by David Cook
With the tip of his pole, Vil rapped at the snow-dusted doors. The sound hollowly reverberated from the hillside.
Barely a moment passed before Martine heard a muffled scraping from inside the hill. With a creak of wooden peg hinges, the doors swung inward, releasing a wisp of steam. The weak eastern sun reached through the slim gap and etched a thin line onto the polished floorboards beyond, the hint of snowy tracks marring the perfect smoothness of the wooden floor. The creaking stopped as a shadowy face peered through the crack, scrutinizing the visitors.
Apparently satisfied, the doorkeeper nodded briefly. “Welcome Vilheim, friend of the Vani,” croaked a brittle voice as the gnome swung the door wide.
“Greetings, Tikkanen. We have come to see the council. Are the elders in session?” Vil bowed as best he could in his thick winter coat, and Martine followed suit.
The object of their courtesy was a little man who stood no taller than Vil’s waist, stocky of build and buried in a thick cream-colored cloak that covered him to the very bottom of his chin. Despite his stocky build, Martine knew the little man was actually lean for one of his kind. Airy strands of long white beard escaped from the top of the collar and swayed like cloudy wisps in the breeze. The gnome’s face seemed ancient, reminding Martine of a shriveled apple. The doorkeeper’s rheumy red eyes were barely noticeable behind his bulbous nose, a pronounced characteristic of his race. Tikkanen’s nose was limned with thin red veins and colored with age spots.
“The council sits today, it is true.” The old gnome cleared his throat and then pointed at Martine. “Before you enter, Vilheim, will you testify for your companion, swear that she will abide by the laws and customs of the Vani, that she brings no evil to this warren, bears not the mark of a blood feud, and carries no curse upon her?”
Martine’s and Vil’s eyes met for a moment. She was uncertain just what he would say. After only a slight hesitation, he answered, “I swear this upon the honor of great Torm.”
The god of loyalty seemed an appropriate choice for such an oath, Martine decided, feeling relieved.
“Then enter, Master Vil and companion.” The gnome stepped aside with a grave nod, and the two visitors clomped into the small pine-floored antechamber. Vil had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the low beams. Martine was thankful for once that she was short. Behind them, the old gnome eased the outer doors shut to seal out the cold. In the guttering light of a candle, the pair undid the bindings on their skis. Tikkanen waited stiffly near the inner doors.
“Are they all this formal?” Martine whispered as she crouched down to unknot the snow-crusted lacings.
“Tikkanen follows the old ways,” Vil whispered back. “And he is not deaf.” Martine bit her lip and spoke no more.
“Leave your things in my care,” the gnome instructed when they were ready. “The council will see you at the first convenient opportunity.” He pulled open the inner doors, which were painted with ferocious-looking badgers. Vil bent down to pass through the low threshold, and Martine followed, ducking her head. Beyond the door, the hall was high enough for them both to stand up easily, although her companion’s head barely cleared the ceiling. Old Tikkanen closed the doors behind them, shutting out the remaining chill.
Here inside the warren, the hall was filled with light from a pair of wall sconces that held carved wands glowing with magical light. While Tikkanen clicked the door bolts into place, the humans brushed the snow from their leggings. Eventually the ancient doorkeeper shuffled past to lead them down the corridor into the heart of the underground warren.
This was Martine’s first visit to a home of the little folk. She had never been inside the dwellings of either dwarf or gnome, so she was fascinated by every detail. She had expected to see stonework and dank moss like a dungeon or cellar, or wooden beams like a mine, but not the bright wood paneling that covered the walls, ceilings, and floors. Far from dank and dark, it was bright and warm, with an airiness that Martine found welcome, for she had never been fond of the constricting quarters of caves.
Their path led them through another set of doors. These were intricately carved with stylized patterns of birds, trees, and entwined vines. This third door sealed in the warren’s humid warmth, and beyond it they smelled the rich scents of pine, varnish, caraway, and baking ovens. As before, the way continued to be lit by magical sconces. Their route twisted deeper, past intersections and other doors embellished with carvers’ art, until at last Tikkanen ushered the pair into a small room, undoubtedly large by gnome standards. In the center of one wall stood a door studded with brass medallions.
