Elven Star

3

Calandra returned to her work on the account books as a soothing antidote to the wild vagaries of her family. The house was quiet. Her father and the astrologer puttered about in the cellar but, knowing that his daughter was more near exploding than his magical powder, Lenthan thought it wise to refrain from any further experiments along those lines.

After dinner, Calandra performed one more act related to the business. She sent a servant with a message for the birdman, addressed to Master Roland of Griffith, Jungleflower Tavern.

The birdman attached the message to the foot of a faultless that had been trained to fly to Terncia and cast the brightly colored bird in the air. The faultless glided effortlessly through the sky, riding the air currents that ebbed and flowed among the towering trees.

The bird had her mind strictly on her destination, where her mate, locked in a cage, awaited her. She kept no watch for predators, there was nothing living that wanted her for food. The faultless secretes an oil that keeps its feathers dry during the frequent rainstorms. This oil is deadly poison to all species of life except the faultless.

The faultless winged its way norinth-vars, a route that took it over the grounds and mansions of the elven peerage and across Lake Enthial. The bird dipped low over the elven farmlands that grew in the upper moss beds, forming a patchwork of unnaturally straight lines. Human slaves toiled in the fields, tending the crops. The faultless wasn’t particularly hungry; she’d been fed before starting, but a mouse would top off her dinner nicely. She couldn’t see one, however, and continued on, disappointed. The carefully cultivated elven lands soon disappeared into the jungle wild. Streams, fed by the daily rains, gathered into rivers atop the moss beds. Winding their way through the jungle, the rivers occasionally found a break in the upper layers of the moss and cascaded down into the dark depths below. Wisps of clouds began to drift before the bird’s eyes, and she flew higher, gaining altitude, climbing above the storms of rain’s hour. Eventually the thick, black, lightning-shot mass completely blocked her view of the land. She knew where she was, however; instinct guiding her. The Lord Marcins Forests lay below her; they were named by the elves but claimed by neither elves nor human due to the fact that their jungle growth was impenetrable. The storm came and went, as it had done time out of mind since the creation of the world. The sun shone brightly, and the bird could see settled lands—Thillia, realm of the humans. From her great height, the bird noted three of the sparkling, sunlit towers that marked the five divisions of the Thillian kingdom. The towers, ancient by human standards, were built of crystal bricks, the secret of whose making had been known to human wizards during the reign of King George the Only. The secret, as well as many of the wizards, had been lost in the devastating War for Love that followed the old king’s death.

The faultless used the towers to mark her destination, then swooped down, flying low over the humans’ lands. Built on a broad moss plain, dotted here and there with trees that had been left standing for their shade, the country was flat, criss-crossed with roads and pockmarked with small towns. The roads were well traveled; humans having a curious need to be constantly on the move, a need the sedentary elves could never understand and one that they considered barbaric. The hunting was far more favorable in this part of the world, and the faultless took a brief moment to fortify herself on a largish rat. Meal finished, she cleaned her claws on her beak, preened her feathers, and took to the air. When she saw the flat lands begin to give way to thick jungle, the bird felt cheered, for she was nearing the end of her long journey. She was over Temcia, the kingdom farthest norinth. Arriving at the walled city surrounding the crystal brick tower that marked the capital of Terncia, the lard heard the rough call of her mate. She dove from the sky, spiral-ing down into the city’s heart, and landed on the leather-covered arm of a Thillian birdman. He removed the message, noted the designation, and placed the weary faultless into the cage with her mate, who greeted her with tiny nips of his beak.

The birdman handed the message to a circuit rider. Several days later, the rider entered a crude and half-thought-through village standing on the very edges of the jungle and dropped the message off at the village’s only inn. Seated in his favorite booth in the Jungleflower, Master Roland of Griffith studied the fine quin scroll. Grinning, he shoved it across the table to a young woman who sat across from him.

“There! What did I tell you, Rega?”

“Thank Thillia, that’s all I can say.” Rega’s tone was grim, she wasn’t smiling. “Now you at least have something to show old Blackboard and maybe he’ll leave us be for a stretch!”

“I wonder where he is?” Roland glanced at the hour flower[12] that stood in a pot on the bar. Almost twenty petals were folded down. “It’s past his usual time.”

“He’ll be here. This is too important to him.”

