by Barb Hendee
With a false thänæ as the example of excellence, envy spread like plague.
Such was Avarice’s reputation that even the flow of trading foreigners dwindled, until none from the outside world came to trade and barter at that seatt. The people were left to prey only upon one another’s misfortune.
Until one dawn, a lone traveler did come.
At first the people gave him little notice. Though he was Rughìr, he possessed nothing of worth. He carried only a pack that sagged half- empty and a stout but tarnished iron staff. His boots and garish orange tunic were overweathered and travel-worn. When he stopped at the lone greeting house, no one gave note to this shoddy traveler, not even when he stepped upon the dais without invitation.
Wynn came to the first occurrence of the vubrí for Bedzâ’kenge.
Feather-Tongue began his first tale.
Offered in charity, and in the proper place for a telling, when he finished the story of Pure-Steel and the Night Blight, silence filled the greeting house. Even servers stood petrified, like dead wood poured upon for centuries until it turned rigid as stone. But the silence would be broken.
Avarice had heard word of a telling in the greeting house.
At first he could not believe it, but any brief diversion was rare. He came to see for himself and stood just inside the doorway. Arriving late, he had caught only the story’s last half. Though it cost him nothing, it left him frustrated, as if he had paid even one precious coin but received only a portion of his purchase.
Avarice could not help himself.
He entreated the pauper poet for another tale—by story, song, or poem—but in private, only for himself. For the service, he offered one quarter wedge of the smallest silver piece found among the Churvâdìné.
Wynn paused, and frowned. The old word sounded so familiar. Dené was now the common dwarven word for any “human”—Numan, Suman, or otherwise. But once they had been called the Churvâdìné. . . .
The Confused or Mixed-Up People.
No one else said a word at Avarice’s offer; no one else had the coin to spare. They all waited expectantly for the poet’s reply.
With a slow shake of his head, Feather-Tongue refused.
He would tell a tale in good charity—a story or two, a song, or a poem to break the heart—but only to those too poor to even barter a sip of ale. He would not sell his tales for coin, like possessions to be hoarded.
Avarice became angry.
He believed this pauper poet was either too conceited or too stupid to part with simple tales for good profit. Instead, the wanderer squandered his skills on the unworthy and beggarly. Still, the false thänæ would not turn away.
Avarice doubled his price—and Feather-Tongue refused again.
Avarice offered more—and more—but each time the poet declined. He offered yet again, cringing at the amount, this time for a telling before himself and the clan elders as well. At the least, he would have the credit for providing a meager treat, and the elders would owe him for it.
Feather-Tongue refused again—then he countered.
He would accept only if all the people were allowed to listen. The telling would take place atop the mountain in the seatt’s central amphitheater, where any council was held before the people.
Avarice would not be outbartered by some wandering street performer.
He nearly snarled refusal, but he bit it back in the last instant. If the clan elders would have been indebted to him for a private telling, how much greater his gain would be in what the poet proposed. Though it would be hard to account and collect on such widespread debt, all in the seatt would know to whom it was owed.
Avarice agreed.
Feather-Tongue bowed graciously to the false thänæ, and Avarice escorted him to the mountain’s top. They did not wait long.
Word spread upon shouting voices and running feet. Soon, all came to listen. The crowd settled in, restless and noisy, until the poet raised his iron staff and let it slide down upon the amphitheater’s floor. He hammered it three times upon the flagstones, and all became quiet.
Feather-Tongue began his second tale.
There was no silence when he finished three episodes in classic chain link. Cheers and stamps and slaps of approval upon stone were somewhat hesitant, but not for lack of heart. Many eyes turned on the poet’s counterpart, seated front and center among the clan’s elders.
Avarice’s aged eyes were glassy.
The false thänæ was still caught in the tale’s dreamtime, and the pauper poet waited in polite silence. Eventually a low rumble spread through the crowd, until someone finally called out for another tale.
Avarice started to awareness.
