The War of the Dwarves

  She smiled, this time like a young girl receiving a compliment from an admirer. “Was that a line from one of your plays?”

  “Words can’t do justice to your beauty,” he whispered, encouraged by her response. Ha, he thought smugly. I haven’t lost my touch.

  He shifted his gaze for a moment and looked at the street leading to the marketplace. For a while he had forgotten what had brought him to Porista. There was nothing that might justify prolonging the conversation, even though he was eager to further his acquaintance with the mysterious stranger. It was a long time since he had exercised his talents in the art of seduction.

  Stop it, he told himself sharply. The others will be waiting. Taking her hand briskly but chivalrously, he pressed his lips to her delicate white glove. “Where can I find you? I’m on my way to a secret rehearsal, and I mustn’t be late, but I could see you afterward.” He gazed into her dark brown eyes.

  “You’re running away already?” She snatched her hand from his and took a few paces back. He detected a look of disappointment on her face. “Good evening, Rodario. I look forward to seeing you on the stage.” She shot him a sizzling look and disappeared into the falling snow without turning around.

  “Your address!” he called after her. “Where shall I send the tickets?” His shouts went unanswered. I suppose it wasn’t to be. Disappointed, he hurried down the street to the marketplace.

  Snow was falling thickly, hiding him from prying eyes. He reached the spot where the stairs led down to the sewer and stopped: The manhole cover had been unbolted. A light dusting of snow covered the footprints.

  They didn’t wait for me! He stomped his foot indignantly. I bet that hotheaded secondling persuaded them to go. He rubbed his pointy beard. Wounded pride made him more determined than ever to handle things by himself. He set off toward the palace. I’ll show you, he thought, imagining how the dwarves would thank him when he freed them from the avatars and rescued Balyndis and the child.

  Without stopping, he checked that his props were in place. They were essential for his transformation into the fearsome conjurer Rodario the Fablemaker, a role that he played with aplomb.

  Hidden in the pockets of his robes were little bags of powder that, when brought into contact with fire, produced brightly colored flames, acrid smoke, and various shades of fog. His phials of acid, four in total, were stored safely in a padded case.

  But most important of all were the flamethrowers, designed by Furgas to fit into his sleeves.

  They had two main components: a miniature tinderbox attached to his cuff, and a leather purse of lycopodium spores fixed to the inside of his elbow. Pressing the pouch caused spores to shoot out of the purse and at the same time activated a mechanism that pulled the flint backward and produced a spark, thereby igniting the seeds as they exited his sleeve. It had worked on orcs, and it was bound to work on ordinary soldiers. Sometimes technology was as effective as magic.

  On nearing the palace, he remembered that he couldn’t just waltz through the gates. He knew the secret formula, having been left in charge of Furgas while Andôkai and Narmora were away, but the avatars would surely notice if an uninvited visitor strolled through the gates. Is there another door?

  “Rehearsal over so soon?” said a voice behind him.

  He whirled round and came face to face with the beautiful stranger. “Let’s just say that my illustrious colleagues were more interested in the refreshments than my script,” he said, delighted to see her again.

  “Then perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner and telling me about your play.” She smiled at him seductively and he found himself assenting. In his imagination, he was stripping her of her garments one by one. He was willing to bet that she smelled of cream and silk.

  “I’m not very presentable,” he said regretfully. “I’ve only just arrived and I haven’t had time to freshen up or shave.”

  “So I see,” she said, looking him up and down. “It won’t take long to fix: I can lend you some suitable clothes.” She stood alongside him and he offered her his arm. “I’m Lirkim,” she told him, pulling him along.

  “How far is your boarding house?” he enquired. Having given private performances in a number of the hostelries, he was keen to avoid a scene. The last thing he wanted was to encounter an angry husband or father, especially with Lirkim around.

  She stopped outside the palace gates and shook her head. “I’m not staying in a boarding house, Master Rodario.” She uttered a strange incantation and traced a symbol elegantly in the air. The gates swung open. “We’re here.”

