by D Mickleson
“Two shillings says he’s moppin’ the upstairs right now as I told ‘im.”
“You’re on, big boy. And when we find the runt shirking, I want his freckled ass tossed on the street.”
“Winchie, Sweetie—”
“Don’t you ‘Sweetie’ me—”
“Darling. Not yet. That’s all I’m sayin’. Look, Her Grace took a shinin’ to the kid. So did everybody else, right? Can’t be helped. Anyway”—a hesitation—“I need ‘im just now. A little something I’m cooking up, that’s all.”
Scuffling sounds. Winchie must have pulled out of her husband’s grip. “No. You didn’t, Billy!”
By the tenor of his voice, Bildad was grinning greedily. “Bought the whole load of ‘em. Real dwarf puzzleboxes, Winch! Think of it. Salvaged from the ruins of Khanzazar and all. I’ll offload ‘em at the Luskoll Carnival at thrice what I paid and we’re set for life. ”
“But the price! That peddler wanted our whole savings! You went back behind my back—what if nobody wants ‘em?” It sounded like she was hitting his chest. “What. If. They. Don’t. Sell!”
“Don’t make me laugh, woman. They’ll go faster than I can say piles of gold. And that’s what we’ll have, believe me. Erm, once the problem’s fixed, that is.”
The silence which followed this pronouncement could have been chopped with a dwarven battleaxe.
“Problem?” The word came in a quivering whisper.
“That’s where the lad comes in. Don’t worry.” A cautious peek revealed the innkeeper backing out into the hallway, two hands upraised defensively, while Winchie stalked after him. “He’ll . . . he’ll be able to figure ‘em out.”
“FIGURE THEM OUT!” She leapt at him with fists clenched and he retreated out of Triston’s sight. “YOU MEAN THEY DON’T EVEN WORK!” Her shouts seethed along the walls as she followed her embattled husband down the corridor. “You pinned our hopes on that accursed excuse for plague-puss? I’ll have the both of you hanging by your thumbs! All our gold on broken trinkets! Mother warned me not to marry a fat, ale-guzzling sorry-ass like you . . . .”
Triston eased out of the wardrobe, then stepped to the open doorway and craned his neck around the doorpost. Winchie’s shrill maledictions echoed in the empty corridor from around the bend, but his way was clear. With a grin and a last swallow of cheese, he sprinted down the corridor in the opposite direction, making for the servant staircase. A minute later, the innkeeper and his red-faced wife found him mop-in-hand, whistling cheerfully, if a little breathlessly.
“Ah, Triston,” said Bildad sounding highly relieved. “Fancy finding you here.”
“You told me to mop this hall, sir.”
“So I did, so I did.” He gave his wife a triumphant look which faltered against her icy glare.
“Well then, boy. You can put down the mop for now. I have a little treat for you.”
He opened his palm, revealing a wooden cube about the size of an eagle egg. The wood was dark and rich, probably walnut, and intricately carved with interlacing geometric forms. Likenesses of birds, beasts, dwarves and men were inlaid in silver, cast in such lifelike beauty that Triston marveled as he gazed at the ancient artifact.
“So that’s a dwarven puzzlebox,” he muttered. “Stunning.”
“How does the likes of you know what it is?” demanded Winchie sharply.
Triston opened his mouth in a silent O, then recovered himself with a shrug. “What else would it be?”
“Uh, no matter,” cut in Bildad, glancing anxiously at his wife’s narrowing eyes. “I—that is to saw, we—need you to solve the puzzle. It should open, see. It’s . . . just a trifle, a gift to our great niece. I was having trouble—that is to say, don’t have time for children’s riddles myself.” He puffed out his chest importantly. “There’s an inn to run! But I thought you would enjoy a leisurely break in your normal routine.” And then, with a tone of grandfatherly kindness: “Go on, lad, take it. And you can fetch a snack from the kitchens while you work. How’s that sound then?”
Triston lifted the puzzlebox gingerly with two hands, peering intently at the silver likenesses. There were four on each of the cube’s six faces. As he stared, he noted scarcely discernable grooves between each image, running crisscross over the whole box. The innkeepers watched in poorly hidden agitation, their breaths coming short and fast, while he turned it in his hands, the silver artistry glinting in his eyes.
