That, Martine had to admit, was a point she could not dispute, and so, feeling bemused by the unexpected invitation, the woman finally consented to go.
Two hours later, Martine found herself in the entrance hall of the warren, the sounds of revelry all about her. The whiny music of hardrangers, curious fiddles with extra strings that droned like bagpipes, and a hurdy-gurdy echoed from the smooth wooden walls. Gnomes laughed and giggled as they hurried to the council chamber, adapted as a dance hall. Their fat round faces seemed festive enough, but to the Harper, it seemed their merriment was forced.
The din reached its peak at the doorway to the council hall, which was already jammed. White-bearded musicians scraped and bowed from atop a rough table made from several hogsheads and boards. Bungs hammered into the barrels beneath them flowed freely with strong cider. Courting couples danced a furious reel across the floor while the uncommitted lasses giggled and whispered as they watched the young swains from the shadows of the arches. The quadricentenarians of the colony sat on the foremost benches, nodding numbly to the drone of the hardrangers' strings, their liver-spotted fingers rippling to the runs of the tune. Married men sat clustered around the taps, the air over their heads thick with pipe smoke. Behind them, in the higher seats, their squat wives looked out on the dancers, dreaming of tunes when they once whirled on the floor.
Only the martial figures lurking near the back walls belied the cause of the celebration. Jouka was there, still stiff and grim, even off duty. Gathered around him were a few other members of the rescue party, young warriors who savored the heroic image of their elders. Martine noted that shy Turi had distanced himself from his brother. The quiet one sat in a corner, hands fidgeting with the hem of his robe.
Before she could move any farther into the chamber, the woman was whisked aside by a cluster of gnome maidens. The little damsels cooed and fussed around her, the festive
spirit of the hall giving them the courage to overcome their innate bashfulness. Martine found herself subjected to a flurry of questions. Did all human women dress like her? Did they dance? Did they all carry swords and curse like farmhands? What were the men like? On and on it went, till the ranger felt positively dizzy.
The Harper was relieved to see Vil, holding a broadmouthed mug in one hand, rising a good two feet above the throng of smoking Vani. Breaking through her inquisitors to make her way to V'il's side, Martine ignored the glares of the Vani men as she intruded into their clique.
"Ah, there you are, Martine," the man cheerfully commented. "Drink?"
"Absolutely," Martine said with relief. "If I have to answer any more questions, I won't have any secrets left."
Vil held up his mug and grinned. "I saw you trapped over there."
The old men around them scowled at the Harper, though they said nothing since she wasn't used to their ways. Martine noticed their reactions. After a quick sip, she raised her mug. "You Vani make a fine cider," she said. "This is the best I've had anywhere." The words weren't far from the truth, for the cider was crisply sweet, yet just sour enough not to linger thickly in her mouth. Already she could feel the strong kick it carried.
The gnomes near her nodded in polite acknowledgment. Apparently placated by her compliment, they returned to the serious business of socializing. Martine listened in silence for several minutes, then gradually began to ask brief questions of her own. Seeing that she had gained acceptance among the circle of elders, Vil went out to circulate among the feasters.
Martine's conversation was limited by the growing intensity of the fiddlers' tunes. The musicians segued easily from waltzes to polkas, with a liberal sprinkling of schottisches,
hornpipes, reels, and furious jigs. With each round, the pace quickened, till finally the floorboards trembled with the thundering capers of the dancers. Martine gave up trying to shout over the din and savored her cider, letting the warmth of the drink blank out the pains, concerns, and tensions of the day. Spotting Vil nursing his tankard, the Harper topped off her own mug from the free-flowing tap and rejoined him, reeling only slightly as she strode across the floor.
"Want to dance?" she asked.
"What?" Vil's beard bounced as his jaw dropped in surprise.
"I said, do you want to dance?" Martine repeated, more loudly this time.
"Me?"
"Of course you! The others are a little short, even for me." Feeling the exuberance of the drink, the Harper grinned and tugged the man to his feet.
"I'm not much of a dancer," Vil protested lamely.
"Oh, come on. Don't be a spoilsport. I don't care if you're one of those one-legged fachans that haunt the forest. Drink up," she ordered as she tossed back the last of her cider. The fiddlers launched into a reel.
"I'll never keep up with this!"
She hauled him onto the floor, ignoring his pleas. The gnome dancers cheerfully opened a space for the giant couple. "Just watch them."
Before he could begin to absorb her advice, she seized his hands and swirled them into the high-stepping reel. Gamely Vil struggled to keep pace, his face an agony of concentration as he watched her feet and tried to match the whirling steps. As a consequence, he was always at least a half a step late, and forever doing higgledy steps to regain the rhythm.
They spun and crashed into the small couples around
them like a tavern skittle caroming from pin to pin. Martine's obvious enjoyment and Vil's flustered apologies only added to the entertainment of the other dancers.
The song ended, but for Martine, it had been too long since she had released herself to such simple pleasures. The fiddlers, perhaps sensing her mood, launched into a rousing polka that swept the pair around the dance floor once again. Despite himself, Vil was managing to gain enough confidence in his simple steps to look up from her feet and smile occasionally, although his head still counted out the musicians' beat.
With heels flashing, they circled the floor dizzily, Martine leading Vil through the capering steps. With its undersize furnishings and people to match, the warren became a child's dollhouse. They whirled past wizened toadstools posing as solemn ancients, past dames dressed like dried pippin dolls, past warriors lining the walls like martial puppets, past courting lovers-who teased each other like children. For an instant, all Martine's cares evaporated with the soaring music. The fiddle bows flew faster as she shed her mantle of formal reserve.
When the polka came to a sudden halt, the Harper collapsed, panting, against her partner. His chest rose and fell strongly, slightly winded by their turns. She let herself savor the sharp tang of his sweat and feel the rough muscles of his chest.
Atop his barrel, the lead fiddler uncricked his neck, then threw his long white beard over one shoulder and placed the fiddle in the crook of his arm. While the other fiddlers rested, the old gnome coaxed the first aching chords of a mournful air from his instrument. Gradually minuscule dancers warrior husbands and their wives, hopeful lovers, and aping children crowded into the center of the hall. Martine held Vil on the floor as the dance began, her head still pressed close against him. Gently the dancers swayed about the floor, the two humans at the center like a living maypole at a spring festival. Unconsciously, Vil's arms closed about her.
The fiddler's tune seemed to draw out the community's concerns, the droning strings of the hardranger ominously rumbling of some future fate. The drinkers on the benches fell silent as the musician's bow sang with the voice of the winter wind and the moonless night