The Lioness

Chapter Eighteen

“Ah, now y’know there’s all kinds of curses,” said the dwarf. “Man’s a fool who doesn’t reckon that.”

Kerian fell out of the whirlwind to find herself on her knees, the echo of magic’s bellowing still in her ears, her body feeling as though it had been hurled right across the Kharolis Mountains.

Kerian didn’t see the speaker, down on the floor of what she knew to be a tavern by the smells of ale, dwarf spirits, and roasting meat, of sweat, smoke, and fire. She was, though, relieved to realize that the dwarf was using his native tongue, the rough-hewn language of Thorbardin.

All right, she thought, that’s a good sign.

She tried to stand and failed.

The dwarf who spoke of curses continued to speak. His fellows continued to listen, eight or more dwarfs bellied up to the bar. Other than those drinkers, the tavern was empty. It had the feel of a place just opened, the regulars perhaps having been waiting at the door, the rest of the night’s custom coming later.

“There’s big curses and minor ones,” said the dwarven expert, “the curse of your mother-in-law and the curse of an unchancy god.”

“No telling which of those is worse,” said an old dwarf at the end of the bar. His fellows laughed, and one said he reckoned he knew.

Kerian’s belly felt loose and dangerous, as though she might heave up the last fine meal she’d eaten, the pastries, wines, and thinly sliced fruit, the braised duck, the… She dared not think on that now. She tried to breathe slowly through her mouth and tasted the tang of metal, steel and slag. The odor of sweat drying on skin and wool stung her nose. Quietly, she groaned and wished she hadn’t, yet no one seemed to notice her there on the floor.

Where in the name of all lost gods am I? She glanced right, she glanced left, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a doorway into a brighter place where people—dwarves—walked by, some alone, others in pairs or groups. Their voices washed in through the door and washed out again as they passed by.

“Eh, there’s all kinds of curses,” the dwarf said, now with the air of one who had just done with his subject.

Kerian tried to stand again and failed again. Ah, gods, her head hurt!

The dwarfs listeners at the bar variously laughed, grumbled, or questioned, and one youngster opined that he supposed this was how the tavern got its name. “Because it’s cursed.”

“Nay,” said another, his voice tight with impatience. Kerian winced at the thud of something hitting wood, like a filled pitcher being set down heavily. “The tavern isn’t cursed. Can y’not read, lad? Or did they shoo you right off to shovel coal for the forges thinking you didn’t have the wit and a half needed for the skill and wouldn’t want it there anyway?”

The youngster closed his mouth, and Kerian drew a surprised breath. She knew the voice! She knew the speaker. She put one hand to the rush-covered floor and pushed herself to her feet, head still throbbing. A dwarf at the bar turned. He was not a handsome fellow. Illness had pocked the skin of his face, and his beard hung thinly from a slight chin and jaw. His eyes, set in pouches of flesh, went wide at the sight of an elf in the bar.

“By Reorx’s beard,” he said, “what’s an elf doing here?”

Nine dwarves turned from the bar. The youngster who’d mistaken the name of the tavern closed his fingers round the grip of the knife at his belt. “Ain’t no one lettin’ elves or anyone else in at the gates that I know about.”

Muttering ran around the bar.

Very carefully, Kerian said, “I’m looking for Stanach Hammerfell.”

No one seemed appeased; no one liked the idea of a sudden elf. One dwarf then another stood, and the youngster said, “Someone call the watch. No one knows how she got in here.” An inch of gleaming steel showed in the sheath at his belt, then a swiftness of blade.

Before Kerian could draw her own knife, a hard hand flashed out, a dwarf lurched over the bar and jerked the youngster so hard by the back of his shirt that he pulled him nearly off his feet.

“Idiot,” Stanach said. His blue-flecked black eyes glinted dangerously. “Do you know I saw that girl kill a Dark Knight with that selfsame little knife of hers?”

The young dwarfs face lost some color.

“Nay, y’could not know that, I suppose, but this you do know, idiot Kern: Y’don’t try to kill the customers in my bar, boy. It’s a house rule I get tired of explaining to you.” Growling, he roughed the boy, shaking him hard and shoving him away.

The curious stared at Kerian. They glanced at Stanach from the corners of their eyes, waiting to see what he’d do.

Most of them, though, were clearly waiting for the tale of the Dark Knight’s death, for they did love tales, dwarves.

Stanach, however, was pleased to say nothing. He leaned his forearms on the bar, prepared to serve her silence until she spoke.