“The council is inside. You must wait for them to summon you,” the doorkeeper explained before leaving.
Apparently used to this arrangement, Vil settled into one of the high-backed benches against the wall. Carved for gnomes, the seat wasn’t more than a footstool to the lanky human. “Sit,” Vilheim suggested.
“I think I’ll stand.” Martine couldn’t look at the man, trying to maintain his dignity while his knees were tucked up practically under his chin, without feeling the urge to laugh.
“It could be a long wait,” her companion cautioned.
Martine regained her composure by feigning great interest in the bare chamber. “I’ve been still too long.”
Vil was right. The wait quickly became interminable. Bored, Martine eventually perched awkwardly on another bench, idly flipping the little silver knife Jazrac had given her. “What do you suppose is taking them so long?” she muttered.
“They’re gnomes,” Vil answered coolly. Thinking he’d been asleep, Martine jumped at the man’s voice. The blade slipped between her fingers and stuck into the floor next to her boot with a quivering thunk. “The Vani have their own sense of time. You’d better get used to it. I’ve never seen anything hurry them,” he mumbled drowsily.
“They can’t have that much to do. It’s only a little valley.”
“The Vani have their own sense of what is important,” commented Vil, making idle talk as he shifted his legs to a more comfortable position. “They are important. This valley is important. I doubt anything else is. Certainly you and I rank low in their priorities. The elders are probably inside having birch-bark tea while they try to decide the fair price of a goose that was accidentally killed, or something like that. It’s the right way to do things as far as they are concerned.”
None of this sounded particularly encouraging. It galled Martine to be stalled so close to her goal, even though she knew a few hours, even a day or two, would make little difference. It’s the same old me, wanting everything to go just perfectly, she reminded herself. I just need to relax. Trying to keep that thought in mind, she sank back into the seat.
The time stretched on and on, although the boredom was occasionally broken by visits from passing gnomes. A few even stopped long enough to give Vil an awkward greeting. They spoke with such thick accents, their r’s heavily rolled and their vowels sharply clipped, that it was almost impossible for Martine to understand them, but Vil apparently did not have any trouble. He carefully responded to each by name, occasionally asking about the health of a wife or child.
Several times Martine caught glimpses of little gnome housewives with blond-brown hair bound up in a bun. Two of them peered into the room for a peek at the human woman. After a brief look, they stepped out of sight to gossip and cluck in whispered voices. Martine decided not to disrupt their women’s game and kept her eyes almost closed, feigning sleep. If they weren’t so short and broad, Martine decided, they would be like housewives everywhere. Here they dressed in red and blue dresses and embroidered white aprons. In other lands, the clothes might be different, but the gossipy curiosity was unchanged.
Sometimes children, more honest in their curiosity, accompanied the women. They stood staring long after their mothers stepped away in embarrassment. Martine noticed that Vil generated no such attention. Perhaps he was a familiar guest and therefore not worthy of note. “I must be pretty unusual, eh?
” she finally said to Vil. She was growing tired of watching others watch her.
The man yawned and nodded. “Well,” he finally allowed, “they’ve seen humans before—me, mainly—but you’re the first human woman and, by their standards, not a particularly ladylike one.”
“Thank you!”
“I meant ladylike in their eyes. Fighting is a man’s job among the Vani. Women raise the children and rule the home. Men hunt, farm, and deal with outsiders. You’re different. You go against their expectations.”
“The council’s in for a big surprise, then.” Gods know what they might think if they learned I’m a Harper, too. The thought became the flicker of a mischievous grin on her face.
“I guess they know already,” Vil commented as he stretched his cramped legs yet another time.
