The Empire Stone (26 page)

Peirol stood, bowed. “I would, of course, be deeply honored by that.” He resumed his seat. “To continue with my request. I assume noblemen and women of Restormel are like others I’ve met, and own jewelry.”

“Of course,” Lady Broda said. “As do most of the Men of Lysyth. We are human.”

“Such a display, properly made, gives glory to the Invisible Gods,” Warleggen said, and Ossetia nodded agreement.

“I would propose,” Peirol said, “to establish a shop, in the proper location, where I could repair jewelry, or recut and reset gems that are no longer in style or favor. I also brought a fair number of unset gems with me, which I will use to create my own unique designs. I might also consider making outright purchases of gems that are no longer wanted. However, I would hardly be so vulgar as to advertise my services, so I must depend on my merits being heralded by satisfied customers.

“If the Invisible Gods are good, I would like to make repayment to them. But I certainly wouldn’t want to make vulgar sacrifices of bullocks and grain, such as I’ve seen peasants make to their gods, but rather more discreet offerings. The problem, as I see it, is how I might make such offerings, say a tenth of my profits, and be sure they don’t end up in the wrong hands or misspent.”

“The solution’s easy,” Ossetia said eagerly. “Just pass it to the Men of Lysyth.”

“That
is
one way,” Peirol said. “But that seems so … impersonal.”

Lady Broda leaned forward. “Son, would you mind fetching me a glass of the charged water from our kitchen? This wine doesn’t suit my palate at the moment.”

“Of course, Mother,” Ossetia said. Broda waited until he was out of the room.

“Go on,” she said, voice as sharp as any tradesman.

“Perhaps,” Peirol said, “a way that would solve my problems is to hand these donations to you, Warleggen, since you are a high priest, to handle their dissemination.”

Warleggen frowned and started to say something, but Lady Broda spoke first. “That is, indeed, a good idea. Fifteen percent was the sum you mentioned, I believe?”

“Such could easily be the amount,” Peirol said. He lifted his glass in a toast. “Thank you, my lady. And thank you, Warleggen, as well. You have not only treated a stranger in a wonderful manner but have solved what few problems I have.”

And so Peirol’s scheme, hatched when he saw the shaven-headed man struggling with a mob, came to fruition, and the Warleggen family became his agents in Restormel.

• • •

Peirol rented a tiny shop with an upstairs apartment on one of the streets leading up from Restormel’s waterfront, a street lined with expensive dressmakers, armorers, furniture makers, and other artisans catering to the rich. Most importantly, a rear window opened on an alley not connected to the street. Peirol bought rope and small round balks of lumber and built a rope ladder, which he hid under his bed. He replaced the tools he’d lost, adding a lathe sorcerously driven that required its spell to be recast every seventh day, brought in showcases and carpets, and was ready for business.

It was not long in coming. Customers came, considered his works, bought, and sold. Peirol was soon busy enough to hire a clerk, who he trained to be as loftily arrogant as he was, as the master jeweler Rozan had trained him to behave around the rich. There were other jewelers in Restormel, of course. But none seemed to have the proper obsequity, stock, skills, or knowledge. He cordially ignored these competitors, and they reciprocated.

Peirol chafed a bit, wanting to ask about the Empire Stone, but repressed his impatience. Two Times passed. He kept to himself, finding a quiet tavern to drink in, three or four discreet restaurants. He made no friends, sought none, ensured he made the “sacrifice” promptly to Ossetia’s parents. Ossetia came by every now and again, and they had dinner. Some women and a few men suggested they would be interested in visiting Peirol’s bedchamber, but he made light of the offers.

Restormel felt like a trap waiting to spring on an unwary dwarf, who could well stand to discipline his vices for a time anyway.

• • •

He recognized the woman when she entered, went to greet her, bowing low. “Baroness Sereng,” he said. “You honor me deeply.”

“The monk Ossetia told me where your shop was … Oh! You’re a — ”

“A dwarf, Baroness.”

“I didn’t notice when you were in the carriage, you were sitting down, and I’m — well …” Her words stopped in confusion.