He leaned forward, glaring at the poet as the demand spread throughout the stands. Finally, he tossed a scant pinch of silver coins upon the flagstones in payment. But then he too demanded another tale, claiming he was not satisfied with the worth of his purchase.
The poet nodded acceptance, never stooping to touch one coin.
Feather-Tongue began a third tale.
He broke into song and then slid into an epic poem, which ended upon three quintets of limericks that raised so much laughter, even Avarice smirked twice.
Feather-Tongue fell silent and waited.
Avarice shook off the disquieting touch of long-forgotten mirth. He leaned forward, ready to claim that he was not yet satisfied. But the way the crowd cheered, stamped, and slapped stone made him hesitate. A few even tossed out a coin or two they could hardly have spared.
Being seen as an ingrate would not work for Avarice, but he had no leverage as yet, seeing that this vagabond was still indifferent to proper wealth. And he too wanted more tales—and more debts to collect. He held up the smallest of his purses with a sum slightly more than the last payment. When the poet nodded acceptance, he tossed it out.
Feather-Tongue began his fourth tale.
Throughout the morning and afternoon, the ritual of purchase repeated. With each song, history, poem, or legend, the poet grew tired a bit earlier than the last, saying he could tell no more this day.
The crowd’s adoration had grown, as had Avarice’s frustration.
Each time the poet paused, Avarice increased his offers, bit by grudging bit, until the next telling commenced. The false thänæ’s servants, indentured for debts, were sent under mercenary guard to fetch more coin and even gems from his hoard. The people were puzzled, but Avarice knew that they were too ignorant and poor to calculate what he could.
By custom and tradition, only the recipient could first touch any payment.
Without servants, companions, or pack animals, the poet would be forced to leave the bulk of his gained wealth behind. The amount had already grown too large and heavy to handle alone. And once Avarice had exhausted all tales, he would rejoice in how little the poet could carry away. Any remainder not retrieved first by the poet himself would be forfeit.
When dusk came, Feather-Tongue halted midtale.
A rumble of discontent rose in the amphitheater, but he shook his head, claiming he was too tired, famished, and parched. Before Avarice cried foul, Feather-Tongue reassured all. He would return the following day to finish—but not before.
At that, the false thänæ relented, but he made sure of his purchase. Mercenary guards were posted outside the greeting house where the poet was lodged for the night.
In the morning, Feather-Tongue began again—and for seven days more.
Along the way, he often told of faraway places, events unheard-of, and ancestors long forgotten in this seatt, all glorious in wonder and some fearfully dark, so that awe filled the people’s expressions, and sometimes mixed with longing.
Each dusk, he ended midstory, midsong, or in a jarring stop at the most poignant beat in a poem. Each dawn, all hurried to the amphitheater, only to find Avarice already waiting as the poet arrived under guard.
Not once did the poet touch coin or gem heaped upon the old stone floor. Not by a toe, let alone a fi
nger. He could have, for any smaller part had been fairly gained in barter for what he had given so far. The piles had grown so large that even one would be unmanageable to carry off.
On the ninth day, Feather-Tongue finished his last tale.
When the crowd cried for more, amid shouts of praise, he only shook his head, and they slowly grew silent. He announced that he had told all that he possessed and there was nothing more he could offer.
Avarice began to laugh.
It was a rude, disquieting noise that carried everywhere in the silence. He claimed again that he was not satisfied for his last purchase. A wave of resentful leers spread through the crowd. Some even braved curses under their breath.
Feather-Tongue bowed politely, offering to gladly return the last and final payment.
Avarice smiled at this.
He sent out a servant to gather three pouches’ worth of gold and gems. It was only what he had paid the final time. He need not try to take anything more. A hundred-fold still remained that could never be carried away by the poet.
Shouts rose from the crowd, some in pleas that the poet might have just one more telling in him. But others shouted at Avarice that the barter was complete, now that the one final payment had been returned.
Avarice grew nervous. He had no choice by law and custom, and he waved off his guards. He had finally gotten everything this vagabond possessed, and the poet was free to go.
Feather-Tongue returned a final bow—but not to Avarice.