At last the brass-bound council door swung open. Standing in the doorway were two gnomes in blue robes girdled with sashes embroidered in red and green. Both were young gnomes, hardly elders, Martine noted. The first had close-cropped, curly black hair and a contrasting full beard. The other looked a little younger and had more belly on him; his face didn’t look as weather-beaten, either. His hair and beard were both black, long, and braided, the tips of his chin braids just brushing his chest.
Vil rose to meet the gnomes. “Greetings, Jouka Tunkelo,” he said to the leaner of the two. “And to you Turi Tunkelo.”
“Greetings to you,” the short-haired Jouka answered with a curtness that discouraged further conversation. “The council invites you to come inside.” As she followed the gnomes into the chamber, Martine wondered whether the last was said with disapproval or whether it was just colored by his dour accent.
The council chamber was a small amphitheater, square in shape and higher-ceilinged than the other room. The spacious height was necessary to accomodate three tiers of benches on three sides of the hall. A scattering of gnomes, all of them old, wrinkled gentlemen, sat in every posture on the seats. One, bent with age, leaned forward on a gnarled cane until his long white beard brushed the floor. Another seemed to doze, his bald head wobbling sleepily as he leaned back against the next tier. Others sat clustered in little clumps, serious little bearded men sipping at cups of tea. Judging by their beards, not a one of them, discounting the two ushers, did Martine guess to be less than a great-grandfather. At the same time, she knew the appearance was deceptive, for gnomes had life spans of two hundred or more years. These might be great-great-great grandfathers, for all she knew.
At the very center of the benches, in a seat of obvious authority, sat a most singularly dressed elder. While the others wore pants and jackets of linens and wool, the old gnome in the high seat wore a knee-length tunic of buckskin. This alone was not singular; several other gnomes wore items of buckskin, Martine noted. What made it notable was that the elder’s tunic was festooned with iron charms that hung from leather thongs, so many that the gnome clinked and rattled with every move. The charms, which seemed to be mostly crude sigils and icons, swayed against his stout chest, sometimes tangling themselves into his curly white beard. His thick silver hair was carefully held in place with a birchbark cap, more ornamental than functional. From his dress and the position of his chair, Martine figured the gnome to be the warren’s priest, although of what god she could not possibly say.
When the two humans reached the center of the chamber, the white-bearded priest rose to his feet, age and formality making his movements rigid. His charms swayed on the ends of their thongs, and their harsh tinkling signaled quiet to the rest of the audience.
“The Council of the Vani greets Vilheim, son of Balt, and his female companion.”
“Gracious is the council, wise Sumalo,” Vil replied.
“Kind it is to be so generous with its time,” Martine added. Vil’s look, seen from the corner of her eye, told her she had said the right thing.
The gnome priest nodded slightly in approval. “We grant you the right to present your case.” There were a few murmured grumbles at this point, although Sumalo, perhaps hard of hearing, paid them no notice. “May Gaerdal Ironhand bestow on us eyes to see through falsehood, ears to hear the truth, and tongues to speak with wisdom.” The priest picked up a peeled birch rod from the seat beside him. Pressing it to his lips, he murmured a phrase incomprehensible to Martine. Sumalo held out the rod toward the humans. Vil hesitated, then accepted the branch and kissed the wood lightly. “Forgive me, Torm,” he whispered.
Feeling no religious compulsions, Martine took the rod and performed the ritual to satisfy her audience. “May your god guide me,” she invoked, figuring it did not hurt to ask, before passing the rod back to the priest.
“The bond is now forged,” Sumalo pronounced as he held the rod aloft. “Let the outsider speak.”
Until this moment, when every gnome’s face was turned toward her, Martine hadn’t expected to be the center of such attention. The ranger had never been one to get up before a crowd and speak; in fact, she had always preferred the isolation of the forest. Now she could feel her face flush; it felt as if a cold fist were squeezing the pit of her stomach. The speech she had rehearsed in her head all morning evaporated from her memory. “Uh—elders,” she stammered, “I am Martine of Sembia, a huntswoman by trade. I come to you with a simple request. I’m bound for the Great Glacier and was … uh … hoping that someone here could be my guide.” It was all sort of blurted out as she hurried through a considerably shortened version of what she had intended to say.
