“I wasn’t expecting you, missy.”
“What, then, Stanach? Are unexpected visits another prohibition in this bar of yours?”
Sly smiles replaced murmuring. Head throbbing, Kerian wavered again, and a strong hand slipped under her elbow. The gesture seemed to thaw Stanach who waved her to the bar and pointed to a stool.
“Sit. Y’lookabitwan.”
She nodded and accepted a tall mug of water. The others crowded close, and even Kern sidled up to see what could be seen. Stanach waved them off and would hear none of their grumbling.
“Go shout into the kitchen,” he said to Kern. “Tell whoever’s cooking in there to bring out food. Y’ve all done enough drinking on empty bellies for now. I’m not going to be hearing from the guard about the rowdies coming out of here again tonight.”
Kern did as he was bid, and when the hangers on at the bar migrated to tables in anticipation of food, Kerian found herself suddenly alone with the dwarf who had, a long time ago, given her a weapon and put her foot on an unexpected path. The last time she had seen Stanach Hammer-fell, he’d been in company with two elves of the Queen Mother’s household. This dwarf, this Stanach Hammerfell who drank with elves in Laurana’s service, once claimed to be a trader and now seemed to be a barman-what was he? On the face of it, since she’d last seen him in company with Laurana’s own people, she would imagine him a friend.
Kerian dared not take that for granted.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Stanach said. He took up a rag and wiped rings and spills from the polished wood of the bar, glossy golden oak. For this, his right hand had a use. The crooked fingers grasped a bar rag well enough.
“Never thought I’d see you again either,” Kerian said. She took a drink of water, her stomach settling, her head still aching. “I thought you were a trader. Have you found a new line of work now, Stanach? Keeper of a cursed bar?”
His mouth moved in a smile almost bitter. “I’m a man of many parts, girl.” He looked round the bar, at the patrons obviously his friends, at the rough paneled walls, the rushes thickly strewn on the floor. Spitoons gleamed, the brass polished brightly; on the walls torches flared in bronze cressets. “It’s a common misconception that the bar is cursed. It isn’t. The name of it is Stanach’s Curse. Different thing.”
“A different thing,” she said, agreeing. “The bar’s not cursed, you are.”
“Well, we’re not going to be all night talking about it.” His eyes grew hard, and when he leaned across the bar the hair rose prickling on the back of Kerian’s neck. “Now, tell me, missy, what are y’doing here?”
“Well, I-”
He lifted a finger, as though to a child. “Don’t be shaping lies now. We like order here in Thorbardin, and there is a guard comes by here regularly. It wouldn’t take but a shout to call them down.” Again the smile but this time very cold. “Everyone in this place had his back to the door a little bit ago. Everyone but me. I saw you come in.”
Her head pounded, and her hands shook. She wondered if she had failed in her mission not an hour into it Kerian reached for the mug of water, but the dwarfs left hand closed over hers before she could lift it.
“Nay,” he said, “you’ll just spill it. Take a good breath, Mistress Kerianseray. Tell me your story.” When she hesitated he said, “Or tell it to the guard on the way to the dungeons. I don’t think you’ll like the dungeons of Thorbardin. We tend to forget about the people down there, and when we do remember, it’s not always in time.”
Kerian gauged the threat, and she gauged the dwarf. She reckoned back along the months and seasons, back along events to the time she first saw him. She believed she knew who he was, this trader, this barman, and she slipped the emerald talisman from her shirt, the unfurling leaf he might well have seen Nayla or Haugh wear.
He had. She saw that in the sudden glint of his eyes, the way his head lifted.
“Tell me now, what are you doing here?”
Kerian’s voice dropped low, soft for only the two of them to hear. “My king has sent me.”
Stanach raised an eyebrow, then lifted the water jug in silent question. This, or better? When she nodded to her mug, he filled it again.
“I’m here to see your king.” She slid him a sideways glance. “I’m hoping his ambassador will help me to an audience.”
“I’m not his ambassador, girl.” He shook his head. “I’m not anyone’s anything. I did my thane a favor, that one who sits on the Council. I was in the Outland, a long time ago when your king’s mother commanded dragonarmies.” His eyes softened with remembered pain, the fingers of his ruined hand twitched on the bar rag. “Ah, a while ago. I know the ways of Outlanders, some. The thane, he said our king needed a man like that to go out to Qualinost to speak with the elves. No more than that, and I’m glad to be done with it.” He wiped the bar, pushing the rag around with his useless hand. Softly he said, “It’s no good thing to be gone from here. It’s no good thing to leave.”
The tavern rang with the clattering of plates and cutlery, the voices of hungry dwarves, those who’d been at the bar, new customers coming in. Kerian leaned across the bar.
“Will you take me to the king, to Tarn Bellowgranite?”
“D’ye think I can just go knocking on his door, girl? Do you think-”
“I think you are a man who can do pretty much whatever needs doing. Can you do this, Stanach Hammerfell?”
After a moment more of bar wiping, the dwarf said he supposed he could.
Kerian waited, uncertain whether to go into the council chamber or to wait for an escort. Stanach was gone, slipped away through the gardens outside the great shining brass doors to the chamber. Those doors stood ajar now, not swung wide but not tight shut. From within came the rumble of deep dwarven voices. They sounded like distant thunder, a storm roaming a far mountaintop. Then, sharply, one rose in striking challenge. The thanes of the clans didn’t seem minded to let their deliberations end easily. From her stance outside the door, she saw only a great cavernous hall beyond and had a sense of high ceilings and wide walls. Lights gleamed redly, in silver cressets torches flared, and tripod braziers stood at regular intervals. By their reaching light, Kerian saw thick marble columns marching upon each side of the hall, creating a broad aisle of bright marble leading to a dais.
Behind her, the city shone, a brightness of light. Thor-bardin had sustained great damage during the wrenching civil war, but in this part of the city, high in the magnificent Life Tree of the Hylar, all seemed rebuilt and wondrous. Light poured in from the distant outer world, sliding into the city upon shafts of crystal. The gardens outside the Court of Thanes grew as richly as though they lay in an elven glade, but here, Kenan saw, gardens had only the seasons their gardeners wished them to have, for here light, temperature, and water were strictly under dwarven control. The crocus of winter grew happily beside the red rose of summer, and spring’s yellow jonquil nodded at the foot of a tall wisteria.
Kerian found it strangely unsettling, this confusion of seasons. She couldn’t imagine how they marked the passing of time beneath the mountain where the moon didn’t shine and the sun didn’t rise.
As she watched, the people of the vast underground city went forth and back, men, women, and scampering children about the business of their day. One child stopped, tugging at her mother’s skirts and pointing.
“Mam!” she cried, brown eyes wide above plump ruddy cheeks. “Look at that, look! An elf at the door!”
The dwarf woman hastily shushed the child. She turned her quickly away but not before others passing by noted and murmured at the sight. An elf at the door to the Court of Thanes!