The suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Boпndil, who was tired of the actor's voice.
Rodario didn't wait for further permission, but strode away at once, his vibrant robes flapping around his legs. There was no denying that he looked like a nobleman, but the duffel bag rather ruined the effect. Furgas and Narmora followed him down the alleyway, boots squelching as they trudged through the foul-smelling mud.
"To be honest with you, I think they've got a point," ventured Goпmgar, peering after them regretfully. "I don't much like the look of it either."
"We were told to stay here," Boлndal reminded him, steering the ponies into the barn while the others made for the door. "I'll see to the ponies and keep an eye on the ingots. They'll be safer in the stables, I'll warrant. I'll sound my horn if I need you."
"Very well. I'll order you some food," Tungdil promised. He pushed open the door and stepped into an impenetrable fog of smoke. Quite apart from the cloud of tobacco, it was evident that the chimney needed a thorough sweep. They made their way through the crowd of drinkers, sat down at a table by the fire, and stretched their soggy boots toward the flames.
"At least we won't be sleeping outside again," said Goпmgar, softening. "I can't stand the rain." The others nodded in silent agreement: None of them were accustomed to coming into contact with water unless they chose to-which was seldom enough. "If only it were a bit more homely…"
Tungdil was happy to forgo all other comforts, provided that the roof didn't leak. The heat from the fire was beginning to dry his leather garments, and he closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Soon the conversation faded to an indistinct hum as he gave into his tiredness and dozed. He woke when the publican arrived with a tray of food and beer ordered by Bavragor. "Do you have a room for us? We're not fussy, so long as it's warm and dry."
The man nodded. "Come this way." The dwarves grabbed their packs, picked up their plates and tankards, and filed out behind him. They weren't sorry to be leaving the other drinkers, whose demeanor failed to inspire much trust.
The chamber to which the publican led them was a garret room with a chimneybreast at one end. The warmth exuding from the brickwork was enough to heat the whole room. "Another beer for the gentleman?" Bavragor accepted with a nod.
They hung their clothes to dry on a rope around the chimney, then Boпndil, wearing nothing but chain mail and breeches, left the chamber to take his turn in the stables.
Tungdil waited until Boлndal had joined them, then took off his boots, stood them next to the chimneybreast, and climbed into a little bed. "Time for an afternoon nap," he told the others, pulling up the sheets. "I'll go into town and ask about the firstlings later. It would be good to know what to expect."
"It's been such a long time since anyone heard from them," said Bavragor, shaking his tankard and gazing at the swirling beer. "What if something's happened to them?"
"I expect they're just loners like you," Boлndal teased him. He stripped to his chain mail and underwear and climbed into bed.
The mason finished his beer, burped, and polished off the leftovers of Boлndal's meal. "I'd really like to meet them," he admitted. "I've been asking Vraccas to keep them safe." He fell silent and stuffed his pipe with tobacco.
Tungdil was staring at the beams overhead. The fine cracks in the paint reminded him of the way the дlf's face had fractured. "He knew my name."
"What's that, scholar?" Boлndal asked drowsily.
"The дlf knew my name." He reached for the head scarf that Frala had given to him. There was something soothing and reassuring about the cloth. "They know more about me than I thought," he said uneasily.
"The most powerful of Tion's creatures are frightened of a dwarf," observed Bavragor with a low chuckle. He lit his pipe, filling the chamber with the smell of tobacco spiced with a hint of brandy. It was surprisingly pleasant. "That's the way we like it."
Goпmgar glanced over at Tungdil. "I don't blame you for being concerned," he said with feeling. "I wouldn't want to be chased by a band of дlfar who know exactly who I am."
"Yes, but that's because you're a coward." The insult left Bavragor's lips before he had time to consider.
"If you haven't got anything useful to say, you may as well go to bed," Tungdil told him sharply. They won't give each other a chance.
He saw Goпmgar look at him, then pick up his sword and shield and take up position on his bed, keeping a careful eye on the window and the door.
Tungdil couldn't be sure whether the artisan was sitting watch for himself or the others. He was still considering the matter when he fell asleep.
It was dark outside when Tungdil opened his eyes.
His boots and clothes were drier than they had been in ages. No one else was awake, not even Goпmgar, who was snoring with his head lolling back against the wall. From the nose down, there was nothing to be seen of him except for his shield.
It seemed a good time to get on with procuring the ponies and provisions, so Tungdil pulled on his warm clothes and dry boots, slipped into his mail tunic, and jammed his ax into his belt. At the last moment he decided to leave the sigurdaisy wood behind for safekeeping; then he left the chamber and went down to the bar, stopping to tell the publican that he'd be back in a couple of hours. He stepped outside.
The rain was still falling in torrents. A cold, malodorous wind gusted through the narrow streets. Nothing in his surroundings hinted at the opulence of the dwellings that graced the city's upper slopes. It's all very well for the rich folks in their mansions, high above the slums, he thought to himself. Everyone down here is forced to look up at them, not knowing whether to hate them or admire them for their wealth.
He had several run-ins with particularly persistent beggars and on one occasion he was chased by a pair of aging harlots who demanded to know if certain parts of his anatomy were as small and hairy as the rest.
Tungdil ignored them because they offended his romantic sensibilities. His idea of love was gleaned from fiction and from Frala and her husband. He stroked his lucky scarf and tried to picture her in his mind. Knowing that he would never see her or her children again was even harder to deal with than the death of Lot-Ionan. He would have done everything in his power to be a good guardian to Sunja and Ikana.
The incessant rain, gray skies, and general squalor of Sovereignston did nothing to improve his mood. He had to walk for what seemed like hours before he found a dealer who sold ponies, and even then he was instructed to call back the next morning. His next stop was a grocery store, where he bought provisions for the journey and succumbed to the temptation of buying a cake. He hadn't felt hungry until he saw it, but the mixture had risen perfectly to form a soft brown crust. The cinnamon streusel topping had melted in places, and delectable golden clumps nestled alongside rum-soaked raisins and sunken slices of fruit. Tungdil took a deep breath and bought the whole cake to share with the others, trusting to the baker to brighten his mood.
In the dark he set off through the streets, carrying his well-wrapped cake and other purchases. Mud and detritus clung to his boots, making them squelch unpleasantly. Not all the streets were properly cobbled, and parts of the waterlogged city were no better than mud slicks. Why would anyone want to live in this godforsaken place?
It was inevitable that he would fall over, and fall over he did. He stepped on a soggy pile of horse dung, skidded on his right leg, and stumbled, reaching down with one hand to save his clothes from the worst of the muck. Somehow or other he managed not to drop the cake. Underground vaults and strongholds are a thousand times better than this.
His thoughts were cut short by a sudden gust of wind. Something whizzed to the left of his head, grazing his ear. Whatever it was, it was painful, and he yelped in surprise, reaching up to touch his neck. Warm blood trickled over his fingers.