“Legate Arnskull offers you a gift, though he must recognize that it is of little value. He offers you your life.”
Talid was a liar and a thief. He was lazy, dishonorable, and, worst of all-in the eyes of the other women and men who’d followed Azad’s promises across a waterless hell-he was weak. But he was not a fool.
“Please convey my thanks to the legate,” he said. “And please tell me what services I may rush to provide.”
The next time Cephas woke in his cell, the woman leaning over him was not Grinta. He fought the urge to scramble back, to hold his arms in front of his face in a defensive position.
The first time he’d ever seen one of the little people the other slaves called halflings, he’d mistaken the man for a human child and paid for the mistake when the man efficiently hamstrung him. Without a word, the man had then disappeared over the edge of the mote, the only slave to ever successfully escape Azad’s clutches.
This woman-the lines beneath her eyes and the scars on her hands would never let anyone mistake her for a child-held a short sword beneath his chin. She gazed down at him with impenetrable brown eyes. He shifted his gaze left and saw that the woman was also standing beside his cell’s grillwork door.
Before Cephas could decide whether he was dreaming or still seeing double from the blow to the head he’d taken on the cliff, the woman by the door flicked her right ring finger in a clear signal. The one standing above him leaned in, putting enough weight into the blade at his throat that Cephas felt his own blood flowing over his skin for the twentieth time in less than a day.
The halfling woman placed her forefinger before her lips and breathed out. In the dying light of late afternoon, Cephas was able to recognize that she was not a perfect double of the one by the grill, though the resemblance was uncanny.
The woman standing at his side lowered her hand and drew a cylindrical object from the pouch at her belt. Still moving in perfect silence, she handed this over to Cephas. It was a long sheet of some thin, fibrous material, and Cephas had a good idea what it was. Thinking of the tale of the Land-locked Marid, he gingerly unrolled the sheet. He whispered, without meaning to, “A scroll …”
The sisters-for they were clearly such-exchanged a quick, confused glance. The one next to Cephas, who wore her chestnut-colored hair to her shoulders whereas her sister’s was cropped close to the scalp, eyed Cephas uncertainly. She twirled the fingers of her left hand-Cephas noted that her right held a dagger-mimicking his unfurling of the scroll in a faster pantomime.
Complicated rows of black lines were inked onto the parchment. He showed the unrolled scroll to the women. “I’ve never held writing in my hands before,” he said, still unsure of their purpose but unable to believe they would give him a scroll and mean him harm.
The sister closer to him opened her mouth and eyes wide, as clear an indication of surprise as any Cephas had ever seen on the canvas. In response, the other woman clapped her free hand against her forehead and shook her shoulders. Even though it was silent, Cephas recognized the halfling’s laughter.
“You thought I would be able to read this,” he said. “And now you mock me because I cannot. But it’s no fault of mine. Azad says that letters are for the free. If you are free women, then read me what is written here.”
They leveled long, inscrutable looks at each other. Then, as one, they kneeled before him and put their hands to the heavy scarves wrapped around their necks. As one, they lowered the scarves, and Cephas saw the flesh there was gray and lifeless. If these halfling sisters meant to mock him, they would have to find means other than taunts, for it was clear they had no voices.
There was a dwarf among the caravan guards up from Saradush-a greasy-bearded spearman with evil breath-and Azad sent for the man to serve as a translator. He did not want to depend on the strange dwarf whose Alzhedo was too flawless for Azad’s liking. Luckily, the guard was more or less sober, but his usefulness proved limited.
The man was awestruck by the pair, and, in any case, it grew apparent that the one Talid had claimed spoke only a Dwarvish tongue-this Legate Arnskull-had no plans to speak in Azad’s presence.
“He ain’t likely to start any time soon, neither, sir,” said the spearman, running dirty fingers through his beard. It took Azad a moment to realize that the man was actually attempting to groom himself. “Look at them runes on the legate’s armor. Look at the pattern of the gems in his beard-sapphire, then garnet, then sapphire, then diamonds colored like chalcedony. Sir, that is a lord out of legend sitting on your pillows there-one of the high councilors of Iltkazar; a prince of Old Shanatar, and liegeman to the Clanless King.”
The elderly dwarf with the mustache sat ignoring everyone in Azad’s quarters, sniffing at the plate of figs and dates Shaneerah had ordered brought, without deigning to let one pass his lips. Azad grabbed the caravan guard by the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet.
The other strange dwarf, who had not given a name and chuckled when Shaneerah suggested that he sheathe his sword, watched the Calishite with undisguised interest, and not a little amusement. Azad reminded himself that these fools-whoever they were-had elected to come alone and barely armed into his place of power.
He shoved the spearman toward the exit. Shaneerah, standing guard beside it, opened the cedarwood door and hurried the dwarf along with a curse and a kick. Azad turned to the supposed legate’s bondsman, and said, “Your finery impressed that fool. But that’s still not to prove the old man is some kind of ambassador from the dwarves who built this place. If you thought he might encounter the forces who took the mote from your people, why would he come without an armed escort?”
“The legate’s mission, freedman,” said the dwarf, still using the archaic dialect of Alzhedo that the djinn of the deserts favored, “is one of investigation and research. The outpost that was here when you and your people arrived was not sanctioned by our king, Mith Barak, and the outlaws who built it absconded from our caverns with several valuable machines we wish to recover. If these are still to be found among the equipment you have claimed, and should you maintain your refusal to simply wager the earthmote on the contest between our goliath servant and your champion, we will offer you salvage fees we believe you will find most reasonable.”
Azad glanced at the older dwarf’s supposed badges of rank. Sapphire, then garnet, then diamond, the spearman said. Yes, these dwarves could afford to buy anything Azad might be willing to sell.
“We put all the machines we’ve found to our own uses,” he said. “That’s why there is an arena for our fighters to meet upon. What if you’re after something we don’t wish to part with?”
The bondsman said, “The legate considered this possibility when we heard of the … imaginative way in which you deploy the furlers and the taps. Not to worry.” From his sleeve, the dwarf drew forth a small book, the gilded clasp of which was crafted not only to lock the cover, but to hold an ebony stylus topped with a ruby the size of a robin’s egg. “Should you have found a use for the particular instruments we wish to retrieve, I will simply execute a schematic, and the legate will re-create the devices upon our return to Iltkazar. You have been here for twenty years, after all,” he added. “The machines have no doubt suffered in your unskilled hands.”
“No doubt,” Azad agreed. “Which only leaves the question of why I shouldn’t let my dear wife relieve the legate of his enormously impressive mustache and send the two of you back to your holes with a warning to this clanless king that the next time he wants something from me, he should send a more impressive delegation.” Azad ran his hand over his own smooth chin. “The legate shouldn’t worry, of course. Shaneerah has a steady hand with a shaving razor.”