“Yeah, and that makes me nervous.”

“Developing a conscience?” Rega drained her mug of kegrot and glanced about for the barmaid.

“No, I just don’t like doing business here, in a public place—”

“All the better. Everything’s aboveboard and out in the open. No one could have any suspicions of us. Ah, here he is. What did I tell you?” The inn’s door opened and a dwarf stood bathed in the dicing hour’s bright sunlight. He was an imposing sight, and nearly everyone in the inn paused in their drinking, gambling, and conversing to stare at him. Slightly above average height for his people, he had ruddy brown skin and a shaggy mane of curly black hair and beard that gave him his nickname among humans. Thick black brows meeting over a hooked nose and flashing black eyes gave him a perpetually fierce expression that served him well in alien lands. Despite the heat, he wore a red—and-white striped silken shirt and over that the heavy leather armor of his people, with bright red pants tucked into tall, thick boots.

Those in the bar sniggered and exchanged grins at the dwarf’s garish clothing. If they had known anything at all about dwarven society and what the bright colors of his clothing portended, they wouldn’t have laughed. The dwarf paused in the doorway, blinking his eyes, half-blinded from the bright sun.

“Blackbeard, my friend,” Roland called, rising from his seat. “Over here!” The dwarf clumped into the inn, the black eyes darting here and there, staring down any who seemed too bold. Dwarves were a rarity in Thillia. The dwarven kingdom was far to the norinth-est of the humans’ and there was little contact between the two. But this particular dwarf had been in town for five days now and his appearance had ceased to be a novelty. Griffith was a squalid place located on the borders of two kingdoms, neither of which claimed it. The inhabitants did what they liked—an arrangement that suited most of them, because most of them had come from parts of Thillia where doing what they liked generally got them hung. The people of Griffith might wonder what a dwarf was up to in their town, but no one would wonder aloud.

“Barkeep, three more!” called Roland, holding aloft his mug.

“We have cause to celebrate, my friend,” he said to the dwarf, who slowly took a seat.

“Ya?” grunted the dwarf, regarding the two with dark suspicion. Roland, grinning, ignored his guest’s obvious animosity and handed over the message.

“I cannot read these words,” said the dwarf, tossing the quin scroll back across the table. , The arrival of the barmaid with the kegrot interrupted them.

•Mugs were distributed. The slovenly barmaid gave the table a quick, disinterested swipe with a greasy rag, glanced curiously at the dwarf, and slouched away.

“Sorry, I forgot you can’t read elvish. The shipment’s on its way, Blackbeard,” said Roland in a casual undertone. “It will be here within the Fallow.”

“My name is Drugar. And that is what this paper says?” The dwarf tapped it with a thick-fingered hand. ,. “Sure is, Blackbeard, my friend.”

“I am not your friend, human,” muttered the dwarf, but the words were in his language and spoken to his beard. His lips parted in what might almost have been a smile. “That is good news.” He sounded grudging.

. “We’ll drink to it.” Roland raised his mug, nudging Rega, who had been eyeing the dwarf with a suspicion equal to that with which Blackbeard was eyeing them. “To business.”

“I will drink to this,” said the dwarf, after appearing to consider the matter. He raised his mug. “To business.” Roland drained his noisily. Rega took a sip. She never drank to excess. One of them had to remain sober. Besides, the dwarf .wasn’t drinking. He merely moistened his lips. Dwarves don’t care for kegrot, which is, admittedly, weak and fiat tasting compared to their own rich brew.

“I was just wondering, partner,” said Roland, leaning forward, hunching over .his drink, “just what you’re going to be using these weapons for?” …

“Acquiring a conscience, human?”

Roland cast a wry glance at Rega, who—hearing her words repeated—shrugged and looked away, silently asking what other answer he might have expected to such a stupid question.

“You are being paid enough not to ask, but I will tell you anyway because my people are honorable.”

“So honorable you have to deal with smugglers, is that it, Blackbeard?” Roland grinned, paying the dwarf back.

The black brows came together alarmingly, the black eyes flared. “I would have dealt openly and legitimately, but the laws of your land prevent it. My people need these weapons. You have heard about the peril coming from the norinth?”

“The SeaKings?”

Roland gestured to the barmaid. Rega laid her hand on his, warning him to go slowly, but he shoved her away.

