The War of the Dwarves (73 page)

“When your horse is stabbed to death, you don’t have much choice,” he said, concocting a story that he hoped would stir her
pity. “I was attacked by a pair of highwaymen. They killed my stallion and stole my saddlebag and purse.”

“Let me guess: You’re a nobleman visiting his mistress in Porista.” She smoothed a strand of brown hair and smiled at him
playfully. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name…”

He hesitated, sensing that she hadn’t believed his story.
A hard nut to crack. Still, I like a good challenge.

Realizing that she was staring at something behind him, he turned around to see what it was.
Of course!
He laughed. It was a life-size portrait, painted next to the entrance. In fact, he had commissioned the work himself. Luckily
the guards hadn’t recognized him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, stepping toward him. “Why would the fabulous Rodario want to spin me a yarn?” Her dark
green eyes sparkled mischievously.

“I took a fancy to the story,” he said quickly. “Anyway, I’m curious to know why a beautiful lady would be wandering the streets
of Porista by herself. I don’t remember your face, yet I know every—”

“Every woman in Porista,” she finished for him. “In that case, I’m probably ruining my reputation by talking to you.”

“I was going to say
everyone
, not every woman,” he corrected her. “I came to Porista in the employ of Andôkai the Tempestuous and her successor Narmora.
My friend Furgas and I were in charge of rebuilding the city after it was…” He swiveled, watching as she paced around him,
fur robes trailing in the snow. “In any event, I know the city well.” He reached out and took hold of her arm, stopping her
mid-circle. “How is it I haven’t laid eyes on you when every cobblestone must be jealous of your favor?”

She smiled, this time like a young girl receiving a compliment from an admirer. “Was that a line from one of your plays?”

“Words can’t do justice to your beauty,” he whispered, encouraged by her response.
Ha
, he thought smugly.
I haven’t lost my touch
.

He shifted his gaze for a moment and looked at the street leading to the marketplace. For a while he had forgotten what had
brought him to Porista. There was nothing that might justify prolonging the conversation, even though he was eager to further
his acquaintance with the mysterious stranger. It was a long time since he had exercised his talents in the art of seduction.

Stop it
, he told himself sharply.
The others will be waiting.
Taking her hand briskly but chivalrously, he pressed his lips to her delicate white glove. “Where can I find you? I’m on
my way to a secret rehearsal, and I mustn’t be late, but I could see you afterward.” He gazed into her dark brown eyes.

“You’re running away already?” She snatched her hand from his and took a few paces back. He detected a look of disappointment
on her face. “Good evening, Rodario. I look forward to seeing you on the stage.” She shot him a sizzling look and disappeared
into the falling snow without turning around.

“Your address!” he called after her. “Where shall I send the tickets?” His shouts went unanswered.
I suppose it wasn’t to be
. Disappointed, he hurried down the street to the marketplace.

Snow was falling thickly, hiding him from prying eyes. He reached the spot where the stairs led down to the sewer and stopped:
The manhole cover had been unbolted. A light dusting of snow covered the footprints.

They didn’t wait for me!
He stomped his foot indignantly.
I bet that hotheaded secondling persuaded them to go.
He rubbed his pointy beard. Wounded pride made him more determined than ever to handle things by himself. He set off toward
the palace.
I’ll show you
, he thought, imagining how the dwarves would thank him when he freed them from the avatars and rescued Balyndis and the child.

Without stopping, he checked that his props were in place. They were essential for his transformation into the fearsome conjurer
Rodario the Fablemaker, a role that he played with aplomb.

Hidden in the pockets of his robes were little bags of powder that, when brought into contact with fire, produced brightly
colored flames, acrid smoke, and various shades of fog. His phials of acid, four in total, were stored safely in a padded
case.

But most important of all were the flamethrowers, designed by Furgas to fit into his sleeves.

They had two main components: a miniature tinderbox attached to his cuff, and a leather purse of lycopodium spores fixed to
the inside of his elbow. Pressing the pouch caused spores to shoot out of the purse and at the same time activated a mechanism
that pulled the flint backward and produced a spark, thereby igniting the seeds as they exited his sleeve. It had worked on
orcs, and it was bound to work on ordinary soldiers. Sometimes technology was as effective as magic.