A bearded centaur was gazing placidly up at the stars, smoking a long curving pipe. A dragon was heaving flames against some unseen foe. A clever-faced fox lounged on a log while next door, a princess wept into a mirror. A dwarf smith was beating out a double-headed axe beside a sea-serpent encircling a doomed ship. An eagle, a swordfish, a minotaur . . . a man, brandishing a bloody dagger and a cruel sneer.
“Whew,” Triston said at last. “They hated us, you know.”
“What?” came two irritated voices.
“Who hates us? Explain yourself, son.” The innkeeper’s kindly tone had vanished, replaced by brisk impatience.
“The dwarves. But never mind that. I’ve solved it.”
“You’ve . . . solved it!” Bildad beamed at him as if he was a sack of gold. “Show me then!” Beside her husband, Winchie was eyeing him in shrewd disbelief.
“I will. For ten silver dragons.”
Bildad’s smile lingered, but his chubby face took on the hue of a red apple. “Ten. Silver. Dragons,” he repeated with a suppressed quaver. “How dare you?”
Winchie was nodding knowingly, as if everything finally made sense. But her husband spoke first. “You will solve this,” he said, seizing the puzzlebox and shaking it in Triston’s face. “Today. Now! And then you’ll hop to it cracking the rest of ‘em. I’ve got more see, loads more. You’ll solve the lot or it’s back to the street gutters where I found you.” He turned to his wife. “The ungrateful swine! He was shifting through refuse piles with the dogs when I took him in.”
Triston folded his arms across his chest. “I was starving. And you’ll starve too without my help. Worthless unless they open. All of them. Buyers won’t know they’re real.”
The innkeeper’s face had contorted into a savage sneer. “Buyers won’t know,” he repeated furiously. Suddenly he lashed out, striking Triston’s bruised face with a vicious backhand. “They’ll know, oh yes. IF YOU VALUE YOUR WORTHLESS HIDE!”
Pain like fire radiated from Triston’s right cheek, but his head felt clear. Bildad’s fierce glare was on him, his hand raised for a second blow. Then a sudden doubt seemed to seize the innkeeper as his eyes met Triston’s. He took a step back. Triston realized he’d been smiling wickedly at Bildad, and wondered at this.
The next thing he knew his right arm was wrapped around the man’s bulging neck, Bildad’s purple head locked in a merciless grip. He was choking. Winchie was screaming wildly and flailing at him. How long had he been holding him?
Triston released the innkeeper and stepped back. The man collapsed to his stomach, gasping for breath.
“I’m going now,” Triston said in a dull monotone, turning his back on them.
“Wait.” Winchie, breathing hard. He stopped.
After a hiss of intaken breath, and a long exhalation, she spoke. “Old Alinya dropped by this morning. You know, the herb woman. Interesting tale she told too.” She was slowly stepping toward him, but he kept his back to her. “She does her gathering under the eaves of the Wildwood, you know. Risky with those tree-demon Farthians lurking in the shadows, but she never ventures in too far.”
“What do you want?”
“Just who does she espy hurrying out of the deeper forest, more guilt on his face than a husband come back from the whorehouse? Why, that bastard friend o’ yours. What’s his name? That’s right, it’s just Bastard. Why do you think Bastard makes secret trips to the Wildwood, Trist dear?”
Alden no. She was close now, just inches behind him. “Alden hunts. Wild boar probably.”
“Wild boar!�
�� she exclaimed happily. “Why didn’t I think of that? Braving poisoned darts from above for a little bacon, no doubt. Then dances naked under the moonlight with the Farthians when he’s bagged his prize. Well, I’ll just visit Captain Brand and see what he thinks of your idea. The Captain might have a different notion about what Bastard was after. Might want to do a little search through his belongings, he might.”
Triston wheeled around. “Alden isn’t dealing Haiseroot! He’s not that stupid.”
She laughed in his face, a long, hearty belly-cackle. Triston’s shoulders slumped. He was beaten, and she knew it.
“Give me the box,” he said.
His room stank; it had long been used as a pantry to store empty beer barrels and reeked of fermentation and mildew. Bare of furnishings, this new home nevertheless pleased him. It was dry, warm and graced with a small south-facing window which overlooked the tumbled slopes of Magog’s Rise.
