The Dwarves (59 page)

Much to the dwarves’ disgust, their provisions for the journey consisted almost entirely of bread and dried fruit, which they
were forced to eat for want of anything else. In their haste to leave Mifurdania, they had forgotten to stock up on victuals
and no one was inclined to venture back. They were all the more grateful when Goïmgar found a few wild mushrooms, even though
they had to eat them raw.

“Do you really mean to take them with us?” asked Boïndil, casting a quick look over his shoulder at Rodario and his companions,
who were bringing up the rear.

“We’ll decide when we get to the tunnel,” said Tungdil. “It’s eighty miles to the next entrance, and if we can’t find it,
we’ll continue on foot.”

“On foot? Can’t you buy us each a pony?” demanded Goïmgar.

Boïndil harrumphed. “A bit of exercise might be just the thing for your puny little legs. It’s time you pulled yourself together
and started acting like a dwarf. Even the female long-un is tougher than you.”

After two orbits of marching in the pouring rain, they reached a low-lying area bounded to the north by imposing mountains
— the Sovereign Stones, as they were labeled on the map. Nestled in the foothills was the human settlement of Sovereignston,
which Tungdil remembered was famous for its wealth. It was the fashionable place for Weyurn’s gentry to build their palatial
villas and stately homes. The attraction was not so much the mountain air, but the prestige to be gained by living there —
and of course, the social whirl.

“We’ll stay only long enough to buy some ponies,” Tungdil told his companions on approaching the gates. “It’ll be cheaper
and safer to look for provisions and ponies in the poorer parts of town. We’ll leave the rich folk and their villas well alone.”

“What a terrible pity,” said Rodario in an exaggeratedly aristocratic voice. “It seems churlish not to visit our wealthy neighbors
after living on their doorstep all this time.” He was relieved to see that the solid city walls were lined with armed guards:
The orcs would never be able to get hold of them once they passed through the gates. He turned to his companions excitedly.
“Why don’t we put on a play? Nothing long or complicated — just a short, impromptu performance. We’d earn enough bronze coins
to fill our bags with victuals and keep the proverbial wolf from the door.”

“Can’t you speak normally for a change?” growled Boïndil, scratching his stubbly cheeks, which were long overdue for a shave.

“I shall speak in whichever way I choose, master dwarf,” the actor said huffily. “Some people are blessed with communicative
talents beyond the level of primitive grunts, burps, and growls. I don’t see why I should disguise the magnificence of my
education when you do nothing to hide the paucity of yours.”

“Fine,” Boïndil muttered malevolently. “We’ll see how far your fine words get you when we meet a pack of orcs.”

His brother changed the subject by asking how the impresario had breathed fire at the bögnilim.

Rodario beamed. “You can thank Furgas for that. The trick is to fill a tube with lycopodium spores, put on the dragon mask,
and blow through the tube. The spores pass over a burning wick at the mouth of the mask, and the monster spews fire.” He rolled
up his sleeves. “I use a smaller version when I’m playing the magus. The tube runs down my forearm, connecting a leather purse
of spores at my elbow with a miniature tinderbox just inside my cuff.” He held up his arm and gestured expansively to demonstrate
the technique. “I squeeze the purse like so, and the seeds shoot down the tube. Meanwhile, the pressure on the pouch activates
a cord that pulls the flint backward and produces a spark. Presto, the seeds are ignited as they exit my sleeve!” His hands
mimicked the flight of a fireball. “So there you have it: a magic trick for magic flames.”

Boëndal, who had been following the explanation carefully, shot Furgas an admiring look. “An ingenious invention!” The prop
master accepted the compliment with a nod.

They joined the back of a queue of wagons and carriages owned by Mifurdanians and merchants who had fled the unfortunate city.

Sentries were checking the vehicles, noting exactly what they were carrying, and demanding a toll. No distinction was made
between farmers, traders, and other travelers, so the city of Sovereignston made a considerable profit from the dwarves. Not
only that, but as visitors to the kingdom of Weyurn, Tungdil and the others were restricted to the poorest districts of the
city and given the address of a boardinghouse in which they were required to stay.

