Page 47 of Ale Storm

“How does it feel to lip wrangle with a dragon while wearing a stolen dwarven antique around your neck?”

Rylana sighed again. How had she known Sylin had arrived early enough to glimpse the kissing?

All she said was, “I was thinking about the horn less than you’d think.”

“Well, you might want to think now about finding the proper person to give it to so it’ll reach the king. Before a dwarven law enforcer shows up in Tranquility and accuses you of thievery.”

“It’s not thievery if you find something in the woods.” Rylana was less certain about the terminology when it came to keeping something that one found in the woods, something that now had a known provenance. “Maybe I’ll take it to the dwarven consulate and drop it off there.”

Either that, or she could revisit the thought she’d had of throwing it in the lake so it wouldn’t be her problem anymore. But now that people knew she had it, that wouldn’t be wise. The storeroom might be ransacked daily by dwarves certain she had it somewhere in her possession.

“Is there a dwarven consulate in Tranquility?” Sylin asked.

“I think so.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“No. Maybe Mya does.”

“Ah, we can visit her again.” Sylin sounded oddly contented by the idea.

“Visit her or visit her scones?”

Sylin smiled. Yes, definitely contented.

13

“An heirloom of the dwarven royal family?” Mya turned the horn over in her hands with new reverence. They were in the kitchen of her bakery, cinnamon rolls in the oven filling the air with enticing sweet scents. “That’s unexpected. It’s pretty, but, as I said before, not that different from many others I’ve seen.”

“The books Sylin dug up say it’s special. Here, you’re getting flour on it.” Rylana took the horn from Mya’s grip and used a pot holder to wipe white smudges off it.

Mya snorted. “You weren’t that worried about it before you knew it belonged to royalty.”

“No, but I had a hunch it was special. From the glowing ale mugs.” Rylana tapped the carving, but, as before, nothing happened. She wondered if she would ever discover what prompted the magic to announce itself. If she handed the horn over to dwarves, probably not.

“We have a diplomat in the city,” Mya said, “but not a full-fledged consulate. You said you mailed a letter to the king?”

“Yes.”

“You could probably wait until his people write back or an official-looking dwarf shows up with orders to collect the horn.”

“You don’t think the two who strolled into the diner the other day were official?” Rylana didn’t, but she wasn’t sure if she’d read those two correctly. Maybe they’d told the truth about everything.

“I didn’t see them. Did they look like bureaucrats?”

“They looked like dockworkers and said they usually worked in shipping.” Rylana carried the horn to the pantry, opened the door, and waved it in front of the shelves, still wondering if some ingredient was what had prompted it to glow. What else could have been in the market? And also on the rooftop terrace the night of Jildarin’s mushroom dinner? She’d already waved the horn in his pantry to no avail.

Mya scratched her cheek as she watched the odd behavior. “I think the king or one of his higher-ups would send a diplomat if he really needed an errand done in Tranquility. And he or she would have proof of office to show you.”

“The diplomat probably wouldn’t have ransacked Jildarin’s lair and thrown my undergarments around either.”

“Dwarves do have a tough no-nonsense approach to carrying out missions, but that’s not typical behavior for kingdom officials, no. Have you tried putting ale in it?”

“Er, no. Why?”

“As we discussed, those horns were used more often for drinking than calling out to troops or hunting parties. Historically, soldiers sent into war were issued one and carried it to receive their daily ration of grog or ale.” Mya pantomimed taking a swig from the larger end of the horn.

Rylana held up the open bottom, the mouthpiece. “You said this was usually plugged?”