The Sword of Bedwyr

19 In Hallowed Halls

Feigning interest, Duke Morkney leaned forward in his wooden chair, his skinny elbows poking out of his voluminous red robe, hands set on his huge desk. Across from him, several merchants spoke all at once, the only common words in their rambling being “theft” and “Crimson Shadow.”

Duke Morkney had heard it all before from these same men many times over the last few weeks, and he was truly growing tired of it.

“And worst of all,” one merchant cried above the tumult, quieting the others, “I cannot get that damned shadow stain off of my window! What am I to reply to the snickers of all who see it? It is a brand, I say!”

“Hear, hear!” several others agreed.

Morkney raised one knobby hand and thinned his lips, trying to bite back his laughter. “He is a thief, no more,” the duke assured them. “We have lived with thieves far too long to let the arrival of a new one—one that conveniently leaves his mark—bother us so.”

“You do not understand!” one merchant pleaded, but his face paled and he went silent immediately when Morkney’s withered face and bloodshot amber eyes turned upon him, the duke scowling fiercely.

“The commoners may help this one,” another merchant warned, trying to deflect the vicious duke’s ire.

“Help him what?” Morkney replied skeptically. “Steal a few baubles? By your own admission, this thief seems no more active than many of the others who have been robbing you of late. Or is it just that his calling card, this shadowy image, stings your overblown pride?”

“The dwarf in the square . . .” the man began.

“Will be punished accordingly,” Morkney finished for him. He caught the gaze of a merchant at the side of his desk and winked. “We can never have too many dwarvish workers, now can we?” he asked slyly, and that seemed to appease the group somewhat.

“Go back to your shops,” Morkney said to them all, leaning back and waving his bony arms emphatically. “King Greensparrow has hinted that our production is not where it should be—that, I say, is a more pressing problem than some petty thief, or some ridiculous shadows that you say you cannot remove.”

“He slipped through our trap,” one of the merchants tried to explain, drawing nods from three of the others who had been in on the ambush at the Avenue of the Artisans.

“Then set another trap, if that is what needs be done!” Morkney snapped at him, the duke’s flashing amber eyes forcing the four cohorts back a step.

Grumbling, the merchant contingent left the duke’s office.

“Crimson Shadow, indeed,” the old wizard muttered, shuffling through the parchments to find the latest word from Greensparrow. Morkney had been among that ancient brotherhood of wizards, had been alive when the original Crimson Shadow had struck fear into the hearts of merchants across Eriador, even into Princetown and other cities of northern Avon. Much had been learned of the man back in those long-past days, though he had never been caught.

And now he was back? Morkney thought the notion completely absurd. The Crimson Shadow was a man—a long-dead man by now. More likely, some petty thief had stumbled across the legendary thief’s magical cape. The calling card might be the same, but that did not make the man the same.

“A petty thief,” Morkney muttered, and he snickered aloud, thinking of the tortures this new Crimson Shadow would surely endure when the merchants finally caught up to him.

“I work alone,” Oliver insisted.

Luthien stared at him blankly.

“Alone with you!” Oliver clarified in a huffy tone. The halfling stood tall (relatively speaking) in his best going-out clothes, his plumed chapeau capping the spectacle of Oliver deBurrows, swashbuckler. “It is very different being a part of a guild,” he went on, his face sour. “Sometimes you must give more than half of your take—and you may only go where they tell you to go. I do not like being told where to go!”

Luthien didn’t have any practical arguments to offer; he wasn’t certain that he wanted to join the Cutters anyway, not on any practical level. But Luthien did know that he wanted to see more of Siobhan, and if joining the thieving band was the means to that end, then the young Bedwyr was willing to make the sacrifice.

“I know what you are thinking,” Oliver said in accusatory tones.

Luthien sighed deeply. “There is more to life, Oliver, than thievery,” he tried to explain. “And more than material gain. I’ll not argue that joining with Siobhan and her friends may lessen our take and our freedom, but it might bring us a measure of security. You saw the trap the merchants set for us.”

“That is exactly why you cannot join any band,” Oliver snapped at him.

Luthien didn’t understand.

“Why would you so disappoint your admirers?” Oliver asked.

“Admirers?”

“You have heard them,” the halfling replied. “Always they talk of the Crimson Shadow, and always their mouths turn up at the edges when they speak the name. Except for the merchant-types, of course, and that makes it all the sweeter.”

Luthien shook his head blankly. “I will still wear the cape,” he stammered. “The mark . . .”

