Goddess Worldweaver sc-3

by Douglas Niles

  “Theoretically?” declared Natac. “But practically speaking, you’ll burn up as you go past the sun!” Why did it seem as though all those he cherished were determined to throw their lives away on doomed, foolish quests?

  “Not necessarily,” Regillix Avatar demurred. “It will be hot, certainly, but I may survive. And in any event, I intend to try.”

  17

  King of the Seer Dwarves

  Monarch of sunless realm

  Ruler of ever dark

  ’Neath the banner of coolfyre

  Came the Lightbringer kings

  From the Tapestry of the Worldweaver, Legions Under Coolfyre

  The Goat Hair Inn was a worker’s tavern, the kind of place Darann had rarely entered. She was grateful to have Konnor at her side as they passed through the door and seemed to draw every eye toward them. There were two or three dozen patrons, loosely assembled into groups at the low, stone tables; males outnumbered females by at least three to one.

  She heard a low whistle of appreciation, but when Konnor took her arm, the other dwarves turned back to their conversation. The pair made their way between the tables to the bar, where the burly innkeeper was busy wiping out mugs with a somewhat grimy towel.

  “What’ll wet ye down today?” he asked.

  Darann was about to ask about Greta Weaver, when Konnor pinched her arm and spoke. “We’ll take a couple of ales from the cold cellar,” he said pleasantly, dropping a gold coin onto the bar.

  “Ah, the good stuff,” replied the bartender.

  As he went to draw the mugs, she leaned close to Konnor. “We’re in a hurry, remember?”

  “Yes,” he replied calmly. “But we’ll stand a much better chance of finding out what we need to know if we’re happy customers, not strangers who come in asking a bunch of questions.”

  The wisdom of her companion’s words was proven a short time later, when Darann found out that Greta Weaver had a room upstairs and that she had returned an hour ago from her job in the Royal Tower. “We don’t rub elbows wi’ the lordly types down here, not too much,” the bartender explained. “But she’s up there reg’lar, even sees the king now and then!”

  They finished their drinks in a hurry and went up the stairs at the back of the common room, to the third door on the right, the room described by their host. Darann knocked quietly.

  “Wh-who’s there?”

  “Greta? Greta Weaver?” asked Darann, responding to the tremulous voice. “Can you open up? I need to talk to you.”

  “No… go away,” replied the pailslopper.

  “Please… its important. It’s a matter of life and death-not for you, but for a thousand, ten thousand, of our friends at the bottom of the hill!” She was pleading now, casting about for the right words, desperate to reach the frightened dwarfmaid. She didn’t know what to say, and Darann was startled to see the door squeak open, a brown eye study her warily through the narrow crack.

  “What friends?” asked Greta suspiciously.

  Darann lowered her voice. “Hiyram told me that I might find you here. I am the daughter of Rufus Houseguard.”

  Finally the door opened all the way. Within was neither the scruffy serving wench nor the decrepit chamber that Darann had expected. Instead, Greta Weaver wore a brightly colored frock and maintained a very tidy room, brightly lit by a flamestone lamp. The pailslopper’s face and hands were clean.

  “How is Hiyram?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “It’s terrible, what they’re doing… because they claim a gob killed a dwarfmaid!”

  “But they didn’t, did they?” Darann asked.

  Greta shook her head. “It sounds like the kind of thing only Nayfal could do. But Hiyram-is he safe?”

  “He’s not safe, but he was alive when we left. Hiyram is doing the best he can to save his people. What we need to do is to help.”

  “But… how?” Greta asked. “What can we do? Your father tried to help, and Nayfal-”

  “Yes, I know what Nayfal did to my father, and I thank you for trying to get word to me, to warn him.” Darann reached into the pocket of her tunic and pulled out the golden letter tube. Quickly she opened it and pulled out the parchment. “Tell me, did you write this?”

  Greta barely glanced at the page, then met Darann’s eyes. “Yes.”