Kerian cocked her head. “You don’t seem pleased to see me, sir.”

Sir. The word murmured round the room. Sir, indeed!

“I wasn’t expecting you, missy.”

“What, then, Stanach? Are unexpected visits another prohibition in this bar of yours?”

Sly smiles replaced murmuring. Head throbbing, Kerian wavered again, and a strong hand slipped under her elbow. The gesture seemed to thaw Stanach who waved her to the bar and pointed to a stool.

“Sit. Y’look a bit wan.”

She nodded and accepted a tall mug of water. The others crowded close, and even Kern sidled up to see what could be seen. Stanach waved them off and would hear none of their grumbling.

“Go shout into the kitchen,” he said to Kern. “Tell whoever’s cooking in there to bring out food. Y’ve all done enough drinking on empty bellies for now. I’m not going to be hearing from the guard about the rowdies coming out of here again tonight.”

Kern did as he was bid, and when the hangers on at the bar migrated to tables in anticipation of food, Kerian found herself suddenly alone with the dwarf who had, a long time ago, given her a weapon and put her foot on an unexpected path. The last time she had seen Stanach Hammerfell, he’d been in company with two elves of the Queen Mother’s household. This dwarf, this Stanach Hammerfell who drank with elves in Laurana’s service, once claimed to be a trader and now seemed to be a barman—what was he? On the face of it, since she’d last seen him in company with Laurana’s own people, she would imagine him a friend.

Kerian dared not take that for granted.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Stanach said. He took up a rag and wiped rings and spills from the polished wood of the bar, glossy golden oak. For this, his right hand had a use. The crooked fingers grasped a bar rag well enough.

“Never thought I’d see you again either,” Kerian said. She took a drink of water, her stomach settling, her head still aching. “I thought you were a trader. Have you found a new line of work now, Stanach? Keeper of a cursed bar?”

His mouth moved in a smile almost bitter. “I’m a man of many parts, girl.” He looked round the bar, at the patrons obviously his friends, at the rough paneled walls, the rushes thickly strewn on the floor. Spitoons gleamed, the brass polished brightly; on the walls torches flared in bronze cressets. “It’s a common misconception that the bar is cursed. It isn’t. The name of it is Stanach’s Curse. Different thing.”

“A different thing,” she said, agreeing. “The bar’s not cursed, you are.”

“Well, we’re not going to be all night talking about it.” His eyes grew hard, and when he leaned across the bar the hair rose prickling on the back of Kerian’s neck. “Now, tell me, missy, what are y’doing here?”

“Well, I—”

He lifted a finger, as though to a child. “Don’t be shaping lies now. We like order here in Thorbardin, and there is a guard comes by here regularly. It wouldn’t take but a shout to call them down.” Again the smile but this time very cold. “Everyone in this place had his back to the door a little bit ago. Everyone but me. I saw you come in.”

Her head pounded, and her hands shook. She wondered if she had failed in her mission not an hour into it. Kerian reached for the mug of water, but the dwarfs left hand closed over hers before she could lift it.

“Nay,” he said, “you’ll just spill it. Take a good breath, Mistress Kerianseray. Tell me your story.” When she hesitated he said, “Or tell it to the guard on the way to the dungeons. I don’t think you’ll like the dungeons of Thorbardin. We tend to forget about the people down there, and when we do remember, it’s not always in time.”

Kerian gauged the threat, and she gauged the dwarf. She reckoned back along the months and seasons, back along events to the time she first saw him. She believed she knew who he was, this trader, this barman, and she slipped the emerald talisman from her shirt, the unfurling leaf he might well have seen Nayla or Haugh wear.

He had. She saw that in the sudden glint of his eyes, the way his head lifted.

“Tell me now, what are you doing here?”

Kerian’s voice dropped low, soft for only the two of them to hear. “My king has sent me.”

Stanach raised an eyebrow, then lifted the water jug in silent question. This, or better? When she nodded to her mug, he filled it again.

“I’m here to see your king.” She slid him a sideways glance. “I’m hoping his ambassador will help me to an audience.”

“I’m not his ambassador, girl.” He shook his head. “I’m not anyone’s anything. I did my thane a favor, that one who sits on the Council. I was in the Outland, a long time ago when your king’s mother commanded dragonarmies.” His eyes softened with remembered pain, the fingers of his ruined hand twitched on the bar rag. “Ah, a while ago. I know the ways of Outlanders, some. The thane, he said our king needed a man like that to go out to Qualinost to speak with the elves. No more than that, and I’m glad to be done with it.” He wiped the bar, pushing the rag around with his useless hand. Softly he said, “It’s no good thing to be gone from here. It’s no good thing to leave.”

