Bruxton was short.

  It occurred to him that this statement was true in more ways than he’d originally intended.

  His pockets were currently all but empty of coin.

  He was behind on his quota.

  He was not a tall man. In fact, he was well below what anyone might call average.

  In defense of himself, he liked to say that what he lacked in height, he made up for in width. A word often used to describe him was stout. Another description was dwarf-ish, though he was human.

  As there was little he could do about his height, having gained his last inch over thirty years ago, it wasn’t really something he bothered to worry about.

  As for the money situation, while it was true that he had only a couple of coppers left in his pouch, it wasn’t like that was a real problem. He could get more if needed, and strictly speaking he didn’t need to. There were plenty of places in the city where he could get what he might need for free, or if needed, on the tab of his employer.

  Finally, there was the quota. Which technically wasn’t a quota at all.

  He was a recruiter for his employer, but there was nobody keeping track of how many new followers he brought in. That is, other than himself. When it came to things such as recruitment for the church, nobody had higher expectations for him than himself.

  Bruxton opened the door to the tavern and stepped inside.

  He breathed in the familiar and comforting smells and noises. Whichever of the gods had come up with ale, and he wasn’t really sure which it was, but they had to be one of the good ones, they were surely to be praised.

  It was a little disconcerting how many patrons were here tonight. There was no reason to even try to look for a table. He had no problem with sitting at the bar, but he simply couldn’t stand another moment. He’d walked more than his stretch of road today and if he couldn’t get off his feet immediately, he was likely to fall onto his face.

  Bruxton meandered his way through the crowd. By the time he got to the bar, Slattery, the bartender, was already filling a mug.

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  “You’re a life saver,” Bruxton said then spying a lone unoccupied stool at the end of the bar he added, “But honestly I need that seat more than I need this drink.”

  “Let me know when you need another,” Slattery said moving away to help another customer.

  Bruxton excused his way down the bar and sank thankfully onto the empty stool.

  “Don’t know if you can sit there,” the elf sitting on the next stool said in a friendly tone.

  “Why not?” Bruxton asked having already decided that unless his death was imminent, he wasn’t getting up for several hours.

  “Already taken. By that one,” the elf said pointing to the person standing in the doorway that led to the toilets and the back exit.

  Bruxton gave them a once over and said, “I’ll risk it.”

  “See those three in the corner?” the elf said pointing to the unconscious goons heaped in a pile near the fireplace. Bruxton felt confident in identifying them goons as he was familiar with at least one of them.

  “Yes. If I’m not mistaken that one there is Lonzo Trutt. He’s a bastard and a half.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. The other two are cut from the same cloth.”

  “Why do you bring them up?” Bruxton asked.

  “They also decided to risk it.”

  Bruxton turned and looked again at the person returning to what he had until this very moment thought of as ‘his seat’.

  “That’s my seat,” Bruxton was told.

  “So, I’ve heard. Is there any chance I can borrow it for a while? I have been walking for so long I can’t remember when I started. If you’d be so kind as to let me stay upon it, I’ll be glad to pay you back in ale, wine, or your choice of what passes for food in this establishment.”

  There was a long pause and an obvious assessment of Bruxton after which he was told he could stay seated, and a beer could start the payment process.

  “Bless you,” Bruxton said signaling to Slattery that he was going to need two more mugs. “What brings you to this particular watering hole?”

  “Luck, fate, chance. Take your pick.”

  “And what is your destination?”

  “Currently, all I can say for sure is away from where I was. I take it you’re local?”

  Bruxton made a show of looking himself over, “Is it that obvious?”

  “Don’t worry, your clothes didn’t give you away.”

  “Here you go, Bruxton” Slattery said setting two mugs of ale down in front of them.

  “But that does.”

  “Very perceptive,” Bruxton said, “and I’ve seen the evidence that you can handle yourself in a fight. If you’ve a moment, perhaps I could interest you in a change of career and a change of your life’s path.”

  “Right,” said the elf on the stool beside them. “Sales pitches to join the clergy is where I will excuse myself. Please feel free to have my seat.”

  “I realize that I am now freed of my barstool debt to you,” Bruxton said, “but if you are willing to at least listen, I’ll be glad to continue to pay.”

  “I’ve got nowhere else to be. Give me your best sales pitch.”

  As Bruxton finished off the lasts of his first mug, he mentally prepared himself. This wasn’t why he’d come in, but he also wasn’t one to turn away an opportunity. Afterall, wasn’t he just thinking about how he was short?

  Of course, if he did procure a new recruit, the hair color would definitely have to change.