Thus constrained, they trudged up a narrow street and turned into a passageway that was barely wide enough for single file.
Both sides of the alley were crammed with timber houses whose upper stories jutted out dangerously, almost meeting overhead.
The uneven cobblestones never saw daylight. All in all, it wasn’t dissimilar to an underground gallery, except for the stench
of sewage and detritus. Mounted on one of the bulging walls was a sign showing a prancing pony; they had found their address.

With a shudder of disgust, Rodario searched the pockets of his rain-drenched coat, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed
it to his mouth and nose.

“With all due respect,” he said firmly, “nothing could induce me to sleep in such a hovel.” It was evident from their expressions
that Furgas and Narmora felt the same. “Fortunately, I have a solution to our dilemma. My companions and I will spend the
night in more salubrious accommodations, and we’ll meet you tomorrow morning at the gates. You’ll have time to buy your ponies
and so forth, and we’ll find a venue and put on a play. How does that sound?”

The suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Boïndil, who was tired of the actor’s voice.

Rodario didn’t wait for further permission, but strode away at once, his vibrant robes flapping around his legs. There was
no denying that he looked like a nobleman, but the duffel bag rather ruined the effect. Furgas and Narmora followed him down
the alleyway, boots squelching as they trudged through the foul-smelling mud.

“To be honest with you, I think they’ve got a point,” ventured Goïmgar, peering after them regretfully. “I don’t much like
the look of it either.”

“We were told to stay here,” Boëndal reminded him, steering the ponies into the barn while the others made for the door. “I’ll
see to the ponies and keep an eye on the ingots. They’ll be safer in the stables, I’ll warrant. I’ll sound my horn if I need
you.”

“Very well. I’ll order you some food,” Tungdil promised. He pushed open the door and stepped into an impenetrable fog of smoke.
Quite apart from the cloud of tobacco, it was evident that the chimney needed a thorough sweep. They made their way through
the crowd of drinkers, sat down at a table by the fire, and stretched their soggy boots toward the flames.

“At least we won’t be sleeping outside again,” said Goïmgar, softening. “I can’t stand the rain.” The others nodded in silent
agreement: None of them were accustomed to coming into contact with water unless they chose to — which was seldom enough.
“If only it were a bit more homely…”

Tungdil was happy to forgo all other comforts, provided that the roof didn’t leak. The heat from the fire was beginning to
dry his leather garments, and he closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Soon the conversation faded to an indistinct hum as
he gave into his tiredness and dozed. He woke when the publican arrived with a tray of food and beer ordered by Bavragor.
“Do you have a room for us? We’re not fussy, so long as it’s warm and dry.”

The man nodded. “Come this way.” The dwarves grabbed their packs, picked up their plates and tankards, and filed out behind
him. They weren’t sorry to be leaving the other drinkers, whose demeanor failed to inspire much trust.

The chamber to which the publican led them was a garret room with a chimneybreast at one end. The warmth exuding from the
brickwork was enough to heat the whole room. “Another beer for the gentleman?” Bavragor accepted with a nod.

They hung their clothes to dry on a rope around the chimney, then Boïndil, wearing nothing but chain mail and breeches, left
the chamber to take his turn in the stables.

Tungdil waited until Boëndal had joined them, then took off his boots, stood them next to the chimneybreast, and climbed into
a little bed. “Time for an afternoon nap,” he told the others, pulling up the sheets. “I’ll go into town and ask about the
firstlings later. It would be good to know what to expect.”

“It’s been such a long time since anyone heard from them,” said Bavragor, shaking his tankard and gazing at the swirling beer.
“What if something’s happened to them?”

“I expect they’re just loners like you,” Boëndal teased him. He stripped to his chain mail and underwear and climbed into
bed.

The mason finished his beer, burped, and polished off the leftovers of Boëndal’s meal. “I’d really like to meet them,” he
admitted. “I’ve been asking Vraccas to keep them safe.” He fell silent and stuffed his pipe with tobacco.

Tungdil was staring at the beams overhead. The fine cracks in the paint reminded him of the way the älf’s face had fractured.
“He knew my name.”

“What’s that, scholar?” Boëndal asked drowsily.

