by Markus Heitz
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 Djern’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…
VII
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
Straight 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.”
“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.
Needless 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.”