Triston sat cross-legged on a squeaky cot, studying the ancient dwarven plaything. Clear morning light poured in from the open window, shimmering on the cube’s glossy walnut and silver faces. He was getting close.
Firmly gripping the bottom of the box with his left hand, he twisted the top with his right. Its upper tier rotated along the hidden groove one quarter turn. This created a new ordering of silver images. But not the correct ordering. Not yet. Each face must display four like creatures, such as four woodland animals, four sea creatures, four dwarven craftsmen, and so on. This was the answer to the puzzle, as any child could have seen.
Not the innkeepers. Their heads only have room for clinking coins.
The side facing him bore the dragon and the minotaur raging at the world from their tiny tiles, while beside these dangerous creatures the smoking centaur star-gazed and a faun danced merrily. Now gripping the box on the left side, he rotated the right half up a quarter turn. The faun and centaur joined a wood fairy and a water nymph, while the dragon and minotaur gained the company of a scorpion-like manticore and the dagger-wielding man. Goodly creatures on one face, dangerous hellions on another.
The dwarves always thought of us as monsters. Were they right?
He didn’t have time to ponder this question. A chime rang from within the box, confirming what he knew: all the images were aligned, the puzzle solved. What now?
The puzzlebox answered his unspoken question immediately. A shuddering sounded within, a deep rumbling like a far-off avalanche. A clanging like hundreds of hammers on anvils joined the cacophony. The box leapt from his startled grip and rolled here and there on the floor as if something was inside trying to escape. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the uproar ceased. With a pop, one side of the cube swung open on invisible hinges, then all was still and silent.
Triston stepped toward the dwarven toy, peering cautiously into the depths within as one might peer into a hole inhabited by a poisonous spider. He gasped. A tiny silver statue of an axe-wielding dwarf-warrior glared up at him, but this fact did not provoke his awe. In legends, puzzleboxes always contained prizes, and this was clearly no exception. But the inside—there was no mistaking it—the inside was too spacious for the outside. Two or three times too spacious. He was standing in the presence of real dwarven enchantment. Bildad would make his fortune.
As if summoned by Triston’s thoughts, the innkeeper burst into his room without knocking. “Ahhhhhh.” Carefully setting a large wicker basket on Triston’s cot, he strode forward and scooped up his treasure. Triston was tempted to laugh as Bildad stroked its walnut sides, gazing at the artifact with the rapt affection a warrior returning from far afield might bestow on his wife. Then Triston noticed the blue and purple bruises on the innkeeper’s neck and the smile died on his lips.
“You will solve the others. There, in the basket.” Bildad tore his eyes from his prize to give Triston a gloating smile. “You will deliver them to our quarters, open, all of them, by this time tomorrow or the wife will have your half-breed travesty of a Fighter swinging from a gibbet.”
“She’s wrong about Alden,” Triston insisted hotly.
Bildad scoffed. “Why else would he be risking his ill-gotten neck but to get his hands on them forbidden toxins, eh?” Seeing that Triston had no answer, his upper lip twisted into a mocking sneer. “Low-bred scum. That’s the company you choose to keep? Glad you’re no son of mine.” He made for the door, but paused under the frame. “Oh yes. You’re needed after supper in the Fire Hall, likely till after midnight.”
“I thought you wanted me here, solving these. Why should I—”
“Why!” The innkeeper swaggered back, halting only when their faces were inches apart and fixing him with a bitter glare. “Because I said it, that’s why. And that’s good enough for you.” He puffed out his chest importantly. “For your information, Her Grace is going to make me a rich man tonight.” He stuck a finger in Triston’s chest. “And you’re going to help her.” Stepping back a pace, his eyes fell on the puzzlebox in his hand.
“A richer man, I should say.”
Triston heaved the last barrel onto the horse trough’s rim, then pried off the lid with a crowbar. A sudsy flow of amber ale gushed into the nearly-brimming trough, kicking up a nose-tingling aroma of hops and barley. Three troughs dragged into the Fire Hall, then twelve barrels to fill each one. No wonder his back ached
Arrayed in full Fighter gear, Alden watched, his arms folded across his chest. “So then Belinda storms over, shoves Kara aside, and slaps me in the face. All the while, she’s shrieking the nastiest accusations against me—”
Triston dropped the newly-emptied barrel and looked up with alarm. “What accusations exactly?”
