"Then I'll start packing. A weapon like Keenfire deserves my finest tools." He hurried from the room.
Tungdil had expected the interview to last a little longer, but he soon forgot about the mason and turned his attention to finding a diamond cutter.
None of the fourthlings could be expected to join his company of their own accord, so he was obliged to ask Gandogar to spare him a suitable dwarf. The strategy was safer than it sounded: The fourthling delegation was composed of first-rate artisans and warriors, as tradition dictated.
The more Tungdil thought about it, the less inclined he was to ask his rival for a favor, but in the end he swallowed his pride, reminding himself that vanity was a luxury when Girdlegard's future was at stake.
He was just leaving his chamber when he saw four dwarves hurrying down the passageway toward him. One by one they introduced themselves. "Balendilнn sent us. He says you're to choose."
Bewildered, Tungdil stared at the bearded countenances looking at him expectantly. "I've made my choice," he said. It hadn't occurred to him that there might be other candidates. Now he was regretting his haste. "I chose Bavragor."
"Bavragor Hammerfist? Not Bavragor who polishes the stone with the beer on his breath?" said one of the dwarves incredulously. "Not the merry minstrel?"
"He got here first."
"He didn't make the final cut! You can't take him!" The masons looked at him, aghast. "He's been trying to drown himself in beer for as long as anyone can remember. Four full tankards are barely enough to steady his hands!"
"I gave him my word. I can't go back on it now." Tungdil's cheeks flushed with fury when he realized that he'd walked straight into the one-eyed mason's trap. I shall ask him to release me from our agreement.
The secondlings directed him to Bavragor's favorite tavern, and Tungdil marched off to give the trickster a piece of his mind.
He soon found the place. A line of lamp-lit columns ran down the center of the barrel-vaulted chamber, and lanterns dangled from the ceiling, casting golden halos through panes of tinted glass. At the far end was a stone-hewn counter where four barmaids were filling tankards from huge dark barrels and carrying them to the waiting clientele. The band was made up of two krummhorns, a stone flute, and a drum, whose task consisted mainly of accompanying the rowdy choir.
Bavragor was sitting at a table with a group of laborers who had come straight from the quarry and were covered in dust. He was celebrating his selection for the expedition in timeworn mason's fashion, waving his tankard and singing at a volume that sent tremors through the room. Beer slopped out of his tankard, spattering his brown leather breeches with white froth.
"Bavragor!" Tungdil shouted sternly.
"Ah, the high king to be!" The mason raised his vessel. "Three cheers for Tungdil Goldhand!" His drinking companions joined in, raising their tankards and scrambling to their feet in a fog of gray dust.
Tungdil seethed. In a few determined strides he crossed the tavern, tore the tankard from Bavragor's hand, and slammed it onto the table. "Balendilнn didn't send you to me. You tricked me into giving you my word and now I want you to release me."
"Oops, careful there. That's good beer you're spilling." The mason gave him an innocent smile. "I didn't actually say that Balendilнn sent me, did I?"
Tungdil was lost for words. "Well, no, you didn't, but…"
Bavragor picked up his tankard. "Was it part of the deal?"
"Yes… I mean, no…"
"Look, here's what happened: I came in, asked for the job, and you agreed. We shook hands, you gave me your word of honor, and that was that." He took a long gulp. "In any case, you made the right choice: There's no better mason than me. I expect you saw my work when you got here: inscriptions, statues, the lot. Pretty impressive, I'd say." He raised his right hand. "This is the hand you shook, and your grip was true. The sooner you find a diamond cutter, the better; we can't hang around forever." He turned back to his fellow drinkers and launched into song.
Tricked by a drunkard! Speechless with rage, Tungdil stomped off to find Gandogar. He tried to swallow his anger and think about it logically. Perhaps Bavragor really was the best mason in the secondling kingdom-but it didn't make up for his barefaced cheek.
He was halfway down the corridor when he suddenly burst out laughing. It was almost as if Vraccas were trying to demonstrate that a little bravado could go a long way. The Smith had shown a fine sense of irony in saddling him, the false heir to the throne, with an impudent drunkard who had bluffed his way into the mason's role. I'll have to remember to pack enough brandy and beer to steady his hands when we reach the Gray Range. At least Balendilнn will be able to tell me whether he's really as good as he claims…
Tungdil fetched one of the two lengths of sigurdaisy wood and entered the assembly room where Gandogar was waiting.
The fourthling monarch was sitting at the table with five of his entourage. Tungdil was struck by their glittering jewels and diamonds; compared to the secondlings, their tunics and mail were unashamedly ostentatious.
"It is not in my nature to make others beg. You don't need to explain yourself, Tungdil. I know what you want." He pointed to the delegates, who rose to their feet. "Take your pick. They're all expert craftsmen, masters in the art of cutting and polishing gems."
Tungdil paced along the line of dwarves, studying their faces and allowing his instincts to guide him.
The artisans were a little on the small side, but for some reason he was drawn to the puniest of the lot. Something told him that this was the one. The dwarf's beard glittered with diamond dust that had caught in his curly whiskers. It looked as though thousands of tiny stars were shimmering under his chin. Tungdil's mind was made up.
"Goпmgar Shimmerbeard," said Gandogar, introducing him. "A fine choice," he added.
The artisan's nervousness turned into full-blown panic. He turned to his monarch. "But, Gandogar, Your Highness…Surely you won't make me…You know that I can't…"
"I gave Tungdil a free choice," Gandogar said sharply. "Do you want me to break my promise? You're going with Tungdil, and that's that."
"B-but, Your Majesty…" the artisan stuttered desperately.
"Think of the reputation of our folk. Do exactly as Tungdil tells you, and if you get to the Gray Range before us, be sure to cut the diamonds as conscientiously as you would for me. Farewell-and, Goпmgar, come back in one piece."
The king rose and signaled for the remaining four dwarves to follow. When he reached the door, he stopped and turned.
"I don't want you to come to any harm, Tungdil Goldhand, but as the rightful heir, I can't honestly wish you well. Vraccas will lead me to victory and expose you as a sham. I will be Gundrabur's successor."
"You can have the title, King Gandogar," Tungdil said graciously, handing him the sigurdaisy wood. "Just remember to slay Nфd'onn and protect Girdlegard and our kingdoms from harm."
He hurried away without waiting for a reply. The scrawny artisan followed him, eyes cast gloomily to the floor.
Tungdil, Bavragor, Goпmgar, and the twins were sitting in the central hall of the library, a ribbed vault lined with lamps and mirrors that afforded sufficient light for reading and study. All around them were tablets and rolls of parchment, the collected knowledge of hundreds of cycles. The archive, the secondlings' repository of the past, seemed the ideal place to hold a meeting about the future.
Tungdil unrolled a map showing the territory between the five ranges. "We'll go down and take a look at the entrance to the underground network," he told them. "With a bit of luck and the blessing of Vraccas we'll be able to travel west-"
"You mean north," interrupted Bavragor. The strapping dwarf leaned forward and pointed at the Gray Range. "We need to go north."
"Sure, but first we'll go west to Borengar's folk. The firstlings have always been the best smiths. They're the only ones capable of forging the blade."