by Markus Heitz
Tiwalún looked distinctly relieved to hear of their departure. “Of course. He will understand why you have to leave. I shall get provisions brought for you so that you can set off as soon as you want.” He got up and bowed to them. “I would have wished for a calmer conclusion to your visit here in landur, but the gods are testing us.” He smiled. “You will have an important role to perform, will you not?”
“I could do without tests like this,” replied Tungdil. “But if my people and Girdlegard need me I shall be there.” He strode to the door. Ireheart followed, a laden plate in his hand.
Vilanoîl and Tiwalún watched them go. When the door had closed behind them, Tiwalún reached for the wine and poured himself a glass full to the very brim. He had seen the hidden instructions in the letter; that morning, the dwarf hadn’t noticed he had been reading over his shoulder, until alerted by the sound of his voice. This bad news could not have come at a better time, since it meant the unwelcome guests were leaving landur of their own accord.
It had been a serious error letting the dwarves anywhere near the monolith. Any moment things could have got much worse.
Tiwalún raised his drinking cup. “Here’s to you, Sitalia. I drink to you and in honor of your purest of creatures.” Ceremoniously he lifted the vessel to his mouth, took three sips and then poured the rest on the ground as a libation. “May the eoîl one day return and take power.”
Vilanoîl smiled.
But there was something afoot that night.
In spite of extreme tiredness Boïndil could not help going out on his own to inspect the white stone Tiwalún had so adamantly insisted he should not approach. They would be leaving landur the following orbit anyway so it would not matter if he was observed. What else could happen to him? They surely wouldn’t cut off his head for it?
Stealth didn’t come easily to him: he wasn’t good at it and didn’t like it. He’d taken off his leather-soled boots and left off his chain-mail shirt. Completely naked—that’s how it felt—he’d made his way through the tree palace as if stalking a deer; it seemed not a soul was around. He had thought he would remember how to get to the hall but he had soon lost his sense of direction. This would never have happened to him underground. “Wretched bloody trees. They all look alike,” he’d grumbled, taking the next corridor to the left.
At first he had been delighted that there were no elf guards about, but now he was getting worried about it. This was the prince’s residence after all and there should be servants all over the place. He bravely opened the nearest door and found an empty room; starlight fell into the deserted chamber and there were a few leaves on the floor. That was all: no clothes, no chests, no bed.
Boïndil continued through the palace trying a few more doors. He did not find a single room with any sign of occupation. It was nothing but a refuge for ghosts.
By chance he happened on the great hall with the tall white monolith dominating the space.
Although no torches were burning, the stone itself gave off a glow, as if it had stored up light during the day to release in darkness.
“So there you are.” He grinned and stepped closer, circling the stone, to give it a thorough inspection. There was not a single join on it, not a scratch, not at least as far up as the dwarf could actually see. The white surface shimmered smooth as glass. Boïndil stretched out a hand.
When his skin came into contact with the stone he was amazed how warm it felt. So it wasn’t just storing up light but also energy from the sun. This was new to him. Well, he was a fighting man and never much good as a mason, but he’d never come across anything at all like this. It meant that they were mining new minerals here in landur, a completely different type of stone.
Boïndil was turning to leave when he saw that where he had touched the stone there was now the mark of five black fingers.
“Bloody orc bloody shit!” He looked at his hand: it was clean. He tried wiping the stone with his beard at first and then with a kerchief, but the marks on the stone would not shift. They stared out accusingly from the otherwise immaculate surface of the monolith. The size of the handprint desecrating the holy monument made it obvious that only a small-handed dwarf could have done this. There would be an outcry.
With Tiwalún’s words ringing in his ears about non-elves touching the stone, he went hot and cold all at once.
He ran back, shook Tungdil awake and grabbed his things. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he whispered. “Something’s up.” He slipped into his boots and put on his mail shirt.
His friend struggled up, “What’s happened?”
