The famuli looked at one another bleakly, shaken to the core by Nudin's sobering words and the sight of their dead mentors.
"They were so powerful, but the Perished Land subdued them," whispered Jolosin despondently. "How are we supposed to-"
"We should give them a proper burial," Rantja said distractedly. "We can't just leave them here." She was trembling.
"Girdlegard is relying on you to be strong," Nudin exhorted them. "If you don't act now, we'll lose our only hope of repelling the Perished Land. You can mourn the dead when it's over." He traced a circle on the floor with his staff. "Gather round, join hands, and repeat the incantation after me."
The famuli did as instructed, Rantja and Jolosin standing side by side and drawing strength and comfort from each other.
Nudin took his place in the circle and laid his staff on the floor. His fat, clammy fingers reached for Jolosin's free hand and the unfortunate famulus clasped them with revulsion. "If you please, Estimable Magus, I've brought the artifacts you loaned to Lot-Ionan." He turned in the direction of the bag, and Nudin nodded curtly.
Then they began the incantation, calling on the magic to come forth and enter the splinters of the table. The hours wore away. Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle It was raining at daybreak, or pouring, to be precise.
Summer in all its glory reigned over Girdlegard, but for the duration of a few hours the sun had retreated, allowing the sky to cloud over and quench the parched soil.
No doubt the vegetation was grateful for the downpour, but the dwarves were unimpressed. Huddled under a tree, they waited grumpily for the rain to stop.
"Now you see why we live in the mountains," scowled Boпndil, who was taking the opportunity to shave his cheeks. Over the past few orbits he had become increasingly restless. His warrior's heart longed for action so that he could swing his ax and shriek and spit at some orcs, but the chances of that in Lios Nudin were depressingly slim.
"What if he goes into a frenzy?" Tungdil asked Boлndal in a whisper. "Should 1 hide in a tree?"
The dwarf wrung the rainwater out of his plait and grinned from ear to ear. "You'll be safe so long as I'm around to direct his fury onto something else. I try to steer him clear of anything that breathes, and it works quite well, for the most part."
They kept their eyes fixed on the nearby thoroughfare, watching the carts and carriages roll past. One young couple seemed more interested in each other than in driving their oxen. The dutiful animals kept up a steady trot.
The sight of the lovers reminded Tungdil of a subject that had been bothering him for a while. He wondered whether to ask the twins' advice, although he was beginning to feel embarrassed about his ignorance of dwarven life. For someone who had spent his formative years surrounded by books, he asked incredibly foolish questions. So much for being a scholar! Curiosity got the better of him eventually. "What do girl dwarves look like?" he asked, avoiding their gaze.
There was silence.
The patter of rain on the leaves seemed deafeningly loud. The brothers let him stew for a while; then Boпndil said: "Pretty."
"Very pretty," added Boлndal, amplifying his brother's terse reply.
"Right."
There was silence again.
Overhead, the shower was easing, the drumming raindrops fading to a steady drip-drip of water trickling from the twigs and branches.
He tried again. "Do they have beards?"
Silence.
Tungdil became acutely aware of the rich variety of noises made by falling rain.
"Not beards, exactly," said Boпndil.
"More like wispy down," explained Boлndal. "It looks lovely."
No one spoke.
The sun burned a path through the dark gray cloud, and summer triumphed over Girdlegard. Tungdil decided to broach an even more delicate topic. "When men dwarves and girl dwarves-"
He broke off under the secondlings' withering stares. Boлndal took pity on him. "It's high time our scholar got to know his kin," he said dryly. He glanced up at the tree. "The downpour's over; let's go." He stood up, followed by his brother.
"You didn't answer my question!"
"You didn't ask a question, and anyway, you're the one with all the learning, not me."
"Do girl dwarves fight too?"
"Some do, but in our clan they mostly stay at home," said Boлndal as they moved off along the road. "Our womenfolk devote themselves to domestic duties: herding animals in the valleys, stocking our pantries, brewing beer, and making clothes."
"No good ever came of the sexes fighting side by side," Boпndil added darkly. He seemed to be speaking from experience, but there was something in his voice that warned Tungdil not to probe.
"Don't make the mistake of belittling their talents, though. They're just as proud as we are. Some of the best masons and smiths in the kingdom are women. When it comes to artisan contests, they use their chisels and hammers so proficiently that other competitors stop and marvel at their work."
"Anomalies and exceptions," growled Boпndil, who was obviously of the opinion that certain tasks were the preserve of male dwarves. "For the most part they belong by the hearth. The kitchen is their calling."
Tungdil had been listening attentively. "It's like that in human kingdoms too," he told them. The idea of female dwarves seemed more appealing than ever and he was eager to become acquainted with their kind.
At last they reached Porista. Tungdil gazed in wonderment at the turrets and domes of the palace, but his companions exchanged bored smiles, needing no further evidence that human architecture was inferior to their own.
Tungdil had been hoping to find Lot-Ionan and unburden himself of Gorйn's books and artifacts, but he was sorely disappointed. At the palace they were told that the council had dispersed some orbits earlier and that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was not receiving guests. There was nothing for it but to follow Lot-Ionan to Ionandar.
They were on their way out of the city when Tungdil spotted a stable in one of the side streets. The horse inside it looked strangely familiar.
"Wait here," he instructed, striding toward the chestnut steed. He felt sure he had shod her not so long ago. He lifted her right foreleg and examined the shoe. The nails were unmistakably his own. "It's them," he hissed.
"Friends of yours?" asked Boлndal, whose crow's beak was resting casually on his shoulder. His brother was absent-mindedly stroking his freshly shaven cheeks in search of stray whiskers.
"Not exactly." Noting the bulging saddlebags, Tungdil fetched a bucket, turned it over, climbed on top of it, and fumbled with the buckles. The bag came open and the dwarf rummaged inside until his fingers came into contact with a jar. He pulled it out quickly.
"Remember the dead dwarf in the caravan?" His instincts had been right; the jar unscrewed to reveal a head. The bounty hunters had shaved the poor fellow's hair and beard so that the grisly trophy would fit inside the container, which was filled with honey to stop the air from getting in, thus preventing decay. Streaks of blood trailed through the golden fluid, staining it red. "We've found the villains who killed him."
There was a clatter of chain mail and the brothers were beside him like a shot. Neither spoke as they stared in horror at what had been done to their kinsman for the sake of a reward.