He faced each of the eight directions, offering his humble thanks to the people, and then turned to leave. He was halfway to the northern tunnel running under the stands when a crackling voice called out.
Avarice alone stood up among the elders.
All stared dumbfounded at the great treasure littering the amphitheater’s floor. Avarice asked why the poet had not taken his payment.
Feather-Tongue only shook his head.
Avarice grew gleeful. This fool now would not carry away even a meager part of the payment. Not only had Avarice gained all the tales of this idiot, but his wealth was left for him to reclaim.
Feather-Tongue turned about.
“I do accept your payment, and so it is mine,” he said. “But I will touch none of it . . . and until I do, neither shall any other. That is the law of barter . . . even for purchases.”
Avarice went cold with uncertainty.
Feather-Tongue’s gaze passed over the elders and then around the masses gathered upon the amphitheater’s stone steps and stands.
“But I offer this, by my oath, and witnessed by all,” he added, and then pointed to Avarice. “Whoever gains any true barter with that one . . . may take an equal measure of what I leave here.”
Avarice’s old heart hammered in panic. His gaze raced feverishly over the wealth he had paid, mixed with the paltry offers of others.
“But only in honorable barter,” Feather- Tongue repeated, still pointing to Avarice. “For those who give or take only coin with that one . . . shall have none of mine by fair trade.”
Avarice looked about, and all eyes were on him.
He had no skills left, nor goods to spare, with which to barter in the old ways. Even trickery could not regain his payment, for he could not barter with himself in order to share in what the poet offered to all others. He could not even risk thievery, for his wealth was laid out before the eyes of the whole seatt.
Feather-Tongue retrieved his staff and pack from one astonished guard staring at the glittering mounds. He walked away from that unhappy, fallen place. It is said that no one of that forgotten seatt ever touched a single coin or gem of the poet’s wealth.
Bartering with Avarice was impossible. He had nothing to offer by way of goods or services.
Perhaps the false thänæ visited his lost wealth each day, gazing at it piled up in plain sight. Certainly someone else would always come, watching him, and he dared not steal a single coin.
Perhaps in time, the taunt of the poet’s wealth became too much. Its constant reminder of the shame that Avarice brought upon the seatt, and the shame of all who had made no attempt to stop him, were too much to bear. One can only guess that all left that place, slipping away with their families. Perhaps some few went in search of what they heard in Feather-Tongue’s tales.
But not Avarice, that is certain.
Awaking one day to find himself alone, he would have seized upon his lost fortune—and then wept. No one remained from which to purchase anything. He had no servants, pack animals, or companions to help carry it away. But Avarice would never leave it behind.
Somewhere in a forgotten place rest the bones of a . . .
Wynn straightened, staring at the strange vubrí once more.
. . . rest the bones of a Lhärgnæ . . . a Fallen One . . . upon a great cairn of silver and gold and bright gems of all hues. But do not seek that place.
Avarice waits to purchase all who come.
Wynn sat still upon the bench, her thoughts tangled and racing.
Bedzâ’kenge—Feather-Tongue—had pulled down a Fallen One. He had freed an entire seatt from the miser’s greed, and done so with nothing but wit and a telling. But the story raised more questions than it answered. The final line implied something about dwarven beliefs and their form of ancestor worship.
Bedzâ’kenge was revered as one of the Bäynæ, an ancestral spirit still among his people even now. But then what of Shundagh . . . what of Avarice? Did the dwarves believe that Lhärgnæ had presence and influence in this world as well? This would certainly explain the earlier account of how their Eternals not only exalted virtue but remained on guard against vice . . . against the Fallen Ones. Such enemies would be seen as still vital in this world, ready to lay siege and assault upon dwarven virtue.
Wynn’s thoughts turned quickly to a name—no, a title—overheard in Domin High-Tower’s study on the day Ore- Locks had come in secret.
Thallûhearag.
This hall held accounts of Feather- Tongue’s life and exploits, and it mentioned one—or perhaps more—of the Fallen Ones for any to read. Yet Mallet had been severely upset when she’d asked about Thallûhearag. And why did the Lhärgnæ have titles in place of true names?
