Joel couldn't see any mine entrances or other indications of dwarvish presence. No doubt, he thought, the dwarves of Daggerdale are just as insular and protective as the humans.

Finally they came to the heart of the dell, the center where people lived. It was dominated by a large stone manor, blazing with light from every window. Many small cottages surrounded the manor, a few with lamplight glittering in their windows, but most of them were dark. As they approached the manor, Joel could hear human voices. No doubt the larger building was the hub of the community. Outside its windows, firestars hovered like moths, blocked from entry by wire grates cunningly fashioned in intricate geometric designs Dwarven workmanship at its finest, Joel realized, both useful and lovely.

Holly and Joel tied their mounts to a hitching post and hurried through the door before any firestars could flit past them. They stood in a large common room, occupied by at least fifty people, mostly human, the rest dwarves. Tonight the common room served as a local tavern. Most of the inhabitants sat on benches at rows of great oak tables, drinking from frothy-topped mugs and conversing, but a few more boisterous souls bowled ninepins in the aisles between the tables, while several others cheered on a pair of dart players.

Upon Joel's entry, a silence spread from the doorway outward as every person within, to the last solitary being, stopped what he or she was doing and eyed the bard. Their stares were most unwelcoming, even hostile. Joel stiffened.

Holly strode forward and addressed the room. "This is Joel, a priest of Finder. He rescued me from a Zhent patrol and vanquished our pursuit. I vouch for him."

The hard glares softened slightly. Most of the onlookers gave Joel a dismissive nod and returned to their amusements and conversations. From what Joel had heard about the Dalesmen of Daggerdale, that was a better reception than he'd have gotten had Holly not spoken for him and as good a welcome as he could expect. Joel couldn't help but note the conversations had become much more subdued in his presence. He might be tolerated, but it would take more than Holly's word for him to be trusted.

Holly made for a table by the hearth in the center of the room. About the table were seven large oaken chairs, richly carved with figures of men and elves battling against drow, dragons, and other fell creatures. The chairs' armrests were polished smooth with years of use, and their backs and sides held more than a few gouges and cuts, as if they had seen battles of their own.

Seated at the head of the table, in the largest chair, was a man dressed in worn leathers. He was an older man with handsome features, long brown hair combed down his back, and a neatly cropped beard. As Holly approached, he rose to greet her, calling out, "Harrowslough. Welcome."

Holly dropped to one knee before the man. Joel stood uncomfortably behind her, not sure what he should do. The older man raised Holly to her feet.

"My lord," Holly said, "allow me to present Joel of Finder. I owe the success of my mission to him. Bard, this is Lord Randal Morn, rightful ruler of the lands you now cross."

Joel's mouth went dry. Although Branson had few kind words for the people of Daggerdale in general, the caravan guard had spoken of Randal Morn with the respect and awe reserved for a legend. Daggerdale's beleaguered lord was a tough guerilla fighter who had been harrying the Zhentilar patrols for years now. The Zhents had a sizable bounty on his head. Wordlessly Joel bowed deeply. Not only had Joel not expected to meet Morn, but Morn was not what Joel anticipated at all. The lord of Daggerdale was several inches shorter than Joel. His physique was more like a farmer's-lean, with muscular forearms. His movements were graceful. His hazel eyes did not pierce one to the bone, but looked dreamy and sad.

"Joel has another title, my lord," Holly said, filling in the void Joel's silence created. "He calls himself the Rebel Bard."

Morn laughed as Holly stood there, grinning at some joke.

Joel looked from Holly to Morn, confused.

"Then it is destined that we meet, Rebel Bard," Morn said, his voice as smooth as polished wood, "for I am known in theses parts as the Rebel Lord."

Joel flushed at the coincidence. Finally he found his voice. "I thank you for the opportunity to visit your fair land, your lordship," he said. "It has a beauty unknown to many."

"He's a polite one, Harrowslough," Morn noted with a chuckle. "Would that the Zhentilar were so well-mannered."

"That could hardly be, sir," Joel replied, "seeing how they come without invitation and leave such rude calling cards."

Morn snorted with amusement, and Joel allowed himself to relax a little.

"You must excuse us, Rebel Bard, but I need to speak privately with young Harrowslough. Take my place here," Morn insisted, tapping on the chair from which he'd risen, "and we'll see that you get fed." He looked about the room and shouted, "Kharva!"

A dwarven woman carrying a large tureen wove her way through the room's inhabitants. A younger dwarf carrying bowls and spoons trailed behind her. Randal Morn spoke some words in dwarvish, then led the young paladin away. They disappeared into the crowd, doubtlessly to another room far from prying ears.

Kharva had set down the soup tureen and stood staring up at Joel expectantly. The Rebel Bard lowered himself nervously into Randal Morn's seat, wondering if he were usurping the traditional throne of the rebel leader. Kharva's assistant clattered a wooden bowl and spoon in front of him, and the dwarven woman, standing on a chair, removed the top of the tureen.

The odor of beef stew wafted across Joel's face, and his stomach growled. He realized his last meal had been over eight hours ago, and that had been nothing but dried fruit and hardtack. The beef stew before him was bountiful, with huge lumps of beef that peeled apart in delicious strings, potatoes and carrots that were neither undercooked nor too soft, tiny onions that glittered like pearls, and a rich broth flavored with wine. Another secret of the Daggerfolk, Joel noted, was that they could cook.

From an apron pocket, Kharva pulled out a round loaf of warm, crusty bread and pressed it into Joel's hands. Waving her hand at the tureen, she said, "Take all you want, but-" the woman hesitated ominously- "leave room for dessert," she finished with a wink. A second young dwarf laid a brimming mug of ale by the tureen. Then all three melted into the crowd of the room.

Joel tore off a hunk of bread and, sampling it, sighed. It was honeyed and fresh enough to have been baked that morning. He slurped at the ale, then set to work devouring his first helping of the stew, mopping up every last drop of the broth with the bread. It wasn't until he'd worked halfway through his second helping that the bard realized he was being watched.

While most of the dalesfolk had seen fit to ignore him, one, a giant of a man seated in a chair to Joel's right, fixed his gaze on the bard's every move. At first Joel just glanced up at the man between mouthfuls of stew and bread. The watcher had the sort of appearance Joel had expected from the legendary Rebel Lord. The man's crossed arms were like tree trunks. His chest, clad in scaled armor, could have served a small room as a wall. The long black braid hanging down his back bristled with silvered spikes. His thick beard framed a permanent scowl. One eye was covered with a steel eye patch, while the other eye, sheathed below a sullen brow, glared daggers at the bard.

Unable to stand the examination without answering it somehow, Joel ventured, "This is really good food."

The huge man did not respond.

"You have a very good cook here," the bard added.

The huge man remained impassive and as silent as stone.