  He stood frozen to the spot. “You’re with the avatars? I didn’t realize they’d brought their courtiers as well.”

  “Is there a problem?” she enquired. “The avatars won’t hurt you if your intentions are honorable, which I’m sure they are.” Since their arms were still interlinked, she waited until he was ready before leading him through the gates.

  Now he was seriously worried—not for himself, but for the others, who wouldn’t be able to get in. He thanked the gods for his good fortune. What luck! He smiled. First he would enjoy a night of passion, or at least a good bath and a decent meal, and later he would search the palace for Balyndis and Dorsa. I’ll be a hero! Ha, I can’t wait to see the look on Boïndil’s face…

  “What now?” enquired Lirkim. “A moment ago you were terrified, and now you’re grinning from ear to ear.”

  “No wonder,” he said quickly. “I can’t wait to see inside the palace. It’s an incredible honor.”

  A look of puzzlement crossed her face as they made their way up the broad steps past the sentries. “But you were in charge of rebuilding the city. Surely Andôkai must have invited you inside?”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid the maga made a big secret of the palace. She was worried about people leaking information that might facilitate an enemy attack, especially after the avatars sent someone to assassinate her in her own halls.”

  “Where is she at the moment?”

  “You’re referring to her successor, Narmora, I assume? She left for the north. Her instructions were to continue with the building work in her absence.” He automatically started walking to Furgas’s old chamber, but Lirkim pulled him back.

  “Where are you going? You’re supposed to be my guest.”

  He laughed awkwardly. “I wasn’t thinking.” Several guards strode toward them and greeted Lirkim. On seeing Rodario, they stared in surprise.

  Nodding jovially, he smiled as if they were old friends. Their armor was studded with fragments of moonstone, but the metal had lost its brilliance. It seemed the warriors glowed only at the avatars’ behest.

  Rodario was filled with a confidence bordering on recklessness. He was no safer in the palace than in a cave of orcs, but he felt as if Palandiell were clasping him to her breast. Lirkim led the way to the servants’ quarters, summoned two maids whom Rodario had never seen before, and instructed them to attend to his needs.

  “I’ll tell the kitchens that I’m dining with a guest.” She peeled off a glove and held out her milky wrist. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “I look forward to it, my lady,” he said, kissing her soft skin. Cream and silk, he thought.

  Needless to say, Furgas had never intended to enter the palace through the main gates, which he assumed would be guarded. Their arrival in the forecourt would doubtless cause a stir. “Narmora mentioned a couple of side gates. She took me through one of them. It’s visible only to magi, but I should be able to find it again.”

  Boïndil scowled. “Let’s hope so,” he muttered darkly.

  “Patience, brother,” said Boëndal. “We can’t storm the gates, fight our way through to Balyndis and Dorsa, and beat a quick retreat. It takes more than a couple of axes to scare a magician.”

  Furgas ran a hand along the wall. “This is the spot.” He recited an incantation. Nothing happened.

  “Are you sure it’s here?” Tungdil touched t
he wall carefully, but there was no sign of unevenness, much less an opening.

  Ondori repeated the words, and the outlines of a door appeared in the wall.

  Boïndil whirled round. “How did you do it?”

  “Just get inside,” she said disdainfully. “Groundlings know nothing of magic.” She glanced at Furgas. “Humans are just as bad.”

  “And you’re an expert, are you, beanpole?” said Boïndil, bristling. He had no intention of taking orders from an älf, especially if she treated him with such flagrant disrespect.

  “Compared to you,” she said. “Hurry up, you’re in the way.”

  Boëndal pushed his brother through the door to stop him from arguing. One by one they stepped into a garden at the northern end of the expansive palace grounds. There was no one there to stop them.

  “We can’t afford to dally,” said Ondori. “Sooner or later someone will notice your footprints and the hunt will be on.”

  Furgas went to the front of the group and led them to the servants’ quarters, which he assumed were deserted. Suddenly he stopped and pressed himself against the wall. The dwarves froze, aware that their armor might give them away.

