by Barb Hendee
The long sword's end rounded to a point, though the tip was broader than normal. With no fuller or ridge down the blade, it was slightly thin for its kind. He wondered at its weight compared to his own sword. The balance would be different, likely turning closer to the guard. By estimation, an agile fit in the hand, but it looked almost fragile.
If Wynn's claims held true concerning dwarven steel, Chane would not see its like anywhere but in a seatt. In this particular smithy, it seemed out of place.
Impoverished Sliver had somehow afforded whatever rare materials and processes were needed for that strangely mottled steel. How odd that anyone with such skill had not risen from this low life.
Chane had never coveted a weapon. All his resources, when he had any, went into his intellectual pursuits. But from the instant he had seen that sword in Sliver's hand, he had wanted it. Even if he had coin, most dwarves did not value precious metals, and how could he barter when he could not estimate its worth? In truth, he had little to trade by way of goods or services. Was the blade even available for purchase, let alone barter?
He worried about what lay ahead, especially for Wynn. Her search for the texts had already put them in dangerous positions, some of which were not overcome by combat. That might not hold for the future. Even if—when—the texts were found, wherever their secrets led would likely be more hazardous, not less.
Keeping Wynn safe meant acquiring every advantage. A broken sword was a still sword—but not like the one he now fixated upon.
"I have no news," Wynn finally said, steeling herself for the next tactic. "But if you help me, I might get a message to Ore-Locks … something to make him come."
"More lies!" Sliver snarled. "Peddling false hopes for your own gain!"
"Mind your ways, daughter," the mother warned. "She is a sage, likely sent by your brother High-Tower."
"Mother, please," Sliver returned. "High-Tower could have come himself after so many years. But he did not. This conniving scribbler is not here because of him … or your prayers to the Eternals. Your sons are gone … Ore-Locks will never return!"
Startled, Wynn caught the strange twitch of Sliver's eye. The smith's final declaration seemed to have escaped on its own. Perhaps she now regretted it.
Sliver's denouncement of High-Tower clearly pained her, as if she wished at least one brother might come home. But not the other. Did Sliver believe Ore-Locks would never return—or did she wish it so?
Mother Iron-Braid didn't even look up.
"Your daughter is correct in one thing," Wynn said. "Domin High-Tower didn't send me."
The old woman's features sagged. If faith could've crumbled in a wrinkled old face, it began to crack right before Wynn's eyes. Guilt left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She was so lost regarding what drove Sliver. And by truth or ploy, she was doing damage here in that ignorance. Her only choice was to fumble along the middle ground between the two.
"In Ore-Locks's past visits," Wynn began, "did either of you see by what path—or where he went when he left?"
"If I knew that," Sliver grumbled, "I would have gone my—"
"At the Off-Breach Market," Mother Iron-Braid cut in, "on the second level, down the Breach Mainway."
Sliver choked.
Chane shuddered, nearly convulsed.
The beast with hands inside of him suddenly rose in wary agitation. Chane pulled his gaze from the sword to look upon Sliver's stunned face.
The smith's eyes were so wide that the whites showed all around her black pupils. Sliver's claim still hung in Chane's mind.
If I knew that …
It was a lie—or half of one. She knew something concerning her brother's whereabouts. Again, the warning of deceit had hit Chane when he was not paying attention.
"I believe he came from there," the old woman went on. "I followed my son when he left but lost him near a clothier's booth … and a cobbler's stall, if they are still in the same place. I could not keep up, and he was gone."
"When was this?" Sliver demanded, and then swallowed hard, faking composure though her eye twitched.
"Years back, before he stopped coming at all," the mother answered. "You were busy … always busy."
"I was seeing to our needs," the daughter returned, "unlike your sons."
Mother Iron-Braid raised her eyes. "Then see to them now!"
Sliver jabbed a finger at Wynn, and shouted, "She is using you—you are nothing but bait to her! Ore-Locks's calling keeps him now!"
Chane cocked his head. At mention of Ore-Locks's status among the Stonewalkers, a flicker of revulsion rolled across the smith's face. It was revealing but puzzling.
