The War of the Dwarves (30 page)

“Djer
n won’t be here; he’s going on a mission to the Outer Lands. We need to know what we’re up against and prepare ourselves
accordingly. At present, our only intelligence is the firstlings’ description of a fire.” The maga had constructed her case
in advance, realizing that she would have to persuade her famula of the merit of the plan. “Don’t worry about Furgas; I’ll
renew the charm, and every third orbit Rodario will change the sheets. There won’t be anything else for him to do.” She pointed
to the far end of the arcade. “Stand over there—we’re going to try something new.”

The half älf took up position, but she wasn’t prepared to concede defeat. “Are you sure the charm will be strong enough? What
if it wears off before we’re back?”

Andôkai raised her arms and traced silvery syllables above her head. “Furgas would die,” she said candidly, casting the charm
toward Narmora, who held out her palms defensively and uttered a simple incantation.

The glittering jet of light turned a deep shade of green, slowed down and changed its trajectory, swooping upward and boring
its way through the roof. The sky appeared through the marble.

The maga could hardly believe her eyes. “You changed the energy,” she said in astonishment. “How did you do it?”

Narmora smiled. “I suppose I must have muddled up the runes.”

A crack appeared in the ceiling and fragments of marble showered to the ground. Crackling and hissing, a green bolt of lightning
swooped toward Andôkai. The charm had returned and was pursuing its target with grim determination. The maga disappeared in
a cloud of dust.

A fragment of marble struck Narmora on the shoulder. Just then a searing pain ripped through her womb, stopping her breath.

She doubled over and sank to her knees, clutching her belly. Looking down, she watched in horror as a dark tide washed over
her robes; warm fluid was seeping from her body, drenching the cloth.

No!
She touched the sticky fabric with her hands and stared at her crimson fingers. Heat washed through her, but she was shivering
with cold. “You’ve taken Furgas; spare me my child!” she pleaded helplessly. Her eyes turned the color of coal and dark lines
appeared like cracks on her face, revealing her lineage.

She held on to a column and tried to pull herself up, but her bloodied fingers slid over the polished marble and she sprawled
against the floor. Her stomach landed on a splinter of stone.

This time she knew for certain that something had burst. She curled up on the floor and screamed despairingly as she clutched
her belly with shaking fingers, water streaming from her womb.

N
o one paid much attention to the leper in the corner whose ravaged features were hidden almost wholly by yellowed dressings.
Sometimes a bronze coin flew through the tavern in his direction, whereupon he rose to his feet, bowed several times and collected
it gratefully.

“Here, eat this and be on your way,” said the publican, depositing an ancient plate and a battered tankard on the table. He
was careful not to touch the man’s hands, having noticed the rips in his gloves. Later, he would throw away the plate, tankard,
and cutlery and scrub the bench and table with precious vinegar solution. It pained him to think of the cost, but the price
of refusing charity to a leper was infinitely higher—the sick and infirm were under Palandiell’s protection, and she was dangerous
in her wrath.

The man bowed and made an incomprehensible whimpering noise; it seemed the disease had eaten away at his tongue, rendering
him mute.

Further along the bench, two women and a man, all dressed in plain garments, were talking so quietly that no one could divine
the subject of their discussions. They treated the leper as if he weren’t there.

“How am I supposed to know who paid them?” snapped the fair-haired woman.

“That’s what I thought.” The man nodded. “No one at the guild knows anything about it. Frud and Granselm wanted the money
for themselves.” He poured himself a goblet of wine and emptied it greedily. A look of satisfaction crept over his face. “Much
good it did them, the greedy bastards.”

“It’s the giant’s fault,” grumbled the brown-haired woman. “The guardsmen you can hide from, but the giant always knows where
you are. If you ask me, there’s something unnatural inside that armor.”

“It goes without saying,” agreed the fair-haired woman. “I mean, how many men do you know who are three paces tall?” She glanced
at the leper who was dozing with his back to the wall. Her eyes came to rest on his pouch of coins.

