That was fine with Durine. Not that the goddess Killian, whose province was the weather, was asking his opinion. Nor were any of the other gods–or any mortals–for that matter. In more than twenty years of a soldier’s life, both fealty-bound and mercenary–as well as during the dimly-remembered time before he took blade and bow in hand–few of those in charge of anything had asked Durine’s opinions before making their decisions. And that was fine with him, too. The good thing about a soldier’s life was that you could concentrate on the small but important decisions, like where to put the point of your sword next, and leave the big decisions to others. Anyway, there was no point in objecting: complaining didn’t make it any warmer, griping didn’t stop the sleet from pelting down, bitching didn’t stop the ice from clinging to his increasingly heavy sailcloth overcoat as he made his way, half-blinded, down the muddy street. Mud. Mud seemed to go with LaMut the way salt seemed to go with fish.
