Goddess Worldweaver

3
The Goblin Ghetto

Darann was used to the stares and insults of the guards, but she couldn’t help bristling when one of them, a gap-toothed dwarf she knew as Blackie, suggested he’d have to subject her to a physical search.

“You lay a hand on me,” the dwarfwoman snapped, “and you’ll be pulling back a bloody stump!”

Blackie hooted in amusement as his cronies, the six guards at the Metal Gate of the ghetto, chuckled appreciatively. “Does that mean you are trying to smuggle a knife in to those cruds?” he asked, his eyes roaming freely down the outline of her tunic where it swelled over her breasts.

She ignored him, pushing past until she stood before the iron door. The black wall rose high above her, soaring nearly a hundred feet into the yawning cavern that was the Underworld. Water trickled through the sewers beside the street, gurgling through rusty grates as it passed into the ghetto, which was located in the lowest, soggiest quarter of the city of Axial. For most of her life this had been merely the quarter of the Seer capital that was home to its most benighted denizens, but for ten years now, since this wall had been erected by the king’s order, it had become a virtual prison.

Her heart pounded, and for a moment she wondered if the guards would call her bluff insisting that she be searched. But apparently she still had some status left in this city; none of the men-at-arms dared to lay a hand upon her. Finally, the metal barrier began to rumble upward, and she could again draw a breath.

A careful breath, she reminded herself, as the stench of the ghetto spilled through the opening and quickly surrounded her with its cloying miasma, a mixture of feces, disease, and death. She quickly stepped through, conscious of the ironic truth that she actually felt safer here, in the brackish hole of the goblins, than she did among the duly appointed guardians of her ancestral home. As usual, there was no one in sight of the opening gate. The goblins had learned through bitter experience that the portal was far more likely to reveal a thuggish band of young Seers looking for a little blood sport than any visitor engaged on a mission of mercy.

Darann advanced, displaying a confidence she did not feel. She felt the eyes of the guards on her back and held her shoulders straight, her chin high. It took all of her will not to hurry as she strode into the lightless street that gave access to the ghetto. As the metal plate rumbled downward behind her, cloaking the narrow street in murky shadow, she finally became aware of movement, scuttling figures creeping forward, wide nostrils gaping, sniffing loudly, confirming her identity.

“It’s the Lady,” one whispered in a gurgling voice that carried far along the darkened byway.

“The Lady!” others repeated, the sound washing like waves through the alleys and tenements of the ghetto.

She felt a gentle touch on her arm, others against her shoulder. One, probably a youngster, brushed light fingers along her knee. When she had first started coming here, these contacts had startled, even frightened her, but now she recognized them for the affectionate greetings they were. It had surprised her to discover that goblins were such tactile people, in many ways more empathetic and caring than her own race.

Her own people. How sad that she couldn’t even consider them, anymore, without the familiar flush of shame rising like a itch from her neck through the full-fleshed roundness of her face. It had been her own people, the Seer dwarves, lords of the First Circle, who had grown so fearful and afraid that they had locked these people away, behind the walls of this stinking ghetto, merely because they were different. Of course, there were good people among the Seers-her own father came immediately to mind-but there were too many who were afraid, who allowed themselves to become trapped in a mire of isolation and paranoia.

“Lady? It is I.” She heard the familiar voice, sensed the flat-footed goblin who had emerged to shuffle at her side as she moved down the narrow street.

“Hiyram? Hello, my friend.” She touched him on the shoulder and felt the shocking frailty of his body; he seemed to be nothing but papery skin draped loosely over ill-fitting bones.

“You are so welcome. But is it safe for you to keep coming here? I beg you, Lady Darann, think of yourself in this. My people are ever used to seeing to their own needs, and I would grieve beyond words if your caring for us was cause to bring you hurt.”

“You are kind to think of me, Hiyram, but there is much I can do to help. And I can’t ignore the guilt, to think that my people-mine and Karkald’s-have brought you to this! Please allow me to atone as best I can.”

“Ah, yes… good Karkald.” As the goblin spoke her husband’s name Darann’s eyes, even after all these years, watered. She saw her grief reflected in the goblin’s wide, shining eyes. “He would be very proud of you.”

“If he was alive, and here, none of this would be happening!” the dwarfwoman said passionately. “He wouldn’t let the king lock you away like this, take away your houses and shops and goods-none of it!”

