The War of the Dwarves (72 page)

“The sooner you discover his secret the better,” snapped Rodario. “Personally, I’d rather not be captured by the avatars.
Hmm, I wonder if this will work.” He stooped down, picked up a handful of snow, and rubbed it into the hinges of Boïndil’s
suit. The metal squealed in protest. “Same to you,” said Rodario crossly.

Boïndil gave him a vigorous shove, and he disappeared backward into the snow. “Keep that word-weaving meddler away from me,”
growled the angry secondling. “His brilliant ideas will get us all killed. Maybe we should send him to the other side of the
city to distract attention from the rest of us.”

Rodario jumped up and gave himself an irritated shake. “Fine, Mr. Hasty-ax, that’s exactly what I’ll do,” he announced self-importantly.
“I’m an innocent citizen of Porista, a theater director, no less. They won’t have a problem letting me into the city, my cocky
little friend.”

“Don’t be silly, Rodario,” said Tungdil. “It’s safer with us.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I happen to disagree. I’ll see you at the marketplace. No doubt I’ll be fully cognizant of
the avatars’ whereabouts by the time you arrive.” He turned on his heels and strutted off.

“Good riddance,” growled Boïndil. “I’ve had enough of his blather.”

Tungdil gazed after him, wishing he would change his mind. The silver-tongued actor had proven his usefulness on numerous
occasions in the past.

“You can bet he’ll be fine,” said Furgas with a grin. “He’s bound to make it to the marketplace. Anyone who can seduce a maiden
and sweet-talk her father is resourceful enough to look after himself.” He set off again, following a trail of arrows traced
by Ondori in the snow.

The symbols were the only evidence that the älf had passed that way. Her feet left no prints and in the dying light of the
orbit she melded with the darkness, disappearing from view.

“Is she really Sinthoras’s daughter?” whispered Boïndil. “I don’t want to find a black-fletched arrow in my back. She’s a
double-dealing, dwarf-killing no-eyes. We’ll have to kill her before she kills us.”

Tungdil was inclined to agree. “We’ll bide our time. Don’t do anything unless I say so—the avatars are enough of a challenge
without Ondori going for our throats.”

They stole toward Porista’s newly erected defenses. In places, the walls were still unfinished, but they were high enough
to keep out invaders.

At the base of a half-finished section of wall they discovered the entrance to the sewage system described by Furgas. The
wooden gates were as high as a man, but to the casual observer or sentry they were completely hidden by a large mound of snow.
The älf was crouched at the entrance, listening for enemy guards.

“Hmm,” said Boëndal disapprovingly. “A great big tunnel leading straight to the city… You’re opening yourselves to attack.”

“We thought about that,” Furgas assured him, smiling. “In the event of danger, we can close off the sewer by lowering the
grates. The avatars won’t have activated them, which is just as well for us.”

He bounded down the bank, and the dwarves stumbled after him, wishing they were back in their chain mail. Their new armor
was considerably heavier and more restrictive as well.

Furgas, an expert in all things technical, set about picking the locks, his deft fingers teasing open the mechanism. There
was a gentle click, and the door swung open, allowing the little party to enter the sewer.

Furgas closed the door behind him and made sure it was locked. Then, lighting a small lantern to help him find his way through
the darkness, he led the others through the tunnel.

After only ten paces, he stopped and pointed at five deep grooves in the ceiling, each three or so paces from the next.

“The grates are up there—big metal barriers as thick as my arm. You can do what you like to them, but they won’t shift an
inch. No one could ever invade Porista through the drains.”

“Isn’t that precisely what we’re doing?” commented Boïndil, trying not to skid on a frozen puddle. “If you ask me, there’s
a flaw in your plan.”

Furgas gave a low laugh. “I’m sure the gods knew what they were doing when they made me forget to lower the grates.”

