"I wasn't really expecting visitors," Tungdil said hesitantly. The sudden appearance of Gandogar's adviser had thrown him slightly. In fact, now that he thought about it properly, walking in without an invitation was downright rude. His friendly feelings toward Bislipur as a kinsman had withstood their bristly encounter in the great hall, but this was something else.
Bislipur sat down on the bed and gave him a long stare. "You think you're one of us, do you?" he mocked. "A poor little foundling, raised by a wizard, but of genuine royal blood-it sounds like a fairy tale, doesn't it?" He leaned forward. "Because it is! I'm not going to beat about the bush: You're an impostor. What proof do you have of your lineage?"
"You'll see soon enough," Tungdil said firmly. If it hadn't been for his conversation with Gundrabur and Balendilнn, he would have stepped aside for his rival. Only last night he had been assailed by doubts about the wisdom of maintaining the deception, but now, thanks to Bislipur's obnoxious behavior, his mind was made up.
"None of the fourthlings can remember a case of a missing child."
"And I suppose you know them all in person and every detail of their lives. That's really quite a claim." Tungdil stood up. He had a feeling that the long hours spent reading in Lot-Ionan's library and studying the art of disputation would stand him in good stead. All of a sudden he felt naked without his chain mail and his weapon. He threw on his tunic and belted his ax to his waist. His confidence flooded back. "Wait until tomorrow and you'll hear the full story."
"I've got a better idea," said Bislipur. "Cancel the hustings, and we'll adopt you as one of our folk. All we ask is that you agree to back Gandogar. Retract your claim and you'll never want for anything."
"Supposing I refuse?"
"Supposing you refuse?" Bislipur laid a muscular hand on his ax. "If you refuse, you'll see what happens when a fourthling-or a fake fourthling, in your case-turns against the leader of his folk. None of us will submit to your rule. Even if you're elected, you'll never really be king."
Tungdil could tell from the muffled fury in his voice that Bislipur meant business. "That's for the assembly to decide, not you," he informed him, doing his best to sound like a prospective monarch. "Now go," he commanded.
"Supposing I refuse?" the thick-set dwarf said mockingly.
"Supposing you refuse?" thundered Tungdil, placing a hand on his ax. "If you refuse, I'll throw you out myself! I've dealt with enough orcs and дlfar to know what to do with a dwarf who sneaks his way into my chamber while I'm asleep." His brotherly tolerance of Bislipur had given way to undisguised dislike. "Get out!"
Bislipur wavered for a moment, unsure whether he should commit to a trial of strength. To Tungdil's relief, he decided to see himself out. "You'll regret this," he threatened by way of a farewell.
"That's a risk I'm prepared to take," Tungdil retorted. Alone in his chamber, he stood in front of the mirror, put his hands on his hips, and squared his shoulders. Rather than get dressed, he practiced looking steely until he was confident of his ability to assume a determined expression whenever he pleased. It took considerable willpower not to crawl back into bed.
He was in the process of removing his nightshirt when someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, a female dwarf in a skirt and leather blouse strode in and placed some fresh linen on the marble dresser. She giggled when she saw him rooted to the spot. I should say something, he thought, racking his brains desperately, but already she was gone.
"I guess it takes practice," he muttered, pulling on his clothes absentmindedly. His mind was whirring with a thousand different thoughts.
It was dispiriting to know that he was still a foundling dwarf. For the first time in his life he was surrounded by others of his race, but deep down he was the loneliest soul in all Girdlegard. In fact, he'd been better off when he'd lived among humans; at least then he'd belonged to Lot-Ionan and the school.
It didn't help that he was obliged to pose as a fourthling and put on a show of happiness at being reunited with his folk. For all his honest intentions, it made him feel like a terrible fraud.
Keen to distract his thoughts, he reread Lot-Ionan's letter about his provenance, memorizing every fabricated detail until he was sure that none of the delegates could pick a hole in his story. There was nothing else to do in his chamber, so he wandered into the corridor and roamed the majestic stone passageways while his stomach growled hungrily.
Dwarves streamed past him, clad in leather aprons and covered in a dusting of rock. Tungdil guessed from their appearance that they were heading for the quarry. They smiled and called out to him and he returned their greetings with a nod.
Soon afterward he was intercepted by an attendant who marched him off to breakfast. Tungdil understood the real purpose of the summons when he was welcomed to the table by Balendilнn, who wanted to prepare him for the hustings.
"It's all under control," the counselor assured him. The trinkets on his braided beard swung back and forth as he spoke, which earned him fascinated glances from Tungdil. "Three dwarves from Gandogar's delegation have agreed to say they remember hearing a rumor about a missing child. Their testimony, together with the letter from your magus, should give us the credibility we need. After that, you'll make your speech and then-"
"My speech?" said Tungdil, looking up sharply from the array of pungent cheeses, salamis, pickled mushrooms, and roasted lichen. All of a sudden he stopped caring about the absence of ham, porridge, and bread: The prospect of addressing the assembly had banished any thought of food.
"It needn't be terribly long. You can talk a bit about your journey and your encounters with Nфd'onn and the Perished Land. You'll lose the vote, of course, but that's no great inconvenience; we'll proceed to the next stage of our plan." Balendilнn's eyes twinkled. "It's all under control," he said again.
"I'm glad you think so." Tungdil sighed and piled his wooden plate with a small helping of everything. He told the counselor of Bislipur's visit.
"That's just the kind of underhanded behavior I'd expect from him." Balendilнn seemed to take the news in stride. "You know what it means, don't you? We're on the right track. The scoundrel wouldn't bother with you unless he thought you were a threat."
Tungdil didn't share his optimism. He hadn't forgotten that Bislipur had tried to murder Balendilнn, and he saw no reason to suppose that the fourthling wouldn't do the same to him.
"There's one more thing," said the counselor. "The maga and her bodyguard have gone."
"Gone?" Tungdil echoed, aghast. So she's really left us? How could she give up like that and leave Girdlegard to its fate? "When did she leave?"
"This morning, just after dawn. We had to let her cross the pass. There wasn't any justification for detaining her, and besides… how do you stop a maga?"
"You don't." Tungdil put his head in his hands. It was hopeless; no one apart from Andфkai had anything like Nфd'onn's power and now she was searching for force fields beyond the Blue Range. She must have given up on Gorйn's books. Why couldn't one of the other magi have survived instead? He felt certain that Maira or Lot-Ionan would have stayed and led the fight against the traitor.
"We'll have to rely on you to decipher the tomes," said Balendilнn. "You can always consult our archives, if you think they'll be of use."
"You should ask your historians. I'm sure they'd do a better job than me," muttered Tungdil.
Balendilнn shook his head. "They don't know the magi's writings as well as you do. No one understands the long-uns better than you." He looked encouragingly at the dejected dwarf. "I know it's a heavy burden, but a great deal is at stake. We'll never forget it."
"I'll do my best," he promised, forcing down his mouthful. He hiccuped discreetly. His palate had adjusted to the cheese, but his stomach was proving less adaptable-not unreasonably, considering the quantities involved. To round off the meal he poured a mug of sour milk and stirred it through with a spoonful of honey. Dwarven cuisine was a lot better than he had thought.