by Chris Bunch
“That,” Ossetia said, his lips pursed, “is one of my order’s responsibilities. For if all of the Invisible Gods are equal, as we preach, some are given powers greater than others. The god I serve, who must be nameless except to initiates, has granted us the powers and right to examine these claimants, using magic, our intellects, and if necessary, physical means.”
Nice deities, Peirol thought. Like most. And their disciples seem even nicer. But he didn’t voice his thoughts. Nor, as they crossed a square, and he counted four different processions going in as many directions, did he say the winding columns reminded him of nothing so much as industrious caterpillars.
• • •
They were forced aside into a tiny square as half a dozen armed horsemen cleared the way for an elaborate carriage almost too big for the street. There was a postilion with a trumpet on the lead horse, four footmen on the carriage’s boards, and two drivers. The carriage, all gold leaf and red enamel, slowed, and the postilion blatted with the trumpet to clear the way of whatever blocked their passage.
Peirol wondered who was the high dignitary. Peering into the window of the carriage, he saw a very young, dark-haired woman, wearing a black lace gown that would’ve done a lover’s bedroom proud. She eyed him interestedly, allowed a smile to come, and leaned slightly forward so her deep-cut dress gave away as much as possible. She saw Ossetia, and her haughty manner broke with a giggle. “Ossetia, my love! You’re back!”
Ossetia bowed, didn’t answer.
“I must visit you,” she said, as the carriage moved slowly past, “for I’m bored and without adventure these days. Perhaps hearing yours will content me. And I must meet your friend, who looks very … interesting.” And the carriage was gone.
“Who was that?” Peirol asked.
“A vampire,” Ossetia said fiercely.
“Out abroad in daylight? Your vampires are a hardier breed than the bloodsuckers of our legend. Prettier, too.”
“I didn’t mean that literally,” Ossetia snarled. “Yes, maybe I did. That’s Sereng, who should be Baroness Sereng by now, since she was betrothed to Baron Agar of Sancreed when I left Restormel. She’s a year older than I am, but we were playmates. When she got older she played another game with some of my friends, sucked away what she wanted, and left them brokenhearted. I suppose I was lucky, having the Invisible Gods to guide me, so I was no more than tempted. I didn’t think the baron would keep her from her old tricks. Bored and without adventure indeed!”
Peirol somehow doubted Ossetia had been only momentarily tempted, considering the vehemence of his words. “I assume her husband is rich, gouty, and old,” Peirol said. “No doubt jealous and easily cuckolded.”
“What makes you think that?” Ossetia said in an irritated voice. “In fact, he would be about thirty, and was considered one of the best officers in our army. Rides out every morning and is obsessed with sports, the harder the better. Although he did impress me as the possessive sort.”
“Ah well,” Peirol said. “There goes the ballad I was thinking of. Obviously they’re wealthy.”
“Certainly,” Ossetia said. “The baron is from one of the richest families, very close to the Dowager Custodian.”
“I would definitely like to meet Sereng,” Peirol said.
“Why? Aren’t you listening, dwarf? She must not have seen all of you, for I know what she likes, and how partial she is to athletes and warriors.”
Rather than shaven monks, Peirol thought.
“Careful,” he said mildly. “I have both a name and a title, and I’m not fond of being considered a nameless freak. Don’t get arrogant now that we’re in your world. Remember where you were, in a bamboo cage with garbage, and where I was, not many days gone.”
Ossetia glared, then looked down. “You’re right,” he said, forcing humility. “That’s one of my greatest sins, pride, speaking from my station, whether it’s warranted or not, and I pray hourly that I shall learn not to give in to conceit but remember my place before the gods.” But the grandson of the Supreme Priest Kaitbai didn’t sound as though he really meant it.
“I still would like to meet this Baroness Sereng,” Peirol said, remembering the glitter of rings on her fingers, a diamond necklace, bracelets, and earrings. “We might find we have much in common.”
Ossetia snorted, looked pointedly out of the carriage.