  “You say that Cubic Mandrill was Nayfal’s toady. Do you mean the attempt on the king’s life was a ploy, staged by Nayfal? In an attempt to turn the Seers against the goblins?”

  “Yes, that’s what the purpose was. And it worked perfectly. The king agreed to wall up the ghetto, to keep the goblins locked up. And they started to hate us, and this scourge happening right now-it was inevitable!”

  “How do you know about Nayfal?” Konnor asked.

  Greta Weaver sat straight and looked at them both, her expression defiant, even proud. “Cubic Mandrill was my father,” she said. “He did not know that I knew what was happening, but I listened at the door. I was just a little girl. He and Nayfal paid me no attention, just sent me to bed. But I heard them make the plot.”

  “But your name is Weaver,” Darann noted.

  “I was married-to a soldier, who’s dead, now. But I kept his name; I did not want the kind of attention the name Mandrill would have brought me.”

  “Will you tell the king what you just told me?” Darann asked, stunned.

  Greta shook her head. “Nayfal would kill me!”

  “Not if we can make the king believe you. Then you would have the protection of the crown and perhaps redeem the wrong done by your father,” Konnor interrupted, “What we need is proof of this plot, proof that we can take to the king!”

  “You told my father, in the letter, that you had proof. Do you?” pressed Darann.

  “Yes, I have proof, here,” Greta said. She went to a small chest at the foot of her bed, opened it, then took out a tiny strongbox, which she unlocked with a key she wore on a chain around her neck. She produced a small leather sack, and from that removed a very large golden circlet, a disk too large to be called a coin, though that is what it most resembled.

  “My father insisted that Nayfal pay him with this… I think he was worried about betrayal, later. But he never thought he’d be killed in the very act he was being paid to perform. He was just supposed to catch these goblins sneaking in to the throne room. They were going to be slaughtered by the Royal Guards. I think Nayfal made sure that Cubic was killed, too, because he was the only one who knew that the lord was behind the plot.”

  “Why didn’t you tell someone about this years ago?” demanded Konnor, causing Greta to flinch as if she had been struck.

  Darann placed a hand upon the warrior’s shoulder. “Because she was a child,” she said. “And who would have believed her? May I look at that?”

  Greta gave her the golden disc, which was heavy enough to indicate that it was probably pure gold. It was crudely marked, as though it had been carved, not molded, but the dwarfmaid could clearly see the ornate “Nay” cut into one side, the payer’s mark. The other side displayed a writing of “Cubic Mand,” more legible than the lord’s name; this was the receiver’s mark.

  “It’s proof, some proof anyway, that Nayfal paid Cubic Mandrill for something,” Darann agreed. “But we need more. Will you come with us to the Royal Tower? We’re going to speak to the king!”

  “I couldn’t!” said Greta Weaver. “I’m only a pailslopper! He would never allow me-”

  “It’s no longer a question of what this city’s masters will allow,” retorted Darann. “It’s a question of what we’re willing to do.”

  “What would I have to do?” the pailslopper asked hesitantly.

  “You have to avenge the loss of your father and give me a chance to avenge the murder of mine! Take us into the tower, and we’ll make our way to the king somehow. Do you know the Royal Guard is in the ghetto right now, killing every goblin that comes within reach of a dwarven blade?”

  Greta winced again, her eyes filling with tears. She
shook her head, whether, in denial or pain Darann couldn’t tell. “We have to stop them,” the servant maid said at last. “I will come with you. But what do I tell the king?”

  “Tell him what you know about Nayfal and your father!” Darann urged. “And we can only pray that’s enough.”

  “I might have expected to find you two living among the goblins,” Nayfal said with a sneer, strutting between the two prisoners-only after he had ordered that Borand and Aurand Houseguard be soundly trussed and forced to kneel on the cold, slimy paving stones of the ghetto street.

  They glared at him soundlessly, though he could read the hate in their eyes. The intensity of their emotion gave him a little thrill, despite the fact that he found it somewhat frightening, as well. Walking this close to them, staring down into their faces, even touching the ropes that bound their arms so securely behind their backs… these things made him feel very brave.