They felt their way forward slowly. Ondori was somewhere in front of them, hidden by darkness. Suddenly she appeared at Boëndal’s
side. “You may as well speed up a bit,” she said, startling Furgas so badly that the lantern jigged up and down. “There’s
no one here apart from us. It’s all clear until we get to the door.” She melted back into the darkness, only reappearing when
they reached the bottom of a narrow staircase.

“We built the stairs so that workmen can make sure nothing is blocking the sewers. Someone will be responsible for coming
down here at regular intervals to check. The manhole is covered by a slab of stone. It’s easy to open from above, but it might
take a bit of force to lift it up.”

Ondori went ahead and signaled for them to follow. There wasn’t enough room for anything but single file, and no matter how
hard they tried, they couldn’t succeed in shifting the stone.

Furgas peered through the cracks. “They’ve fastened the bolts.”

“It’s good to know that someone cares about security,” said Boïndil, thumping the stone. “I’m afraid it’s pretty solid. We’ll
have our work cut out.”

Ondori signaled for them to be quiet.

There was someone on the other side of the manhole. They heard bolts being thrown back, then a muffled groan as the slab began
to wobble.

“Do you think it’s Rodario?” Boëndal asked Furgas in a whisper.

“May as well lift it up and see,” said his brother, pushing against the slab. The others joined in while the älf raised her
bow.

At last the slab lifted and hit the floor with a thud. Looking up, they saw a man with a grimy face and, beside him, a bucket
of waste. He seemed understandably surprised to see them emerging from the sewers.

“Is that you, Mr. Furgas?” he stuttered. “Where have you—” He stepped back to let them out. “Quick, you’d better hurry or
you’ll be seen.”

“This is Ertil,” said Furgas, introducing him to the others. “He runs the kitchens for the laborers.”

“Can he be trusted?” demanded Ondori without lowering her bow.

“An elf,” gasped Ertil respectfully. He looked up at the tall, slim archer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elves’ fabled
beauty, which was praised in countless human songs. To his disappointment, her features were hidden by a mask.

“He’s trustworthy,” said Furgas hurriedly, to prevent Ondori from loosing her bow. “I daresay he’ll be able to tell us what
happened.”

The man nodded. “That I can, sir. It’s a good thing I needed to empty my bucket.” He took another look at the strange group,
then tipped the contents of his bucket into the street. “I don’t want you dirtying your boots if you leave the same way.”

They replaced the stone slab and hurried down the alleyway to Ertil’s house, keeping to the shadows.

He unlocked the door, lit a couple of candles, and brought them some water. “Fifteen orbits ago they got here. They were shining
like stars—nearly went blind just from looking,” he said. “They spread out through the city, killing the guards who tried
to stop them. The ones in charge—shimmering, glowing creatures—went straight to the palace, and we haven’t seen them since.
They haven’t actually
done
anything—you could almost forget they were here, except no one goes anywhere near the palace. They say the city belongs to
the amsha.”

“Did anyone try to resist?” asked Furgas.

“We didn’t dare,” said Ertil, staring at the floor. “Ten thousand soldiers they brought with them. We didn’t know what to
do.”

“It’s not your fault,” Furgas assured him. “The shimmering creatures you mentioned—how many of them are here?”

“I saw five, but others saw more. I was probably blinded by the glare.” He looked at Furgas. “Who are they, sir? I don’t know
what they’re doing in the palace, but it’s upsetting my horses. They’ve been restless and fidgety for a couple of orbits.
Is the Estimable Maga going to rescue us soon?”

“She’s on her way,” said Furgas soothingly. “She sent us here to reconnoiter the territory. You’d better not tell anyone you’ve
seen us.”

The man nodded gravely.

“Was there a dwarf-woman with them?” asked Tungdil, desperate to know what had happened to Balyndis. “Did you see where they
took her?”