• • •
The carriage entered the gates of High Priest Warleggen and Lady Broda’s grounds about four leagues beyond Restormel, following a dirt road curving through a league of freshly harvested orange trees, through the house gardens, and past sprawling outbuildings toward a single-story mansion, painted white, surrounded with open porches.
“How much farther do your parents’ possessions extend?”
“This estate,” Ossetia said, carefully not emphasizing the word, “goes on for another two leagues to the north, another two leagues inland. We have other lands farther from the city, all devoted to agriculture.”
They pulled into the great house’s drive, and a swarm of cheering, crying servants ran to meet them. All seemed honestly glad to see Ossetia, which lifted him a bit in Peirol’s estimation. They were led into the house, a huge, open, high-ceilinged mansion built of various hand-fitted woods. Peirol noticed the tile floor was cracked in some places, and that paint was peeling a bit here and there. Peirol began to develop what he hoped Ossetia’s parents might find an interesting proposition.
• • •
The meal was sumptuous, seven courses, with two servants hovering behind each diner. Besides Ossetia’s father and mother, there were two teenage brothers and one sister, about nine. Ossetia’s parents were a study in contrast. Lady Broda was huge, little short of a giantess, and the High Priest Warleggen was a thin, emaciated mite, no more than a foot taller than Peirol. He ate as if he had an all-consuming fire inside, but Lady Broda only picked at each course before nodding to a servant to remove the plate.
After dinner, all adjourned to a wide porch, and sweet wines and fruits were served. Ossetia’s siblings were fairly dancing with impatience, and at last Warleggen asked about Ossetia’s doings across the straits, as casually as if he were inquiring about a visit to a nearby town.
Ossetia must have been trained by his order to report clearly and concisely, as unemotionally as if his preachings, rejections, conversions, and dangers had happened to someone else. Of course, the perspective was how terrible the unbelievers were, rather than the alternate explanation that they had disliked someone meddling in their private spiritual matters. At last Ossetia reached the point of his capture and maltreatment in the diamond miners’ village.
“I knew I was doomed,” he said. “And then the gods sent this man, Peirol of the Moorlands, to rescue me.” He went on to accurately give most of the details of what Peirol had done, and didn’t attempt to laud his own role. He told them how Peirol had paid all his expenses after they escaped the village, and Ossetia considered himself in vast debt to Peirol.
“Of course,” Warleggen said, “we’ll repay you.”
Lady Broda flickered, as if worried about what that would do to the family accounts.
“I thank you,” Peirol said. “Certainly I jested with your son about the great interest I would charge him once I returned him to the bosom of his family. However, while I might have wanted repayment — of the actual debt only, of course — I’ve reconsidered the matter.”
“Oh?” Warleggen’s voice was a bit suspicious.
“Let me word it as precisely as I can. I’m a newcomer to Restormel, and wish to have as much goodwill as any outsider can expect, not only among people but with the gods who rule this land.”
“The Invisible Gods rule all lands,” Ossetia said firmly. “This is the truth.”
“My apologies for misspeaking,” Peirol said. “You must be right, or we would all be punished for heresy. So, honoring these Invisible Gods, I would like whatever sums I spent freeing your son to be considered a sacrifi
ce from a newcomer, who hopes to live in their graces. If that’s permissible?”
Ossetia looked at his parents. Warleggen sat in silence, thinking. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think that might be acceptable. And I thank you both personally and as a priest in the Order of Lysyth.”
“But it certainly leaves us still in your debt,” Lady Broda said.
“That has been repaid by meeting you, and by the friendship, I hope, of your son,” Peirol said. “Although there is a small matter you might help me with. I am a merchant, as you know. Perhaps less a merchant than an artist, since trading permits me to indulge my interest in rare stones. I’m aware Restormel thinks trading is never a proper pastime for nobility, even for such a lesser lord as myself, but I would think this great city wouldn’t be upset if an outsider practices his own customs, without infringing on those of his hosts.”
“Your reasoning is correct,” Warleggen said. “Although I will have to say the fact that you do indulge in trade would most likely keep you from being presented directly to King Proclus, the Dowager Custodian Jeritza, or to the Inner Council of my own Order of Lysyth. Some might call those people overly traditional, others might even consider their behavior a bit arrogant.