“The älf knew my name.” He reached for the head scarf that Frala had given to him. There was something soothing and reassuring
about the cloth. “They know more about me than I thought,” he said uneasily.

“The most powerful of Tion’s creatures are frightened of a dwarf,” observed Bavragor with a low chuckle. He lit his pipe,
filling the chamber with the smell of tobacco spiced with a hint of brandy. It was surprisingly pleasant. “That’s the way
we like it.”

Goïmgar glanced over at Tungdil. “I don’t blame you for being concerned,” he said with feeling. “I wouldn’t want to be chased
by a band of älfar who know exactly who I am.”

“Yes, but that’s because you’re a coward.” The insult left Bavragor’s lips before he had time to consider.

“If you haven’t got anything useful to say, you may as well go to bed,” Tungdil told him sharply.
They won’t give each other a chance
.

He saw Goïmgar look at him, then pick up his sword and shield and take up position on his bed, keeping a careful eye on the
window and the door.

Tungdil couldn’t be sure whether the artisan was sitting watch for himself or the others. He was still considering the matter
when he fell asleep.

I
t was dark outside when Tungdil opened his eyes.

His boots and clothes were drier than they had been in ages. No one else was awake, not even Goïmgar, who was snoring with
his head lolling back against the wall. From the nose down, there was nothing to be seen of him except for his shield.

It seemed a good time to get on with procuring the ponies and provisions, so Tungdil pulled on his warm clothes and dry boots,
slipped into his mail tunic, and jammed his ax into his belt. At the last moment he decided to leave the sigurdaisy wood behind
for safekeeping; then he left the chamber and went down to the bar, stopping to tell the publican that he’d be back in a couple
of hours. He stepped outside.

The rain was still falling in torrents. A cold, malodorous wind gusted through the narrow streets. Nothing in his surroundings
hinted at the opulence of the dwellings that graced the city’s upper slopes.
It’s all very well for the rich folks in their mansions, high above the slums,
he thought to himself.
Everyone down here is forced to look up at them, not knowing whether to hate them or admire them for their wealth
.

He had several run-ins with particularly persistent beggars and on one occasion he was chased by a pair of aging harlots who
demanded to know if certain parts of his anatomy were as small and hairy as the rest.

Tungdil ignored them because they offended his romantic sensibilities. His idea of love was gleaned from fiction and from
Frala and her husband. He stroked his lucky scarf and tried to picture her in his mind. Knowing that he would never see her
or her children again was even harder to deal with than the death of Lot-Ionan. He would have done everything in his power
to be a good guardian to Sunja and Ikana.

The incessant rain, gray skies, and general squalor of Sovereignston did nothing to improve his mood. He had to walk for what
seemed like hours before he found a dealer who sold ponies, and even then he was instructed to call back the next morning.
His next stop was a grocery store, where he bought provisions for the journey and succumbed to the temptation of buying a
cake. He hadn’t felt hungry until he saw it, but the mixture had risen perfectly to form a soft brown crust. The cinnamon
streusel topping had melted in places, and delectable golden clumps nestled alongside rum-soaked raisins and sunken slices
of fruit. Tungdil took a deep breath and bought the whole cake to share with the others, trusting to the baker to brighten
his mood.

In the dark he set off through the streets, carrying his well-wrapped cake and other purchases. Mud and detritus clung to
his boots, making them squelch unpleasantly. Not all the streets were properly cobbled, and parts of the waterlogged city
were no better than mud slicks.
Why would anyone want to live in this godforsaken place?

It was inevitable that he would fall over, and fall over he did. He stepped on a soggy pile of horse dung, skidded on his
right leg, and stumbled, reaching down with one hand to save his clothes from the worst of the muck. Somehow or other he managed
not to drop the cake.
Underground vaults and strongholds are a thousand times better than this.

His thoughts were cut short by a sudden gust of wind. Something whizzed to the left of his head, grazing his ear. Whatever
it was, it was painful, and he yelped in surprise, reaching up to touch his neck. Warm blood trickled over his fingers.

Turning sharply, he whipped out his ax. “If you think you can part me from my money or my cake —” The threat was left unfinished.
They’ve found us
.