“You will steal the mystery,” Oliver explained. “All of Montfort will know that you have joined with the Cutters, and thus you will lower your budding reputation to the standards of that band. No, I say! You must remain an independent rogue, acting on your own terms and of your own accord. We will fool these silly merchant-types until they grow too wary, then we will move on—the Crimson Shadow will simply disappear from the streets of Montfort. The legend will grow.”

“And then?”

Oliver shrugged as if that did not matter. “We will find another town—Princetown in Avon, perhaps. And then we will return to Montfort in a few years and let the legend grow anew. You have done something marvelous here, though you are not old enough to understand it,” the halfling said. It seemed to Luthien that this was about as profound and intense as he had ever heard Oliver. “But you, the Crimson Shadow, the one who has fooled the silly merchant-types and stolen their goods from under their fat noses, have given to the people who live on the lower side of Montfort’s wall something they have not had in many, many years.”

“And that is?” Luthien asked, and all the sarcasm had left his voice by this point.

“Hope,” Oliver answered. “You have given hope to them. Now, I am going to the market. Are you coming?”

Luthien nodded, but stood in the room for several minutes after Oliver had departed, deep in thought. There was a measure of truth in what the halfling had said, Luthien realized. By some trick of fate, a chance gift after a chance meeting with an eccentric wizard, and that after a chance meeting with an even more eccentric halfling, he, Luthien Bedwyr, had found himself carrying on a legend he had never heard of. He had been thrust into the forefront of the common cause of those who had been left out of King Greensparrow’s designs for wealth.

“A peasant hero?” remarked the young man who was not a peasant at all. The furious irony, the layers of pure coincidence, nearly overwhelmed Luthien, and though he was truly confused by it all, an unmistakable spring was evident in his step as he ran out to catch up with Oliver.

The day was cold and gray—typical for the season—and the market was not so crowded. Most of the worthy goods had been bought or stolen and no new caravans had come in, or would for many months.

It didn’t take long for Luthien and Oliver to wish that more people were at the plaza. The two, particularly Oliver, were quite a sight, and more than a few cyclopians, including one who wore a thick bandage around his bruised skull, took note of the pair.

They stopped at a kiosk and bought some biscuits for lunch, chatting easily with the proprietor about the weather and the crowd and anything else that came to mind.

“You should not be out here,” came a whisper when the proprietor shuffled away to see to another customer.

Luthien and Oliver looked at each other, and then at a slender figure, cloaked and hooded, standing beside the kiosk. He turned to face them more squarely and peeked up from under the low hood, and they recognized the male half-elf they had met the previous night.

“Do they know?” Oliver asked quietly.

“They suspect,” the half-elf answered. “They’ll not openly accuse you, of course, not with witnesses about.”

“Of course,” Oliver replied. Luthien continued to stare off noncommittally, not wanting to give away the secret conversation and not understanding much of what the half-elf and Oliver were talking about. If the brutish cyclopians suspected him and Oliver, then why didn’t they simply walk over and arrest them? Luthien had been in Montfort long enough to know that the law here required little evidence to haul someone away—gangs of Praetorian Guards were commonplace in the area near to Tiny Alcove and usually left with at least one unfortunate rogue in tow.

“There is news,” the half-elf continued.

“Do tell,” Oliver started to say, but he quieted and looked away as a group of cyclopians ambled past.

“Not now,” came the half-elf’s whisper as soon as the cyclopians had moved off a short distance. “Siobhan will be behind the Dwelf at the rise of the moon.”

“We will be there,” Oliver assured him.

“Just him,” came the reply, and Oliver looked over at Luthien. When Oliver turned his curious glance back the half-elf’s way, he found that the thief had moved along.

With a sigh, the halfling turned back again, toward Luthien and the open plaza, and then he understood the half-elf’s sudden departure. The cyclopian group was returning, this time showing more interest in the pair.

“My papa halfling, he always say,” Oliver whispered to Luthien, “a smart thief can make his way, a smarter thief can get away.” He started off, taking Luthien’s arm, but was forced to stop as the cyclopians rushed in suddenly, encircling the pair.

“Cold day,” one of them remarked.

“Buying the last things for winter?” asked another.

Oliver started to respond, but bit back his retort as Luthien broke in suddenly, looking at the cyclopian directly.

“That we are,” he replied. “Montfort’s winter is colder for some than for others.”