Though the Bäynæ she knew of had no mention of their heritage in life, such as family, clan, or tribe, apparently they retained their true names. Not the Lhärgnæ—or not the ones she had read of, like Shundagh—Avarice. If Thallûhearag was one of them, then she couldn’t tell who or what he was or had been. She couldn’t decipher that ancient title of a dwarf forgotten by all but the few who knew it, and who wouldn’t speak openly of mythical Bäalâle Seatt.
What had Thallûhearag done in that place? Had he been involved in its fall during the great forgotten war? Anything regarding such events might be critical, and Wynn wanted to discuss her findings with . . . someone. A nostalgic pang made her long to read the story to Chap, to hear what he made of it.
Something wet, warm, and fuzzy burrowed in under her hand.
Shade pushed her muzzle under Wynn’s fingers and rested it upon her thigh.
“If only you could understand words,” she whispered, “I wonder what you would think of this.” Then she half smiled. “Just more people nonsense.”
Shade pricked her ears and then suddenly jerked up her head. She trotted off to peer around the partition’s end.
“What is it?” Wynn asked.
A distant cry of grief echoed faintly into the Hall of Stone-Words.
Wynn rushed to join Shade, but when she reached the entrance, Shade was already trotting down the outer passage.
“Shade, wait! Stop . . . come!” she called, but the dog kept on.
Shade slowed only when she reached the passage’s end, where it connected to the curved hallway running around the temple proper. Wynn hurried to catch up, but Shade trotted out, approaching the near-side arch into the chamber of Feather-Tongue. Wynn followed to peer in.
A group of orange- vested shirvêsh had gat
hered inside. There was Downpour, her large hands over her face, apparently weeping. Even Held- All had lost his grin, as everyone present listened closely to Shirvêsh Mallet, though at first his words were too low for Wynn to hear. He looked exhausted and lost.
Scoria heaved a sigh and folded his arms.
“I do not believe it!” he growled. “Only three nights past, I ate with him, and he would not keep quiet all night! This cannot be true.”
Shirvêsh Mallet nodded slowly. “It is certain. Hammer-Stag passed over last night.”
Wynn clutched the archway’s edge. Hammer-Stag was dead?
“Once his body has been prepared by family or clan,” Mallet continued, “and tribal mourning is observed, he will be carried up to Chemarré . . . and we will see if the Hassäg’kreigi find him worthy to pass into stone.”
Wynn’s breath caught. The Stonewalkers were coming—or might come?
She didn’t understand why there was doubt. Weren’t all thänæ who passed over to be taken? What more was—could be—required, other than a thôrhk and the title that came with it? But if the Stonewalkers did come . . .
Would Ore- Locks be there? Could she find a way to see him or the others, to speak with them?
And what did Mallet mean by “pass into stone”?
Wynn shivered with self- loathing. Hammer-Stag had helped her, treated her as a friend. He had fought beside Magiere, aided by Leesil and Chap. Now he was gone, and all she thought of was what it might gain her.
She stepped in behind the gathering, wanting to ask how one such as he had died. But she halted at the sight of Downpour weeping and Held- All’s young face devoid of mirth. Of all present, Mallet’s demeanor silenced her most of all.
Struck with grief, the old shirvêsh glanced up at the immense statue of Feather-Tongue, with hand outstretched and palm upward to the sky above the temple. When Mallet lowered his eyes, his brows wrinkled, darkening the lines on his old features.
Mallet glared at nothing, lost in a troubled thought that shadowed his face.
CHAPTER 8
Two long nights passed, and Wynn entered the great amphitheater atop the mountain at Chemarré—Old-Seatt. In her freshly laundered gray robe, she was dressed as a sage of the guild. Shirvêsh Mallet and Chane stood with her, while Shade pressed against the backs of her legs amid a throng of dwarves milling about upon the flagstones. The size of the place made her feel so very small, even more than the great council clearing of the Farland’s elves.