“I went off to look at the monolith and there are no signs of life in the palace at all. They’ve only opened it up because of us.” He quickly related what he had seen in the empty rooms. “And the stone is not normal. It shows marks when you touch it,” he murmured.
“Marks? You mean you did touch it?” Tungdil was fully awake and alert. “But you heard what he said…”
“Yes, I know, it’s holy. But I’m in charge of this mission and if the dwarves are keeping things secret I want to find out why,” he said defensively, crossing his arms.
Tungdil uttered an oath and got out of bed. The elves had at least one secret they were keeping. And this three-cornered white stone seemed to be tremendously important. “Come on. Let’s see if I can clean off the marks somehow.” He collected his armor to be on the safe side and took a bowl of water, a cloth, some soap and some of the perfumed toilet water that had been provided. Perhaps they could sort something out.
Boïndil showed him how empty the tree palace was; the scholar looked at the deserted rooms. He agreed: nobody had been living here in ages.
There were more and more puzzles.
As they made their way it seemed as if the wooden passage walls were shifting to prevent them finding the monolith. The corridors had turned into a maze and they were lost until Tungdil thought to cut tiny notches on the wall with his knife. No longer wandering around aimlessly, they soon found the great hall.
The handprint had got darker still, or so it seemed to Ireheart: the marks would be on that stone for all eternity. Nothing worked: they tried soap, they tried rubbing, they tried the perfumed water.
“It’s no good,” said Tungdil, throwing the cloth back into the bowl with a splash. “The stone is insulted because it has been touched by somebody that is not an elf.”
“What do you think? Shall we tell Tiwalún and own up or shall we make a run for it?”
Tungdil thought about it. If the elves had been a bit friendlier and more open then he certainly would have chosen the honest course: to speak to Tiwalún and ask for clemency for Boïndil. But their hosts had been behaving strangely. And anyway, he had to get back to protect his diamond. Speed was called for.
He dipped the soap in the water again and rubbed it between his hands until there was a good lather. Carefully he lifted off the top layer of soft soap with the blade of his dagger, and pressed it onto the dark stains.
It worked. “You’re the cleverest damned dwarf I know,” whooped Ireheart.
After Tungdil had applied three thin layers, the ugly marks had been covered over. An innocent superficial glance would not reveal anything suspicious.
“Right, that should do.” Tungdil sighed with relief. “As soon as we have left landur I’ll send Prince Liútasil a letter apologizing. You will seek an audience and ask for clemency,” he decided. His friend nodded. “So it’s off to the ponies.”
The two dwarves found their way back to their quarters. Then they went to the stables and were off as fast as they could go toward the mines. Not until they crossed the border at dawn, when the ponies’ hooves touched Gauragar, could they relax.
Nobody had pursued them.
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn, Mifurdania,
6241st Solar Cycle, Late Spring
When Rodario and Tassia had finished asking around in the town after Furgas, they went back to the rest of the troupe. A
distraught Gesa rushed straight into their arms like a startled hen. Her plump body was bouncing all over the place, doing its best to escape from her dress: the tight bodice was unable to hold it all back.
“Master Rodario! At last you’re back!” She took him by the hand. “Come quick! Some men came—your caravan’s been smashed to pieces and poor Reimar’s been beaten up. Then we set the dogs on them and chased them off.”
“All right, Gesa. Calm down.” He stroked her cheek. Rodario had been expecting something like this and so could react sensibly.
Nevertheless, it was upsetting to see how his home had been destroyed. The little house on wheels had suffered considerable damage in being ransacked for the necklace. If he set eyes on them, those heavies Nolik’s father had sent, he’d skin them for all they were worth. He’d have the pants off them, underpants too, just to pay them back in humiliation.
“O Palandiell!” moaned Gesa in distress, staring at the mess from the doorway. “How awful!”
Giving a sigh, Rodario sat down on the ripped-up mattress. “Thank you, Gesa. It’s all right, I’ll tidy up later.” She nodded and left.
