“It sounds easy enough,” admitted Rega. Hooking a wineskin with her hand, she tilted the liquid into her mouth, then shoved it across to her brother.
“Here’s to wedded bliss, my beloved ‘Husband.’ ”
“Here’s to infidelity, my dear ‘Wife.’ ”
The two, laughing, drank.
Drugar left the Jungleflower Tavern but the dwarf did not immediately leave Griffith. Slipping into the shadows cast by a gigantic tentpalm plant, he waited and watched until the man and the woman came outside. Drugar would have liked very much to follow them, but he knew his own limitations. The clumsy-footed dwarves are not made for stealthy sneaking. And, in the human city of Griffith, he couldn’t simply lose himself in a crowd.
He contented himself with eyeing the two carefully as they walked away. Drugar didn’t trust them, but he wouldn’t have trusted Saint Thillia had she appeared before him. He hated having to depend on a middle man and would much rather have dealt with the elves directly. That was impossible, however. The current Lords of Thillia had made an agreement with the Quindiniars that they would not seil their magical, intelligent weapons to the dwarves or the barbaric SeaKings. In return, the Thillians agreed to purchase a guaranteed number of weapons per season.
Such an arrangement suited the elves. And if elven weapons found their way into the hands of SeaKings and dwarves, it certainly wasn’t the fault of the Quindiniars. After all, as Calandra was wont to state testily, how could she be expected to tell a human raztar runner from a legitimate representative of the Lords, of Thillia? All humans looked alike to her. And so did their money. Just before Roland and Rega vanished from Drugar’s sight, the dwarf lifted a black rune-carved stone that hung from a leather thong around his neck. The stone was smooth and rounded, worn down from loving handling, and it was old—older than Drugar’s father, who was one of the oldest living inhabitants on Pryan.
Lifting the stone, Drugar held it up in the air so that, from his viewpoint, the stone appeared to cover Roland and Rega. The dwarf moved the rock in a pattern, muttered words accompanied the tracing of the sigil that copied the rune carved into the stone. When he was finished, he slipped the stone reverently back into the folds of his clothing and spoke aloud to the two, who were Founding a corner and would soon be lost to the dwarf’s sight.
“I did not sing the rune for you because I have a liking for you—either of you. I put the charm of protection on you so that I may be certain of getting the weapons my people need. When the deal is done, I will break the rune. And Drakar take you both.” Spitting on the ground, Drugar plunged into the jungle, tearing and hacking a path through the thick undergrowth.
4
Calandra Quindiniar had no misconceptions concerning the nature of the two humans with whom she was dealing. She guessed they were smugglers but that was no concern of hers. It was impossible for Calandra to consider any human capable of running a fair and honest business. As far as she was concerned, humans were all smugglers, crooks, and thieves.
It was with some amusement therefore—as much amusement as she ever allowed herself—that Calandra watched Aleatha leave her father’s house and walk across the moss yard toward the carriage. Her sister’s delicate dress was lifted by the winds rustling among the treetops and billowed around her in airy green waves. Elven fashion at the moment dictated long, cinched-in waists; stiff, high collars; straight skirts. The fashion did not suit Aleatha and, therefore, she ignored fashion. Her dress was cut low to show off her splendid shoulders, the bodice softly gathered to cup and highlight beautiful breasts. Falling in soft folds, the layers of filmy fabric enveloped her like a primrose-stitched cloud, accentuating her graceful movements. The fashion had been popular in her mother’s time. Any other woman—like myself, thought Calandra grimly—wearing that dress would have appeared dowdy and out of current style. Aleatha made current style appear dowdy. She had arrived at the carriage house. Her back was turned toward Calandra, but the older sister knew what was going on.
Aleatha would be smiling at the human slave who was handing her into the carriage.
Aleatha’s smile was perfectly ladylike—eyes cast down as was proper, her face almost hidden by her wide-brimmed, rose-trimmed hat-Her sister could never fault her. But Calandra, watching from the upstairs window, was familiar with Aleatha’s tricks. Her eyelids might be lowered, but the purple eyes weren’t and flashed beneath the long black lashes. The full lips would be parted slightly, the tongue moving slowly against the upper lip to keep it continually moist. The human slave was tall and well muscled from hard labor. His chest was bare in the midcycle heat. He was clad in the tight-fitting leather pants humans favored. Calandra saw his smile flash in return, saw him take an inordinate amount of time helping her sister into the carriage, saw her sister manage to brush against the man’s body as she stepped inside. Aleatha’s gloved hand even lingered for a moment on the slave’s! Then she had the brazen nerve to lean slightly out of the carriage, her hat brim uptilted, and wave at Calandra!
The slave, following Aleatha’s gaze, suddenly remembered his duty and hastened to take up his position. The carriage was made of the leaves of the benthan tree, woven to form a round basket open at the front end. The top of the basket was held in the grip of several drivehands attached to a strong rope running from Aleatha’s father’s house down into the jungle. Prodded from their drowsy, constant lethargy, the drivehands crawled up the rope, pulling the carriage to the house. Allowed to drift back into slumber, the drivehands would slide down the rope, bringing the carriage to a junction, where Aleatha would transfer to another carriage whose drivehands would cany her to her destination.
The slave, pushing the carriage, started it on its way and Calandra watched her sister—green skirts fluttering in the wind—swoop down into the lush jungle vegetation.
Calandra smiled disdainfully at the slave, who was lounging at his post, gazing admiringly after the carriage. What fools these humans are. They don’t even know when they’re being teased. Aleatha was wild, but at least her dalliances were with men of her own kind. She flirted with humans because it was enjoyable to watch their brutish reactions. Aleatha, like her older sister, would sooner let the family dog kiss her as she would a human. Paithan was another story. Settling down to her work, Calandra decided she would send the scullery maid to work in the boltarch shop. Leaning back in the carriage, enjoying the cool wind blowing against her face as she descended rapidly through the trees, Aleatha foresaw regaling a certain person at Lord Durndrun’s with her tale of arousing the human slave’s passion. Of course, her story would be told from a slightly different angle.
“I swear to you. My Lord, that his great hand closed over mine until I thought he would crush it, and then the beast had the nerve to press his sweat-covered body up against me!”
“Dreadful!” Lord Someone would say, his pale elven face flushed with indignation … or was it with the thought of bodies pressing together. He would lean nearer. “What did you do?”
“I ignored him, of course. That’s the best way to handle the brutes, besides the lash, that is. But, of course, I couldn’t beat him, could I?”
“No, but I could!” the lord would cry gallantly. “Oh, Thea, you know you tease the slaves to distraction.” Aleatha gave a slight start. Where had that disturbing voice come from? An imagined Paithan … invading her reverie. Catching hold of her hat that was about to be whisked off her head by the breeze, Aleatha made a mental note to make certain her brother was off playing the fool somewhere else before she began relating her enticing little story. Paithan was a good fellow and wouldn’t deliberately ruin his sister’s fun, but he was simply too guileless to live-The carriage reached the end of its rope, arriving at the junction. Another human slave—an ugly one, Aleatha didn’t bother with him—handed her out.