  They heard the soft voice of a woman. “I’ll tell the kitchens that I’m dining with a guest,” she said with a slight accent. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “I look forward to it, my lady.” There was no mistaking the voice.

  “Rodario,” whispered Boïndil in astonishment. “How in the name of Vraccas does he do it?”

  “How do you think?” whispered Furgas, grinning. They heard a door close. Peering round the corner, Furgas saw a woman in white furs striding away from the room. “I say we leave him to it and stick to our plan.”

  “He’s getting dinner as well!” hissed an indignant Boïndil.

  “Be quiet,” Ondori told him.

  “Be quiet yourself,” he growled belligerently. “If we’d killed your parents a couple of decades earlier, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

  The älf said nothing, her gray eyes looking daggers at him. Boïndil refused to succumb to her murderous glare.

  Furgas raised a hand. “She’s stopped,” he whispered. Ondori stepped forward and raised her bow. “Hang on… she’s off again.”

  The älf handed the bow to Furgas. “Wait here. I’ll find out what he’s up to,” she said, making for a door that led inside. She listened for a moment, then opened it quietly.

  Rodario was sitting in a tub of warm water, washing away the grime of the journey. The mud and dust of Gauragar dissolved into the perfumed foam, and a couple of pine needles floated to the surface, a reminder of the forest where they had slept the previous night. He picked up a razor and, holding a mirror in one hand, shaved the stubble from his incredibly handsome face.

  “Never assume you’re alone,” said Ondori, staying his hand in case he slit his throat. “So you found your way into the palace?”

  He breathed out in relief. “For the love of Palandiell,” he gasped. “You’re as bad as Narmora with your sneaking about.” She released his hand and he continued to shave. “It’s nice of you to join me—are you the only one?”

  “They’re waiting outside. I wanted to find out what you’re planning.”

  “Tell the others not to worry,” he said in a self-important tone. “In a few moments I shall be dining with a beautiful woman who happens to be part of the avatars’ entourage. I’ll ply her with wine, engage her in small talk, flirt with her a little—and she’ll be putty in my hands.” He put down the razor and stroked his cheeks. “She’ll tell me where to find Balyndis, how to get to Dorsa, and what we can expect from our phony gods of fire.” He checked his cheeks for stray whiskers and smiled at himself in the mirror. “I’ll save the child and the dwarf, and Boïndil will be indebted to me for the rest of his life. An excellent plan, don’t you think?”

  She smiled behind her mask. “Not bad, considering you came up with it on the spot.”

  “It was my intention all along,” he said indignantly. “Anyway, what about you?”

  “Sounds like there’s nothing left for us to do.” She glanced at the conjuring equipment stacked on one of the chairs. “You stick to your plan, we’ll stick to ours. Who knows, we might find Balyndis and Dorsa first.”

  He picked up his razor and drew it through the foam. “You’ll be grateful when I save you,” he predicted. “Now get out of here before the maid comes back.” She didn’t reply, and when he looked up, she was gone. “I know exactly what she and Narmora could do with—a pretty anklet with a bell.” He ran the razor over his cheeks, smoothed his pointed beard, and smiled; Lirkim wouldn’t be able to resist him.

  He’s going to save us?” said Boïndil disbelievingly. “Only in one of his stupid plays! He’s dreaming.”

  “It sounds like a sensible plan,” said Tungdil, wondering how the impresario did it. He had a habit of making an entrance at the critical time. “Rodario might be able to help if we run into trouble later.”

  “Might,” snorted Boïndil. “An anvil might fall over in the breeze.” He didn’t believe for a moment that their mission would fail.

  Furgas preempted a quarrel by steering them into a passageway. “Let’s find Dorsa. We’ll try the nursery first.”

  A short while later they were standing outside the door. Once again it fell to the älf to steal into the room and assess the situation while the dwarves waited as quietly as their armor allowed.

  She ushered them in. “All safe—unless the child is a threat.”