Tassia closed the door and retrieved the necklace from under the floorboards. “They’re too stupid to do a decent search,” she said, laughing with relief and putting the necklace on.
“And they think we’ve flogged the jewel in Mifurdania,” he added, holding out his arms to her. “Come here, Queen of the Stage, and grant the emperor your favors. Display yourself in all your glory, with gold and jewels hung about your neck.”
The dress she had pinched from someone’s washing-line slipped to the ground and she lay down next to him, stroking his face. “So, Emperor of Lust. Shall we start work on your dramatic production?”
“Oh, that’s daring! You’d like to make love on stage?” His grin was dirty, and his aristocratic face took on a vulgar leer. “We’d be thrown in jail and no mistake. For indecency.”
She smiled and tickled him with a lock of her blond hair. “Let’s do it anyway. Right now. And just for ourselves.”
He kissed the nape of her neck and soon they were deep into their drama until they sank back exhausted into what had been a mattress and covered themselves with what had been a blanket.
After this delightful distraction Rodario found his thoughts drifting back to his missing friend and to their current adventures. “Someone has tried to kill us, good people have been lost and a man has been carried off,” he mused. “And somehow it’s all connected with Furgas.”
Tassia picked up the dark yellow dress and slipped it on. “Why? And what does anyone want with the blacksmith?”
“Lambus is a highly skilled craftsman. Others will be jealous of him.” He put his own clothes back on, regretting that the girl was no longer visible in her exquisite entirety. “What if Furgas himself is behind it all?” he wondered. “Lambus told us he didn’t want to leave town. What can have been so urgent that Furgas would have kidnapped him?” He dismissed the idea. That was not the way his friend would act.
“Didn’t you say he’d lost his partner and his children?” she asked, standing up and leaning against the door. “Perhaps he’s found someone new.”
“You mean the child he had with him?” Rodario started tidying the mess. “I don’t understand. He loved Narmora more than anything.”
“People’s feelings change.”
“Sure, anyone else’s,” he agreed. “Not with Furgas. You don’t know him or you wouldn’t say that. Only if he’d changed completely.”
“Mm.” She had her hand on the door handle. “And what if it’s not his kid? Perhaps he’s just taken it in?” Tassia smiled at him. “I’d better leave you in peace to finish your sorting and your thinking.”
“Great. Off you go.”
She laughed winningly. “The queen knows when she is not wanted.” And she stepped out.
“Tassia!”
“Yes?”
Rodario pointed at her throat. “The necklace.”
“Oh.” She ran her hand over the necklace that was catching the light so brilliantly. “It feels so nice against my skin.”
“Don’t wear it while we’re here in Mifurdania,” he told her. She took it off, ready to put it back in the hiding place. “But later we’ll use it on stage a lot as a prop.”
She blew him a kiss and ran out. He was left with the unwelcome task of restoring order in his domestic realm.
That done, he sat down on the caravan steps with a lamp and wrote some more of the play.
It came easily; Tassia and the events of the day were inspiring him. Everything they had been through found a place in the drama—it was full of passion, adventure and secrets.
How it was going to end wasn’t yet clear. For that he’d have to find Furgas first.
He was pouring himself some wine from the only bottle to have survived when he heard Tassia’s laugh. It was a very particular laugh.
Jealousy flared up. He put the glass down and went over to Reimar’s quarters. He stood on tiptoe outside the window and peeped through. Hearing that laugh had aroused his suspicions and now he was sure. His Queen of the Stage was cheating on him. So, she was seeking entertainment elsewhere. And Reimar, that bear of a man, was assisting her, not completely selflessly, in her quest.
Rodario returned to his narrow steps and picked up the glass. He laughed. He laughed and laughed until he was out of breath and inquisitive heads popped out of neighboring caravans. Even Reimar came out, a towel round his middle, to see what was up. The actor pointed at him and started laughing again, tipped over backwards, gasping for air.
“All right, folks,” he waved the observers away. “It’s only my normal attack of evening madness. It gets me whenever I hear another man making love to my woman.”