“Not here,” hissed the man. “Are you crazy? If someone were to—”

“I know, I know,” she said carelessly. “I’m not suggesting we should actually… But if any of us were to meet him in an alleyway…
Well, he’s practically dead already; I’m sure he won’t object.” She whinnied with laughter, and the others seemed to share
the joke. “By the way,” she said, suddenly serious. “Have you heard that the maga is looking for secret supporters of Nudin?”

“
Nôd’onn
, not Nudin,” the dark-haired woman corrected her. “The maga has placed a bounty on their heads. I was thinking we should
find ourselves some likely suspects and hand them over to the guards. Presto, the money will be ours.”

“Good thinking,” said the man enthusiastically. “Knowing Andôkai, she won’t bother with putting them on trial. Who can we
frame? It can’t be anyone who’s liked or admired by the citizens with coin.”

“I know just the person,” said the fair-haired woman, clapping him on the back. Her dark-haired companion laughed. “What makes
them think that Nôd’onn still has followers in Porista?” she enquired.

“Apparently, Frud and Granselm were carrying weapons embossed with the magus’s crest,” explained the man. “I don’t believe
a word of it: They weren’t exactly friendly with the magus, and they avoided magic like the plague.”

“Unless they were given those weapons by whoever was holding the purse strings,” reasoned the fair-headed woman, stealing
a swig from her companion’s goblet. “It’s almost like someone wanted Andôkai to believe in a conspiracy. There’s something
funny about this business.”

A sudden noise sent them scrambling to their feet. The leper had woken up and was coughing and sputtering. They shifted along
the bench to avoid being showered with phlegm.

Still gagging, the leper hauled himself upright and staggered to the door. The other drinkers drew back and held their breath
until he was safely out of the tavern. As soon as the door closed behind him, the publican rushed over with a bucket of vinegar
solution and started scrubbing the table and bench.

“Quick,” said the fair-haired woman, jumping up from the table. “I reckon his purse is going to need a new owner sooner than
we thought.” They piled out of the tavern and stopped on the pavement, listening intently.

The tinkling bell on the man’s ankle, designed to warn of his approach, drew his pursuers straight to him. With a smile, the
fair-haired woman whipped out her dagger, holding it flat against her forearm to hide the blade from view. She set off after
the tinkling leper, while her two companions hurried after her, watching her back.

The man came into view. He was hobbling at great speed and seemed to have heard them coming. Cursing, he glanced over his
shoulder and slipped into an alleyway. The tinkling stopped.

“He’s seen us. After him!” They raced into the alleyway, the fair-haired woman charging ahead. After only a few paces, she
tripped over a pile of dirty clothes and hit the cobblestones. The dagger flew from her hand. The man’s right foot got caught
in a leather band to which a small metal bell was attached. They heard the familiar tinkling.

Spitting angrily, the woman got to her feet and held up the discarded rags. “Look at this,” she said slowly. “He was only
pretending to be a leper. This smells of… talcum powder or ointment or…” She ran her hands over the stains. “Paint!”

“He was spying for the maga,” growled the man, checking the alleyway for signs of the impostor. “We need to catch him or we’ll
be finished.” He sent the women in different directions and they fanned out, determined to secure the man’s silence once and
for all.

R
odario watched motionlessly from the doorway of a house as the fair-haired purse-snatcher tiptoed past him and continued along
the alleyway, stopping occasionally to listen for telltale noises. The city was eerily quiet.

It was a relief after countless nights of eavesdropping in the dingiest taverns of Porista to finally hear something of consequence,
but he hadn’t allowed for the rapacious nature of the criminal mind, and his current predicament put a dampener on his mood.

There could be little doubt that the trio intended to kill him: The look on their faces and the mention of the “guild” were
evidence enough of that.

So Frud and Granselm were paid to attack us,
he thought, watching with relief as the woman disappeared from view.
But I still don’t know who hired them, and I probably never shall
.