  “You just didn’t ever learn your place or the goblins’ place. In fact, that was your father’s failure, as well. He was too soft on our enemies, too blind to see the threats dwelling right under his nose.”

  “Our father was ten times the Seer you will ever be,” the younger one-his name was Aurand, the lord recalled-hissed. Despite his bonds and his helpless position, the dwarf did not seem frightened. “Know this, coward: he will be avenged!”

  With a sudden lurch Aurand knocked a shoulder into Nayfal’s hip, sending the dwarven nobleman staggering to the side. A guard stepped forward and cuffed the prisoner so hard that he toppled onto the flagstones. Nayfal, furious, gave him a sharp kick in the face. “Be careful about your talk of vengeance!” he snapped. “You are in no position to make threats!”

  Spitting blood, the imprisoned Seer squirmed up from the ground, though the guards seized his shoulders to prevent him from rising off of his knees. Nayfal’s hand closed around the hilt of his sword, the blade as yet unblooded in this night of pillage. He was tempted to draw, to stab this insolent dwarf right in the heart. Indeed, that would be the perfect complement to this raid that had turned out to be far more complicated than he had supposed it would be. He could slay the sons of Rufus Houseguard, gut them both, let each watch the other die…

  His sword was out, all but dancing in his grip. Which one first? That was easy: the young, impetuous one. Of course, he would need to make sure the other was securely bound. Who knew what efforts his grief might impel him toward?

  But then a sense of caution held his blow. He considered: these two dwarves had been taken in the midst of the enemy camp, in fact as part of a group of goblins actively resisting the king’s guards. What clearer proof of treachery could he hope to find? Indeed, this was a masterful stroke of luck, when he thought about it: the king was altogether too reluctant to see the danger right under his people’s nose. Yet with this proof, dwarven captives-scions of an esteemed clan!-taken right out of the goblin mob, there could be no room for doubt, no mistaking the depths to which corruption had penetrated the Seer people.

  Indeed, taking these two prisoners was about the luckiest thing that could have happened to him! Clearly, his best course of action was to take them to the monarch, and let King Lightbringer pass the only sentence that fit such a crime: execution for high treason.

  There would be plenty of time, then, to watch them die.

  “Here, this is called the Pailslopper Gate,” Greta Weaver said, holding her head high, as if challenging Darann to impugn her menial chore.

  She had led them through quiet side streets over a distance of a mile or so, to bring them to the rear of the Royal Tower. This was a part of the king’s palace that Darann had never seen. There were corrals for darkbulls nearby, the beasts snuffling and lowing and emanating their characteristic stink, and tiny shops where servants and other menial workers could purchase clothes and other items, including inexpensive food like pale fungus and blindfish that never would have found its way onto a table in one of the nicer quarters of Axial.

  Finally she had brought them to this door, which was guarded by a lone, elderly palace guard. He had greeted Greta with a cheerful “Hello,” then simply nodded to Darann and Konnor as they had accompanied her through.

  “Thank you for getting us this far,” said the lady of clan Houseguard. “You are giving us a chance to make a difference in the history of our people.”

  “Well, we’ll have to do something,” Greta said, shaking her head as if she still couldn’t believe what she was involved in.

  In another moment the trio had slipped through the anteroom and found the worker’s lift that would lead to the many higher levels of the Royal Tower. This was a larger cage than Darann was used to; Greta explained that sometimes as many as a hundred workers were coming or going at one time, and the conveyance was needed to efficiently move these crowds. Now, fortunately, there were only a few dwarves-blacksmiths, to judge from their burly arms and leather aprons-waiting at the bottom. In a few minutes the cage arrived with a hiss of steam. The gate clanked open, and the trio entered behind the smiths.

  “Level twelve,” declared one of the workers, as the operator closed the mesh gate.

  He looked toward Darann expectantly, but it was Greta who spoke. “Take us up to twenty-three.”

