She sighed and looked at him affectionately. “In due time, I will,” she said. “But I’m begging you to be patient with me. Can you?”
“Sure, of course I can,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “Especially if you bring me some more soup tomorrow.”
Garn Bloodfist studied the two wedges of green and blue stone. He propped them on the desk in his office near an oil lamp, its wick set to burn bright. He was dazzled by the shiny pure colors, seduced by the flickering facets that danced across the desk and the floor and sparkled along the walls. Eyes shining, he studied the reflections, giggling in sheer pleasure.
“Where did you come from?” he inquired of the objects.
It was not the first time he had spoken to them. For two weeks he had been studying them with every waking moment, wondering about their origins, their value. He had even gone out onto the upper parapet of the East Tower and asked answers from his father when Dashard Bloodfist appeared to him in the night sky. Though he preferred his nocturnal communions in the wilderness, such was his fascination with the two stone wedges that he was willing to risk the uneasy looks, the whispered gossip, that inevitably resulted from his seemingly unbalanced behavior.
Only Garn knew that his father was real, that his memory, the proof of his horrible betrayal, was the flame that kept the Klar warrior’s fiery spirit burning so bright. And Garn Bloodfist was not afraid of the uncanny, the unexplained. Indeed, he was becoming increasingly convinced there was something supernatural about the stones. It wasn’t so much the result of any special observation, though he did spend hours handling and scrutinizing the stones. It was more like a deep, growing conviction.
It was his conviction, more than anything else, that caused him to reevaluate the prisoner he had dragged back there all the way from Hillhome. Who was Brandon Bluestone? Why had he possessed the Bluestone, as he claimed? And why had he risked his life to confront the Klar? Was it to retrieve the fascinating colored stone?
In truth, Garn didn’t believe his prisoner was simply another treacherous hill dwarf. There was something exotic, foreign, about him that aroused other suspicions, though, and the Klar commander had waited long enough to act upon his suspicions. Scooping the two stones back into their bag, Garn locked the precious stones in a vault and started down to the dungeon, determined to get some answers.
He was startled, but not shocked, to encounter a gully dwarf at the bottom of the stairway leading into the dungeon. The wretches were common enough pests around there, but he didn’t like the thought they were often straying beyond the boundaries of their filthy town.
“Get out of here, you!” he snapped. “Or I’ll knock your head right off your shoulders!”
Much to his surprise, the little fellow didn’t budge, but instead stood there, glaring up at him, almost as if he had something he wanted to say.
“What is it, runt?” demanded Garn. “Don’t you understand plain speech?”
“Prisoner complaint!” spit the Aghar with surprising vehemence. He gestured down the corridor toward the cell where Brandon Bluestone was imprisoned. “Him not locked up good enough!”
“He escaped?” Garn asked, startled until the gully dwarf firmly shook his head.
“Not escape. But not locked up enough!”
“What do you mean?” asked the Klar captain with exaggerated patience.
“Uh, him visited by nice, pretty maid. Nice, pretty maid all right, real important historian. Prisoner fools her. Gretchan visits him-and him not locked up good enough!” With that, the angry Aghar spun on his heel and sprinted away into the darkness, toward Agharhome.
Garn stared after him, amazed and alarmed. First of all, that was a pretty long speech for a gully dwarf. Then, too, he remembered the historian named Gretchan Pax very vividly; her sudden appearance in the midst of his company’s camp had unsettled him more than he dared to admit. Her foul powers had paralyzed him in the mountain camp that night. She was either a witch or something much worse. Who was she really? Why was she there? And what was her purpose in talking to the prisoner?
Every answer he could imagine caused him worry.
Gus strutted proudly through the dungeon of Pax Tharkas. He was getting to know the place fairly well, and indeed, not far away he had found himself a second home in the scummy tunnels of Agharhome, on a comfortable sleeping pallet. The pallet had been graciously offered up by Berta, who volunteered to sleep on the cold stone instead, and Gus allowed himself to feel a measure of gratitude toward the dirty little gully wench.
She even continued to call him “highbulp,” which he found a delightful and inspiring title. Thus far, the rank was not acknowledged by any other of the tower’s Aghar population, but Berta kept telling everyone that Gus was the new highbulp, and she kept telling Gus himself that, in two days, the rest of the bluphsplunging doofars in Agharhome would recognize his exalted status as well. In point of fact, he didn’t really care if the others called him highbulp. It was enough that Berta did so and that she would share the occasional rat or other morsel she acquired. Her pallet was nice too.
But right at the moment, he was thinking of a different female. He was very proud of his boldness in speaking to the great Hylar prince, and he wanted to boast about his deed. Up till then he had been in a jealous snit for days and had avoided Gretchan Pax. Speaking to the Klar prince had made him feel better. Gretchan didn’t seem even to care if he was alive, but he had been doing some very good spying, and he knew right where to find her.
Gretchan had made her quarters, all unknown to the Tharkan garrison, in a small, dry, secret room just next to the dungeon halls. The chamber was clean and warm, and she always seemed to find good food to eat; she was constantly taking food to the prisoner. Gus felt another stab of jealousy but set his chin, marching onward.
Coming to the secret panel, which was concealed behind a weapons cabinet in one of the rooms that would have been used to garrison dungeon guards, should there ever be enough prisoners down there to require a garrison, Gus pulled the cabinet door open and knocked on the wooden back wall. Immediately he heard a low growl from beyond the panel.
“Kondike! It’s me! Gus!” he whispered loudly.
Moments later the panel was pulled aside and Gretchan Pax was beaming down at him. “Gus!” she said very sweetly, the gully dwarf had to admit. “I was afraid I’d lost you! Come in.”
“No lose Gus!” he replied sarcastically, stepping into the room as she held the door open for him. “Gus no lose Gretchan either.”
“Well, now you have found me and I’m glad,” she said. “This is a good hiding place, but I didn’t think anyone else knew where I was.”
“I follow!” Gus bragged happily. Then his features twisted into a dark scowl, and his tone became accusing. “Follow when you visit big kisser dwarf in jail!”
“Why Gus!” Gretchan chided, her eyes widening and her cheeks colored by a tinge of embarrassed redness. “Have you been spying on me?” she asked sharply.
“No! I mean yes!” the Aghar replied, gazing steadfastly at the floor to avoid Gretchan’s beautiful eyes. His big toe jutted out the front of his worn boot, and he used it to mark irregular circles on the floor. “Not Gretchan, but Gus spy on big kisser dwarf!”
“All right now, Gus. I’m serious. What are you talking about? What’s the big deal about this big kisser-oh, his name is Brandon, damn it. What about him?”
“I not like big kisser dwarf. Him bad for you. Big dwarf general gonna lock him up more better! Him not locked up enough!” Gus stated bluntly.
“Oh, isn’t that sweet. Are you jealous?” Gretchan asked amusedly. She started to laugh then caught herself, her expression growing stern. “Wait, what’s that about a big dwarf general? Did you talk to someone?”
“Yep. Gus brave, talk to Klar chief. Him gonna lock up prisoner more better. You and I then go away like before. Forget big kisser dwarf!”