The cyclopian didn’t seem to understand that remark—Oliver wasn’t sure that he did, either. Though Oliver didn’t know it, his last remarks at the apartment had put a spark into the young Bedwyr, had touched a chord in Luthien’s heart. He was feeling quite puffed at this moment—feeling the part of the Crimson Shadow, the silent speaker for the underprivileged, the purveyor of coats for cold children, the thorn in the rich man’s side.

“How long’ve you been in Montfort?” the brute eyeing Luthien asked slyly, fishing for clues.

Now Oliver stepped forward and wrapped his arm about Luthien’s waist forcefully. “Since the day my son was born,” the halfling proclaimed, to the wide-eyed stare of Luthien. “Alas, for his poor mother. She could not accept the size of this one.”

The cyclopians looked at each other in confusion and disbelief. “He’s your father?” the one addressing Luthien asked.

Luthien draped his arm about Oliver’s shoulders. “My papa halfling,” he answered, imitating Oliver’s thick accent.

“And what business—” the cyclopian began to ask, but a comrade of his grabbed his arm and interrupted, motioning for him to drop the matter.

The cyclopian’s fierce scowl diminished as he glanced around the marketplace. Dozens of men, a couple of dwarves, and a handful of elves were watching intently—too intently—their faces grim and more than one of them wearing a dirk or short sword at his belt.

The cyclopian group was soon on its way.

“What happened?” Luthien asked.

“The cyclopians just met people who have found their hearts,” Oliver answered. “Come along and be quick. The Cutter was right—we should not be about this day.”

“Kiss me.” Her melodic tones caught the young man off guard, and the unexpected request nearly buckled his knees.

Luthien froze in place, staring blankly at Siobhan, having no idea of what to do next.

“You want to.” She stated the obvious.

“I came because I was told that there was some news,” Luthien informed her. He wished that he hadn’t said that as soon as the words left his mouth; what a stupid time to be changing the subject!

The half-elf seemed even more alluring to poor Luthien as she stood in the silver moonlight in the shadowy alley behind the Dwelf. She gave a coy smile and pushed her long tresses back from her fair face. Luthien glanced back over his shoulder, as though he expected Oliver to be standing nearby watching him. The halfling had gone into the Dwelf and told Luthien to meet him there when he finished his business with Siobhan.

Luthien looked back to see that Siobhan’s smile had already disappeared without a trace.

“The dwarf—” she began grimly, but she stopped suddenly as Luthien leaped up to her and kissed her full on the lips. The embarrassed young man hopped back immediately, searching Siobhan’s expression for some hint of a reaction.

But it was Luthien, and not Siobhan, who seemed most ill at ease. The half-elf only smiled and shook the hair back from her face, seemingly composed. “Why did you ask me to do that?” Luthien asked bluntly.

“Because you wanted to,” Siobhan replied.

Luthien’s proud shoulders slumped visibly.

“And I wanted you to do it,” Siobhan admitted. “But I thought we should be done with it.”

“Be done with it?” Luthien echoed. That did not sound promising.

Siobhan took a deep breath. “I only thought that you and Oliver should know . . .” she began to explain. She paused, as if the words were hard to come by.

Luthien was beginning to get more than a little alarmed. “Know what?” he prompted, and stepped toward Siobhan, but she put up a defensive hand and took a step back.

“The dwarf,” she went on. “The dwarf who helped you in Morkney Square. He has been taken by the Praetorian Guard and locked in a dungeon to await trial.”

Luthien’s expression went grave, his hands clenched anxiously at his sides. “Where?” he asked determinedly. Siobhan had no doubt he meant to run off that very moment and rescue the dwarf.

Her helpless shrug, accompanied by a sincere expression, thoroughly deflated him. “The Praetorian Guards have many dungeons,” she said, shaking her head. “Many dungeons. The dwarf will be tried in the Ministry on the morrow, along with so many others,” Siobhan quickly added. “He will be sentenced to the mines, no doubt.”

Luthien didn’t understand. He stood in quiet thought for a moment, trying to sort some things out, then looked curiously at Siobhan. How could she possibly know about the dwarf in Morkney Square? he wondered, and it seemed as if she was reading his thoughts, for that coy smile returned to her face.

“I told you there were benefits to being well connected,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “And I thought that you should know.”

Luthien nodded.

Almost as an afterthought, Siobhan added, “The dwarf, Shuglin by name, knew that he would be caught, of course.”

“Was he part of your band?”

Siobhan shook her head. “He was a craftsman and no more.”

