Lot-Ionan shuffled to one of his cabinets, the oldest of a timeworn lot, and removed a bottle from the third shelf. He glanced at the skull on the label and took a long swig.
The liquid was not poisonous, in spite of the warning symbol. Experience had taught him that it was the most effective way of preventing his finest brandy from disappearing into thirsty students' throats. The precaution was by no means unwarranted: Some of his apprentices, especially the older ones, were only too partial to a drop of good liquor. Lot-Ionan was prepared to share his learning but not his precious drink. He had run out of barrels of this particular vintage, so the bottle was worth protecting.
Just then a powerful explosion rocked the walls of his underground chamber. Fragments of stone rained down from the ceiling and landed on his desk, while phials and jars jangled in the cabinets, bouncing so violently that their stoppers struck the shelves above. Everything in the higgledy-piggledy study rattled and shook.
The magus froze in horror. The open inkwell was dancing up and down on his desk, tilting farther and farther until…Lot-Ionan's hastily uttered incantation came too late. Ink poured over the precious manuscript and his lovingly drawn runes were drowned in a viscous black tide.
For a second Lot-Ionan was rooted. "What in the name of Palandiell was that?" His kindly face hardened as he divined the origin of the bang. Gulping down the remains of his brandy, he turned sharply and strode from the room.
He raced through the shadowy galleries, practically flying past doorways and passageways, his fury at his wasted efforts increasing with every step.
By the time he reached the laboratory, he was seething with rage. Half a dozen famuli were talking in hushed voices outside the door, through which strange noises could be heard. They were evidently too afraid to go in.
"There you are, Estimable Magus," Jolosin began respectfully. "What a calamity! We got here too late. The dwarf slipped into the laboratory and before we could-"
"Out of my way!" Lot-Ionan barked angrily and unbolted the door.
The devastation could scarcely have been more complete if a mob of lunatic alchemists had rioted inside his precious laboratory. Equipment was floating through the air while small fires flared and spluttered at intervals throughout the room. The shelves dripped with valuable elixirs that had burst from the phials and formed foul-smelling pools on the floor.
Huddled in the corner behind an upturned cauldron was the culprit. His fingers were in his ears and his eyes were closed tightly. Despite his singed hair and scorched beard, there could be no mistaking who he was: Tungdil Bolofar.
There was another loud bang. Blue sparks shot through the air, missing the magus by a hairbreadth.
"Explain yourself, Tungdil!" Lot-Ionan thundered furiously. The dwarf, who evidently couldn't hear him, said nothing. "I'm talking to you, Tungdil Bolofar!" the magus bellowed as loudly as he could.
Looking up in surprise, the dwarf saw the lean wizard looming menacingly above him. He struggled out from behind the cauldron.
"This wasn't my doing, Estimable Magus," he said firmly. He shot an accusing glance at Jolosin, who was standing in the doorway with his pupils, doing his best to look surprised. Lot-Ionan wheeled on him.
"Don't look at me!" protested Jolosin with exaggerated indignation. "I had nothing to do with it! You saw for yourself that the door was locked!"
"Silence, the pair of you!" For the first time in ten cycles, Lot-Ionan was in danger of losing his temper altogether. He surveyed the costly mess. "This feuding has to stop!" His ink-stained beard seemed to ripple with rage.
The dwarf had no intention of taking any of the blame. He planted his feet firmly on the ground. "It wasn't my fault," he said stubbornly.
The magus was visibly struggling to regain his equilibrium. He sat down on an iron-bound chest of wood and crossed his arms.
"Listen carefully, the pair of you. I'm not interested in hearing who was responsible for this disaster. Nothing, but nothing is more infuriating than being distracted from my work. Your explosion has cost me orbits, if not an entire cycle, of study, so forgive me for losing my patience. Enough is enough! I intend to restore peace to my school."
"Estimable Magus, you're not going to banish the dwarf, are you?" exclaimed Jolosin, trying to sound horrified.
"Enough! We'll discuss your part in this fiasco later, but first I need this nonsense to stop. The sooner we have peace in the vaults, the better!" He turned to Tungdil. "An old friend gave me the use of a few items and now he needs them back."
The dwarf braced himself. "You, my little helper, will run the errand for me. In one hour I shall expect you in my study, bag packed and ready to go. I'll give you the items then. Prepare yourself for a good long walk."
The dwarf bowed politely and hurried from the room. This was far better than he had expected. A journey on foot was scarcely a chore; the paths and lanes of Girdlegard were no challenge for his sturdy legs. I might meet a dwarf, he thought hopefully. If this is supposed to be a punishment, he can punish me some more.
The magus waited until the stocky figure was out of sight before turning to Jolosin. "You wanted to land him in trouble," he said bluntly. "I know what you were up to, famulus! There's never a moment's peace with the two of you around. Well, I've decided to put a stop to it. For the duration of Tungdil's journey I want you peeling potatoes in the kitchen. You'll have plenty of time to regret your bad behavior and pray to Palandiell for his speedy return."
Jolosin opened his mouth in protest.
"If I hear so much as a grumble from you or the slightest criticism from Frala or the cook, you can pack your bags and leave." The young man's jaws clamped shut. "Oh, and before you start your stint in the kitchen, you can clean up here." The magus waved at the mess that had once been his laboratory.
He shooed the remaining famuli from the room. On his way out, he picked up a broom from the corner and pressed it into Jolosin's hands.
"Don't get anyone to do your dirty work for you," he said, marching to the door. "Make sure it's tidy, and by tidy I mean absolutely spick-and-span/"
He slammed the door and the bolt rattled home.
II
Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle It was time for the high king to initiate his counselor into the plan. He handed him a letter. "It's from the magus of Ionandar. Lot-Ionan the Forbearing, they call him in his realm."
Balendilнn knew the magus by reputation. His school lay in the east of Girdlegard and he was said to prize his solitude. Apparently, he spent most of his time studying in his underground vaults, inventing new charms and formulae, far from the worries of everyday life.
"He sends news of something most unusuaclass="underline" a dwarf," the high king explained. "The only dwarf in Ionandar, no less! He says he found him many cycles ago under peculiar circumstances and raised him in his realm. He wants to know whether any of our clans are missing a kinsman. He is eager to reunite him with his kind."
Balendilнn skimmed the letter. "What do we know of the dwarf?"
"The matter is mysterious but intriguing. To my knowledge, no child has been lost in the past two hundred cycles."
"And it's your intention to present the sorcerer's ward as a long-lost heir to the throne?" The counselor laid the letter on the table. "But how?" he asked doubtfully. "A dwarf raised by long-uns won't know what it means to be a child of the Smith. The fourthlings will never back him, especially not without proof of his lineage."
The high king shuffled to the conference table and lowered himself onto the secondling monarch's chair before his legs gave way beneath him.
"I expect you're right," he said in a strained voice. "Be that as it may, they can't do a thing until the candidate is here and the matter has been resolved. Even if I die, their hands will be tied." He looked squarely at his counselor. "If Vraccas should smite me with his hammer before the dwarf arrives, you must bear the burden of preventing war and preserving our kinsfolk."