“And you’re very beautiful,” Peirol said smoothly. Evidently Ossetia had been right: Sereng was attracted to the athletic type, and Peirol’s stumpy legs had just ruined his attractiveness. She
was
beautiful, hair curled, falling below her shoulders. She wore a red velvet dress, possibly cut lower than the gown she’d worn before, with white lace ruffles around the front.

“I, well, I thank you,” she said, trying to recover. “I, uh, came here because I have this brooch whose clasp has broken, and no one seems able to fix it without possibly damaging the center stone.”

“May I see it? Thank you.” He picked up a glass, examined the bauble. The clasp had been snapped quite recently — broken metal gleamed. An excellent excuse for going to a jeweler that a woman might show her husband. “There won’t be any problem. I’ll do the work myself, right now, if you care to wait.”

“No, no, I’ll come back.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave without showing you the gems I have brought from afar, Baroness. It’s the least toll you could pay.”

“Well … all right. I have a few minutes.”

Peirol showed her jewels, brightly chatting as he did, hinting of hilarious scandals he’d been told but of course could never repeat, telling a few stories of his travels, letting her talk about her friends. She said, mournfully, that her husband thought she spent too much on fripperies, which was the reason she couldn’t buy any of Peirol’s wares. Peirol told her men are like that, not understanding what is important but always ready to buy a new sword or gun or horse.

She grew friendlier, and Peirol fixed the brooch.

“One favor you might allow,” he said, taking out a bracelet she’d particularly admired. “In my own land, I frequently make use of a model — I don’t think that’s the correct word, but I know no other. By model I mean a woman who must be not only beautiful but vivacious, witty, belonging to the highest levels of society, who goes to balls and other events. I give, or rather loan, this model a piece of jewelry. A different one every Time, or more often, if she goes out frequently. She wears my wares to parties, to feasts, and her friends admire them, hopefully ask where they can be obtained.

“If my model wishes to purchase a piece she’s been loaned, I allow her to buy them at my cost, no more. And since I like to think I’m a generous man, when something wonderful happens to me, I make sure the woman who made it happen is rewarded as well.”

“One’s husband would never know,” she breathed.

“Why would a husband talk to a dwarf?”

“I don’t think of you, Peirol,” Sereng said, “as being a dwarf at all anymore.”

Peirol bowed, clasped the bracelet on her wrist, was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek. Sereng bounded out into the autumn sunlight, letting the rays reflect through the gems, laughing like a small girl. A charming woman, Peirol thought. And, if Ossetia was right, as dangerous as a serpent.

But still …

• • •

Two men in brown asked the clerk for Peirol the dwarf. Peirol asked how he could be of service.

“I am named Damyan, and understand you have been seeking a magician,” one said. “We are of the Order of Lysyth, protectors of Restormel, and are naturally curious why a stranger needs wizardry, and must ensure it is for the good of all.”

“Might I ask,” Peirol said, “how you heard of my quest? Although I freely admit to the truth of it.”

“The Men of Lysyth never reveal their sources.”

“I see. You said magic used must be for the good of Restormel. My plans can be justly described in that way,” Peirol said, and explained he needed a thaumaturge to help with his jewel designs, told them how he’d put magical fire into the heart of gems, used magic to enhance the beauty of his stones in other ways.

“Hence your noble men and women appear even greater, more glorious, and the name of Restormel is even more loudly praised, which must be considered all to the good,” he finished.

“My first thought,” Damyan said, “is that this idea of yours is perilously close to unseemliness.” The other man nodded thoughtfully.

“Perhaps I misstate myself,” Peirol said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve been favored by High Priest Warleggen, and when I consulted him about the idea, he didn’t see any problems. However, let me offer a specific example of what my craftsmanship and a Restormel wizard might do for the Men of Lysyth.”

“Are you suggesting a bribe?”

“Certainly not,” Peirol said indignantly. “Merely to clarify what my intent is. Of course it’s blasphemous to suggest anyone make an image of the Invisible Gods here — unlike some of the heathenous nations I’ve passed through — which is admirably sophisticated. But wouldn’t it be possible to suggest the glory of these beings by, say, taking crystal, or even a large stone, if one were presented to me? Cut it properly, so it gathers the light. Then put a bit of magic within and let the fires burst forth, as if from nowhere.