"Why would he come to this sage, if not to us?" Sliver asked disdainfully.
Why indeed? Chane wondered. Why had Ore-Locks stopped visiting his family?
Chane fixed on the smith, trying to sense the truth—or the lack of it.
Wynn wished she understood.
Sliver stood shocked at her mother's claim of following Ore-Locks, yet Sliver had come to the temple demanding that Wynn share all she learned. Perhaps Sliver had never intended anything to reach her mother's ears. Was it Sliver, and not Mother Iron-Braid, who wanted to know all that Wynn found out? And again, why?
"Do not spit in the face of the Eternals!" Mother Iron-Braid chided her daughter. "They answered my prayers, regardless of your fallen faith! Never speak of Ore-Locks in that way again."
"Mother, stop—"
"Your brother … both your brothers, sacrificed all to serve a high calling, each to his own. You will take this sage to the market. She will find Ore-Locks … because the Eternals wish it so!"
The old woman's large, bony hand fell on Wynn's tiny one, clasping it tightly.
"Tell Ore-Locks to come home," she whispered, her voice quavering as tears welled. "Tell him I … we need to see his face once more. Tell him. It is so little to ask."
Wynn wanted to pull away, and not because her hand hurt under that grip. The very ploy she planned to use to lure Ore-Locks had just spilled from Mother Iron-Braid's lips. What better way to drive a son home than with the heartbroken desperation of a mother?
"I will," Wynn answered. "No matter if it gains me … or not."
"Show them, daughter!" the mother ordered, like a matriarch rather than a frantic old woman.
Sliver spun in angry silence. She jerked the door wide, forcing Chane to step aside, and strode out into the workshop. Chane held back, waiting upon Wynn.
Amid confusion and shame, Wynn carefully pulled free of Mother Iron-Braid's grip.
"I'll reach Ore-Locks," she promised, "or tell him … somehow."
A good distance down Breach Mainway, on Sea-Side's second level, Wynn followed Sliver into the strangest open market she had ever seen. Deep inside the mountain, Off-Breach Market was set up in a huge space carved from the granite innards, rather like the interior of a great cathedral. Voluminous, it was lit in orange by massive crystals steaming upon stone pylons the circumference of oak tree trunks. Even thicker columns supported the ceiling all the way to the tile ringed opening at the dome's apex. Vapors and smoke from various coal pots and food vendors' carts wafted up to escape through the central air shaft.
The columns here were brightly painted in purples, greens, and yellows, from their sculpted base rings to their flanged tops. All were embellished with dwarven characters and vubrí surrounding wedge-arrow symbols pointing the way to sectors for produce, clothing, housewares, leatherwork, and even livestock.
A goat's bleating carried over the market's noise, and Wynn craned her head, looking for the source. She spotted a makeshift pen at the far left side. Inside a stick corral for goats and chickens, two young dwarves shoveled animal refuse into a wooden wheelbarrow.
Stalls, carts, and tents of all shapes, colors, and materials filled the spaces around the columns, defining paths between for all patrons. None of it seemed odd to Wynn, for she'd visited many open markets on two continents. No, it was the loom
ing ceiling that struck her the most.
She understood the transport of goods, but this was the first time the underground settlement felt so artificial. Some merchandise was likely made here beneath the surface, but others, such as fresh fish, vegetables, and grain, had to be transported from outside and a long way off. Like Bay-Side, Sea-Side's outer slope was a sheer drop down to its small port.
Chane turned a full circle. "The noise is getting worse."
He looked more alert, so dusk must be close. Then Wynn noticed other tunnel mouths around the cathedral market. As the day's end neared, more people were drifting in. Dwarves swarmed the vendors, haggling over fair trade of goods. The mounting din bounced off of stone, the walls magnifying the sound downward, and wrapped Wynn in its cacophony.
Soon, hundreds of dwarves were engrossed in loud verbal bartering as they tromped about. There weren't as many humans among them as in Bay-Side. Dozens of conflicting scents filled the air, all trapped and mingling, even with the central air shaft above.