The tavern rang with the clattering of plates and cutlery, the voices of hungry dwarves, those who’d been at the bar, new customers coming in. Kerian leaned across the bar.

“Will you take me to the king, to Tarn Bellowgranite?”

“D’ye think I can just go knocking on his door, girl? Do you think—”

“I think you are a man who can do pretty much whatever needs doing. Can you do this, Stanach Hammerfell?”

After a moment more of bar wiping, the dwarf said he supposed he could.

Kerian waited, uncertain whether to go into the council chamber or to wait for an escort. Stanach was gone, slipped away through the gardens outside the great shining brass doors to the chamber. Those doors stood ajar now, not swung wide but not tight shut. From within came the rumble of deep dwarven voices. They sounded like distant thunder, a storm roaming a far mountaintop. Then, sharply, one rose in striking challenge. The thanes of the clans didn’t seem minded to let their deliberations end easily. From her stance outside the door, she saw only a great cavernous hall beyond and had a sense of high ceilings and wide walls. Lights gleamed redly, in silver cressets torches flared, and tripod braziers stood at regular intervals. By their reaching light, Kerian saw thick marble columns marching upon each side of the hall, creating a broad aisle of bright marble leading to a dais.

Behind her, the city shone, a brightness of light. Thorbardin had sustained great damage during the wrenching civil war, but in this part of the city, high in the magnificent Life Tree of the Hylar, all seemed rebuilt and wondrous. Light poured in from the distant outer world, sliding into the city upon shafts of crystal. The gardens outside the Court of Thanes grew as richly as though they lay in an elven glade, but here, Kerian saw, gardens had only the seasons their gardeners wished them to have, for here light, temperature, and water were strictly under dwarven control. The crocus of winter grew happily beside the red rose of summer, and spring’s yellow jonquil nodded at the foot of a tall wisteria.

Kerian found it strangely unsettling, this confusion of seasons. She couldn’t imagine how they marked the passing of time beneath the mountain where the moon didn’t shine and the sun didn’t rise.

As she watched, the people of the vast underground city went forth and back, men, women, and scampering children about the business of their day. One child stopped, tugging at her mother’s skirts and pointing.

“Mam!” she cried, brown eyes wide above plump ruddy cheeks. “Look at that, look! An elf at the door!”

The dwarf woman hastily shushed the child. She turned her quickly away but not before others passing by noted and murmured at the sight. An elf at the door to the Court of Thanes!

“No good coming of that,” an elderly man muttered.

“Nothing but trouble, them elves,” the gray dame beside him sniffed. “Look at her, dressed like a robber, all dusty and rough. Coming around looking for something. They always are, them elves.”

Feeling like a beggar at the gate and keen enough to be amused by that, Kerian slipped inside the gleaming brass doors. Stepping into safer shadow, wryly she thought, now that’s better. Thorbardin’s day can progress undisturbed by the sight of me.

With those few steps, Kerian had walked from one world to another. Outside the doors, the world of dwarven life went on as it would in any city. Inside the doors, veiled in their shadows and separate from the murmuring thanes who did not see her, Kerian felt a seeping of homesickness for Qualinost. She once had a place there. She had been a servant in a senator’s house, a laughing girl with time for the taverns, songs, and dancing. The song of the city beyond the doors was like a sigh from that past time, and suddenly she was lonely. They loved their city, the dwarves of Thorbardin. They loved it as the sustainer, the giver of air, of water, of food. They loved it as an elf loves her forest.

Quiet in shadow, straining to hear what she might catch, what drift of deliberation she could, Kerian stood very still. The dwarves argued as though they had been at it all night, some thanes speaking strongly against the elf king’s proposal, others advising caution.

“Which doesn’t mean shouting no, Dorrin,” said a dwarf with an accent out of the south of the kingdom. “It just means you listen and think.” Someone else laughed, a rich rolling sound, and the rumbling of discussion resumed.

They are divided, Kerian thought. They were divided into three camps: those who would not consider even the least part of Gil’s request, those who thought they would be fools to ignore it, and those who wanted more time to listen and think. At the moment, as she counted, there were more in the last camp than in the other two. This, she thought, boded well—or at least, not ill.