“Hang this in a temple, and it would be glorious, even more so than glass stained in brilliant colors, such as I’ve seen in your tabernacles. If
I
meditated on such an object, I think I would become closer to the gods I worship, hence more religious, and Restormel would be glorified. That’s but an example of what I propose.”

Damyan considered. “If High Priest Warleggen approves — and your idea brings other thoughts to me — ”

“Which,” Peirol interrupted, “I’d be pleased to hear if you choose to share them, and hopefully we could arrange for such a project to become financially possible.”

“No,” the monk said, “no, I was wrong in thinking you capable of evil, as was the erring soul who mentioned you to us. There’s no stink of heresy or of dangerous matters here. Go your way, Peirol, and I hope you succeed, for the idea of having such a fiery symbol in one of our order’s churches, or in a cloister, sounds most wonderful.”

Peirol escorted them out, came back, wiping his forehead. “Take the store,” he told the clerk.

“Yes, sir. Might I ask where you’re going?”

“To that tavern that serves triple-distilled brandy, to meditate on which bastard jeweler might’ve tried to doom me.”

• • •

He spent time with Ossetia, found out more about the Men of Lysyth. He asked what temporal authority they had, beyond determining real from false god-discoverers. Ossetia told him that their power was almost total, with their ability to know what was right for Restormel and their authority to detect and punish those who would do it harm.

“I assume there are provisions for denouncing an evil man or woman to the order?”

“Certainly.”

“Then the miscreant is taken in hand by your order,” Peirol said, “and brought to trial?”

“After he’s questioned, and confesses.”

“What means are used to gain such a confession?”

“I know little of that, being hardly more than a novice in the ways of Lysyth. There are special members who dedicate their lives to uncovering the truth, and I know they use prayer, contemplation, and, in the most extreme cases, physical force.”

“Torture?”

Ossetia nodded reluctantly.

“I assume the informer is rewarded?”

“Yes, with a share of the guilty one’s goods, after he’s punished by the fire, or in minor cases with a term of imprisonment. His property, by the way, is always seized, and added to the glory of Lysyth and Restormel.”

“Ah,” Peirol said. “What’s to prevent false accusation from, say, jealousy?”

“If the accused survives our … investigation without making a confession and without further evidence,” Ossetia said, “then he is in turn rewarded with the goods of his accuser. But that happens but seldom.”

“I would expect so.”

• • •

A few days later Peirol passed a small apothecary’s shop and noted the door was sealed, with two ornately carved beams nailed into the door frame. Between them was a brown parchment:

He was the only one who stopped. All others hurried past, looking studiously elsewhere.

• • •

Peirol bought a small, very fast sailboat that could be crewed by one man. He also paid for sailing lessons, and spent an hour a day tacking back and forth in the tidal pool until it wouldn’t be completely suicidal for him to use it. He carved a secret compartment in the back of a hatch, hid gold and gems there, and hired a man to sail it from Restormel east to a small fishing village known for its honesty. More gold went for dry provisions, casked water, and to have the boat dragged out of the water on rollers.

Peirol would rather have hidden a fast horse somewhere, but that would have left him across the straits from the way home. At least the boat, like the rope ladder, made him feel less trapped.

He also refilled his tiny knee-pouch with gems and strapped it on.

• • •

Baroness Sereng’s friends and acquaintances flocked to his shop, and Peirol was hard-pressed to have a new creation to amaze them. He was forced to take another building in a poorer district, hire half a dozen artisans to do the cruder work, and even, most quietly, buy acceptable finished works from smaller craftsmen.

He’d listen to the gossip from these rich customers, laugh heartily or pretend pleasant shock, sympathize with their troubles rather than suggesting that being found wearing the same gown as another wasn’t the end of the world, and offer solutions to their travails without ever sounding authoritarian. Baroness Sereng came in frequently, always alone, flirted, selected her latest piece of jewelry, and left in a short time. If she was a vampire, Peirol was unblooded, and slightly regretted it.