"He's a conjurer, not a magus," laughed Boлndal, pointing at the impresario with the stem of his pipe.
Rodario wagged a finger at him. "But the audience falls for it, and that's what counts. Why, even the ugly little bцgnilim were tricked by my art, and that, my friends, is what's known as success."
"So it's all a case of conjuring, illusion, and alchemy," said Tungdil, summing up.
Furgas nodded. "And makeup," he added, glancing at his slender mistress. "Makeup convinces the eye of what it otherwise only suspects. It turns Narmora into an дlf and sends the youngsters screaming to their parents." He laughed. "That's when we know that we're doing something right."
"Just be thankful it was Tungdil and not our lunatic ax man who visited your theater," Bavragor said darkly. "He would have stormed the stage."
"Poor Narmora," Boлndal murmured unthinkingly. "Even without makeup she looks remarkably like an elf. Nature can be cruel sometimes."
The comment prompted smiles from Furgas and Rodario, but Narmora shot the startled secondling a murderous look. Tungdil and Bavragor fell about laughing, thereby waking Goпmgar, who peered nervously over his shield.
"Oh," said Boлndal, embarrassed. "That came out all wrong. I didn't mean it that way," he apologized.
"Are you sure I look like an elf, not an дlf?" Narmora said threateningly. Her eyes, so dark they were almost black, glowered at him angrily. "I hope none of you get a nasty shock tonight…" She stood up, straightened her head scarf, and left the ruined temple. Her silhouette melted into the darkness.
"Ye gods, she's a natural," Rodario gushed. "Doesn't she play the role to perfection? Of course, I've no intention of telling her. She'd only demand a raise." He looked excitedly at the others for confirmation, and the dwarves concurred with mute nods. Boлndal was genuinely perturbed about what might befall him when he fell asleep that night.
The men finished filleting their catch and soon there was a smell of roasted fish. They all tucked in hungrily.
"There's one thing I don't understand," Tungdil said to Furgas. "How did you make the set? Everything-the woods, the palace… It looked so real."
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course!"
"Do I have your word?"
"Absolutely!"
"Swear by the blade of your ax."
Tungdil swore himself to absolute secrecy.
"Magic," announced Furgas with a mischievous grin. He smoothed his mustache.
"Uh-huh," sighed Tungdil, kicking himself for falling for the routine.
Boлndal sat up with a jolt and stifled a scream. For all the shock of being woken, he was glad to have escaped the visions that had plagued his sleep.
His relief was short-lived. On reaching for his crow's beak, he was alarmed to discover that the weapon was gone. Slender fingers encircled his wrist.
He rolled over to find himself staring into the cruel, lean face of an дlf. Clad in full armor, she was crouched beside him, studying him with cold, dark eyes. I'm still dreaming, he told himself frantically. It can't be…
"Let that be a lesson to you," he heard her hiss menacingly, just as his eyelids grew impossibly heavy and he drifted off to sleep.
When he woke for the second time, he leaped up, spluttering and gasping, and whirled round to face the threat. This time his crow's beak was in its proper place and he snatched it up hastily.
The players were asleep: Narmora in Furgas's arms, and Rodario, head resting in a pile of discarded fish skin, nestled beside the dying fire.
Boлndal studied them carefully. It didn't look as though they were playing a joke on him. Heart still pounding, he recovered some of his composure and vowed never to offend the actress again.
It occurred to him that Goпmgar was supposed to be keeping watch for them, but the lookout post was empty and the sentry had vanished. The horses and ponies were all safely tethered, but a trail of footprints led away from the door.
Surely he's not daft enough to run away in a snowstorm? Boлndal took a few steps outside and was almost knocked over by a flurry of snowflakes that seemed intent on laying him out. Suddenly he spotted a figure crumpled in the snow.
"Goпmgar!" Boлndal rushed over but the artisan didn't respond. Blood was trickling from a narrow gash in his head. Boлndal carried him into the ruined temple, laid him next to the fire, and threw on a couple of extra logs.
"I…" Goпmgar teeth were chattering furiously. "I slipped."
Boлndal covered him with two blankets. He can't even pee without getting himself in a fix. Tactfully, he refrained from comment: Goпmgar had humiliated himself sufficiently already. Why Tungdil had picked the troublesome artisan was beyond him, especially with four perfectly acceptable diamond cutters to choose from. Vraccas is bound to have his reasons, he thought philosophically, as the bundle of misery slowly began to thaw. His beard, hair, and eyebrows were streaming with icy water.
Boлndal leaned over to talk to him. "Were you trying to get yourself killed out there?"
"No," came the eventual reply.
"Be more careful in the future. We need you for our mission."
"You mean the impostor needs me to help him steal the throne," the shivering artisan muttered darkly.
Boлndal didn't bother to reply: The fourthling still hadn't grasped that more was at stake than the succession, despite Tungdil's well-meaning attempts to set him straight. How can anyone be so obtuse? Everything depends on the success of our mission, but he's too stubborn to see it.
Goпmgar stopped shivering and stared straight past him toward the rear of the temple, where the marble gods were grouped. He gulped. "How many?" he whispered.
"I beg your pardon?"
"How many statues were here when we arrived?"
Boлndal thought for a moment. "Seven. Four big ones and three small ones."
Goпmgar closed his eyes. "There are eight of them," he hissed. "Five big ones. What are we going to do?"
"Which one wasn't there before?" Boлndal's fingers were already wrapped round the haft of his crow's beak. He tensed his muscles.
"The third from the right."
"Fine. I'll go in for the attack and shout to wake the others. Meanwhile, you grab your shield and back me up until Boпndil takes over."
"Me?"
"Who else am I supposed to ask?"
Before Goпmgar could protest, the crow's beak swung up in a half circle, its long tip speeding toward the area just above the hips where there were no bones to slow its path. The wound would be deep and deadly. Like a miniature pennant, Boлndal's plait traced the weapon's movement in the air.
"For Vraccas!" he bellowed.
The statue shattered under the force of the blow, the crow's beak smashing through the crumbling stone and dashing it to pieces. The damage to the deity, carved lovingly by humans, was absolute and irrevocable.
"Sorry," Goпmgar said contritely, "I meant third from my right." By then it was too late.
The hitherto inanimate statue suddenly came to life. Its eyes glowed lilac beneath its visor.
"Of all the dumb mistakes…" Boлndal swore under his breath and made to strike again.
His titanic adversary had other ideas. Moving with a speed that belied its size, the statue seized the dwarf's forearms in its enormous hands and lifted him clean into the air. Boлndal found himself dangling two paces above the ground. His weapon clattered to the cracked marble floor.
His brother was on his feet already. "Let go of him!" Whipping out his axes, he was about to launch himself on his colossal opponent when he was blinded by a flash of light. The glare was so bright that he had to look away.
"That's enough, Boпndil," commanded a distinctive female voice. The glare softened to a weak glow, allowing them all to see.
The speaker emerged from behind the remaining statues and joined the giant's side. Her crimson cloak was streaked with melting snow and she was holding a glowing sphere. "You can put Boлndal down now, Djerun. I think they know who we are."