He had led her down to the taproom and said thickly, "I call you Shandril Shessair, for it is your truename. Do not forget, for your name is precious." Then Shandril had asked him, voice quavering, "Was I so named by my parents?"

Gorstag shook his head slightly and gave her a sad smile. "In the Realms, little one, you can take any name you can carry. Mind you carry it well."

Yes, Gorstag had been good to her, and The Rising Moon was like him: kind and good, well-worn and bluntly honest, and lots of hard work. Day after day of hard work. It was her cage, Shandril thought fiercely, reaching for another dish while the sweat ran down her back.

With some surprise, she saw that there were no more dishes. In her anger she had washed and scrubbed like a madcap, and now she was done, and it was early yet. Time enough to change to her plain gown and peek into the taproom before cutting the herbs. Before Korvan could come in and give her extra work to do, Shandril vanished, her bare feet dancing lightly over the narrow loft stairs to her trunk.

She washed her face and hands in the basin of cool water she'd left for Lureene, another young woman who waited on the tables and shared the sleeping-loft with Shandril, except on nights when she had a man and Shandril was banished to the cellar for her own safety. She changed her clothing and crept quickly downstairs again along the passage to the deserted taproom. Gorstag would be seeing to the food, she knew, and he would have started the evening fire already. A party of adventurers had come in from Cormyr earlier, and Gorstag would be busy. The flagstones were cool under her feet.

The taproom was warm and smoky. Light blazed up from the crackling hearth and the several sputtering torches mounted on the walls and hooded with grim black iron. Shadows leaped on the walls and the great beams that ran low overhead the length of the taproom, bearing the sleeping chambers of the inn's upper stories upon their mighty backs.