They had crossed, at a measured pace, some three-quarters of the distance. The thief could see motion behind the desk, but the height of the dais and the small size of the moving object made it impossible to get a clear view. His impression was that something pale, smooth, and rounded was moving back there, something that gleamed in the bar of light that the rearmost window threw across the desk, but what he was seeing was too small a fragment for him to deduce the whole.
They reached the foot of the steps. Torphyr held up a hand in the universal signal and they halted. Then the crown ascended the three risers, again at the same ceremonial pace. At the top, his eyes just level with the polished surface of the great desk, he stopped, snapped his heels together, struck his beard-hidden chest with his right fist, and said, in parade-ground tones, "Request permission to report!"
The voice that answered him from beyond the desk did so in a more conversational tone. "Do so."
In a series of staccato bursts of speech, Torphyr related the news of the collapse of Ulm's Delve, the deaths of Ulm and Mordach, Squad Leader Drosket's initiative in leading his patrol to secure the gold mine, and the arrival under escort of the three human outlanders who had brought the news.
There was only the briefest pause while the unseen recipient of these tidings absorbed them. Then the voice said, calmly, "Send reinforcements and supplies, including a company of engineers with tools and materials to build a strongpoint. Inform Drosket, son of Drosket, that he is promoted to junior crown and awarded command of the installation. Then prepare a briefing for the high command, and tell them to organize a wagon train and a full battalion for escort. Dismissed."
The crown struck his beard again, about-faced, and was about to march down the steps. Then he stopped, turned again and said, "Noble Head? The outlanders?"
"I will deal with them," said the voice. "Dismissed."
The officer repeated his salute and turn, then descended the steps. As he passed the three travelers, he gave Gyllana an upward and sidewise glance that invited her, with silent eloquence, to try her Kalistocratic arrogance on the one who was about to "deal" with her and see what it would get her. The woman's reply—the merest flick of an eyebrow—was equally expressive.
But the three outlanders' attention was now drawn back to the dais. The thief heard the scrape of a chair being moved against a stone floor, then the footsteps of hard-soled boots approaching down one side of the huge desk. A moment later, a figure rounded the corner of the immense object and Krunzle found himself looking up into a pair of the stone-gray eyes that were common among dwarves. They were intelligent eyes, eyes that were accustomed to weighing and assessing the worth of persons upon whom their gaze might fall.
But as that gaze moved over the three travelers, the thief saw the coolness replaced by what could only be alarm. First the eyes widened, then they narrowed, and a pair of thick dwarven brows would surely have drawn in and down—except that there were no brows. Nor a pair of sweeping moustaches, nor an avalanche of beard from the cheeks and lower lip descending uncut to as long as it cared to grow. Lips, cheeks, chin, brow—all were bare, clad in nothing but smooth, pale flesh. There was not even a hair on the high-crowned and rounded head that gleamed palely in the shaft of sunlight from the window.
A bald dwarf, Krunzle was thinking. Whoever heard of a bald dwarf? And not just partially bald, but as hairless as a fish's backside. Like a great baby. It was a disconcerting sight, the thief decided. A dwarf without hair, without braids or shaggy locks, was a deeply unnatural occurrence. He glanced sideways at Raimeau and the woman, and saw that their reactions were much the same as his. The gray-haired man had even taken an involuntary step backward and the corners of Gyllana's mouth had turned down even farther than usual.
"Is one of you," said the unhirsute apparition—and the thief heard a tremor in the voice. The speaker was making an attempt to suppress the quaver, but with only partial success. "Is one of you ...a thief?"
Krunzle adopted his blandest aspect, and looked appraisingly at each of his companions, as if one of them might step forward and admit to larcenous tendencies. He found Gyllana's finger pointing at him.
"I'd lay money that he is," she said.
Her statement drew the attention of the hairless creature atop the dais, "And you," he said, "are you a...woman who has been ill done by?"
"What woman," said the Kalistocrat's daughter, "has not?"
The gray eyes turned toward Raimeau. "Have you...a scarred back?"
Raimeau said, "What slave of the iron mines of the Fog Peaks has not?"
The bald dwarf's legs seemed to have lost their strength. He shuffled forward and sat upon the top step of the dais. The two dwarves who had been standing at rigid attention rushed forward to assist him, but he waved them off with a pale hand that, Krunzle noted, had no hairs on its back. Then the hand passed over the whiskerless face, and came away damp with sweat, so that its owner had to wipe away the moisture on the front of the black tunic he wore over gray trousers and black half-boots.
"Sir," said one of the spear-dwarves, "shall I call for—"
"Out," was the answer. "You and your comrade."
"Sir? Noble Head? Are you well?"
"Out!" The voice had recovered some of its authority. "I will question these three alone. Wait outside the doors until I call you."
"But they are armed," said the escort.
The opposition, even so hesitant, seemed to revive the bald one. He stood up, and now Krunzle saw no suggestion of babyhood. "They will do me no harm," said the dwarf. As if to himself, he muttered, "At least not here." Then he pointed at the faraway doors, and his posture defied all argument. In unison, the two escorts clacked their heels together, then turned on them and marched away.
