"I have other work."
Tyresian straightened. "Then put it aside. Do this assignment."
Flint handed the short sword back to the elf lord. "Perhaps you can find another metalsmith to fix this."
"But…"
The arrival of Eld Ailea and Tanis interrupted Lord Tyresian's remark. The old midwife was dressed in exuberant colors, as usual-striped yellow and blue overblouse, red gathered skirt, and red slippers, all embroidered with pale yellow daisies. Next to her, Tanis looked practically colorless in tan shirt and leggings. Between them-a situation made lopsided by the great height disparity between the midwife and the half-elf-they lugged a huge woven basket filled to the top with ears of corn. In his spare hand Tanis carried a small plate with an overturned bowl on top. They paused on the doorstep and, squinting in the bright midday light, peered into the gloom of the dwarf's shop.
"Lunch, Flint!" Ailea sang, her round eyes large in her triangular face. "Just-picked sweet corn!"
"With fresh butter," Tanis added, holding out the crockery.
Then Lord Tyresian moved into the rectangle of light near the door, and their faces fell.
"Well, look at this," the elf lord said laconically, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at both of them. "Two murderers keeping time together. Comparing notes, perhaps? The virtues of shooting an arrow into Lord Xenoth's chest versus, say, letting my mother die in childbirth? Oh, but I forgot, Tanis. Ailea allowed your mother to die as well, didn't she?"
Eld Ailea went white under her tan; her hand went to her mouth, stifling a small cry. Moving menacingly toward Tyresian, Tanis dropped his hold on the basket, and two ears rolled off the pile and bounced into the flowers outside Flint's door.
Then suddenly, Flint was between them, his back against Tanis, shoving him back out into the sunshine, and one hand against Tyresian's chest. The dwarf's voice was frightening in its quietness.
"Leave, elf," he said to Lord Tyresian, spitting out each word, "or I will show you what an experienced fighter can do."
"You…!" blustered Tyresian.
"I have fought in battle against ogres. You, despite your airs, have no military experience. It is easy to threaten an elderly woman and an elven youth who doesn't dare rock the boat in Qualinost right now by challenging you. Would you care, instead, to take me on?"
Tyresian glared down at the dwarf and seemed to notice, for the first time, the worn battle-axe that had materialized in Flint's right hand. The handle was scarred and dented, but the runes of power on the flat of the blade glinted in the sunlight and the blade edge gleamed sharp enough to cleave the hardest armor.
The elf lord relaxed his stance.
Flint, however, continued speaking. "Never forget, Lord Tyresian, that you were the one who suggested that the hunters cross the ravine and leave Xenoth-and me, as I recall-on the other side."
Tyresian started to object, but Flint tightened his hold on the elf lord's arm. "You were the one who left three people alone against a monster powerful enough to destroy them in short shrift," he said, his voice barely above a whisper but commanding in its intensity. "As far as I'm concerned, you are more responsible than anyone for the death of the Speaker's adviser." In an aside, he added, "Certainly more to blame than the half-elf who acted to save his life-all our lives."
As if the small shop weren't crowded enough, Miral chose that moment to appear on the path to the dwarf's dwelling. But the four involved in the drama on the doorstep didn't see the heavily hooded mage immediately. He drew to one side of the tiled path and waited.
"Now, leave, Lord Tyresian," Flint ordered. "And don't forget: Although I've never told the Speaker my own theory of who is really responsible for Xenoth's death, there's nothing stopping me from enlightening him. I've always suspected that you glossed over that part in your 'report' to him after Tanis killed the tylor."
With an effort, Tyresian shoved Tanis aside and then brushed past Miral, leaving the trio staring after the blond elf lord. Finally, as a group, the three friends became aware of Miral and ushered him inside the dwelling.
Knowing how weak Miral's eyes were, Flint closed the door behind the mage and set about fastening the shutters in the window at the front of the shop. Meanwhile, Eld Ailea built a fire and set a cauldron of water over it while Tanis stripped husks and silk from the corn. Although none of the three felt particularly hungry anymore, they went through the motions of preparing a meal, obviously hoping to recapture their previous happiness.
Miral took little time explaining his errand: One of the plates on a metal box that held some of his spellcasting ingredients had worked loose, scattering powder throughout the corridor before his palace chambers. "I know you are busy, Master Fireforge, but I'd hoped you could fix it," Miral said, holding the fist-size box in an outstretched hand.
Flint took the silver box. It appeared to be an easy repair; a rivet punched through one plate into the corner piece would hold the piece easily. The box was decorative enough-etched with dragons, minotaurs, and jewel shapes-to hide the tiny rivet. Flint set about the task, temporarily putting aside the Speaker's medallion, while Tanis and Ailea prepared the sweet corn.
The mage said little throughout the process, a fact that Flint laid down to weariness from lack of sleep. Everyone at the palace was busy from the hour before dawn until late in the night, preparing for the Kentommen.
"Do the hill dwarves have Kentommens?" Tanis asked Flint, who nodded.
"We call them Fullbeard Days, but they're nowhere near as elaborate as this," the dwarf said. "What are your duties in Porthios's ceremony, Miral?" Flint bore down on a slender punch as he worked it through the soft metal.
Miral blinked and looked up from his seat on Flint's clothes chest. "In the actual ceremony, none. But I've been put in charge of coordinating the staff that's preparing for the Kentommen and arranging for entertainment on all three days of the event."
"What does that include?" Tanis asked from his position next to the boiling corn.
Miral looked over and smiled wanly. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, in odd contrast with the near-colorless hue of his irises. "Five dozen seamstresses are sewing banners"-which, indeed, had begun to appear on poles along Qualinost's main thoroughfares-"and three dozen swordsmen are preparing a demonstration of weaponry skills that frightens me to watch. I am amazed none of them has been sliced in half, and I will be stunned if the Kith-Kanan mosaic at the Grand Market amphitheater is bloodless when they are through."
Flint cast the mage a sympathetic look as Miral continued his recitation. 'Ten jugglers and twenty jesters have overrun the palace," he complained. "Can you imagine the noise? There are also fourteen acrobats, one of which wanted to hold her high-wire act four hundred feet up in the Tower of the Sun!"
"You're allowing that, of course," Ailea said as she dipped a perfectly cooked ear from the boiling water.
"Of course not," Miral rejoined, then did a double take as he realized that the midwife had been joking. "But it's never sufficient just to say no. Each elf has two hundred reasons why his case is different, why I should allow him to do what no one else can." The mage slumped against the wall. "I haven't slept more than three hours in a row in two weeks."
"Care to join us for lunch, and then nap here?" Flint asked, gesturing toward his cot with the spell-box. "We can be a pretty quiet lot, if we have to be."