it didn�t matter what she said since the old man was so engrossed in his work that he didn�t notice anything else. Tavia thought she could have told him she was an escaped convict who ruined her shoes running from the guards and he wouldn�t have noticed.
Gregor pulled out a measuring tape from his back pocket and began to lay it next to her foot lengthwise, then across the top, and around her ankle. After several more measurements, Gregor got up stiffly and tottered over to the shelves lining the walls. After rummaging in the section where the boots were neatly lined, he pulled out a pair and dropped them in front of Tavia.
The fire-mage slipped one of them on. The leather felt pleasantly cool and comfortable around her foot and the shoe seemed to have been made especially for her. �These are wonderful.� She breathed, staring at her foot in awe. Tavia had forgotten how good something as simple as a shoe could feel. But then she remembered where she was. Clearing her throat and placing an unreadable look on her face, she slipped the other boot on. It fit just as nicely as the first one and she had to repress a sigh of relief.
�Do they fit? Are they comfortable?� Gregor asked intently, all his attention focused on her for the first time since she sat down.
Apparently he hadn�t heard her previous comment which was just as well. It wouldn�t be good if she made herself stick out in the shoemaker�s mind in case the mages came looking for her. �Yes, they�re alright.� She replied after a moment of walking back and forth in them, �I�ll give you three Stikkas for them.�
Gregor looked up at her shrewdly and then shook his head, answering, and �No deal, that leather is water proof; Six Stikkas is my offer and a bargain for those.�
They haggled for a few more minutes before they settled on a price. Then Tavia bought a pair of warm winter boots and thin but sturdy moccasins for walking along the road in the glaring sun. By the time she left the store, she was supremely satisfied that she could walk in comfort in all weather even if her pack was a bit heavier.
Saying a warm farewell to the storekeeper and stepping back out into the sunlight, she turned to walk down the road. It seemed like her fears that the mages would be staying in Orrin were completely unfounded. Maybe she could even get a room for the night and keep herself from having to sleep on the ground.
But just as the thought passed through her mind, she heard a voice cry out, �Hey, look! There�s that dragon-girl!� Tavia didn�t even stop to look who it was that said it. She spun on her heel and raced away from the sound as fast as she could in the packed crowd.
* * *
Marsibadd finished the pitiful meal with a sigh of longing. He wanted so much to just go back to his comfortable quarters at the castle where he would be getting the most delicious delicacies to eat instead of this low grade pig slop. He and his company had stopped at the restaurant in Orrin to get something to eat before moving on. He only wished that they could have found somewhere better. As it was, they had had to pull ten tables together to allow them to eat with the king keeping an eye on all of them.
But then, this group of soldiers didn�t deserve anything better. His hand tightened on the rough wooden fork he had in his hand. This whole trip had been a waste of the worst kind: a failure. How could one little dragon-spawn defeat his army, even with the aid of the elves?
She had warned them, that much he was sure of. He knew that the dragon-people possessed the gift of empathy even if he kept that fact hidden from his minions, and that fool Orlan would have been so easy to read. But Marsibadd knew that that particular gift was a hindrance as well as a help. He had been sure that the horrible feeling of people being hurt and dying would have distracted the girl from any action against them. This had not been true, however. She had rose above the confusion of the invading emotions and set about to ruin any chances they had of ever destroying the elves.