The hairless dwarf brought his gaze back to the three travelers at the foot of the steps. He seemed calmer now, almost resigned. "So," he said, "you're real. And here you are."
Krunzle had been probing at the place in the back of his mind where the snake was usually felt. Chirk? he said, inwardly. Are you aware of this?
Busy, came the answer.
I think we're about to hear from another dreamer.
The snake said, I wouldn't be surprised. Now, leave me in peace.
Meanwhile, the hairless dwarf had pulled himself together and was studying each of them. Now he smoothed the front of his tunic, resettled around his waist the plain black leather belt that confined the cloth, and said, "Do you know who I am?"
Krunzle said, "You were addressed as the ‘Noble Head.'" He looked at the cartouche woven into the tapestry behind the desk. "Would your name be Brond?"
The bald head nodded in confirmation. "You have not heard of me?"
"My mind has been concentrated on other matters," the thief said. He had a curious sense that, although this anomalous creature was plainly the power in these parts, Brond was somehow dependent on the three travelers—wanted something from them. No, not want, he thought. The word is "need." And in that realization, Krunzle scented opportunity.
The dwarf was gesturing in a way that said it was not important that the three had not heard of him. "We make an effort to keep ourselves to ourselves," he said. "For the time being, at least." He stroked his smooth chin and said, "The man who came through here yesterday, the mercenary, was he something to do with you?"
Gyllana would have spoken, but Krunzle was there first. "I am an emissary of Ippolite Eponion, Second Secretary to the First Commissariote of the Kalistocracy at Kerse. The man Berbackian has stolen an item of value from my employer, and I am charged with recovering the purloined property and restoring it to its owner."
"What is this stolen property?" the dwarf asked.
"I am not at liberty to say," Krunzle said, "but I am sure that the First Secretary—"
"I thought you said your employer was the Second Secretary," said Brond.
"Did I?" Krunzle made the same dismissive gesture the dwarf had made earlier. "No matter. But I was about to say th
at the Kalistocracy would be grateful for any assistance you could render in furthering the apprehension of the dastard, Berbackian."
"What sort of assistance?"
"It's a small thing, but my traveling funds were stolen from me by a parcel of rogues in the gold camp. If you were able to advance me a few gold pieces—say ten; no, to be safe, let's say twenty—I would be pleased to give you a promissory note on behalf of the Second Secretary."
"Don't listen to him!" said the woman. "Ippolite Eponion is my father, and Berbackian, until I discovered his true nature, was my intended. This rogue who is trying to separate you from your gold is merely a thief that my father has put on Berbackian's trail." She cast a scornful look in Krunzle's direction. "Apparently, my father thought the best way to catch a miscreant is to send one of his own ilk after him."
Brond turned this over in his mind, then turned to Raimeau. "And you?" he said.
The gray-haired man returned the dwarf's gaze. "I am an ordinary man," he said, "in pursuit of a dream."
"How long were you in the mines?"
"Ten years."
The dwarf's bald brows wrinkled in surprise. "Then you are no ordinary man. Tell me, what is your dream?"
Raimeau's face fell. "I only know that I am fated to perform a brave and significant deed. But what that deed may be ..." He drew up his shoulders and let them slump.
At that news, Brond swore softly. "I had been hoping," he said, "that when you finally arrived, there would be more to you than ..."—he made a rolling motion with both hairless hands—"than this."
"You were expecting us?" Gyllana said.
"All of my life."
Krunzle could not resist the obvious question. "Why?"
"I was hoping," said Brond, the Noble Head and founder of the Regulate, "that you would tell me."
Chapter Nine
"There Will Be a Reckoning"
Between two of the tall windows was a group of overstuffed armchairs arranged for conversation. Brond led them there and bade them sit. Since the furniture was scaled to dwarven dimensions, Krunzle and Gyllana were more comfortable sitting on the plush arms of their chairs, while Raimeau eventually settled for turning his completely around and placing his thin rump where a dwarf's head would rest, his long legs extended before him.
Then the hairless one told his tale. He had been born an ordinary dwarven baby to an ordinary dwarven couple in the ordinary dwarven township of Skagnoth. His father had been a porter in the cheese market and his mother a weaver of shawls. Until the age of twelve, Brond, son of Tottreuch, had shown no remarkable qualities at all.
"Then, on my twelfth naming day," he said, "I was struck down by a sudden fever. It came on quickly, and within hours I was tossing on my bed in delirium. My parents sent for the quacksalver, but none of his potions had any effect. For two days, I lay upon death's doorstep. My mother said my forehead was too hot to touch.
"Then, on the third day, the fever broke. Sweat poured from my every pore, and when my mother went to wipe my dripping brow, she found that the cloth had taken away my eyebrows. When I sat up, my hair remained on the pillow. From that moment on, I was completely bald, and nary a hair has grown on my body since."
But that was not the strangest part of the experience. In the deepest moments of his delirium, when he babbled and tossed and apparitions hovered over his bed, a part of him had remained cool and calm. A voice had spoken from within him, telling him not to worry, that not only would he come through but that he would go on to greatness.