On nearing the palace, he remembered that he couldn’t just waltz through the gates. He knew the secret formula, having been
left in charge of Furgas while Andôkai and Narmora were away, but the avatars would surely notice if an uninvited visitor
strolled through the gates.
Is there another door?

“Rehearsal over so soon?” said a voice behind him.

He whirled round and came face to face with the beautiful stranger. “Let’s just say that my illustrious colleagues were more
interested in the refreshments than my script,” he said, delighted to see her again.

“Then perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner and telling me about your play.” She smiled at him seductively
and he found himself assenting. In his imagination, he was stripping her of her garments one by one. He was willing to bet
that she smelled of cream and silk.

“I’m not very presentable,” he said regretfully. “I’ve only just arrived and I haven’t had time to freshen up or shave.”

“So I see,” she said, looking him up and down. “It won’t take long to fix: I can lend you some suitable clothes.” She stood
alongside him and he offered her his arm. “I’m Lirkim,” she told him, pulling him along.

“How far is your boarding house?” he enquired. Having given private performances in a number of the hostelries, he was keen
to avoid a scene. The last thing he wanted was to encounter an angry husband or father, especially with Lirkim around.

She stopped outside the palace gates and shook her head. “I’m not staying in a boarding house, Master Rodario.” She uttered
a strange incantation and traced a symbol elegantly in the air. The gates swung open. “We’re here.”

He stood frozen to the spot. “You’re with the avatars? I didn’t realize they’d brought their courtiers as well.”

“Is there a problem?” she enquired. “The avatars won’t hurt you if your intentions are honorable, which I’m sure they are.”
Since their arms were still interlinked, she waited until he was ready before leading him through the gates.

Now he was seriously worried—not for himself, but for the others, who wouldn’t be able to get in. He thanked the gods for
his good fortune.
What luck!
He smiled. First he would enjoy a night of passion, or at least a good bath and a decent meal, and later he would search
the palace for Balyndis and Dorsa.
I’ll be a hero! Ha, I can’t wait to see the look on Boïndil’s face…

“What now?” enquired Lirkim. “A moment ago you were terrified, and now you’re grinning from ear to ear.”

“No wonder,” he said quickly. “I can’t wait to see inside the palace. It’s an incredible honor.”

A look of puzzlement crossed her face as they made their way up the broad steps past the sentries. “But you were in charge
of rebuilding the city. Surely Andôkai must have invited you inside?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid the maga made a big secret of the palace. She was worried about people leaking information
that might facilitate an enemy attack, especially after the avatars sent someone to assassinate her in her own halls.”

“Where is she at the moment?”

“You’re referring to her successor, Narmora, I assume? She left for the north. Her instructions were to continue with the
building work in her absence.” He automatically started walking to Furgas’s old chamber, but Lirkim pulled him back.

“Where are you going? You’re supposed to be my guest.”

He laughed awkwardly. “I wasn’t thinking.” Several guards strode toward them and greeted Lirkim. On seeing Rodario, they stared
in surprise.

Nodding jovially, he smiled as if they were old friends. Their armor was studded with fragments of moonstone, but the metal
had lost its brilliance. It seemed the warriors glowed only at the avatars’ behest.

Rodario was filled with a confidence bordering on recklessness. He was no safer in the palace than in a cave of orcs, but
he felt as if Palandiell were clasping him to her breast. Lirkim led the way to the servants’ quarters, summoned two maids
whom Rodario had never seen before, and instructed them to attend to his needs.

“I’ll tell the kitchens that I’m dining with a guest.” She peeled off a glove and held out her milky wrist. “I’ll see you
in an hour.”

“I look forward to it, my lady,” he said, kissing her soft skin.
Cream and silk
, he thought.

N
eedless to say, Furgas had never intended to enter the palace through the main gates, which he assumed would be guarded. Their
arrival in the forecourt would doubtless cause a stir. “Narmora mentioned a couple of side gates. She took me through one
of them. It’s visible only to magi, but I should be able to find it again.”

Boïndil scowled. “Let’s hope so,” he muttered darkly.

