“I’m afraid we must put off our talk a bit longer, lad,” Garavin said, his brow furrowing apologetically.
Kall nodded, though he couldn’t imagine what the two of them had to discuss. Just before the dwarf disappeared inside the hut, Kall said, “I’m not staying here.”
Garavin paused and gave a nod. “Then it looks to be a very short conversation.”
Chapter Seven
Garavin’s diggers worked in shifts of six, with two torch-bearers standing nearby to offer additional light and water when needed. Every few candles the shift would change, but the resting group would stay together in its own cluster, eating, talking, and occasionally shooting glances Kall’s way. He ignored them, preferring to spend the time resting and watching.
As night fell, Morgan brought out tin buckets filled with tallow and arranged them in circles throughout the camp. When lit, the bucket candles gave off a peaceful glow like grazing fireflies. The evening meal came next: seasoned bread chunks and ham sliced off the bone by the same man who had served breakfast. The diggers, drawn by the smell of food, gathered again in the clearing, and Garavin joined them, the great dog Borl trailing behind him.
The dwarf chewed a short-stem pipe and had a book wedged beneath one arm. He bypassed the food line, instead heading for one of the few trees in the bowl-shaped clearing.
Large silver-sheened leaves hung around a trunk that looked as if it had been split, long ago, by weight or perhaps by a lightning strike. One half had died, but the other portion thrived. Garavin sat in the space between the living and the dead halves. With his dark, weathered skin, he looked almost a part of the tree, a face staring out of the bark. He smoked, read, and watched the activities of the camp, while the mastiff slept at his feet.
Kall ate with Laerin and Morgan again, listening to them discuss the day’s progress, but his eyes kept straying to Garavin. Finally, Laerin nudged him.
“Go,” he said simply.
The dwarf did not look up from his book as Kall approached, and Kall wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then a plume of smoke rose from Garavin’s pipe, and his eyes followed. He nodded at the withered bit of stump, and Kall sat.
“Well? What do ye think of my diggers, Kall?”
It wasn’t the question Kall had expected, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “They’re not like you.”
Garavin smiled. “Well, let’s suppose ye and I were to mark a map of Faerûn with the birthplaces and travels of all those lads and lasses ye saw today. Ye’d still be about it when winter came, and it would take a lifetime and more to walk in their footsteps.”
“They came all that way, just to end up here—to dig?” Kall asked in disbelief.
“Not by intent,” Garavin said. “They came because they had nowhere else to go—much like ye, which is why I thought we should be talking.”
“I have a home,” Kall said. “I never wanted to end up here.”
“I understand, and I can send ye back to Amn quick enough,” said Garavin, “but that way leads to a quick death, or am I mistaken?”
Kall shook his head. “But I will go back someday,” he said, meeting Garavin’s eyes.
“I do not doubt ye,” Garavin said, acknowledging the vow solemnly. “What I mean to do is offer ye a course for the intervening time. My diggers have been following a generally westward path since Nightal last,” he said. “Our work in Mir and the surrounding area will take a pair of years, perhaps more, but once we reach the Shining Sea, I intend to run north for a bit. I could offer ye a place with us now, and give ye the option of leaving us when ye choose. Understand, I’m not in the habit of making this gesture to everyone. I need to keep a certain number of diggers in the company at a time. If I have too many, food will run short. Too few and were weak on defense. But this way, ye could remain near the place ye’re most wanting to be, and learn my trade in the meantime.”
“I already know how to dig,” Kall said, but he listened.
“This is different,” Garavin said. “The first tenday will break yer back. Ye’ll hate it, curse it… and me, come to think. The second tenday ye won’t be able to keep yer eyes open, so ye won’t have time to be thinking or cursing about anything—not the past, nor the future beyond putting one boot in front of the other. After that, as ye adjust, ye’ll be having nothing but time. That is precious time—to consider yer place in the world and what ye intend to do with it.”
Kall didn’t need to consider either of those things. He pictured Balram, secure in his father’s house, as night fell in the Forest of Mir. He replaced the image with one of himself, plunging his father’s sword deep into the guard captain, feeling whatever magic the blade contained slide out, into his enemy. His father would be free—Aazen would be free—and Kall’s life could return to what it once had been. Nothing else mattered.
“Why do you dig?” Kall looked at the dwarf, and a glint of green winking from a gap in his beard drew Kall’s eyes downward. “What is that?” he asked.
Garavin lifted the object—a pendant—by its chain. Kall recognized the components first: smooth carnelian worked into the shape of a mountain; nestled within it, a faceted emerald shone like a doorway.
“Dugmaren Brightmantle is why I dig,” Garavin said. He pointed to the swaying pendant. “Dumathoin guides the shovel.”
“Dumathoin.” Kall touched the seam, the joining of emerald to mountain, and felt the scratch of electricity run through his fingers.
“I serve the gleam in the eye and the keeper of secrets,” Garavin continued, “because in addition to having an awful curiosity, I’ve dug far enough into the earth to uncover things that should—and shouldn’t—be made known to greater Toril. Dumathoin helps me with the sorting out of which is which.”
“You hunt knowledge,” Kall said, remembering what Garavin had told him in the forest.
“Yes—and secrets. I can find them, and I can keep them. Ye should remember that, if ever ye’re needing someone to talk to.” He puffed unconcernedly on his pipe as Kall looked away. “If ye do stay, Laerin could teach ye things—they all could, I’m knowing that. But first ye’d learn to dig. That rule never changes.”
The sound of raucous laughter at some unheard jest drifted out to them from the camp.
“They’re gods, then,” Kall said, listening to the forest stir with nighttime sounds. “Dugmaren and Dumathoin.”
“Of the dwarf folk,” Garavin nodded. “Most of my band is of Dugmaren’s mind. They are discoverers—explorers. Dwarf or human, they fit nowhere else, so Dugmaren takes them all.”
“Why should a dwarf care what happens to me?” Kall said without thinking, and felt heat rush up his neck. He plunged on. “I don’t want to be an explorer. I’ve got nothing to offer Dugmaren.”
“Ye have two hands, and an active mind, as I’ve already noted,” Garavin said. “Even if Dugmaren wasn’t interested, I’d still take ye.”
Kall refused to meet the dwarf’s eyes. “Why?”
“Because at one time or another, we all get trapped in the place ye are now.” Garavin leaned forward, his grave face filling Kall’s vision. “Do ye know what we do about it?”
Kall started to shake his head, but stopped when he saw Garavin’s eyes twinkling with humor. He caught on and said, in perfect unison with the dwarf, “We dig ourselves out.” Kall snorted—not quite a laugh, but something lighter than what had been in his mind. His voice only shook slightly when he said, “I’m going to need a large shovel.”
“There ye go.” Garavin chuckled, jostling the pipe and sending ashes flying. “Ye’ll be fine, Kall.”
He slept in the map room the first night. That’s what Garavin called the curtained off loft at the rear of the hut. The tiny room was jam-packed with maps, drawings, and rolls of parchment filled to the edges with scrawled notes. In one corner, a cot and blankets were wedged under the eaves, almost as an afterthought.