The voice had spoken with such assurance, and carried with it such a profound presence, that young Brond had never doubted the truth of its message. And when he rose from his sickbed, pale and smooth, he no longer spoke or acted as a child. This, along with a lack of hair that made him unique among dwarfdom, made him a target of jibes and mockery from his age-mates—one of them dubbed him "the noble head"—but the bald dwarf youth was so oblivious to their ridicule that in no great time the chaffing simply ceased.
He had become a grave and thoughtful young dwarf. His manner gave rise to suspicion among some that he thought himself better than his equals—a guarantee of unpopularity—but his lack of boastfulness and constant, quiet humility won him praise. It was then that his insight and intelligence were finally noticed. Other dwarves, even his elders, began to ask his advice, and found his simple but clear-sighted responses to be charged with a wisdom that belied his years.
"By the time I achieved adulthood," he told the three travelers, "dwarves were coming from as far away as Highhelm to consult me. Thanes and potentiaries, as well as common folk of all classes. A number of them stayed on." He opened his hands to express mild wonder. "I found I had disciples. I decided that I had better think of something useful that I could do with all this ...whatever it was."
He retired to a cave up in the hills above Skagnoth and spent some time meditating and walking in the quiet of the morning. Nothing came of it. He began to feel somewhat foolish. "I told myself I'd go back down the next day, made myself a supper of roots and vetch, and went to sleep by the fire. And I dreamed that the voice I'd heard in my illness—the voice I had never heard since—spoke to me once more.
"It told me to bring together as many dwarves as I could convince to follow me. It told me to build an organization—it was to be called the Regulate—that would be dedicated to a revival of our ancient skills and arts. It told me to create a community and an army and a workforce of dedicated artisans.
"I came down from the hills and went to work. I sent my disciples to scour bookeries in every corner of the Five Kingdoms, looking for practical texts on engineering, arts, crafts, architecture, metallurgy, hydraulics, geothermics. They brought back cartloads of scrolls and tomes. I studied as much of it as I could absorb, and that turned out to be quite a lot. I also encouraged others to read the old books and experiment with the techniques in them."
Over the centuries, dwarves had come to prefer hands-on apprenticeship over book-learning, but Brond's scholars reversed the dynamic. Others came to join in the renaissance. From a handful, they became scores; then the scores became hundreds. Whenever a student mastered an ancient discipline, he or she was promoted to the rank of instructor. The Regulate's knowledge and capabilities began to expand exponentially.
"Everything I had been told came to pass. It was as if dwarvenkind had been waiting for someone to say, ‘Come on, this way, follow me.' I called, and they came. I led, and they followed. And now we have built all this. And it is wonderful."
But the voice had told him one more thing: that a day would come when three travelers would find their way to him, out of the world of men. One would be a thief. One would be a woman who had been wronged. One would be a man with scars on his back.
"When that happened, when the three came, then my destiny would reveal itself. And now,"—he looked at each one of them in turn and his mouth twitched at both corners, left, then right, then left again—"here you are. So, what can you tell me?"
Krunzle was determined this time to get in before Gyllana could forestall him. Rogues and swindlers lived for opportunities like this, and he was thinking that he'd be damned in four directions if he let this one pass him by. He had already contrived a sagacious expression for his face, and the architecture of a truly monumental piece of mountebankery was erecting itself in his mind.
But it was not the woman who tripped him up. As he opened his mouth, he felt a familiar tightening around his neck. Now? he shouted within the confines of his cerebrum, Now you wake up and decide to interfere?
The Noble Head was watching him expectantly, waiting for some revelation to deliver itself from the thief's still-open mouth. Krunzle shut the temporarily useless organ. He looked to Gyllana and saw what he expected to see: the product of generations of merchant breeding examining the hairless dwarf and no doubt thinking about ways in which the Regulate and the house of Eponion could do business—mutually profitable to be sure, though the mutuality did not imply that on
e side would not gain more than the other.
So, with one of the three paralyzed and the other weighing her options, it was the former mine slave who spoke for them all. "I think," Raimeau said, "that we are all paddling the same coracle. As I said before, I am here because—like you—I follow a dream.
"My friend Krunzle, who is a man of deeds and attainments, for all he thinks of himself as a fast-mover, has been drawn to this land by some impulse deep within him that he cannot account for."
"He is not your friend," said Gyllana.
Raimeau ignored the interjection. "And the lady Gyllana? Why, she is here because she fell in love with a man, and what is love but a kind of dream? Though it is one that, when we try to live it in the world of phenomenality, can often lead to a rude awakening."
This last thought won the gray-haired man a sharp look from the Kalistocrat's daughter, to which Raimeau returned a gesture of apology. Krunzle would have liked to have brought him up even sharper—who was a former mine slave to comment upon the motives of a rogue of his stature, after all?—but his vocal apparatus was still held hostage by the snake.
Besides, Chirk was speaking within his mind. Ask him, the snake said, if all of this reviving of dwarven arts and skills has been for its own sake, or has it been directed toward a particular goal?
I would rather ask him, the thief said, where they keep their gold and whether they would appreciate having a qualified locksmith appraise their security.
Do as I say, came the inner voice, accompanied by a warning twinge from his sacroiliac joints.
Song of the Serpent Page 14