“Patience, brother,” said Boëndal. “We can’t storm the gates, fight our way through to Balyndis and Dorsa, and beat a quick
retreat. It takes more than a couple of axes to scare a magician.”

Furgas ran a hand along the wall. “This is the spot.” He recited an incantation. Nothing happened.

“Are you sure it’s here?” Tungdil touched the wall carefully, but there was no sign of unevenness, much less an opening.

Ondori repeated the words, and the outlines of a door appeared in the wall.

Boïndil whirled round. “How did you do it?”

“Just get inside,” she said disdainfully. “Groundlings know nothing of magic.” She glanced at Furgas. “Humans are just as
bad.”

“And you’re an expert, are you, beanpole?” said Boïndil, bristling. He had no intention of taking orders from an älf, especially
if she treated him with such flagrant disrespect.

“Compared to you,” she said. “Hurry up, you’re in the way.”

Boëndal pushed his brother through the door to stop him from arguing. One by one they stepped into a garden at the northern
end of the expansive palace grounds. There was no one there to stop them.

“We can’t afford to dally,” said Ondori. “Sooner or later someone will notice your footprints and the hunt will be on.”

Furgas went to the front of the group and led them to the servants’ quarters, which he assumed were deserted. Suddenly he
stopped and pressed himself against the wall. The dwarves froze, aware that their armor might give them away.

They heard the soft voice of a woman. “I’ll tell the kitchens that I’m dining with a guest,” she said with a slight accent.
“I’ll see you in an hour.”

“I look forward to it, my lady.” There was no mistaking the voice.

“Rodario,” whispered Boïndil in astonishment. “How in the name of Vraccas does he do it?”

“How do you think?” whispered Furgas, grinning. They heard a door close. Peering round the corner, Furgas saw a woman in white
furs striding away from the room. “I say we leave him to it and stick to our plan.”

“He’s getting dinner as well!” hissed an indignant Boïndil.

“Be quiet,” Ondori told him.

“Be quiet yourself,” he growled belligerently. “If we’d killed your parents a couple of decades earlier, you wouldn’t be here
at all.”

The älf said nothing, her gray eyes looking daggers at him. Boïndil refused to succumb to her murderous glare.

Furgas raised a hand. “She’s stopped,” he whispered. Ondori stepped forward and raised her bow. “Hang on… she’s off again.”

The älf handed the bow to Furgas. “Wait here. I’ll find out what he’s up to,” she said, making for a door that led inside.
She listened for a moment, then opened it quietly.

R
odario was sitting in a tub of warm water, washing away the grime of the journey. The mud and dust of Gauragar dissolved into
the perfumed foam, and a couple of pine needles floated to the surface, a reminder of the forest where they had slept the
previous night. He picked up a razor and, holding a mirror in one hand, shaved the stubble from his incredibly handsome face.

“Never assume you’re alone,” said Ondori, staying his hand in case he slit his throat. “So you found your way into the palace?”

He breathed out in relief. “For the love of Palandiell,” he gasped. “You’re as bad as Narmora with your sneaking about.” She
released his hand and he continued to shave. “It’s nice of you to join me—are you the only one?”

“They’re waiting outside. I wanted to find out what you’re planning.”

“Tell the others not to worry,” he said in a self-important tone. “In a few moments I shall be dining with a beautiful woman
who happens to be part of the avatars’ entourage. I’ll ply her with wine, engage her in small talk, flirt with her a little—and
she’ll be putty in my hands.” He put down the razor and stroked his cheeks. “She’ll tell me where to find Balyndis, how to
get to Dorsa, and what we can expect from our phony gods of fire.” He checked his cheeks for stray whiskers and smiled at
himself in the mirror. “I’ll save the child and the dwarf, and Boïndil will be indebted to me for the rest of his life. An
excellent plan, don’t you think?”

She smiled behind her mask. “Not bad, considering you came up with it on the spot.”

“It was my intention all along,” he said indignantly. “Anyway, what about you?”

“Sounds like there’s nothing left for us to do.” She glanced at the conjuring equipment stacked on one of the chairs. “You
stick to your plan, we’ll stick to ours. Who knows, we might find Balyndis and Dorsa first.”