From her concealment, she looked around the council chamber in the Court of Thanes. She stood beneath a high ceiling of marble, surrounded by walls of marble, her feet upon a cold marble floor. The place was a wonder of stonecraft, and the marble itself flowed like a tapestry, rose-veined, and gray-streaked, black upon the floor, snowy white stairs marching up to the dais where sat the high seats of all the thanes and the throne of the High King.

Into this hall over time had come men and women of all races, elves, dwarves, and humans, in friendship and in war, as supplicants and dispensers of favors. Kerian’s heart thrilled. During the War of the Lance, Gil’s own father, storied Tanis Half-Elven himself had come here in company with the Plainswoman Goldmoon who had carried for Krynn the blessing of a goddess, holy Mishakal. Looking like beggars, Tanis and Goldmoon had stood as heroes and pricked the conscience of a dwarven council whose dearest wish was to close the gates of Thorbardin and let all the world die of dragons if that’s what would be.

A Hylar thane had ruled in those days, not a king but a steward, faithful and waiting for a sign that a king would return to the dwarves. Kerian remember the history of her lover’s family, and she wondered whether the surly Hylar dwarf at the Hare and Hound, he who now presided over a bar in Stanach’s Curse, had known that troubled steward.

She listened, breathing quietly, reckoning how the currents of contention shifted among the thanes.

Thorbardin. All of it smelled like a temple long deserted, the sight of faded glory like the last ghostly whiff of ancient incense. Everywhere her eye glanced, she saw the scars of a war not yet forgotten.

Behind her, a voice rough as gravel said, “Now, how was it our good old King Duncan put it? Ah yes: Let the stone remember, and may all our deliberations in this place be nourished.”

Kerian turned, startled. Her hand dropped to the knife at her belt then fell when she saw the glint of amusement in the eyes of the dwarf who’d stolen up behind her. Beard and hair were iron gray, but his eyes shone with a youthful light. He was not so old as he seemed. Older, she thought, than the count of his years.

“Pretty little knife y’got there, young woman. Dwarf-made, is it?”

She nodded, her eyes surveying the way behind him. Old habit, outlaw’s habit. “A gift at the very moment I needed it. I’ve had better since, but none I like so well.”

The dwarf considered the “better” and let it go. “You hear people say that about a weapon they trust, one that weighs nicely in the hand.” A shrewd light shone in his eyes. “Maybe one they made a good kill with, eh?” He nodded past her, into the council chamber. “You won’t need your knife in there, lass. Not everyone’s going to agree with you, and you might not get what you want or need, but no one in there is looking to kill you, Mistress Kerianseray.”

Kerian balanced between an intuitive liking for this dwarf and a strong instinct warning her to be careful. Speaking with cool courtesy, she murmured, “You know my name, sir. You have the advantage of me.”

The dwarf nodded, genially agreeing. “Not for long, lass. I’m Tarn Bellowgranite, and I’ve heard you’re looking for me.”

Taken aback, Kerian, a creature of courts before ever she was an outlaw of the forest, bowed at once. “Your Majesty—”

He snorted. “Whose majesty? Never mind that. You’re speaking for your king, so speak as your king. Him and me, we’ve not yet laid eye on each other, but I know the tale of Gilthas the son of Tanis Half-Elven. I know the tale of him and the tale of his kin. Your King Gilthas has had a judgment on him, eh? Since the day he lifted himself onto his dead uncle’s throne he’s been weighed and found wanting in the eyes of people who don’t know what gets sacrificed so they can stand around in tavern and hall making grand opinions.”

His eyes darkened and Kerian thought this king knew about sacrifice and the subtleties of what must be forsaken so others might live.

“Nay, speak proudly for your king, Mistress Kerianseray. In the best of all ways of being, that should be enough. As it is, you can do that and still hope all will be well.”

Kerian’s liking for this dwarf grew. She bowed again. “I will, sir, and I thank you for the grace.”

Tarn laughed, a great booming roar. “Aye, rough looking as you are, your hair all running down your back, booted, belted, and bristling with knives—rough as that, nothin’s scraped the elf out of you yet, eh?” He chuckled. “Well, well. I think those deliberants in there have been warming the air long enough, don’t you? Let’s see what ideas they’ve nourished in our old King Duncan’s hall.”

Honoring the tradition of hospitality, the High King of the Eight Clans of Thorbardin ushered the ambassador from the Court of the Speaker of the Sun the rest of the way into the hall.

This he did by putting his hand at the small of her back, giving her a none-too-gentle push as he said, “Get in there now, lass. Get it said, and let’s get it moving, onward or done.”