Wynn barely heard Shade's whine and settled her free hand on the dog's neck. Shade kept swiveling her head, trying to track the constantly shifting masses.
Sliver grew impatient with their gawking. "This way," she barked, shoving through the crowd.
Chane waved Wynn and Shade on ahead.
Perhaps he wanted to cover the rear or just keep her in his sight. Wynn hurried on, murmuring, "Pardon me, excuse me," over and over as she struggled to keep up with Sliver. Then Chane's hand fell on her shoulder from behind.
Wynn slowed, but he pushed her onward. His whisper came close to her ear.
"Sliver is lying … she knows more than her mother of Ore-Locks's coming and going."
"What?"
"Keep walking. Do not look back."
"How could you know this?" she asked.
"Trust me," Chane whispered. "Can you get Shade to read Sliver's memories … on command?"
"I don't know. Maybe—"
"Then try," he insisted. "But only after I ask Sliver, ‘Where to next?' Shade must wait for these words … or at least be watching for Sliver's memories when I say them."
Wynn finally grasped what he was up to.
At such a question, memories might rise in Sliver concerning the path—assuming she did know more than her mother. But how did Chane know Sliver was lying? Worse yet, how was Wynn going to explain all this to Shade with just memories—before they reached the end of Mother Iron-Braid's instructions?
Wynn curled her fingers deep into Shade's neck fur.
"Ah, Shade." She sighed, and the dog's pace slowed. "I wish you understood language, like your father. Even a few words, like ‘dip' and ‘memory.'"
She concentrated on the simplest, most ordered memories she could recall. First of Sliver, and then the sound of Chane's voice a moment ago.
… Where to next?
She followed with another glimpse of Sliver and then quick ones of any stolen memories Shade passed on from others. And again, Sliver, and again, Where to next?
Wynn repeated the sequence over and over, until her head began to ache. She glanced down and found Shade's ears upright, as if she were listening. An echo of sight and sound filled Wynn's head.
First of Sliver, then a dizzying series of memories from others, and finally a sound like a breathy, broken voice but too garbled to understand.
Wynn hadn't actually heard words at the end. Another image rose in her mind.
Chane stood in the small back room of the Iron-Braids' smithy. Though his lips didn't move, as he'd said nothing while there, the image mingled with the sound of his rasping voice.
… Where to next?
Wynn flushed with relief, though she was still uncertain Shade truly understood. Was the dog merely echoing everything back, asking for explanation? Memory-speak was so frustrating!
They passed booths selling potatoes, turnips, and dried fruits, and then a section of glazed pots, urns, and bowls. Ahead, another tunnel led out of the market's rear, but Sliver veered away from it. The vast cavern grew more and more packed.
Wynn glanced behind but couldn't see where they'd come in. Or was she even looking in the right direction? Hopefully Chane's height gave him a better view if they had to turn back. As Shade pressed against her thigh, Wynn worried that the distressing throng had hampered the dog's understanding.
Then a flash of red caught Wynn's eye.
Sliver pulled up short, pointing. "There," she said.
A stall near the market's back wall sported numerous folds of cloth hung upon wooden racks. Many bolts were dyed in a wide array of colors, though one was pure apple red. A wide dwarven woman with extra-wide hips, dressed in a myriad of colors like her wares, was straightening a cloth bolt left askew by some browser. She spotted the onlookers in turn.
"Need something for a new shirt?" she called out. "Have a look at this weave. Stout and light, it is."
"No, thank you," Wynn replied politely.
At the next stall hung leather vests and shirts, and pairs of premade boots were piled on a makeshift plank counter. Between the two merchants, Wynn saw a narrow tunnel leading off beyond the market.
"I have shown you," Sliver muttered, turning around. "For all the good it will do."
She didn't even look at Wynn as she started shoving her way back through the crowds. Wynn waited for Chane to speak, but at his silence, she called after Sliver, "And that's all?"
"That is all I was told to do," the smith retorted. "This is as far as my mother got."
Wynn pivoted, watching Chane and waiting.
He dropped his hand onto Sliver's shoulder.
She instantly slapped it away and turned on him, outrage flushing her face.