Hiyram sighed loudly. “It is too bad, tragical bad, that it was the Marshal Nayfal and not the Captain Karkald who escaped the disaster in the Arkan Pass.”

“Nayfal?” Darann bristled. “He’s a coward and a liar. I don’t believe his story for one minute, I never believed him! Karkald wouldn’t turn his back on his men, even if he knew the battle was lost. I know he was there, fighting to the last!”

“Shhh, Lady,” the goblin urged, staring wide-eyed at the listening slits high up on the ghetto wall. “I cannot let you say such things! You know how the times are… what might happen, if you are overheard!”

“Bah!” snorted the dwarfwoman. She turned to look at the slits, where the king’s-and Nayfal’s-spies were certainly paying attention to her visit. Angry words rose to her tongue, but she bit them back, knowing the truth of the goblin’s warnings. Dwarves had disappeared for less insulting remarks than she had contemplated. Her reputation, as one of the two dwarves who had opened passage to Nayve more than four hundred years ago, would not protect her forever.

Not that she had much to lose, herself. Once she had had great cause for living, for hope of a bright future. She and Karkald…

But her husband had been gone for fifty years now, slain along with the entire Army of Axial during a vicious battle with the Delvers at Arkan Pass. Only a few battered foot soldiers and Marshal Nayfal had survived that debacle, bringing the tale of the historic catastrophe back to the city. He had reported that the Delvers were massed in a huge army, greater numbers than the Unmirrored had ever previously mustered. With the bulk of the Seer army annihilated, the knowledge of the teeming enemy lurking in the lightless fringes of the First Circle had become Axial’s overriding reality. Everyone knew they were simply biding their time, waiting for the perfect time to attack.

Since then, the Seer dwarves of this great city had gone into a state of perpetual siege, waiting for the Blind Ones to attack in force. Though that attack had never come, the leaders of her city had seemed to succumb more and more to fear and paranoia. Even the goblins, once welcomed among the dwarves as reliable, if lower-class, workers, had been shunned. Nayfal had reported that a great company of the wretched creatures had abandoned their positions during the great battle, and since nearly every family in the city had lost at least one member in that doomed campaign, public opinion had been harsh and unforgiving.

This situation with the lower race had been exacerbated ten years after Arkan Pass, when a band of goblins had attempted to assassinate King Lightbringer. Only the actions of a heroic palace guard, a veteran sergeant named Cubic Mandrill, had thwarted the plot, though the brave guard had lost his life in the attempt. Lord Nayfal himself had exposed the plot and put the treacherous goblins to death.

Despite the fact that only a few rogue males had been involved in the attempt on his life, the king had ordered all of the wretched creatures then living in Axial into this cramped and unsanitary quarter of the city. Eventually he had ordered the wall built, so that the goblins were confined until such time as the king and his marshal decreed them no longer to be a threat.

In her despair, Darann had to remind herself that there were reasons to take precautions, to remain free. Her father, Rufus Houseguard, depended on her more than ever. And she had two brave brothers, Aurand and Borand, who still served in the Royal Army. They would be heartbroken if anything happened to her. Finally, there were these goblins, many of whom had been loyal soldiers of King Lightbringer until, in the years following Arkan Pass, they become the targets of increasing harassment and suffering.

Her mind turned to practical concerns. She shrugged out of her heavy backpack and quickly undid the flap at the top. “Here… I’ve brought you forty pounds of citrishroom, all I could trade for at the market. And the rest is salt.”

“I hope you know the depths of our gratitude,” Hiyram said quietly. “The citrus alone will keep a hundred of our youngsters alive for another year. And the salt… well, it is more precious than gold or flamestone.”

The goblin lowered his voice. “Have you been to see the king? Is there any word on his condition?”

She shook her head. “Nayfal controls the audience list, and he doesn’t want me in there. He’s even trying to keep my father out, though I know Rufus is still seeking an audience. I will see my father tonight, but I can’t think of any reason to be optimistic about changes happening, not in the near future anyway.”

“I understand.” The goblin’s eyes were downcast.