“I am merely stating facts, Peirol of the Moorlands, and hope you do not take offense. Those, however, are the only limitations I can think of, and see no reason, in time, assuming you continue to behave as nobly as you have thus far, you might not even be presented in open court.”
Peirol stood, bowed. “I would, of course, be deeply honored by that.” He resumed his seat. “To continue with my request. I assume noblemen and women of Restormel are like others I’ve met, and own jewelry.”
“Of course,” Lady Broda said. “As do most of the Men of Lysyth. We are human.”
“Such a display, properly made, gives glory to the Invisible Gods,” Warleggen said, and Ossetia nodded agreement.
“I would propose,” Peirol said, “to establish a shop, in the proper location, where I could repair jewelry, or recut and reset gems that are no longer in style or favor. I also brought a fair number of unset gems with me, which I will use to create my own unique designs. I might also consider making outright purchases of gems that are no longer wanted. However, I would hardly be so vulgar as to advertise my services, so I must depend on my merits being heralded by satisfied customers.
“If the Invisible Gods are good, I would like to make repayment to them. But I certainly wouldn’t want to make vulgar sacrifices of bullocks and grain, such as I’ve seen peasants make to their gods, but rather more discreet offerings. The problem, as I see it, is how I might make such offerings, say a tenth of my profits, and be sure they don’t end up in the wrong hands or misspent.”
“The solution’s easy,” Ossetia said eagerly. “Just pass it to the Men of Lysyth.”
“That is one way,” Peirol said. “But that seems so … impersonal.”
Lady Broda leaned forward. “Son, would you mind fetching me a glass of the charged water from our kitchen? This wine doesn’t suit my palate at the moment.”
“Of course, Mother,” Ossetia said. Broda waited until he was out of the room.
“Go on,” she said, voice as sharp as any tradesman.
“Perhaps,” Peirol said, “a way that would solve my problems is to hand these donations to you, Warleggen, since you are a high priest, to handle their dissemination.”
Warleggen frowned and started to say something, but Lady Broda spoke first. “That is, indeed, a good idea. Fifteen percent was the sum you mentioned, I believe?”
“Such could easily be the amount,” Peirol said. He lifted his glass in a toast. “Thank you, my lady. And thank you, Warleggen, as well. You have not only treated a stranger in a wonderful manner but have solved what few problems I have.”
And so Peirol’s scheme, hatched when he saw the shaven-headed man struggling with a mob, came to fruition, and the Warleggen family became his agents in Restormel.
• • •
Peirol rented a tiny shop with an upstairs apartment on one of the streets leading up from Restormel’s waterfront, a street lined with expensive dressmakers, armorers, furniture makers, and other artisans catering to the rich. Most importantly, a rear window opened on an alley not connected to the street. Peirol bought rope and small round balks of lumber and built a rope ladder, which he hid under his bed. He replaced the tools he’d lost, adding a lathe sorcerously driven that required its spell to be recast every seventh day, brought in showcases and carpets, and was ready for business.
It was not long in coming. Customers came, considered his works, bought, and sold. Peirol was soon busy enough to hire a clerk, who he trained to be as loftily arrogant as he was, as the master jeweler Rozan had trained him to behave around the rich. There were other jewelers in Restormel, of course. But none seemed to have the proper obsequity, stock, skills, or knowledge. He cordially ignored these competitors, and they reciprocated.
Peirol chafed a bit, wanting to ask about the Empire Stone, but repressed his impatience. Two Times passed. He kept to himself, finding a quiet tavern to drink in, three or four discreet restaurants. He made no friends, sought none, ensured he made the “sacrifice” promptly to Ossetia’s parents. Ossetia came by every now and again, and they had dinner. Some women and a few men suggested they would be interested in visiting Peirol’s bedchamber, but he made light of the offers.
Restormel felt like a trap waiting to spring on an unwary dwarf, who could well stand to discipline his vices for a time anyway.
• • •
He recognized the woman when she entered, went to greet her, bowing low. “Baroness Sereng,” he said. “You honor me deeply.”
