“Even two hundred cycles ago your reputation as an artist was brilliant. I am keen to see what you are capable of now.” Tungdil clasped the alf’s right hand and beamed at him. “In three cycles at the outside it will be us in charge and no one else! Give my greetings to your siblings.” He turned and went to the door. His escort of Invisibles surrounded him and Ireheart was at his side.
“Tungdil,” called Tirigon, as they reached the door. They stopped and the one-eyed dwarf turned to face the alf. “What about the barrier? Is it holding again?”
“Yes,” lied Tungdil, cold as ice.
“That’s good. It would be bad if your master were to turn up here to demand the return of his armor.” Tirigon paused. “Or did you kill him in the end, perhaps?”
“I tried to. It didn’t work. That’s why I want the dwarf realms: No one shall be allowed through the gate.” Tungdil turned and marched off. “Tion is with us, Tirigon. Be sure of that.”
They left the hall and the seven silent alfar led them out through the palace to the open air.
“At last!” Ireheart took a deep breath and pushed his visor up. “I couldn’t have stood it in there much longer. I don’t know what it was I was eating but it doesn’t smell nice when it comes up again.”
Slin laughed and opened his own visor as well. “Onions and preserved gugul mince? I saw you had a jar of that in your pack. Goda send you off with that, then?”
“You never gave us any.” Tungdil gave him a disapproving look. “How mean of you.” Then he grinned. It was obvious that he was relieved to have got in and out of the palace safely. And with such success. “Ireheart, you must curb your tongue in future. We were in luck. It was a good thing Tirigon found your remark funny.” After a short pause he added. “So did I, by the way.”
Darkness had fallen. But when Ireheart looked up at the sky he saw no stars! “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed, horrified. “What have the alfar done?”
All the dwarves looked up and stared.
“The constellations have all disappeared!” Balyndar whispered, fearfully.
“The stars must be refusing to shine on an alfar city,” suggested Slin.
Ireheart conquered his incredulity and turned to the tower with its cables spreading out in all directions. “It’s to do with that tower.”
Tungdil followed his gaze and thought. “Let’s get on or we’ll be arousing suspicion. And pull your visors down in case we meet anyone.”
They went down the steps to where their ponies were waiting. Overhead they caught a slight rustling sound.
“I don’t believe it,” said Slin in amazement as he looked up at the sky.
A starry firmament had appeared above their heads but it was different from the one the dwarves were familiar with. The heavenly bodies they saw now were not as they knew them. And there were shimmering moons, three or four times the size of Girdlegard’s own.
“I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the city must have moved to another place entirely.” Boindil could not get his fill of the splendid sight.
Balyndar snorted. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps you never stick your head out of the caves but I’ve traveled a lot in Girdlegard. Wherever I went, the stars were always the same.”
“There’s a deep insight for you,” mocked Slin. “Only here they’re not. But we’re still in Girdlegard.” “Exactly. That’s why I said they’ve moved the city out of Girdlegard. I admit it doesn’t sound very likely.”
“So how do we get back?” Slin mounted and turned to look at the winding cliffside path. “Who knows where we’ll end up?”
“Over to you, Scholar.”
Tungdil looked up. “Canvasses.”
“Canvasses.” At first Ireheart did not understand. “Oh, I see, like curtains, but… sideways?” He looked up again. “They pull them across the crater on those ropes to give the alfar down here an artificial night sky to admire-is that what you mean?”
“Exactly, Ireheart. That’s what I mean. I expect they cover the city on especially bright days, or when it’s very hot. A protective screen.”
“That’s an amazing amount of trouble to go to.” Balyndar seemed relieved at the explanation.
“But it’s also beautiful. You’ll have to give them that.” Tungdil rode ahead, followed by the Zhadar and the rest of the company.
Ireheart was pleased to note they were not escorted. Tirigon must trust his dwarf-friend completely if he was letting them wander the streets unaccompanied. Trust and black-eyes: That’s a weird combination. That Tirigon must have something up his sleeve. At the bottom of the winding climb he thought he could make out Utsintas and the alfar on their firebulls. I’m not going to let anyone entice me into a trap.
“This is the ideal chance to get rid of the kordrion young,” he mouthed to Tungdil.
“Already done,” answered one of the Zhadar. “We left the cocoon on the stairway up to the palace behind one of the pillars. They won’t find it-unless they’ve got a nose like a kordrion.”
Ireheart was impressed. “And now?”
“Let’s ride off to the Dragon as fast as we can. Then we plunder his treasure hoard,” said Tungdil, putting his plan to them. “Isn’t that a messenger over there with Utsintas?”
“If you say so. I can only see some scrawny black-eyes and overweight fighting cows.” Ireheart had given up being surprised about the Scholar’s unnaturally good vision.
Tungdil had been correct. When they reached the alf and their escort, an imperial messenger was waiting with an invitation to visit Alandur, now known as Phoseon Dwhamant. This came from the Emperor Aiphaton himself. They could not decline it.
And so the lie Tungdil had told came true after all.
Tirigon was on his throne watching the slave woman clear the table. Such lowly occupations were beneath the dignity of any alf. She fulfilled her function well enough and was not so ugly as to offend the eye. It had taken some time to find a halfway acceptable slave for the palace.
“Tell me, why are most of your kind just so revolting to look at?” he mused, as he sipped from his glass of wine.
The slave looked round at him in fright. He had used his own language and she was not sure she had understood an instruction aright. Anyone in the service of an alf knew what the punishment would be.
“Don’t worry,” he said, this time in the tongue spoken in Gauragar. “Get on with your work.”
One of the robe-wearers came over to him. “Dson Aklan, it is as you suspected.” He knelt before the throne. “They had the kordrion’s young with them.”
“Those confounded Zhadar! Did they really think I would not recognize them in the armor of the Desirers? Nobody deceives me! They are our creatures and we are their masters! We created them,” he raged, hurling his wineglass across the room. “Deserters like Hargorin Deathbringer. They shall die!” He took a deep breath. “Do you have the cocoon now?”
The alf nodded. “We had to search for ages, but we found it in the end.”
“Then pack it up well, disguise it as provisions and send a messenger with it to accompany Goldhand to Phoseon Dwhamant. A splendid gift for an emperor,” he commanded. “Has the kordrion been sighted again?”
“Yes, Dson Aklan. Not four miles from here. It is following the scent of its young.”
Tirigon nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Does Goldhand suspect anything? Did he accept the messenger as genuine?”
“He thinks he’s genuine. They are making their way southwest.”
“Then make sure they get my provisions.” Tirigon waved the slave girl over to give him more wine. “And instruct the patrols that any Zhadar found on Dson Bhara territory are to be put to death immediately. That’s if any of them survive the kordrion’s attack.” He sat down again. Everything reverted to the normal state of affairs.