Darann had one more piece of business. She took the goblin’s arm, and they stepped around a sharp corner, where they were concealed from the observation slits in the outer wall. She reached into her tunic and pulled out a narrow dagger from the sheath she had concealed between her breasts. The keen steel glinted faintly in the dim light. “Here is another one,” she said, as Hiyram took the forbidden weapon without a word, slipping it through his belt so that it vanished into his grimy trousers. “Only, please…”

“I understand,” the goblin whispered. “And you have my pledge; we shall not use these weapons, save only if we need to fight for our very lives.”

“I hope it never comes to that,” she said fervently.

“Aye, Lady,” Hiyram whispered as she started away. His words barely reached her through the darkness. “So do I.”

Karkald wandered away from the company while the Hyac piled the bodies of the slain harpies. The smoke from the fire rose like a pillar of blackness into the sky, and though he intentionally walked upwind from the pyre the air still seemed to reek of bile and char. His stocky legs bore him along the ridge, with the vast yawning gap of Riven Deep beginning a few hundred yards to his right.

Out of old habit, his hands went to various parts of his body, where he had his tools strapped to belts, slings, and harness. “Hammer, chisel, hatchet, file. Knife, pick, rope, spear.”

He sought the calmness those words had once brought him, but it seemed that sense of placidity was gone forever, had been gone since he and his company of dwarves had been magically transported here, to the world of Nayve, following the disastrous battle at Arkan Pass. True, he had managed to keep those survivors, several hundred strong, together here in the Fourth Circle. And they had friends here, good and loyal people such as Natac and Janitha, Belynda and Roland Boatwright.

But how he missed Darann! At times like this, when he had created a new invention-a device that had worked perfectly, bringing more than a thousand harpies to sudden doom-he should have felt some sense of elation. Instead, he only wanted to tell her about it, and it seemed the only pleasure he would ever gain would be if his wife, herself, could again tell him that she was proud of him.

Janitha came up to him as he was sitting on a flat-topped rock, looking without seeing as the Darken shadows thickened along Riven Deep. “Our best count was more than fourteen hundred of them brought down by your net,” she said cheerfully. “It was hard to get an exact count-lots of them got pretty well chopped up or burned before we had the time to count heads.”

Karkald snorted, making the effort to be civil. “That’s something, anyway. With the Delvers and golems stuck on the other side of the Deep, it’s nice to know we have something that might give the harpies pause.”

“Yes… it begins to seem that the decisive battle will not be fought here after all,” the Hyaccan chieftain replied.

“Have you heard anything from Circle at Center?” asked the dwarf.

“The landing of the death ships appears to be imminent,” Janitha said. “One of the faeries brought a missive just now. They are making for shore, to the metalward of Argentian.”

Karkald nodded. “Good beaches there, the smoothest coast on all of Nayve, I should think.” He felt strangely unmoved, though this was the development the whole world had been dreadfully anticipating for so many years. Was it because this was not his world, that he was a stranger here? He knew it was much more than that. With Darann gone from his life, nothing that happened to him on any circle would seem to be terribly important.

She looked at him sharply, and he sensed that she had more to say. He waited, and after a few heartbeats she continued.

“There was word from the last group of miners, too,” she said quietly. “The gnomes and goblins, and some of your dwarves as well, that started their excavation four years ago. They worked their way down for more than three miles, following caves where they could, digging when they had to… trying to find a link to the Underworld.”

“And they were stopped, again, by the barrier of blue magic?” guessed Karkald. “No way through, no way down to the First Circle.”

The elfwoman shook her head. “It’s as you suggested decades ago. There has been a shift in the barrier between our circles, as if the Worldfall has forged an impermeable boundary between the First and Fourth Circles. We are cut off from the Underworld, no closer to getting through than we were before this attempt. The wall of blue magic is found in every place that we try to dig.”

“I’ve been thinking about that some more,” the dwarf said. “The Worldfall might play a role, but there’s more to it than that.”

“What do you mean?” asked Janitha.

“You know some of the story, I’m sure. When we came here fifty years ago, after the battle at Arkan Pass, there was powerful magic at work-and that force field was blue, just like the barrier between the worlds. The magic worked not just to bring my own company of Seers, of course-there were sixty thousand Delvers, the army of the arcane, Zystyl, that were transported at the same time. I think that the same magic is what now forms a barrier between our worlds-why every one of the dozen passages down to the Underworld has been closed off at once. That’s why this last group, like all the rest, never had a chance.”