Luthien nodded knowingly, but he didn’t know anything at all. Why would this craftsman dwarf help him, fully understanding that he would likely be captured and punished?

“I must be going,” Siobhan said, looking up at the position of the moon.

“When will I see you again?” Luthien asked anxiously.

“You will,” Siobhan promised, and started to fade into the shadows.

“Siobhan!” Luthien called, more loudly than he had intended, his desires getting the best of his judgment. The fair maiden stepped back near to him, an inquisitive look on her face.

Staring into the green glow of her eyes, Luthien could not find any words. His expression said it all.

“One more kiss?” she asked. She barely had the words out before Luthien was up against her, his lips soft against hers.

“You will see me again,” she teased again, pulling back. And then she was gone, a shadow among the shadows.

“It is all a game,” Oliver complained when he and Luthien were walking home later that night, the young man with a few too many ales in him. “Surely you are not so stupid that you cannot understand that.”

“I do not care!” It was a determined statement, if a bit slurred.

“Dwarves are always being accused, tried, and sentenced to hard work in the mines,” Oliver went on stubbornly. “Legal and unarguable slavery. That is how Montfort has become so wealthy, can you not see?”

“I do not care.”

Oliver was afraid Luthien would say that.

Before the next dawn, the two companions were creeping along the city’s dividing wall at the base of the Ministry. They got over the divider easily enough, and Oliver, knowing the routine, positioned them in the shadows of the cathedral’s northern wing: a transept, one of two armlike sections of the long building that gave it the general shape of a cross. Few buildings were close to the cathedral on this side, forming an open plaza. “We must go in the west end,” Oliver explained, peeking around the edge of the huge transept wall, and he told Luthien to put away the cape.

Luthien did as instructed, but he was hardly conscious of the act. This was the closest he had been to the Ministry, and how small the young Bedwyr felt! He looked straight up the side of the building’s wall to the tremendous flying buttresses and many gargoyles hanging out over the edge to look down upon puny humans such as he. Ominous and imposing was Montfort’s Ministry in the growing light of predawn.

Soon after the sun came up, the plaza was buzzing with many people, merchants and craftsmen, and quite a few Praetorian Guards, as well. Luthien noted that many of the people had brought their children along with them.

“The last day of the week,” Oliver explained, and Luthien nodded, realizing that another week, and the whole month of September, had indeed passed them by. “Tax day. They bring their children in the hope of mercy.” Oliver’s ensuing snicker showed that he did not think mercy a likely thing for any of them.

They waited inconspicuously behind the transept as the Ministry’s tall and narrow oaken doors were unlocked and opened at the west end, and the procession made its way into the giant structure, one group at a time. Burly cyclopians stood to either side of the doors, asking questions, herding the men and their families as they would sheep.

Oliver pulled Luthien further back into the shadows of the wall as a caravan of ironbound wagons rolled up to the side door in the middle of the transept’s north-facing wall, another impressive portal, though not as huge as the cathedral’s towering western doors. Many Praetorian Guards came out of the cathedral to meet the transported prisoners—four men, three women, and two dwarves, all dressed in loose-fitting gray robes, mostly open at the front. Luthien recognized the one who had helped him and Oliver immediately, from the dwarf’s bushy blue-black beard poking out under the cowl of his robe, and by his clothes, the same sleeveless leather tunic he had been wearing that morning in Morkney Square.

“Shuglin,” the young Bedwyr mouthed silently, remembering the name Siobhan had told him.

He motioned to Oliver, but the halfling held him back firmly. Luthien threw a plaintive look at the halfling.

“Too many,” Oliver mouthed, and pointed to a structure across the plaza from the prisoner wagons. Luthien noticed several forms milling about this smaller building and a couple sitting on the cobblestones like the beggars who were more common to the city’s lower section. They were fully cloaked, their faces hidden, but scrutinizing them more closely now, Luthien understood his partner’s concern.

Each one of them was broad-shouldered like a warrior, or like a cyclopian.

“Do they expect us?” Luthien whispered in Oliver’s ear.

“It would be an easy trap,” the halfling replied. “An easy way to be rid of a growing problem. Perhaps they understand how stupid you can be.”

Luthien glared at him, but standing beside that tremendous structure, the day brightening around them, the streets and cathedral teeming with Praetorian Guards, Luthien couldn’t honestly refute the halfling’s insult. He didn’t want to leave, but instead wondered what in the world he might do.