A sheepish half-smile stole over his face, quickly concealed by a sudden interest in the nearest wall-hanging, a mounted minotaur head. The creature’s shock at being speared was perpetually frozen on its gigantic features.
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
Triston debated inwardly whether to press the question here, where anyone could overhear them. Though the evening was young, the common room was already packed to bursting, and more villagers were crowding in every minute. All twelve Fighters were on duty, stationed around the horse troughs to keep back the eager multitude. Bildad had hired on four new girls just for the night, all buxom to Winchie’s annoyance, and together they and the innkeepers were bustling here and there to keep the growing throng fed and watered.
The kitchen door swung open with a creak and Winchie emerged, a sheen of sweat coating rosy, haggard features. “All done here? Good.” She paused to give Alden a knowing once-over, causing him to check his fly was up in bewilderment, then she cast gloating eyes on Triston. “Her Grace could come down any time now, so be ready. It’s not going to be pretty once she’s through with these,” she said, indicating the troughs. Then, thrusting her bug-eyed face forward an inch from his: “And it won’t be pretty for pretty boy here if you let me down. Now start stacking mugs next to these vats, a pile here, one there, and another there.”
Alden leaned forward wearing a mischievous grin. “So Winchie dear, what’s all this excitement about, anyway? Why are we all here?”
“Why are you here, I often say. Oh right, because your mother was a tramp.”
Alden watched her back as she stomped away, his face torn between fury and admiration.
“She’s mean,” he said.
“You’ve no idea.”
Alden perked up. “You know, if a tribe of rock-trolls had a beauty contest, she just might win runner-up.”
Triston smirked. “Rock-trolls? Fourth place at best. Now, swamp ogres, she could clear a slime-covered silver trophy, easy. Ald, what nasty things is Belinda saying?”
The Fighter shrugged, looking down at his fitted-leather boots. “Supposedly I told her I loved her,” he muttered. “But, you know, months ago. Who remembers that stuff?” He looked up at Triston, growing animated. “So what does Kara do? She turns red and yells ‘You said you love me!” then slaps me on the other cheek. To top it o
ff—you won’t believe this—they walk away, arm in arm, whispering. Completely insane.”
Diverted, Triston glanced over at a far table, where Kara sat sulkily beside her father Traven the tanner and his hired hands. “So does this mean she’s . . . are you two, er, finished?”
Alden eyed him without expression for a couple of seconds. “I’ll see ya, Trist. Join us at our table later if you get the chance.”
“Right.”
Triston was halfway through the third stack when a flurry of noise and scattered clapping erupted behind him. A mousy youth no older than Triston who he recognized as one of the Seer’s footmen was struggling down a wide staircase, his arms straddling a bulky, cloaked burden. Everyone knew the entire upper floor was occupied by the Seer, the Meridian lord, and their respective retinues of guards and servants.
A balding, middle-aged Fighter named Grunden stepped forward uncertainly as if to help, but Gorwain placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, eyeing the veiled object darkly. No one else moved. The smattering of excitement faded into a tense silence as the footman negotiated his mysterious charge to the front of the room, where Triston and the horse-troughs waited expectantly. A collective aaahhhh filled the air when the man pulled off the cloak, revealing a magnificent golden harp standing taller than his waist.
This excitement had scarcely escaped their lips when the Seer herself appeared at the top of the stairs, flanked by three surly-looking Guardians. Luminous in a crimson evening gown which left her milky shoulders bare, she swept into the Fire Hall, the faintest hint of a smile her only acknowledgement of the room’s rapt attention.
Reaching the harp she turned and faced the assembly, resting a hand on the arched back of her marvelous instrument.
“Dear ones, a time of great revelry is upon us.” She spoke softly, but her lyrical voice pierced the thick silence of the room like a silver chime. “The seven Fates have been kind to this village. They grow kinder still. I will incant the Rite of Benediction, as I have not sung in many a long year, for it drains me greatly. Listen. Last night I slumbered in deep darkness, and a voice spoke from that darkness.”