“Well, they made the effort anyway,” Janitha said. “It was a bold expedition, the best planned, best supplied yet.”

“Did they all make it back?” Karkald asked.

“Two goblins were killed in a cave-in. The rest are back in Nayve. They came up just this side of the Lodespikes, I understand.”

“I hope that we’ve finally learned to accept the truth,” the dwarf said, the bitterness in his voice surprising himself. “We’re cut off from Axial, from my homeland, and there is no point risking lives-costing lives-just to try to restore a link that is lost forever!”

“Don’t sit here and whine about it!” Janitha said sharply. “I know how it feels. Remember, my homeland is the one that is gone forever-torn by the dragon into the depths of Riven Deep. But I have to believe that if there was any chance that Shahkamon still existed, I would not rest until I had found a way to get there! Especially if I had a spouse, one I truly loved, there!”

Karkald spun around to face her, too infuriated to articulate anything beyond an enraged sputter. It was that garbled noise that brought him back to some sense of proportion, with an accompanying flash of guilt.

“You’re right,” he said, hanging his head. “There are others who have suffered worse than I. And I can’t, I won’t give up! Only, by the goddess, I need some new ideas, some glimmer of hope!”

“And you shall have that,” Janitha said gently. “Until then, you have more work in front of you.”

“Work? Yes, that’s what I need,” said the dwarf, standing up, bowing stiffly. “You sound as though you know some specifics.”

“Yes. The request comes from Natac himself. We are to set up a whirlpool so that you can be drawn through the teleport spell. They’ll want you on the beaches, I’m sure, before the death ships land.”

Borand pulled on the rope, two short tugs, and felt the answering yank of Konnor’s reassuring presence. He knew the belay was set, and there was nothing for it now, but to try to inch his way above the yawning gap in the subterranean chimney. He felt that peculiar excitement that only came from life-threatening danger, forced himself to draw a deep breath, and made ready to proceed with the climb.

With a flash of irritation he noticed that his hands were trembling. “Come on, you old graybeard,” he whispered soundlessly, addressing himself in the vast silence of the Midrock. “You’ve done maneuvers like this a hundred times before!”

Though not exactly like this, he was forced to admit. For one thing, he would have to make his way along a wall that leaned out precariously, and gravity would work to pull him off the face. The rock was not exactly seamless, but none of the cracks offered more than a very tenuous grip. Finally, Konnor’s belay was too far away. If Borand fell, he would plunge fifty feet downward and then swing, hard, against the near wall of the chimney before coming to a halt.

The contemplation of these real conditions proved calming, however, and in moments the dwarf was ready to attempt the crossing. He checked his carabiners, made sure that the rope moved smoothly through the metal loops, and reached out for his first handhold. Wedging his fist into the opening, he swung into space, his short climber’s pick ready in his left hand. With a careful strike he thrust the tool into the same gap, farther from the ledge.

His feet came free, and he was hanging, by pick blade and fist, from the ceiling of the First Circle. Borand thought of the great space yawning below, thousands of feet above the ground of his world, the First Circle. His brother, Aurand, the third member of their scouting party, was much lower on the cliff, but even he was high above the ground. Still, to the experienced climber there was no unusual terror in the vast, world-spanning gap. After all, there wasn’t much difference in result when a climber fell more than a mile or merely a hundred feet. He glanced back, reassured by the sight of his rope trailing easily through the piton he had hammered home.

Now he relaxed his fist, feeling the hand drop free of the crack as his body, supported only by the wedged pick, swung forward. On the upswing he extended his long arm, slipped his hand into the continuation of the crack, and once again clenched his fingers. Without pause he freed the pick and swung forward again, through four or five repetitions. Here he halted with one last axe wedge, as the gap began to grow wider.

This was the trickiest part of the move. The bottom of the chimney entrance gaped dark with shadow, ten feet across, just beyond his line of sight. He allowed himself to hope: this could be the place, the route up to the Fourth Circle! With renewed fervor he lifted himself up with the sheer strength of his arms, kicking one leg into the widening crack. Wrenching his knee so that it held his full weight, he extended his other foot, turning his stiff-soled boot sideways. In one smooth drop he was hanging upside down, supported only by that foot. An instant later he had completed the flip, reaching up with pick and fingers, pushing apart and lifting upward until his head entered the crack and both shoulders wedged into the tight rock walls.

