“As you wish, elder,” the rotund gnome replied as he slipped off the bench with a downcast look. “Bad business, this is,” he mumbled while hiking up his robes and heading for the door.
Martine was almost relieved to be escorted out of the chamber, feeling as helpless as she did during the debate. She didn’t need to stay to know how the vote would turn out. Jouka’s supporters were fired with the passion of war. Their voices would overwhelm the wiser arguments of those who knew better.
In the hall where the dance had been held, Martine found Vii at the center of a swarm of gnome children, still here while their mothers waited for the menfolk to end their business. With strong hands, the former paladin playfully scooped up a young gnome and hoisted him to the ceiling, an immense height for one so small. The child’s squeals of delight momentarily dispelled the pall of fear that hung over the hall as others clamored for a turn. Besieged, Vil greeted Martine’s return with a grin of relief.
“How about a hand with these children, Martine? Make yourself useful.”
“I’ve been trying to, blast it!” the ranger blurted in frustration. “But it looks like your friend Jouka—”
“Quiet!” the man warned softly as he hoisted another squealing child high overhead. “Not here.”
Looking about, Martine realized how frightened the gnome women looked. She had forgotten that they were wives and mothers, not warriors like her. Suddenly she felt like a mercenary who had been so long at war that she had forgotten the ways of a normal home.
Feeling as self-conscious as she had felt before the council, the huntress found a gnome-sized stool and perched upon it awkwardly. “How about a story, children?” A few came closer, but most hovered back, shy of this newcomer. Martine motioned for the women to bring their children closer.
She had just reached the point in her story where the heroine, not altogether unlike Martine, was facing off against the captain of a pirate ship when a flurry at the council doors heralded the end of the meeting. The women gathered their children against their starched skirts and waited breathlessly to hear the council’s decision.
The council filed out of the chamber in solemn order. Elder Sumalo was first, followed by the older members of the assembly. After them came the younger gnomes. Martine noticed very little mingling between the cautious whitebeards and the quick-tempered younger members of the council.¤ Reko’s fiddle music stopped, and the few remaining dancers cleared the floor as the priest entered the hall.
Sumalo’s face was set like stone; his color was pale, and his shoulders sagged. Finally he stood in the center of the hall and motioned the crowd to silence.
Thump, thump, thump. The priest banged his iron speaker’s rod for attention. The pounding was hardly necessary, but it punctuated the solemnity of the moment.
“Brother Vani, as leader of your council and voice of the Great Crafter, hear the decision of the council. By the laws of the last high king, there will be war.”
A collective gasp escaped from the throats of the women in the room. Mothers clung tightly to their children. A few crooned lullabies to soothe their infants, who sensed something was wrong in spite of their tender years. Wives sought out their husbands, and when they met, they spoke not a word. The younger women paled as they thought of their swains. Martine could see fear for their loved ones in their eyes. Old Reko brushed back his beard and struck up a mournful tune.
Martine leaned over and whispered to Vil, “I think I’d best see Krote.” She didn’t feel welcome enough to intrude on the Vani at the moment. The families needed time together, and she would only be in the way. She was aware, too, of neglecting the Word-Maker ever since her arrival. Against all logic, she felt she owed a good deal to Krote.
“Good idea,” Vil agreed. “I’ll go with you.” The pair rose and, after quickly stopping to bow to Sumalo, took their leave.
Outside the council room, the halls were chilly, since all the warren’s heat was kept sealed in closed chambers. Why should I care about a gnoll? Martine asked herself as they made their way down a long hallway. She hadn’t told Vil her concern about leaving Krote in the care of the Vani. A few of the young gnomes on the council had looked hot-tempered enough to decide on a lynching. With passions running high in the warren, it wouldn’t take much to sway other gnomes into a dangerous mob.
If that happens, she thought, I don’t know what I could do to stop it. All the same, I have to be there.
Vil guided her through passages, down staircases, and around turns, gradually leading her into the colder regions of the warren. In these distant corners were the animal pens, root cellars, and storerooms, tucked far away from the brightly lit halls of the central warren.
At last they reached the sties. The tunnels here were old and unplanked, with ceilings of dirt supported by thick beams. The air had the stagnant smell of a stable, though a chill breeze provided some ventilation. The hallway echoed with the clucking of chickens and the occasional bleat of a goat. A single magical taper, jammed into the earthen wall, gleamed steadily. The pens and their occupants cast unnaturally stark shadows, which fell away in a circle from the single pool of light.
“Word-Maker?” Martine called.
A guttural snarl came from the darkness: Removing the wooden taper, the Harper illuminated a small pen of bare earth covered with straw. Thick wooden planks made the bars of the cage, dividing her view into vertical slats of darkness.
“Word-Maker?” she called again.
“I am here, woman.” Martine heard a rustle in the darkness in the depths of the cage, and then a black shape crawled forward into the thin orange light of the magical taper. Krote emerged from the gloom, stooped nearly double since the ceiling was too low for him to stand. The gnoll flashed his long canines upon seeing the Harper, but Martine couldn’t guess if this was a show of rage or relief.
“You promised me safety, human,” the shaman snarled. He was barechested, his crossed belts and arm wrappings gone. The gnomes had taken his charms, necklaces, and all the signs of his god to prevent the shaman from calling upon Gorellik. The only symbols of the shaman’s office that remained were the thick-scarred tatoos around his eye.
“You’re alive.”
“This is an animal pen!”
“Word-Maker, I didn’t promise you comfort. I don’t remember you worrying about me back in your village.”
Krote settled into a squat. “I healed you and saved you from Hakk’s hunger.”
Martine jabbed the light stick into the ground. “By marrying me to him!”
Her outburst caused Vil to perk up his head. Until now, he’d been listening with only mild interest, unconcerned with the complaints of a gnoll. “Married?” he asked in the trade tongue. “I did this so Elk-Slayer would not kill the female.” Martine couldn’t see the grin on Vil’s face, but she clearly heard him speak. “By Torm, Madam Elk-Slayer—ooof!”
A quick elbow to his ribs put an end to his playful mood. “That will be enough from you!” she cautioned.
“Why you come here?” Krote asked.
“To close the rift. You know that,” the Harper answered as she shifted her weight and tried to guess what the shaman’s point was.
Krote shook his mangy head. “No, human. Why you stay here? You guarding me?”
“I came to see if you were all right I owe you that much.”
“Owe me? Why?”
It was obvious to Martine. “Because you saved my—”
“I know what I did,” the shaman growled in perplexity. “How do you owe?”
“Kindness for kindness,” Martine answered, equally perplexed that the shaman didn’t understand this simple concept “You—”
Further explanation was cut off by a clamor that echoed down the hall. “I’ll go see what’s going on,” Vil volunteered. As Martine laid a hand on his arm, the former paladin added, “Don’t worry. IT try talk them out of anything rash, if that’s what they’re up to.” He hurried down the hall, stooping under the low beams as he went.