  The ride lasted for several minutes and passed in silence, except for some quiet banter among the metalworkers. The smiths departed at their destination, and the last eleven levels seemed to pass at a snail’s pace. Finally the lift rattled to a halt at the twenty-third level, and they exited to find themselves in some sort of barracks room with several passages leading in different directions from this central chamber.

  “The Royal Hall is two levels above here, but there is no lift station-not for the workers’ lift-up there. This is where the maids get dressed for work. If we can find a friendly face, I think I can get us up to the throne. Of course, then we have to hope that we find the king there. If he’s in his private quarters, there’s no way we’ll get past the guards.”

  She started down one of the corridors, and Darann immediately noticed a large iron door, secured with a massive lock. She heard sounds of steam and hammering coming from behind the portal and asked Greta about it.

  “That’s where that crazy engineer is working on his Worldlift,” the pailslopper reported. “I don’t know why they waste the time. But they say that shaft goes all the way through the Midrock, to Nayve if you can believe it, before the blue magic barrier closed it off.”

  “I’ve known Donnwell Earnwise all my life,” Darann pointed out. “He’s about the smartest dwarf I’ve ever met. If anyone can make a Worldlift work, I think it would be him!”

  Greta merely shrugged. “I don’t know why anyone would want to go to Nayve, anyway. We’ve got everything we need down here.” She was only echoing a sentiment believed by many dwarves, Darann knew, choosing not to argue the point. Even so, she recalled the warm sun, the waves on seas and lakes, the green hills and vales with suddenly poignant affection. She wished that, somehow, she would be able to see those wonders again, just once before she died.

  “There he is!” Greta whispered excitedly, waving at a man-at-arms who was just coming through a door at the end of the corridor. “Larson! Hello!”

  “Why, Greta!” declared the dwarf, beaming like a fellow who has just seen a woman toward whom he holds a great deal of affection. “This is a pleasure; I thought they had you on the first shift, these days. I miss our little-” For the first time he apparently noticed the two other dwarves accompanying his sweetheart. “Um, talks.”

  “Me, too,” Greta said, her tone lighter than it had been at any point since their meeting at the Goat Hair Inn. She might have been a young maiden, stopping to flirt with her handsome soldier; indeed, Darann thought, that was exactly what she was.

  Yet Greta showed that she was not lacking a certain capacity for guile. “This is my cousin Dari, from the Metalreach, and her husband… She’s in the city for a few cycles and has never been up here. I told her there was a chan
ce we might be able to spot the king-you know, from the wings of the throne room. Do you know, is he in the hall?”

  “You’re in luck,” Larson said, then lowered his voice and looked around furtively. “Not too happy about it, he ain’t. Was all set for bed, when he got a message that Nayfal needed to see him. Something about the troubles in the ghetto. Anyway, he’s on his way up, and the king is waiting for him.”

  “Can you please be a dear and let us in the side door?” Greta asked, giving the warrior’s arm a squeeze.

  “Why, I surely can,” he replied, blushing. “But you’ll have to promise to be quiet-mouse quiet! When he’s in a mood like this, it won’t do to be disturbing him.”

  “Oh, you know how quiet I can be,” Greta said with a wink. “And Dari can do the same, right?”

  “Mouse quiet,” Darann assured him.

  “All right-come this way, then.”

  The friendly guard turned around led them through the door he had just exited, taking Greta’s hand as they started up a stairway. Darann’s heart was pounding, and her stomach churned nervously as they climbed several flights and at last came to a door guarded by two Royal Guards.

  “A little late work,” Larson said, nudging one of the guards, who grinned in return. Darann was certain the thumping in her chest was loud enough to raise an alarm, but somehow she managed to smile charmingly. The guard smiled back, then opened the door to allow them to pass through.

  “Thanks-you’re a sweetheart,” Greta said, giving Larson a quick kiss on the cheek. He quickly pulled her close and gave her a more intimate embrace, smacking her on the buttocks as she finally broke free.

  “You know where to find me,” he said, looking at her seriously. “And I meant it, Gret-I really miss you!”