He stood up and nodded to the elves. “Eldrur, if you would be good enough to compose a document in your own language, explaining my ambassador’s mission and stating that he bears with him the most cordial greetings of the high king of the dwarves.”
“Certainly, Most High Majesty.” The elf bowed as Gandogar withdrew, leaving Boindil and the other guests to their meal.
Eldrur considered the warrior’s bearded face. Ireheart was picking reluctantly at his food. “You are cursing yourself, aren’t you?” he remarked, hitting the nail on the head.
“No,” retorted Ireheart, chewing on a piece of mushroom. “I could hit myself in the face, though. With this weapon,” he said, pointing at the crow’s beak at his side.
The elves laughed. It was a soft melodious sound: more a refined, tinkling chorus than merry heartfelt laughter. False as gnome-gold. “You will certainly be something of a novelty for Alandur,” predicted Eldrur, sounding anything but pleased.
“That letter you’re writing for me to take-why don’t you tell your prince to send me straight home again?” Ireheart requested grimly.
“Are you maybe not as tough as you were telling us?” joked Irdasil. “What wouldn’t I give to be going in your place?”
“No chance.” Ireheart gave him a disdainful glance, then looked back down at his plate. “You’re far too tall for a dwarf,” he muttered, shoving the plate away and getting up.
“I didn’t mean I wished to go as a dwarf, I meant…”
“So you don’t fancy being a dwarf, eh?” He looked out from under beetling black brows, laying hold of the handle of his weapon. “You got something against my race? Come right out and say it, my friend.”
“No, no, not at all,” protested Irdosil. “What I was trying to say…”
Eldrur laughed. “He’s taking a rise out of you, Irdosil-he’s joking, can’t you see?”
Boindil was grinning. “Took his time, didn’t he?” He sauntered off toward the door, crow’s beak hammer harmlessly shouldered. “Have you heard the one about the orc who stops to ask a dwarf the way?” The three elves shook their heads. “Then it’s high time the forests were told some proper jokes.” He winked and left them.
Antamar, who so far had said nothing, looked at Eldrur. “Stupid mess.”
“I know.” Eldrur was annoyed. “But what should we have done?”
“Just now? Nothing.” Antamar regarded the others in turn. “But now you can compose a suitable letter for him to take with him.”
Eldrur had noted the particular stress on the word “suitable.” That was enough.
O n the way to his room Tungdil had got lost a few times. Eventually someone showed him to a bed.
He had not the slightest idea where he was, but his drinking instinct immediately found the bottle of brandy on the shelf.
However much his stomach was protesting, he stood up and groped for the bottle, greedily pulling out the cork and taking a long swig.
The sharp liquor was hardly down his throat before he was sick. The food he had eaten came up again and again, and the pot he had grabbed in his haste could not hold it all.
He spluttered, gasping for air. Then he caught sight of his image in the large silver mirror. He saw himself in his full piteous glory: a bottle in one hand, a chamber pot in the other, beard and chain mail dripping with vomit, his body gross and his whole appearance utterly neglected. A fine figure of a hero now, indeed.
Tungdil sank down on his knees; he could not take his eyes off the mirror, which showed him his own reflection in such merciless clarity.
“No,” he whispered, hurling the brandy at the polished silver; the glass bottle shattered, sending a film of alcohol all over his own image. That ugly Tungdil was still staring at him with red eyes. “No,” he yelled, throwing the pot, but missing the mirror. He held his hands over his eyes. “Go away,” he roared and started to weep. “Go away, murderer! You killed him…” He sank down onto the flagstones and gave in to grief, sobbing and moaning until sleep took over.
He never felt the strong arms lift him and carry him away.
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn, Mifurdania,
Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
D ressed simply and comfortably, Rodario was sitting on the steps of the caravan musing over a new play he might put on.
He and his troupe were on a small island, camped just outside the town proper, which, ever since the earthquake, had been surrounded by Weyurn’s extensive stretches of water. The small lakes had multiplied and many citizens had lost all their possessions. Rodario’s company had done more of the journey by water or over islands than on terra firma, because relatively little of the queens’ realm of Weyurn had escaped the floodwaters. It was a strange sight.
It was definitely time for a new heroic saga, now the old one about the victory over the eoil and the avatars had lost its thrill for him. And the spectators were starting to feel the same way.
Or maybe a comedy this time? he wondered. The audiences were demanding more entertainment, more wit and less pathos and slaughter nowadays. Times were good; the people of Girdlegard were free of cares and they wanted to laugh at on-stage innuendo.
In thoughtful mood he watched Tassia hang out her washing between two of the caravans. The bright sun on her thin linen dress made it almost transparent in places. When she felt his eyes on her, desiring her, she stopped what she was doing, turned and gave him a wave.
He lifted the hand with the quill in greeting. There was no question about it: she would play the main role in his new play and men would come in droves to the theater marquee to see her.
“Yes, well, the men,” he murmured. He was jealously noting how Reimar, one of the workers who helped put up the tents, was handing her a flower. Tassia laughed happily and gave Reimar a kiss. On the mouth. And she was letting him put his arm round her waist.
“Tassia, would you come over here, please?” he called, slightly louder than intended. “And you, Reimar-get off back to your work, now!”
“At once, Master of the Word.” She pegged up a cotton bodice to dry, put her hand to Reimar’s cheek and sauntered over, carrying her empty washing basket. “What can I do for you?”
“I need your advice.” He invented something on the spot; in reality he wanted her away from Reimar’s attentions. He held out his notes. “What do you think?”
She took the sheets of paper and skimmed what he had written. “Impossible.”
“Impossible?” he repeated, horrified, grabbing back the pages. “But it’s…”
“Impossible to read,” she laughed, sitting herself on his lap. “Your handwriting is appalling. You’ll have to tell me what it’s all about.” She curled a lock of his long dark brown hair playfully round her finger. Then she grinned. “It was only an excuse, wasn’t it?”
“Just to get you in my arms, O thou most enchanting of Girdlegard’s girls,” he said with a false smile indistinguishable from the genuine article unless you had known the man for over ten cycles.
“Not just to drive poor Reimar away?” she needled. “He’s such a sweetie. And so strong. Those muscles…”
“But no brains at all. And the manners of a pig.” Rodario stroked his beard. “And I’m far better-looking. So you see, he can’t compete at all.”
Tassio kissed him on the forehead. “Sometimes, my dear stage-genius, a woman does not need a man with brains and fine manners,” she replied, opening her eyes wide and pretending to look innocent. It told him everything.
He stood up abruptly, so she tumbled to the ground. “So you’re taking your pleasures behind my back?”
“Do as you would be done by, my dear. Same standards for all,” she laughed, lying back in the grass with her hands clasped behind her blond head. “I’ve heard tales about you that would shame a randy rabbit. And I’ve seen those besotted females lining the streets of Mifurdania to flutter their lashes at you.” Tassia closed her eyes and turned her beautiful face toward the sun. “They may be a bit long in the tooth, but they seemed to have no objection to a dalliance with the Fabulous Rodario.”