When he looked back at Oliver, his expression went from crestfallen to curious. The halfling had tucked his dark jacket, his black shoes and his hat away in pouches, had rolled his pant legs up even higher, and was in the process of slipping into the printed dress of a young girl. That done, Oliver produced a horse-hair wig, long and black (where he had gotten that, Luthien had no idea), then wrapped veils about his head, strategically covering his mustache and goatee.

Good old Oliver, Luthien thought, and he had to fight hard to keep his laughter from bursting forth.

“I am your virgin daughter, merchant-type,” the halfling explained, handing Luthien a pouch that jingled with coins. Luthien opened it and peeked in, and his eyes went wide to see that the coins were gold.

Oliver took him by the arm and led him boldly around the corner of the transept. They gave the prisoner wagons and the cyclopians a wide berth, moving near the center of the plaza as they made their way up to the Ministry’s western door.

That western wall held Luthien’s attention all the way to the door. It was not flat, but rather filled with niches, and in these were beautiful, brightly painted statues. These were the figures of Luthien’s religion: the heroes of old, the shining lights of Eriador. He noted that they had not been maintained of late, their paint chipping and peeling, and the nests and droppings of many birds evident in nearly every niche.

The young Bedwyr was beginning to work himself into quite a state, but Oliver’s unexpected outburst broke into his private thoughts.

“I told you that we would be late, Papa!” the halfling wailed in a high-pitched voice.

Luthien glanced incredulously the halfling’s way, but straightened immediately and eyed the two amused cyclopian guards. “Are we too late?” he asked.

“’E’s afraid of the mines for missing the tax call,” one of the brutes remarked, and it blinked lewdly as it regarded Oliver. “Or might be that Morkney’ll take his little daughter.” The wicked laughter that followed made Luthien want to go for his hidden sword, but he held steady.

Oliver nudged him hard, and when he looked at the halfling, Oliver motioned fiercely for the pouch.

Luthien nodded and grabbed a few gold coins. He’d owe Oliver dearly for this; he knew how hard it was to part the halfling from his ill-gotten gains!

“Are you sure that I am late?” Luthien asked the cyclopians. They looked at him curiously, their interest apparently piqued by his sly tone.

Luthien looked up and down the near-empty plaza, then inched his coin-filled hand toward them. The dimwitted cyclopians caught on.

“Late?” one asked. “No, you’re not late.” And the brute stepped aside and drew open one of the tall doors, while its companion eagerly scooped up the bribe.

Luthien and Oliver entered a small and high foyer, barely a five-foot square, with doors similar to the outside pair looming directly before them. They both breathed easier when the cyclopians shut the outside doors behind them, leaving them alone for the moment.

Luthien started to reach for the handle of an inside door, but Oliver stopped him and put a finger to pursed lips. They moved their ears against the wood instead, and could hear a strong baritone voice calling out names—the tax roll, Luthien realized.

They had come this far, but what were they to do now? he wondered. He looked to Oliver, and the halfling nodded in the direction over Luthien’s shoulder. Following the gaze, Luthien noticed that the foyer was not enclosed. Ten feet up the middle of both side walls were openings leading straight in, to concealed corridors that ran south along the front wall of the structure.

Out came the magical grapnel, and up they went. They passed several openings that led onto a ledge encircling the cathedral’s main hall, and came to understand that this corridor was the path used by the building’s caretakers to clean the many statues and stained-glass windows of the place.

They went up a tight stairway, and then up another, and found a passage leading to an arched passageway that overlooked the cathedral’s nave fully fifty feet up from the main area’s floor.

“The triforium,” Oliver explained with a sly wink, apparently believing that they would get a good view of the proceedings in relative safety.

They were fifty feet up from the floor, Luthien noted, and barely halfway to the network of huge vaulting that formed the structure’s incredible roof. Again the young Bedwyr felt tiny and insignificant, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place.

Oliver was a couple of steps ahead of him by then, and turned back, realizing that Luthien wasn’t following.

“Quickly,” the halfling whispered harshly, drawing Luthien back to the business at hand.

They scampered along the back side of the triforium wall. On the front side of the passageway, centering every arch, was a relatively new addition to the cathedral, a man-sized, winged gargoyle, its grotesque and horned head looking down over the ledge, looking down upon the gathering. Oliver eyed the statues with obvious distaste, and Luthien heartily concurred, thinking the gargoyles a wretched stain upon a holy church.