Reimar blushed and whizzed back inside his caravan. Rodario had hysterics again.
He looked up at the stars, veiled now by a thin screen of clouds that had covered them in milk. “O ye gods! That’s some girl you’ve sent me!” He grinned. “She’s paying me back for what I used to get up to with other women.” He emptied his glass. “I’m wise to your game. Was it your idea, Samusin, god of justice?” he called out, raising his glass and saluting the stars. “I thank you! I’ve not been this inspired for ages.” Cool dark wine ran down his throat. He put the vessel down and started writing.
Time sped by, but he was on fire. He cut bits out, wrote anew and changed the wording of act after act, scene after scene. It was thirsty work. Without looking, he stretched out his hand for the bottle; there was a tinkle of broken glass and the lamp he’d been using went out.
He looked up in surprise. He couldn’t have knocked it over, his hand had been lower.
A mistake, it seemed. The lamp was still in the same place, just behind him to one side on the top step. Rodario stared at the arrow that had shattered it and then buried itself in the wood. Half an ell to the left and it would have got him straight in the eye!
The archer-woman from Mifurdania! he realized in a flash as he dived to one side, crawling under the wagon. He listened out.
There were insects humming, the odd cricket chirping, the horses were dozing quietly in their temporary paddock, and Hui the gray and black hunting dog lay snoring in the grass, head on its paws.
Altogether it sounded like a perfectly normal night—apart from Tassia’s faint moans, Reimar’s loud groans and the complaints from the overworked caravan springs.
Amazing! They are bonking their brains out while I’m the victim of an assassin. So ran his gallows humor as he looked at the wagon where the girl and the workman were enjoying themselves so violently that the lamps swung to and fro. This had nothing in common with what he and Tassia had shared earlier. But what had she said? Sometimes a woman just needs a man with muscles.
Flock. A second arrow landed close to him, hitting the wood. Then a third clanged onto the metal wheel hub and broke. He threw himself flatter still and stared out at the darkness being used for cover. He
didn’t want to wake the others. There was too high a risk that one of his troupe would be injured, or even killed, whether by accident or design. “Pssht, you so-called watchdog,” he hissed, “psssht. Get up, hound.” The dog opened one eye and wagged its tail. “No! No wagging. Be a bad dog. Find, go get it! Fetch! Bite!”
The hound got up and took a leisurely stretch, then trotted over to where Rodario lay under the caravan and licked his face.
“Stop that!” The actor fended off these wet offerings of affection. “Kill!” He pointed over at the other side. “Fetch!”
Hui had finally got it. He lifted his nose and sniffed, then, nose to the ground and tail straight out behind, he sloped off in the direction Rodario had indicated.
The showman felt bad about sending the dog out. He peered out again and soon could see neither the dog nor the assassin. And Reimar’s wagon wasn’t swaying anymore. They’d had enough, then.
A cold blade touched his throat. “Disappear, you!” said a rough voice. The smells of cold smoke, rust and heated metal met his nose. “First thing in the morning. Pack your stuff and scram. Take your painted wagon and be off! Out of here!”
“May I ask…?”
He felt a sharp pain at the base of his throat where the blade had cut into his skin. “Get out of here and stop asking questions about the magister, got it?” the voice whispered in his ear. “We’re watching you, showman.”
Reimar’s door opened a fraction and Tassia looked out to see whether he was still sitting on his steps. Seeing him gone and the lamp extinguished she flitted out of the caravan.
“Look at your fine mistress, showman. If you keep on trying to find Furgas, she will die,” the man threatened. His hair was grabbed and his head forced up and back until his forehead touched the underside of the caravan. “And then you. Then the rest of your troupe. Then the magister.”
There was a further jab to his neck, this time a deeper cut. Something warm dripped down over his Adam’s apple, and Rodario felt sick. He couldn’t think of how to extricate himself. He was at the mercy of whoever it was crouched behind him, ready to kill with a movement of his hand.