  Furgas hurried past her and peered into the cot where his daughter was sleeping peacefully. There was nothing to suggest she had been hurt. Tungdil, Boïndil, and Boëndal looked on in silence and shared the father’s relief.

  Ondori signaled to them that someone was approaching. The door opened and a woman came in. Before she had time to realize what was happening, the älf grabbed her from behind and set a knife to her throat. “Not a sound,” she whispered savagely.

  “It’s all right,” said Furgas. “It’s the nursemaid.” Ondori hesitated, then released her grip.

  “Rosild!” Furgas threw his arms around her. “Thank goodness you and Dorsa are all right. What happened?”

  Well, sir…” she stuttered, still recovering from the shock. “They marched in and took over the palace. I didn’t know what to do, so I told them Dorsa was my daughter. They said I could stay here if I cooked for the palace guards.”

  Boïndil could scarcely believe his ears. “Just like that? A bit gullible, these avatars.”

  “I have to taste the food to prove it’s not poisoned. If anyone gets gut ache, Dorsa and I will be killed. My nerves are in shreds.”

  Furgas laid his hands on her shoulders. “Poor Rosild, your ordeal is nearly over. We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.”

  “First we need to know what’s happened to Balyndis.” Tungdil stepped forward. “Do you know where she is? She was brought here seven orbits ago, someone said.”

  “Do you mean the dwarf-woman?” She furrowed her brow. “A band of soldiers turned up at the palace. They seemed agitated about something and they were carrying a prisoner—a child or a gnome, I assumed. It didn’t occur to me they’d captured a groundling.”

  “A dwarf,” said Boïndil.

  “I meant a dwarf,” she corrected herself. “They took her to the big chamber with the copper dome. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Get ready to leave,” Tungdil instructed her. “Don’t let the guards see you packing and try to avoid suspicion. Once we’ve rescued Balyndis, we’ll need to get out of the palace as fast as we can. Be sure to bring blankets for Dorsa—it’s cold outside.” Rosild paled slightly, but nodded. Tungdil looked into the grave faces of his companions. “I suppose this is it. For Vraccas and Balyndis!”

  * * *

  Rodario had eyes only for his charming hostess. Lirkim was wearing an exquisitely embroidered dress made of shimmering white material that reached to her calves. Her
face looked more beautiful than ever in the light of the candelabra.

  “Even the candles look dull and lifeless compared to you,” he said appreciatively, raising his glass. He could feel his sleeve slipping down his arm and threatening to reveal the tinderbox strapped to his wrist. Gesturing expansively, he encouraged the fabric to fall toward his hand, taking care not to spill his wine. “To a goddess whose beauty will never fade.”

  “Very chivalrous, my eloquent friend, but wait two decades and my skin will resemble a fishing net.” They clinked glasses and gazed at each other, her green eyes telling him that she accepted the compliment nonetheless.

  Rodario was enjoying the opportunity to make use of his talents. Farmer’s daughters, innkeeper’s wives, and rich gentlewomen were easy to impress, but with Lirkim, flirtation was an art. It gave him high hopes for her lovemaking, which he intended to sample that night. But first he had to obtain a few key pieces of information so that he could leave her sated, asleep, and smiling, while he completed his mission and got one over on the dwarves.

  He adjusted his sleeves and rounded the table to refill her glass. A drop of red wine splashed from the decanter and landed on her shoulder.

  “How careless of me.” On the spur of the moment he decided to kiss away the droplet with his lips. She did nothing to stop him and turned her head so that he could press his mouth to her soft, snowy skin. “Oh, there’s another one,” he said, lifting her long brown hair and kissing her neck. To his satisfaction he saw a shiver of pleasure run down her back. I’m irresistible, he thought smugly, returning to his seat. The sparks of passion are flying; how long until the fire is lit?

  His sleeves rode up again. He swore silently and pulled them down to cover the tinderboxes. He was wearing the contraptions only because he had nowhere to put them except his pockets, and Lirkim would notice the bulge. Later, he would have to distract her sufficiently so that he could remove his props before he stripped off his clothes.