“Quamdammit,” the man blurted, then muttered to himself, “A friend besotted with wine is worse than an enemy, but that’s the only kind I’ve got. Quam curse his rum-pickled mind.”
“You don’t talk like a holy man,” Paul cut in. The man gave him a sharp look, then a wry little smile.
“So I’ve been told,” he said meekly. “My apologies.”
“Well,” Dahlia brought him back, “this Ector was certainly sotted. But he said you might help us.”
“Help you?”
“A pack of goblins came through two nights ago and drove off my market-ready steers. I need them back, as many as I can get. Honestly, I’m a little desperate.”
“Your husband can’t go after them?”
“I’m a war widow,” she said bluntly.
Dahlia watched a strange change pass over the man. He shifted in his tracks, swallowed hard, and licked his lips.