“Bah! No!” The dwarf gave a contemptuous snort. “I mean norinth of our lands. Far norinth, only not so far anymore.”

“No. Haven’t heard a thing, Blackbeard, old buddy. What is it?”

“Humans—the size of mountains. They are coming out of the norinth, destroying everything in their path.”

Roland choked on his drink and started to laugh. The dwarf appeared to literally swell with rage, and Rega dug her nails into her partner’s arm. Roland, with difficulty, stifled his mirth.

“Sony, friend, sorry. But I heard that story from my dear old dad when he was in his cups. So the tytans are going to attack us. I suppose the Five Lost Lords of Thillia will come back at the same time.” Reaching across the table, Roland patted the angry dwarf on the shoulder. “Keep your secret, then, my friend. As long as we get our money, my wife and I don’t care what you do or who you kill.”

The dwarf glowered, jerked his arm away from the human’s touch.

“Don’t you have somewhere to go, Husband, dear?” said Rega pointedly. Roland rose to his feet. He was tall and muscular, blond and handsome. The barmaid, who knew him well, brushed against him when he stood up.

“ ’Scuse me. Gotta pay a visit to a tree. Damn kegrot runs right through me.” He made his way through the common room that was rapidly growing more crowded and more noisy.

Rega put on her most winning smile and came around the table to seat herself beside the dwarf. The young woman was almost exactly opposite in appearance from Roland. Short and full-figured, she was dressed both for the heat and for conducting business, wearing a linen blouse that revealed more than it covered. Tied in a knot at her breasts, it left her midriff bare. Leather pants, cut off at the knees, fit her legs like a second skin. Her flesh was tanned a deep golden brown and, in the heat of the tavern, glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Her brown hair was parted in the center of her head and hung straight and shining as rain-soaked tree bark down her back.

Rega knew the dwarf wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to her physically. Probably because I don’t have a beard, she reflected, grinning to herself, remembering what she’d heard about dwarven women. He did seem eager to discuss this fairy tale his people’d dreamed up. Rega never liked to let a customer go away angry.

“Forgive my husband, sir. He’s had a little too much to drink. But I’m interested. Tell me more about the tytans.”

“Tytans.” The dwarf appeared to taste the strange word. “That is what you call them in your language?”

“I guess so. Our legends tell of gigantic humans, great warriors, formed by the gods of the stars long ago to serve them. But no such beings have been seen in Thillia since before the time of the Lost Lords.”

“I do not know if these … tytans … are the same or not.” Blackbeard shook his head. “Our legends do not speak of such creatures. We are not interested in the stars. We who live beneath the ground rarely see them. Our legends tell of the Forgers, the ones who, along with the father of all dwarves, Drakar, first built this world. It is said that someday the Forgers will return and enable us to build cities whose size and magnificence are beyond belief.”

“If you think these giants are the—er—Forgers, then why the weapons?” Blackboard’s face grew shadowed, the lines deepened. “That is what some of my people believe. There are others of us who have talked to the refugees of the norinth lands. They tell of terrible destruction and killings. I think perhaps the legends have got it wrong. That is why the weapons.” Rega had, at first, thought the dwarf was lying. She and Roland had decided that Blackbeard meant to use the weapons to attack a few scattered human colonies. But, seeing the black eyes grow shadowed, hearing the heaviness in (he dwarf’s voice, Rega changed her mind. Blackbeard, at least, believed in this fantastic enemy and that was truly why he was buying the weapons. The thought was comforting. This was the first time she and Roland had ever smuggled weapons, and—no matter what Roland might say—Rega was relieved to know that she wouldn’t be responsible for the deaths of her own people.

“Hey, Blackbeard, what are you doing—getting cqsy with my wife, huh?” Roland eased himself back down at the table. Another mug awaited him, and he drank deeply.

Noting the shocked and darkening scowl on Blackbeard’s face, Rega gave Roland a swift and painful kick beneath the table. “We were discussing legends, dear. I’ve heard it said that dwarves are fond of songs. My husband has an excellent voice. Perhaps, sir, you would like to hear the ‘Lay of Thillia’? It tells the story of the lords of our land and how the five kingdoms were formed.” Blackbeard’s face brightened, “Ya, I would like to hear it” Rega thanked the stars she had spent time digging up everything she could about dwarven society. Dwarves do not have a fondness for music. They have an absolute passion for it. All dwarves play musical instruments, most of them have excellent singing voices and perfect pitch. They have only to hear a song once to catch the melody and need hear it only a second time to pick up the words.