He got one, short glimpse: a heartbreak; the chimney narrowed and then ended in flat stone just a short distance above. Then the rock moved, very slowly. He heard a grumbling, distant kind of noise and felt the unmistakable pinch as the great slabs to either side of him began to grind slowly together. His shoulders tensed and he twisted as he felt the pressure continue.

To stay was to die, crushed like a bug between massive rocks, so he slipped downward, trying to support himself with just his hands. But the gap continued to narrow, so he had no choice but to let go, falling free into space with a sickening sense of weightlessness. Borand shouted an inarticulate word to warn his companion of the fall, then tried to brace himself for the shock of the rope’s pull.

Konnor was an experienced climber, and his belay was strong and quick, tightening as the falling dwarf plunged past. Borand felt the line clamp around him, a gut-crushing force, and then he swung like a pendulum, hurtling toward the sheer rock wall. He twisted, trying to get his feet up, but there wasn’t time. The rock seemed to lunge at him, striking a glancing blow against the side of his foot, then bashing his knee.

Borand grunted, clamping his jaws over the scream of agony that strained for release. His vision was shrouded by a film of raw pain, yet even through that filter he saw that the edge of the world cracked and strained under the force of monstrous pressure.

He gasped, sobbing uncontrollably, as the whole cliff face across from him-the very wall of the First Circle-crumbled and fell away. The rope girdle cinched tighter across his belly, restricting his breathing, choking him until, mercifully, the world went black.

The great stone house sprawled above a tiny bay, a rocky niche in the shore of the Undersea on Axial’s wood coast. Two great watch beacons, bright with eternal coolfyre, blazed from the promontories at either side of the bay’s mouth, lighting the placid waters with white reflection, casting a gentle wash of light across the columned portico, the balconies leaning outward from each of the manor’s three broad wings.

Darann had always found this view soothing, and even now, when her heart was still heavy with the reality of the goblin suffering, she felt a lightness in her step, a girlish sense of anticipation as she climbed the smooth path toward the great front door.

That portal was open, and Rufus Houseguard stood there, outlined by the spill of brightness from within. He threw out his long arms as his daughter came closer, and Darann relished the strength of his hug, the familiar musk as she buried her face in his long, soft whiskers.

“I’m glad you could come,” he said. “It gives me an excuse to get out the nice dishes, to have something beside dried shroom for dinner.”

She patted his gut, bulging slightly as ever, and laughed as she passed him into the entry hall. “You don’t seem like you’re in any danger of starving.”

His expression grew grave as he followed and carefully shut the door. “Not from lack of food, in any event,” he said guardedly.

Darann understood; any more pointed discussion would have to wait until later.

“I picked up a bottle of Toad’s Head Malt,” she said, producing a flask of the dark brew from her pouch. “Bermie was just rolling a fresh keg into the market square as I started on my way out here. This is the first gallon he drew.”

“Ahh, now that looks to be a treat,” exclaimed Rufus, taking the bottle, holding it up to the full brightness of the coolfyre chandelier. Brown bubbles meandered through the syrupy fluid, and a foam of chocolate-colored lather formed at the top. “I think I have a main course worthy of this: grilled blackfish, taken with my own spear from the bay not three hours ago. Are you hungry?”

“I can’t wait.”

As usual, Rufus took great pride in laying the table and presenting the dishes. Since his wife had died, some thirty years earlier, he had become something of a gourmand. In addition to the serenity she felt in his company, Darann was always delighted by his culinary accomplishments, and tonight proved to be no exception.

“The spiderweb fungus came from my own mold house,” he proclaimed as she sampled the flaky filet on its bed of netlike mushroom strands. “I bought the citrishroom, of course. It came from the warrens on the Basalt Islands. Tart, don’t you think?”

“Unbelievable!” the dwarfwoman agreed, speaking around a savory mouthful before reaching for her brimming flagon. The mead was the perfect complement to the delicate food, for the drink was thick and sweet and potent enough to put a nice burn into her belly.

“Any word from my brothers?” Darann asked, as they meandered through dessert: a sweet roll made from moon wheat and caveberries, two crops that had been cultivated to grow under the illumination of coolfyre.

“Yes,” Rufus said, “I had a letter two cycles ago. It seems they’ve found another niche in the Midrock, a tiny gap on the edge of Null.” He frowned. “Don’t like to think about them runnin’ around in that lightless void,” he admitted. “Wherever the Delvers are collecting themselves, that seems to be a likely place.”

