The War of the Dwarves (74 page)

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.

H
e’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!”

* * *

R
odario 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.

“Only two droplets?” she asked teasingly, turning back to her plate.

His eyes twinkled. “We’ll see what happens next time. Incidentally, where did you get the wine?”

“It’s from the maga’s cellars. It pays to be on the right side: The winner takes all.”

“Do you think the avatars mind that you’re dining with Narmora’s former aide?”

“Former?” she queried, eying him intently.

Rodario felt suddenly queasy.
Has she guessed?
“Well…” He cleared his throat. “I’m a citizen of Porista, and Porista belongs to the avatars, so I’m assuming I work for
them.”

“I applaud your wisdom. It will save you a lot of trouble.” She laughed a tinkling laugh. “No, the avatars don’t mind. Their
enemies are right to be terrified, but innocent people have nothing to fear.”

“I imagine the maga’s servants were relieved,” he remarked, trying to steer the conversation to Dorsa. “Didn’t Narmora have
a personal maid?”

Lirkim nodded and popped a morsel of meat into her mouth. He waited while she chewed her mouthful and swallowed it down. “Yes,
Rosild and her baby daughter are still in the palace. She’s an excellent cook. Nothing much has changed, as you can see.”

“The avatars aren’t nearly as frightening as I’d heard,” he said, trying not to look relieved by the news that Rosild and
Dorsa were well.

“Really?” Lirkim rested her cutlery on her plate. “What have you heard?”

“Everyone says they’re mythical creatures, fiery beings that scorch the earth beneath their feet…” He stopped short. “It doesn’t
make sense, if you think about it.”

“Of course it doesn’t, otherwise Porista wouldn’t be standing now. What else have you heard? It sounds like good material
for a play.”

“For several plays.” Passing off the story as hearsay, he described what he had seen in Dsôn Balsur, including everything
from the cloud of fire to the soldiers’ shining armor. He didn’t mention the deaths of the avatars. Lirkim listened attentively
and seemed amused. “According to some, they even captured a dwarf-woman,” he added. “Personally, I don’t believe it. What
would the avatars want with a dwarf?” He speared a piece of meat on his fork.

“Much of what you say is true,” she said, smiling. She took a sip of wine, prompting him to toast her again and refill her
glass. He had been plying her with alcohol for over an hour, and he was gratified to see that her cheeks were a healthy red.
“The rest is smoke and mirrors.” She clapped a hand to her mouth and looked worried. “Forget what I said.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, laughing it off. “I’m not going to report you to the avatars. I’m sure they’re capable of conjuring
as many illusory dwarf-women as they please.”

“Oh, she’s real enough. They took her prisoner because she had a secret.” She laughed girlishly. “But groundlings are tough
little characters.”

“A secret, you say? Don’t tell me the celestial avatars are interested in turning iron into gold?” He chuckled contentedly
to set her at ease.

“The avatars don’t need gold.” She clinked glasses again with Rodario. “No, the dwarf-woman knows how to make a special… It’s
old news, anyway. Things have moved on.” Her eyelids were getting heavier and she reached for his thigh. “Well, my fabulous
Rodario, perhaps we should…?”

“Absolutely,” he said eagerly. “Who cares about a dwarf-woman’s secrets?”

“The avatars don’t.” She got up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Soon they’ll be so powerful that even the gods will
fear them. They’ll take whichever lands they like and rule over vast swathes of territory. They’ll be mightier than the mightiest
kings, all-powerful and invincible, and Girdlegard…” She bit her lip, a gesture that Rodario would normally have found incredibly
alluring. “But enough of that.”

Rodario was never slow to show off his manhood, but Lirkim’s description of the avatars had roughly the same effect as ice
in his breeches or an angry husband in the room. His ardor was gone.

Just then the door flew open with a bang.

There’s the husband, so where’s the ice?
He knew from the sound, a sound he had heard on countless occasions, that the person was furious—as furious as a cuckold
had every right to be.

A fair-haired man of thirty cycles burst into the room. He was wearing white robes and carrying a short staff like a shepherd’s
crook. Behind him were three soldiers whose faces Rodario recognized from his arrival at the palace earlier that evening.
The cozy little dinner had reached a premature end. “Are you married?” he hissed at Lirkim, who shook her head and seemed
taken aback by the intrusion. “I guess the avatars don’t approve of my presence after all…”

“That’s him,” cried one of the soldiers, pointing his sword at Rodario. “I told you, Fascou, it’s definitely him.”

“Move away, Lirkim.” The man in the robes looked at her sternly.

She put herself between the soldiers and Rodario. “No, Fascou, you’re not going to hurt him. Go back to tinkering with the
force fields and leave us alone. You’ve got the groundling to entertain you; let me have my fun.”

“Come on, Lirkim,” he said soothingly. “You’ve had a bit to drink, but the man you’re protecting is our enemy. His name is
Rodario and—”

“The fabulous Rodario,” she said thickly. “I know. He’s an impresario and he owns the Curiosum. He’s—”

The man stepped forward and held out his hand, beckoning to her. “His name is Rodario the Fablemaker, and he’s apprenticed
to Narmora.”

The soldier nodded. “That’s right, I saw him on the battlefield. Throwing fire, he was, and melting my comrades like butter
in the sun.”

Rodario couldn’t believe it. His biggest dream was to be recognized by strangers, for his reputation to extend beyond the
confines of a particular city or realm. At last he had attained true celebrity—and it was likely to end in his death.

A good actor never disappoints his audience…
Standing tall, he grabbed the astonished Lirkim with his left hand and flung his right arm toward the white-robed man. “Rodario
the Fablemaker is my name!” he proclaimed, letting out an evil-sounding cackle. “Stay where you are! Move and this innocent
woman will…”

Suddenly, faster than a gust of wind can snuff out a candle, a blinding light appeared before him. Dazzled, he saw nothing
but brilliant whiteness. He let go of Lirkim, who had turned into a fiery sun.

F
urgas led the group confidently through the dark corridors of the palace. At last they reached the great hall. The avatars
obviously weren’t worried about the dwarf escaping because the doors had been left wide open.

“What if it’s a trap?” asked Boëndal, but Ondori was already inside, reconnoitering the room. She returned in an instant.

“We’ve found the groundling,” she reported, stepping aside to let them in.

It was immediately clear why no one was guarding the hall.

Balyndis was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Her legs and arms had been broken, and bits of bone were poking
through her skin. She was smeared with blood and pus, and her bare chest was covered in cuts and burn marks. Clumps of brown
hair lay scattered on the flagstones. Her hands and feet were shackled and chained to the floor.

Tungdil’s eyes welled with tears.
What have they done to you?
He kneeled down and placed his hand on her brow.
She’s feverish
. Raising his ax, he smashed through her chains. She didn’t acknowledge his presence or register the noise: Her eyes were
closed.

“I’ll teach them to torture a dwarf,” growled Ireheart, enraged by the sight of the suffering Balyndis. His eyes glinted wildly.
“By the ax of Beroïn, I’ll rip them to pieces with my hands.”

Boëndal took off his coat and gave it to Tungdil to wrap around their motionless friend. “It’s bad enough what they’ve done
to her body. What about her mind?”

“The fact that she’s alive is proof of her resilience—she’s still holding out, despite what they’ve done to her.” Tungdil
picked her up and balanced her on his shoulder. “They would have killed her if she’d cracked.”

He made up his mind to show no mercy to the false avatars, who claimed to be fighting in the service of good. Nothing could
justify their treatment of those who stood in their way.