Roland had an excellent tenor voice, and he sang the hauntingly beautiful lay with exquisite feeling. The people in the bar hushed to hear him, and there were many among the rough crowd who wiped their eyes when the song came to the end. The dwarf listened with rapt attention and Rega, sighing, knew that they had another satisfied customer.

Rega concluded the story. “Thillia’s body was recovered and placed in a sacred shrine in the center of the realm in a place that belongs equally to all five kingdoms. The bodies of her lovers were never recovered, and from this sprang the legend that some day, when the, nation is in dire peril, the brothers will come back and save their people.”

“I liked that!” shouted the dwarf, thumping the table with his hand to express his appreciation. He actually went so far as to tap Roland on the forearm with a stubby finger; the first time in five days the dwarf had ever touched either human. “I like that very much-Have I got the tune?” Blackbeard hummed the melody in a deep bass.

“Yes, sir! Exactly!” cried Roland, much amused. “Would you Bice me to teach you the words?”

“I have them. Up here.” Blackbeard tapped his forehead. “I am a quick student.”

“I guess so!” said Roland, winking at the woman. Rega grinned back.

“I would like to hear it again, but I must be going,” said Blackbeard with true regret, shoving himself up from the table. “I must tell my people the good news.” Sobering for a moment, he added, “They will be greatly relieved.” Putting his hands on a belt around his waist, the dwarf unbuckled it and flung it on the table. “There is half the money, as we agreed. The Other half on delivery.”

Roland’s hand closed swiftly over the belt and pushed it across to Rega. She opened it, glanced inside, made a swift eye count, and nodded.

“Fine, my friend,” said Roland, not bothering to stand up. “We’ll meet you at the agreed-on place in late Fallow.”

Afraid that the dwarf might be offended, Rega rose to her feet and extended her hand—palm open to show there was no Weapon—in the age-old human gesture of friendship. The dwarves have no such custom; there had never been a time when dwarves fought each other. Blackbeard had been around humans long enough to know that this pressing together of palms was significant. He did what was expected of him and hurriedly left the tavern, wiping his hand on his leather jerkin and humming the tune to the “Lay of Thillia” as he walked.

“Not bad for a night’s work,” said Roland, buckling the money belt around his waist, cinching it in, for his waist was torn and the dwarf was robust.

“No thanks to you!” Rega muttered. The woman drew the raztar[13] from its round scabbard she wore on her thigh and made a show of sharpening all seven blades, glancing meaningfully at those in the inn who were taking just a bit too much interest in their affairs. “I pulled your fat out of the fire. Blackbeard would’ve walked out, if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Ah, I could’ve cut his beard off and he wouldn’t have dared take offense. He can’t afford to.”

“You know,” added Rega in an unusually somber and reflective mood, “he was really, truly frightened.”

“So he was frightened? All the better for business. Sis,” said Roland briskly. Rega glanced around sharply, then leaned forward. “Don’t call me ‘Sis’! Soon we’ll be traveling with that elf, and one little slip like that will ruin everything!”

“Sorry, ‘Wifey, dear.’” Roland finished off the kegrot, and shook his head regretfully when the barmaid glanced his way. Carrying this much money, he needed to remain relatively alert. “So the dwarves are planning an attack on some human settlement. Probably the SeaKings. I wonder if we couldn’t sell our next shipment to them.”

“You don’t think the dwarves will attack Thillia?”

“Now who’s getting a conscience? What’s it matter to us? If the dwarves don’t attack Thillia, the SeaKings will. And if the SeaKings don’t attack Thillia, Thillia will attack itself. Whatever happens, as I said, it’s good for business.”

Depositing a couple of wooden lord’s crowns on the table, the two left the tavern. Roland walked in front, his hand on the hilt of his bladewood sword. Rega followed a pace or two behind him to guard his back as was their custom. They were a formidable-looking pair and had lived long enough in Griffith to establish the reputation of being tough, quick, and not much given to mercy. Several people eyed them, but no one troubled them. The two and their money arrived safely at the shack they called home.