“The monk Ossetia told me where your shop was … Oh! You’re a — ”
“A dwarf, Baroness.”
“I didn’t notice when you were in the carriage, you were sitting down, and I’m — well …” Her words stopped in confusion.
“And you’re very beautiful,” Peirol said smoothly. Evidently Ossetia had been right: Sereng was attracted to the athletic type, and Peirol’s stumpy legs had just ruined his attractiveness. She was beautiful, hair curled, falling below her shoulders. She wore a red velvet dress, possibly cut lower than the gown she’d worn before, with white lace ruffles around the front.
“I, well, I thank you,” she said, trying to recover. “I, uh, came here because I have this brooch whose clasp has broken, and no one seems able to fix it without possibly damaging the center stone.”
“May I see it? Thank you.” He picked up a glass, examined the bauble. The clasp had been snapped quite recently — broken metal gleamed. An excellent excuse for going to a jeweler that a woman might show her husband. “There won’t be any problem. I’ll do the work myself, right now, if you care to wait.”
“No, no, I’ll come back.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave without showing you the gems I have brought from afar, Baroness. It’s the least toll you could pay.”
“Well … all right. I have a few minutes.”
Peirol showed her jewels, brightly chatting as he did, hinting of hilarious scandals he’d been told but of course could never repeat, telling a few stories of his travels, letting her talk about her friends. She said, mournfully, that her husband thought she spent too much on fripperies, which was the reason she couldn’t buy any of Peirol’s wares. Peirol told her men are like that, not understanding what is important but always ready to buy a new sword or gun or horse.
She grew friendlier, and Peirol fixed the brooch.
“One favor you might allow,” he said, taking out a bracelet she’d particularly admired. “In my own land, I frequently make use of a model — I don’t think that’s the correct word, but I know no other. By model I mean a woman who must be not only beautiful but vivacious, witty, belonging to the highest levels of society, who goes to balls and other events. I give, or rather loan, this model a piece of jewelry. A different one every Time, or mo
re often, if she goes out frequently. She wears my wares to parties, to feasts, and her friends admire them, hopefully ask where they can be obtained.
“If my model wishes to purchase a piece she’s been loaned, I allow her to buy them at my cost, no more. And since I like to think I’m a generous man, when something wonderful happens to me, I make sure the woman who made it happen is rewarded as well.”
“One’s husband would never know,” she breathed.
“Why would a husband talk to a dwarf?”
“I don’t think of you, Peirol,” Sereng said, “as being a dwarf at all anymore.”
Peirol bowed, clasped the bracelet on her wrist, was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek. Sereng bounded out into the autumn sunlight, letting the rays reflect through the gems, laughing like a small girl. A charming woman, Peirol thought. And, if Ossetia was right, as dangerous as a serpent.
But still …
• • •
Two men in brown asked the clerk for Peirol the dwarf. Peirol asked how he could be of service.
“I am named Damyan, and understand you have been seeking a magician,” one said. “We are of the Order of Lysyth, protectors of Restormel, and are naturally curious why a stranger needs wizardry, and must ensure it is for the good of all.”
“Might I ask,” Peirol said, “how you heard of my quest? Although I freely admit to the truth of it.”
“The Men of Lysyth never reveal their sources.”
“I see. You said magic used must be for the good of Restormel. My plans can be justly described in that way,” Peirol said, and explained he needed a thaumaturge to help with his jewel designs, told them how he’d put magical fire into the heart of gems, used magic to enhance the beauty of his stones in other ways.
“Hence your noble men and women appear even greater, more glorious, and the name of Restormel is even more loudly praised, which must be considered all to the good,” he finished.
“My first thought,” Damyan said, “is that this idea of yours is perilously close to unseemliness.” The other man nodded thoughtfully.
“Perhaps I misstate myself,” Peirol said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve been favored by High Priest Warleggen, and when I consulted him about the idea, he didn’t see any problems. However, let me offer a specific example of what my craftsmanship and a Restormel wizard might do for the Men of Lysyth.”