His mind chafed at the possibility that the daggers had been planted to make it look as if Nôd’onn’s famuli were behind the
attack. He wondered whether someone held a grudge against the magus’s pupils and wanted them dead.
But why bother with framing them? A tip-off would suffice…
A smile spread over his handsome face.
What a wonderful idea for my next play—a thrilling drama full of local color.

He was about to disappear into the alleyway when the door behind him flew open. Pale light streamed out of the house and before
he had time to react, someone grabbed him and pulled him backward. The door slammed shut, trapping him inside.

“My apologies, worthy citizens of Porista,” said Rodario. “I can explain…” His arms were bent up behind him, and someone turned
him round. He saw three figures wearing malachite robes and masks. One of his captors was a woman, as he could tell from her
curves. “He’s a spy,” hissed the man, holding Rodario in a vice-like grip. “He was eavesdropping for the usurper.”

The woman leaned over and examined his face. “I know him. He’s the actor in charge of the building work. The maga hired him
when the other fellow was attacked.”

Rodario had seen and heard enough to know whom he was dealing with. Under other circumstances he would have relished the prospect
of rooting out Nôd’onn’s famuli, but not now. “Worthy citizens, you’re mistaken,” he said, trying to extricate himself from
the situation with his dependable smile. “I’m not the fabulous Rodario—although he and I are very much alike.”

“Only an actor would talk so prettily,” said the woman with a laugh. “It’s him, all right.” She nodded to the man behind Rodario.
“Good work, famulus. It’s our chance to discover the maga’s next move.” She pointed to a chair. Rodario was hauled unceremoniously
toward it and made to sit down, while his hands were tied behind his back. The woman leaned over and looked him in the eye.
“We know you’re in league with the maga. What does she mean by her games?”

“I’m a lowly impresario,” he said sweetly. “All I want is to rebuild my theater but, after what you did to my poor friend
Furgas, I’ve been lumbered with rebuilding the city as well.” He didn’t think for a moment that the famuli were responsible
for the ambush, but he wanted to keep his newfound knowledge to himself.

The woman immediately corroborated his suspicions. “We didn’t attack your friend,” she said angrily. “If we were going to
attack anyone, we wouldn’t use daggers embossed with the magus’s crest. What bothers us is that Andôkai is bent on telling
everyone that we were involved. First she steals Porista from its rightful owners, and now she’s turning the city against
us. What does she mean to do next?”

“Gentle lady, your grievance is with the maga, not with me. I wasn’t spying on you; I was fleeing from three unscrupulous
reprobates who were after my purse. Your doorway offered protection, I took shelter, and your friend here mistook me for a
spy.” He looked up at her imploringly. “If you let me go, the maga will never learn of our encounter. I’m none too fond of
her either—she’s a cold-hearted, unfeeling woman who likes to make other people feel small.” As he talked, he pulled on the
rope that bound his wrists, freeing himself by degrees. One of the men had stopped watching him and was sitting by the window,
peering into the street. “I could spy for you, if you like,” Rodario offered boldly.

He could tell from the woman’s face that she was ready to believe him, but his hopes were dashed when a fist appeared out
of nowhere and punched him on the chin. “You treacherous windbag,” barked the second man. “Stop trying to deceive us with
your silver-tongued lies. We know the maga is up to something. Why else would she leave the palace at the dead of nigh—”

“Shush,” hissed the man at the window. “Keep your voices down. Someone’s outside.”

“Can you see who it is?” whispered the woman.

“Three people. They’re armed and they’re standing outside the door.”

“They’re…” At the last second, Rodario, who was about to identify the trio as his purse-snatching pursuers, changed his mind.
He gave the rope a final jerk; it was loose enough for him to break free at the first opportunity. “They’re my guards,” he
lied, deciding to add to the confusion by claiming to be a spy after all. “They’re under orders to put an end to your treachery.”