"But not as far as you went," Chane said. "Where … to … next?"
Sliver froze, and Wynn's fingers cinched in Shade's neck fur.
The smith's eyes widened with anger—or perhaps a flicker of panic? She lingered, as Chane waited in silence, and then her brow furrowed.
"Do not make that mistake again," she warned. "The only deceiver here is your puppy of a sage!"
With that, Sliver strode off.
Chane whirled about, glancing once at Shade before turning expectant eyes on Wynn.
"Well?" he whispered.
Wynn tried raising a memory of Sliver, hoping Shade would pick up her intent.
A cascade of images answered.
Stone corridors … branching paths … fewer people at every turn …
Wynn was following a wide, short figure concealed in a full cloak and hood. It tromped ahead along the path, and she ducked into hiding whenever the figure slowed or paused.
Wynn raised her face to Chane, as he watched her hopefully.
Then Shade lunged.
"Oh—wait—Shade!" Wynn squeaked, nearly jerked off her feet. "Chane, come on … she's got it!"
Chane was already on her heels.
Shade took off through the crowd, dragging Wynn by her grip on the dog's scruff. But Shade didn't bolt between the cobbler and clothier. She veered along the stalls at the market's rear wall.
Wynn stumbled after, fearful of letting go, and not everyone saw the overly tall wolf in time. Twice Shade snarled at someone in her way. Twice Wynn got a startled or nasty look from whoever twisted aside. Too many times she bumped rudely into someone as she tried to hold on to Shade.
"Slow her down, before I lose you!" Chane called, and his maimed voice seemed a bit far behind.
"I can't!" Wynn shouted. "Shade, stop!"
But Shade didn't, and then Wynn did, very suddenly. She slammed into something like rock beneath leather.
Her hold on Shade broke as she recoiled, careening backward. Wynn toppled as her footing failed, and she tensed, waiting for her back to hit the flagstones. She tried to hold out the staff to keep its crystal from striking.
Strong hands hooked her under the arms.
Chane hoisted Wynn up from behind, and she came face-to-face with the solid wall of padded roc
k … or rather an armored dwarf with a perplexed expression.
A fringe of beard ran around his jawline beneath his steel pot helmet. His leather hauberk was overlaid with an orange diagonal chest sash embroidered with a yellow vubrí. He also carried a tall iron staff.
"Oh, no," Wynn moaned. "I'm so sorry."
She had just slammed headlong into a member of a local clan's constabulary. The dwarf glowered as if she were some rambunctious child run amok.
"Mind your pace, missy," he warned. "There's too many people to go rushing about."
"Pardon us," Chane said. "Our dog got away."
"Then get a leash." With a final frown, the constable turned off through the crowd.
"A leash," Wynn muttered, but right then it was an appealing notion. "Shade, where are you … Shade!"
One bark carried over the market's ruckus.
Wynn couldn't see Shade, but at the dog's noise, a few people turned to look.
"There … go," Chane urged.
They wove through shoppers, vendors, and stalls, until Wynn spotted the top of a large tunnel. One brief break in the crowd exposed Shade hunkering in that opening.
Wynn pushed on. "Shade … come here!"
The dog backed another step into the tunnel, glowering at the crowd. She openly snarled at anyone who got too close, gaining far too much attention. Wynn rushed into the tunnel opening and clamped her hand over Shade's muzzle.
"She must learn not to growl at these people," Chane admonished, jogging up behind. "Can you not get that much through to her?"
Wynn only heard Shade's answering snarl and felt the vibration beneath her small hand.
"It's not her fault."
Apparently, whatever Shade had learned from Sliver's memories had immediately become an excuse to bolt out of the market.
"If she is as intelligent as her father," Chane returned, "then she should understand simple commands."
"Not now, Chane."
Shade seemed uninterested in communicating in any way other than memory-speak, which was understandable. But Wynn wished Shade might've picked up a few spoken words by now.
Shade shook her nose free and snapped her jaws closed on Wynn's sleeve. She jerked on it as she backed down the tunnel. Her intent here was clear enough.