They crept along quietly to the corner of the triforium, where the passageway turned right into the southern transept. Diagonally across the way, Luthien saw the pipes of a gigantic organ, and beneath them the area where the choir had once stood, singing proud praises to God. Now cyclopians milled about in there.

The altar area was still perhaps a hundred feet away, tucked into the center of a semicircular apse at the cathedral’s eastern end. The bulk of this apse was actually in Montfort’s lower section, forming part of the city’s dividing wall.

Luthien’s eyes were first led upward by the sweeping and spiraling designs of the apse, up into the cathedral’s tallest spire, he realized, though from this angle, he could not see more than halfway up the towering structure. He shook his head and looked lower to the great tapestries of the apse, and to the altar.

There, Luthien got his first good look at the infamous Duke Morkney of Montfort. The old wretch sat in a comfortable chair directly behind the altar, wearing red robes and a bored expression.

At a podium at the corner of the apse stood the roll-caller, a fierce-looking man flanked by two of the largest cyclopians Luthien had ever seen. The man read a name deliberately, then paused, waiting for the called taxpayer—a tavern owner in the lower section whom Luthien recognized—to shuffle out of one of the high-backed wooden pews in the nave and amble forward with his offering.

A sour taste filled Luthien’s mouth when the summoned man handed a bag of coins over to a cyclopian. The merchant stood, head bowed, while the bag was emptied onto the altar, its contents quickly counted. The amount was then announced to Morkney, who paused a moment—just to make the merchant sweat, Luthien realized—then waved his arm absently. The merchant verily ran back to his pew, gathered up the two children who had come in with him, and scooted out of the Ministry.

The process was repeated over and over. Most of the taxpayers were allowed to go on their way, but one unfortunate man, an old vendor from a kiosk in the market, apparently had not given enough to suit the greedy duke. Morkney whispered something to the cyclopian at his side, and the man was promptly dragged away. An old woman—his wife, Luthien assumed—leaped up from a pew, wailing in protest.

She was dragged off also.

“Pleasant,” Oliver muttered at Luthien’s side.

About halfway through the tax call, two hours after Luthien and Oliver had found their high perch, Morkney raised one skinny hand. The man at the lectern stepped down and another took his place.

“Prisoners!” this new caller yelled, and a group of cyclopians rose and stepped out from the first pew, pulling the chained men, women, and dwarves along with them.

“There is our savior,” Oliver remarked dryly, noting the bushy-haired dwarf. “Have you any idea of how we might get near to him?”

The obvious sarcasm in Oliver’s tone angered Luthien, but he had no response. To his dismay, it seemed that the halfling was right. There was nothing he could do, nothing at all. He could see at least two-score cyclopians in the cathedral and did not doubt that another two-score were nearby, not counting the ones in the wagons beyond the door of the north transept. That, plus the fact that Morkney was reputedly a powerful wizard, made any plan to spring Shuglin seem utterly ridiculous.

Charges were read and the nine prisoners were given various punishments, various terms of indenture. The four men would accompany a caravan to Princetown—likely to be sold off to the army once they reached the Avon city, Oliver informed Luthien. The three women were sentenced to serve as house workers for various merchants, friends of the duke—Oliver did not have to explain their grim fate. And the dwarves, predictably, were given long terms at hard labor in the mines.

Luthien Bedwyr watched helplessly as Shuglin was pulled away down the north transept and out the side door to a waiting wagon.

The tax call soon began anew, and Oliver and the fuming Luthien made their way back along the triforium to the hidden corridor and down to the ledge overlooking the foyer. They let one released merchant go out, then slipped down into the small narthex. Oliver retrieved his grapnel and slipped it away, then adjusted his veils and motioned for Luthien to lead the way.

The cyclopian guards made some nasty comment as the “merchant” and his virgin daughter stepped between them, but Luthien was hardly listening. He didn’t say a word all the way back to Tiny Alcove, and then paced the apartment like a caged dog.

Oliver, still in his maiden’s garb, remarked that midday was almost upon them and the Dwelf would soon be open, but Luthien gave no indication that he heard.

“There was not a thing you could do!” Oliver finally shouted, hopping up to stand on a chair in Luthien’s pacing path so that he could shout in the man’s face. “Not a thing!”

“They took him to the mines,” the burdened young man remarked, turning back on his heels and ignoring the ranting halfling. “Well, if they took Shuglin to the mines, then I go to the mines.”

“By all the virgins of Avon,” Oliver muttered under his breath, and he sat forcefully down in the chair and pulled the long black hair of his wig over his eyes.