“A dwarf-woman. Funny you should mention it.” He pointed toward the palace. “There was another group got here only seven orbits
ago. I know because I was passing the gates on my way to market and I saw them riding like demons. If I hadn’t gotten out
of the way, they would have ridden right over me. They disappeared into the palace, and the dwarf-woman was with them.”

“Any news of my daughter?” asked Furgas. “Do you know where she is?”

Ertil shook his head. “No one has left the palace as far as I know.”

“That’s something, at least,” snorted Boïndil. “We’ll deal with her and Balyndis together, and beat a quick retreat.”

Boëndal peered out of the window, hoping to spot Rodario. “There’s nobody out there,” he said. “The streets are empty. Rodario
will stick out like a stain on a clean leather jerkin.”

“Don’t worry,” said Furgas. “He’ll be fine.”

“We can’t wait forever,” Tungdil reminded him. “We need to rescue Balyndis before the avatars learn the secret of Djer
n’s
armor.” He could already imagine them torturing his beloved smith.

“I say we go right away. I can find my way around the palace without Rodario’s help—but I suggest you grease your hinges first.”

Ertil fetched a bottle of sunflower oil and the dwarves set about silencing their creaking armor, while Boïndil muttered unhappily
about the inferior quality of the oil.

Furgas got up and went to the door. Their perilous mission could begin.

Ondori went ahead, followed by Furgas and the armored dwarves. Ertil was instructed to keep an eye on the entrance to the
sewers and look after Rodario until they got back—assuming they weren’t captured.

They hurried as quietly as possible through the city’s hushed streets.

Furgas was beginning to get worried about Rodario.
He should be here by now. I hope he’s all right…

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

S
traight to the stage with no rehearsals.
Rodario strained his eyes, peering at the guards at the entrance to the city.
I bet they don’t use retractable blades.
Screwing up his courage, he picked up a bundle of firewood that he had gathered as a prop, and set off toward the gates.
From a distance he could make out nine soldiers in shimmering armor. They were clustered around a brazier, warming their hands.

“Stop,” commanded one of them, blocking his path. The rest of them continued to talk among themselves. The soldier’s spear
pointed at Rodario’s stomach. “Where are you from?”

“From there,” he said, pointing to a field behind him. He gestured toward the city and added a few garbled sentences to give
them the impression that they were dealing with a simpleton. “Freezy-cold outside,” he babbled, holding up his bundle of wood.
“I needs foods for my fire.”

The act seemed to work. “Did you hear that?” the guard called to the others. “We’ve found the village idiot.” He picked up
a burning log and placed it on top of the wood. “Here, take this as well. Our fire isn’t hungry.”

Rodario smiled dumbly and gave a grateful bow, allowing the burning log to fall into the snow. Mumbling under his breath,
he took a step forward and stooped to pick it up, at the same time dropping the rest of the firewood in front of him. He repeated
the procedure again and again, making his way past the guards who were roaring with laughter and hurling logs down the street.

Obligingly, he scampered after the flying wood like a dog in pursuit of a bone, but as soon as he reached the corner, he stopped
laughing and threw away the wood.
That was easy
. He slowed to a brisk walk, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

He knew Porista’s narrow streets like the back of his hand, and his path took him past the Curiosum. He came to a sudden stop.
Mournfully, he ran his hand over the locked door and recited the words on the sign: “Company On Tour. Grand Re-opening In
The Spring. Prepare To Be Amazed And Astonished By Girdlegard’s Biggest Talent, The Fabulous Rodario.”

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said a gentle voice behind him. “I would have liked to meet this Rodario.”

“The fabulous Rodario,” he corrected her, turning round. He was expecting to see an old dame on a tour of the city’s hostelries,
but the speaker was a woman of his age, wrapped in expensive furs. A hood protected her hair from the light snowfall.

Rodario smiled his famous smile. “He’s supposed to be very good.”

“You’ve been away from the city,” she observed, eying his torn robes and stubbly chin. “It’s the wrong weather for traveling
on foot.”