“At least they have Konnor to look after them,” Darann said, trying to mask her own alarm. “And who knows-maybe they’ll find the opening, the route that will lead us back to Nayve!”

“I still think our best hope lies with the Worldlift,” Rufus said. “I was talking to Donnwell Earnwise, last week-you know, the engineer who’s in charge of the project.”

“Of course I know, father. I’ve only called him Uncle Donnwell since I was a little girl!”

“Er, yes,” Rufus said, reddening. He huffed. “Guess I’m not as sharp as I used to be, and that’s the truth. But that’s beside the point. Donnwell said that his rocket experiments have been remarkably successful. He thinks that’s the way to break through the barrier, to reach Nayve again.”

“If he finds someone foolish enough to ride a rocket!” Darann said scornfully. “If I ever get back to Nayve, it’ll be the old-fashioned way, step by step!”

“Well, that worked for you four hundred years ago… and for your brothers, when they went to see what trouble you’d got yourself into. But this is a new and modern age, girl, and things like rocket lifts are going to be a part of it.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she said, growing serious. “As for me, I don’t know…”

Her father looked at her, his expression morose, and she was unable to maintain the hopeful facade. “I know,” she said quietly. “I’ve admitted it: the Worldfall closed us off for good. I don’t think any dwarf will ever go back there.”

“Makes it all the more important that we manage our own affairs. Come, humor me while I smoke a cheroot. I’ll show you my fountain-I’ve installed a few new valves, and a flute that plays a tune when the water flows across it.”

She followed him onto the wide portico overlooking the bay. Rufus pulled a lever down, activating the water flowing from an uphill tank, then fiddled with an array of circular valves. Soon Darann heard the trilling of water, and moments later a curtain of white spray erupted from several nozzles flush with the paving stones. A circular bowl rose from the middle of the ring of spray, catching the spumes, then channeling the water through an intricate series of chutes. As it splashed downward, a simple tune emerged, deep musical notes that sighed through a mournful, minor key.

“It’s ingenious,” Darann declared in wonder. “That’s the ‘Dirge for Cubic Mandrill,’ isn’t it?”

Rufus nodded. “It’s one of my favorites. And what a story: a hero who died protecting his liege, serving in good faith. But it has come to my attention that there might be more to the story.”

“What do you mean?” Darann asked, very curious.

His eyes were narrowed as he looked around, casually inspecting the balconies of the house, the slopes of the surrounding hillside. Instead of answering, he asked a question of his own, somehow mouthing the question without visibly moving his lips.

“Did you see Hiyram?”

“Yes,” Darann replied in the same discreet fashion. “I gave him another knife and some provisions. I think his people will be patient for a little longer. I don’t know how long it will be before they revolt. But tell me: what makes you think that there might be more to the story?”

“There is a dwarfwoman in the city who knows much of that assassination. She has written me a letter and makes some intriguing speculation. There will come a time, my daughter, when I shall tell you about it.”

“But not now?” pressed the dwarfmaid, knowing that her stubborn father had made up his mind.

“I have to see the king,” Rufus said, glowering in spite of himself. “A few minutes, a real conversation-that’s all it would take for him to see the wrong he is perpetrating, or that is being perpetrated in his name!”

“I wish I shared your optimism,” the daughter answered. “But I cannot believe he doesn’t know exactly what is going on in the ghetto. The guards-there were six of them at the Metal Gate today! He’s getting ready to put down a rebellion.”

“A bad sign,” Rufus agreed. “But we can’t know they were sent there under King Lightbringer’s orders. You know that Nayfal has complete command of the garrison.”

“Nayfal!” Darann all but spat the name. She drew a breath, conscious that her emotions might be visible on her face. And there was no way to know who was watching the house, lurking in the darkness beyond the beacons. At least she consoled herself that the fountain’s noise made it impossible for them to be overheard.

“Have faith, daughter,” Rufus said gently. “I have some indication that I might be invited to the throne room, perhaps within the next ten cycles. We have survived travails before. You should know that this, too, shall pass.”

Later, as she walked backed to her apartment in one of the city’s Six Towers, she reflected on her father’s words. Try as she might, she found his sentiment impossible to believe.