With her speech finished, Martine waited for some reaction. The gnomes on the benches waited, too, not accustomed to such brevity. Finally, after a long, awkward silence, the Harper felt compelled to say, “That’s really all I came to ask.”
With slow understanding, the councillors came alive with a wave of murmuring. Within moments, they were deep into their discussion, seeming to forget the humans standing before them. Martine watched with puzzlement the seriousness the elders displayed over her simple request and the vociferousness of their debate.
“Gnomes … I told you so,” Vil whispered over the ranger’s shoulder so only she could hear. “Never a simple answer. There always has to be a debate.”
“Do you know it’s winter?” demanded one of the younger elders.
“Soon,” she corrected.
The first question broke open a floodgate of others, and Martine found herself besieged on all sides. She couldn’t understand many of their questions, posed in thick gnomish accents, and often had to look despairingly to Vilheim for translation. With every answer, she did her best to choose her words politely and carefully.
“How do you plan to get to the Great Glacier?”
“Fly.”
“Are you a wizard?” That question raised a worrisome buzz from the council.
“No, I have a hippogriff named Astriphie. We could ride him.”
“What business do you have on the glacier?”
“My own, good sir.”
“Why do you come here?”
“In truth, for no more than I said—to hire a guide.”
After how many minutes and how many questions she did not know, the hollow thump of the priest banging the birch rod on the floor interrupted the interrogation. “Enough talk,” Sumalo announced. “Brothers, we will vote.”
Standing in the center of the floor, Martine wondered if she should sit or leave the room. She looked at Vil, but he only shrugged to show he was as perplexed as she.
Mumbling, the old gnomes settled back into their seats, their white heads bowed. Slowly, one after the other and in no particular order, each raised his head and looked at the priest. At first Martine wondered if it was some kind of thought speech, until finally she started to notice the almost imperceptible gestures each made. Finally the gnomes were finished and once again looked at her. Standing to his full, short height, Sumalo spoke. “Our answer to you is this: Come back in the spring, Mistress Martine of Sembia, when the weather is good for travel. Now is the season of the hearth, the
time of rest for our people. It is bad luck to stray far from the warmth of the fire. Spring is the time to begin journeys, when good luck will be with you. Go now and return when the sap flows in the maples. Let your gods guide you wisely.”
Martine’s shoulders sagged, crestfallen. Struggling to hold back bitterness, she somehow managed to find the composure to speak. “I thank the council for hearing me, but I cannot wait for spring. I must reach the glacier now.” The Harper bowed slightly to all assembled.
After Vil said his good-byes, the two departed. Outside the council doors, Tikkanen met them and guided them back to the outer doors. Once they were bundled and had their skis on, the two humans set out through the woods. Martine set a punishing pace until finally, exhausted, they reached the woodsman’s lonely cabin.
Once inside, Vil built a fire while Martine squirmed out of her bulky gear. Freed of its weight, she collapsed into one of the hard-backed chairs, exhausted and discouraged.
“What will you do now?” Vil asked while adding bits of tinder to the fire.
The woman shook her head in resignation, her short, sweaty bangs clinging to her forehead. “Go on to the Great Glacier, of course. I’ve got a job to do.” With a groaning sigh, she considered just how much she had banked on the gnomes’ help to accomplish her mission. Now, without a knowledgeable guide, the chance of quick success was almost nonexistent. The same was true of her opportunity to impress the other Harpers with her efficiency.
Her fingers brushed Jazrac’s knife, and then it was in her hand. Weighing the dagger in her palm, she thought about writing to Jazrac for advice, an idea she quickly discarded. Without thinking, she twirled the blade between her fingers effortlessly and flipped it point first into the tabletop, where it stuck, quivering.
Vil rumbled in disapproval.
Martine quickly whisked the blade back to its sheath. “Sorry. Nervous habit. If you’ll have me as guest one more night, I’ll be gone in the morning.” She rubbed her hand on the table to smooth out the nick.