Rega pulled shut the heavy wooden door and bolted it carefully from the inside. Peering outdoors, she drew dosed the rags that she’d hung over the windows and gave Roland a nod. He lifted a three-legged wooden table and set it against the door. Kicking aside a rag rug lying on the floor, he revealed a trapdoor in the floor and, beneath it, a hole that had been dug in the moss. Roland tossed the money belt into the hole, shut the trapdoor, and arranged the rug and the table over it.

Rega put out a hunk of stale bread and a round of moldy cheese. “Speaking of business, what do you know about this elf, this Paithan Quindiniar?” Roland tore off a piece of bread with strong teeth, forked a bite of cheese into his mouth. “Nothing,” he mumbled, chewing steadily. “He’s an elf, which means he’ll be a wilting lily, except where it comes to you, my charming sister.”

“I’m your charming wife. Don’t forget that.” Rega playfully poked her brother in the hand with one of the wooden blades of her raztar. She hacked off another slice of cheese. “Do you really think it will work?”

“Sure. The guy who told me about it says the scam never fails. You know elves are mad about human women. We introduce ourselves as husband and wife, but our marriage isn’t exactly a passionate one. You’re starved for affection. You flirt with the elf and lead him on and when he lays a hand on your quivering breast, you suddenly remember that you’re a respectable married lady and you scream like a banshee.

“I come to the rescue, threaten to cut off the elf’s pointed … urn … ears. He buys his life by giving us the goods for half price. We sell them to the dwarves at full price, plus a little extra for our ‘trouble’ and we’re set up for the next few seasons.”

“But after that, we’ll need to deal with the Quindiniar family again—”

“And we will. I’ve heard that this female elf who runs the business and the family is a pickle-faced old prude. Baby brother won’t dare tell his sister he tried to break up our ‘happy home.’ And we can make certain he gets us an extra-good price the next time.”

“It sounds easy enough,” admitted Rega. Hooking a wineskin with her hand, she tilted the liquid into her mouth, then shoved it across to her brother.

“Here’s to wedded bliss, my beloved ‘Husband.’ ”

“Here’s to infidelity, my dear ‘Wife.’ ”

The two, laughing, drank.

Drugar left the Jungleflower Tavern but the dwarf did not immediately leave Griffith. Slipping into the shadows cast by a gigantic tentpalm plant, he waited and watched until the man and the woman came outside. Drugar would have liked very much to follow them, but he knew his own limitations. The clumsy-footed dwarves are not made for stealthy sneaking. And, in the human city of Griffith, he couldn’t simply lose himself in a crowd.

He contented himself with eyeing the two carefully as they walked away. Drugar didn’t trust them, but he wouldn’t have trusted Saint Thillia had she appeared before him. He hated having to depend on a middle man and would much rather have dealt with the elves directly. That was impossible, however. The current Lords of Thillia had made an agreement with the Quindiniars that they would not seil their magical, intelligent weapons to the dwarves or the barbaric SeaKings. In return, the Thillians agreed to purchase a guaranteed number of weapons per season.

Such an arrangement suited the elves. And if elven weapons found their way into the hands of SeaKings and dwarves, it certainly wasn’t the fault of the Quindiniars. After all, as Calandra was wont to state testily, how could she be expected to tell a human raztar runner from a legitimate representative of the Lords, of Thillia? All humans looked alike to her. And so did their money. Just before Roland and Rega vanished from Drugar’s sight, the dwarf lifted a black rune-carved stone that hung from a leather thong around his neck. The stone was smooth and rounded, worn down from loving handling, and it was old—older than Drugar’s father, who was one of the oldest living inhabitants on Pryan.

Lifting the stone, Drugar held it up in the air so that, from his viewpoint, the stone appeared to cover Roland and Rega. The dwarf moved the rock in a pattern, muttered words accompanied the tracing of the sigil that copied the rune carved into the stone. When he was finished, he slipped the stone reverently back into the folds of his clothing and spoke aloud to the two, who were Founding a corner and would soon be lost to the dwarf’s sight.

“I did not sing the rune for you because I have a liking for you—either of you. I put the charm of protection on you so that I may be certain of getting the weapons my people need. When the deal is done, I will break the rune. And Drakar take you both.” Spitting on the ground, Drugar plunged into the jungle, tearing and hacking a path through the thick undergrowth.