“Aye, you hope. Perhaps you’d better talk fast, just in case. Why are you looking for me?”
“Well not you especially. Just a dwarf. My father used to say that if you’re going to order dwarf spirits, check with a dwarf first. He’ll tell you if it’s worth drinking. Is there any spirits here, and is it worth drinking?”
Stanach eyed the little kender doubtfully. A good mug of dwarf spirits had been known to send brawny humans sliding for the floor. This kender, sapling thin and seemingly frail, did not look as though he could stand up to even one sip of the clear, potent drink.
Stanach shrugged. The question was moot. This tavern stocked nothing more than ale and pale elven wine. “Not a drop,” he said. “You’ll have to make do with wine or ale. What’s your name, kender?”
“Lavim Springtoe.” The kender extended his hand. Stanach, thinking of his father’s ring on his finger, not to mention the copper rivets on the sleeve of his leather jerkin, did not accept Lavim’s hand, but smiled instead.
“Stanach Hammerfell of Thorbardin. I’ll stand you a drink of whatever you want, Lavim Springtoe, and we’ll wish for dwarf spirits instead.”
It had to be good enough. Lavim offered to go for the drinks, but Stanach shook his head. By the look of him, this Lavim Springtoe had been around long enough to have acquired the skill to filch the teeth out of a dragon’s head. Let him pass once through the common room and the owners of missing money pouches, daggers, pocket knives, wrist braces, and Reorx only knew what else, would shortly be eager to hang him by his long white braid from the nearest roof beam.
Stanach went himself for the drinks. When he stepped up to the bar, the elf nodded to him, an acknowledgement of what had briefly passed between them when Givrak had turned on the serving girl. Stanach returned the nod. Now was not the time, here was not the place, but he knew that when he could approach the elf on the subject of Stormblade, he would stand a good chance of having his questions heard, if not answered. Stanach was grateful for the chance that had brought the draconian Givrak into the tavern.
Lavim Springtoe peered into the quickly approaching bottom of his fourth mug of ale and deftly but absently relieved a passing townsman of his belt pouch. He was thinking hard, barely knew that he’d captured the purse, and was rather surprised when Stanach stuck his large, scarred hand almost under his nose.
“Give it over,” the dwarf said firmly.
Lavim raised an eyebrow. “Give what over? Oh, this?”
“Aye, that.”
Lavim held up the soft leather pouch and looked at it as though he did not quite understand how he came to be holding it. “Careless of the fellow to have lost it.” Lavim hefted the pouch. It was heavy with coins. They clinked comfortably when he tossed the purse from one hand to another. Stanach caught the pouch in midair. He turned, tapped the townsman on the shoulder and offered the purse.
The man grabbed the pouch swiftly from Stanach’s hand. He would have raised a protest but saw something forbidding in the dwarf’s expression and only offered a grudging thanks. Stanach nodded curtly and returned his attention to his mug of ale.
He’s not thinking about the ale, Lavim decided, he’s watching that elf at the bar for some reason.
The least perceptive kender can smell a secret when he is within a mile of its holder. Lavim Springtoe watched Stanach as carefully as the dwarf listened to the bits and pieces of conversation drifting around him. Though Stanach had willingly stood for all the kender wanted to drink, sometimes signaling the barmaid, sometimes going himself for the refills, he listened to Lavim’s chatter only absently, and only absently answered. Lavim fell silent watching the firelight smoldering in the smoky amethyst ring on Stanach’s finger and flashing from the small silver hoop he wore in his left ear.
Nothing about Stanach seemed to settle into a firm impression. The ring made Lavim think of someone who wore wealth casually; the silver hoop conjured images of highwaymen and bandits. The dwarf’s bearded face seemed at first to be settled into a fierce and forbidding expression. There were moments, however, when he wasn’t remembering to look fierce, when the vulnerability of youth softened eyes black as coal and strangely flecked with blue.
This Stanach, Lavim thought, is quieter now than he’d been at first, like a tightly shuttered house. Closed things, locked things, were Lavim’s favorite challenge.
Lavim leaned forward, elbows on the table, and began, by what he considered subtle means, to delve for the secret. He started with Stanach’s sword. Scabbarded in old, well-oiled leather, the sword’s hilt was simple, undecorated. The place where the guard met the hilt was not smoothly joined, though Lavim could see that this was the weapon’s only fault.
“I see,” Lavim said as though he’d just noticed, “that you don’t carry an axe for a weapon.”
Stanach nodded.
“I only mention it because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a dwarf without his axe.”
“Most of us prefer axes.”
“But you carry a sword. It’s a kind of a beat-up old thing, isn’t it? Not, of course, that it isn’t a good blade. I’m sure it is, but I just wondered.”
“It’s old.”
“Was it your father’s, maybe?”
Stanach looked up then, his eyes sharp and cautious. “It’s mine.” Then, as though aware of the abruptness of the answer, he smiled a little. “I made it.”
“You’re a swordsmith! Of course, I should have known by your hands. The skin’s all scarred and pitted. From the forge, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Have you made a lot? Does it take long to make a sword? You’ve made daggers, too, I’ll bet, and lots of other things. Did you ever make an axe’s blade? They say that a dwarven blade is the best you can find and—”
Stanach laughed aloud, genuinely amused. Let a kender get in one question and you cannot possibly live long enough to answer the thousands of others that follow! “Whoa, now easy, Lavim Springtoe. Yes, I’ve made a lot of swords. This one I made first. The blade is good, the balance maybe not so good, but I’m used to it. And yes, daggers, too, and axe heads.”
Lavim glanced again at the dwarf’s hands, folded now around his empty mug. Though some of the scars were silvered with age, others were more recent. One, a long burn along his right thumb, still looked raw. No camping fire’s burn, that.
It is as if he left his forge only yesterday, Lavim thought. But Thorbardin was hundreds of miles away. Still, here he is. By the look of him, he is one of the Hylar, one of the ruling clan at Thorbardin. Those, Lavim knew, left the mountains about as happily as a fish leaves water. Long Ridge lay squarely under Verminaard’s heel. Ember, the Highlord’s red dragon, made daily passes over the town. Those people who had not been killed in the battle for the town were only barely surviving here. Why would anyone, except himself, of course, come to Long Ridge? Lavim’s curiosity was like a spark in tinder. What would bring a dwarf out from the safety of Thorbardin to this forsaken place?
There was no time to ask. From outside, the sound of a commotion, and finally a roar of fury silenced the tavern.
“Givrak!” Stanach snatched the kender’s arm and jerked him to his feet. “Go to ground, Lavim. He’s back, and I’ve no doubt it’s you he’s looking for.”
Lavim only shrugged. “Maybe.” His green eyes danced with mischief as he sat down. “I knew a draconian once who could never remember what it was he was looking for. It irritated him to no end, as you can imagine. He would turn purple after a while, so strictly speaking perhaps he wasn’t a draconian—”
“If you don’t go, you won’t be drinking your ale, but leaking it like a sieve, kender. There must be a back way out, behind the bar. Go, now, go.”
“But—”
“Go!” Stanach shoved the kender halfway across the room toward the bar.
Lavim stumbled, righted himself, and looked back over his shoulder. Who can understand a dwarf? Moody one minute, companionable in the next, then, all of a sudden and for no reason at all, like thunder and lightning! He made for the door behind the bar. Not because he was afraid of Givrak—the capacity for fear was not in him—but because the matter seemed so important to Stanach.