Chane sagged. His first lone encounter was with a dwarf who did not speak Numanese. Even intimidation would gain him nothing. He slid Wynn's staff into the lashing on his own pack, mounting the whole of it onto his back, and then grabbed for his other pack, preparing to head out in search of an inn.
"Cheâ, âha a-chadléag silédí?" said the dwarf, jutting his broad chin at Wynn, and then glanced expectantly at Chane.
Chane shook his head in confusion.
The young dwarf huffed his own frustration. He slapped his hands together, fingers flush, then tilted them and laid his cheek against them. All through this, Shade quietly crept closer, staring fixedly at the dwarf. With his eyes closed, the young dwarf made a show of snoring. Then he opened his eyes, pointed at Wynn, and repeated insistently, "Chadléag!"
Shade bolted off up the tunnel, but Chane had no time for her nonsense.
"Yes … sleep!" he replied. "She needs sleep! Where … where do I go?"
"Kre?" said the dwarf.
Chane set down his second pack. He walked two fingers across the floor, mimicking someone on their way, and then pointed in every direction. Finally, he held up his hands in mock futility.
"Chad-lay-ag?" he tried to repeat.
The young dwarf chuckled. He slapped the floor, held up four fingers, and pointed to the tunnel roof.
Chane stared back in confusion. To make matters worse, somewhere behind him up the tunnel, Shade began barking.
The dwarf shook his head again. He walked his own fingers across the floor, and then up and up into the air in a steady rise. He slapped the floor, held up four fingers, and pointed upward again.
Chane finally understood, but it was not the best news. A place for Wynn to sleep was at least four levels up, possibly all the way to the tram level, if he had correctly counted the levels down.
Shade kept on with her noise.
"Be quiet!" Chane rasped, turning on one knee.
Shade snarled at him, pacing near the intersection. She then lunged partway down the tunnel, wheeled about, and rushed back to its end. She stood there rumbling before the side way's exit.
"You are an idiot," Chane whispered to himself, remembering how the dog had stared at the dwarf.
Shade already knew where to go. She had caught the young man's memories as he tried to make his instructions understood.
Chane hooked Wynn's legs and shoulders in his arms. The dwarf scooted forward, as if to help. Chane shook his head and rose up, towering over his happenstance guide. The young dwarf's expression blanked in surprise at how easily he bore all that he carried.
"Thank you," Chane said flatly with a nod.
The young dwarf acknowledged him silently in turn, and Chane hurried off, carrying Wynn.
Shade ducked into the mainway ahead of him, trotting too quickly. Then she suddenly stopped.
The instant Chane caught up, a twinge halted him as well—so quick it was but a feathery touch. Or rather it felt as if something should be there but was not, like stepping into an empty room that did not feel empty. Then it was gone.
Shade rumbled. Her sound broke and stuttered. The charcoal fur on her neck stood on end.
Chane held Wynn tighter against his chest. That presence, or lack of it … had it been there at all?
Shade fell silent and inched forward, swinging her lowered head side to side, and watching all ways with each step. Chane knew he was not the only one who had felt it. Something had been there, was not there but should have been, or …
He turned a full circle but felt nothing—truly nothing at all.
Chane had worn Welstiel's ring of nothing for moons. As much as it hid his nature and inner self from all unnatural detection, it also dulled his awareness as a Noble Dead. Taking it off in Shade's presence was not an option; she would instantly sense what he was. But was something near, something even Shade could not pinpoint?
Shade quieted and raised her head as if listening.
Wynn moaned in discomfort, and Chane took off down the mainway. Shade finally darted ahead to lead.
He had a long way to go, and hunger was beginning to weaken him. As they followed the wide turns to the upper levels, he walked as fast as he dared without breaking into a run. He was nearly to the top, or so he thought, when Wynn stirred in his arms and open her glazed eyes.
"Be still," he said. "Shade is leading us to a place where you can rest."
"I'm so sick," she whispered.
"I know."
She groaned when he shifted his arms; then her eyes widened. "My pack … where … do you have it?"
Chane halted on the sloping turn. He had not even thought about it; he had thought only of the staff. And now, he could not remember her pack in the passage when he had knelt next to her.
Then he did remember. Wynn had dropped her pack inside the smithy.
She struggled in his arms. "Put me down. Everything … my notes … elven quill … translations … someone will find them!"
Chane cursed under his breath—another oblivious stupidity on his part. For an instant, he considered abandoning the pack, but he could not. Wynn was right on every count. Her journals held recent notes of folklore research on undead, of their encounters with the wraith and pieces from the ancient texts … and the partial translation from his scroll.
It was all in her pack.
He had to get to it quickly before anyone stumbled upon it, digging inside to figure out where it had come from or to whom it belonged. Or worse, walked off with it, not even knowing what they had.
Chane trotted past Shade around the turn, entering one of the end caverns of a mainway tunnel. He spotted the first shop down the way with a thick stone archway, and he caught a hint of sea salt in the air. They had reached the uppermost level, though he had not noticed. Chane hurried over and set Wynn inside the door's shadowed archway.
"Shade will stay with you. I can go faster alone. Rest here and stay out of sight."
Wynn bit her lower lip, her sallow face scrunched in a grimace.
"I ruined our only real lead!" she whispered.
There was plenty of blame to share for this fouled exploit, but Chane had no time to console her. Wynn's head rolled back, and he feared she would be sick again, but she just leaned against the archway's cold stone.
"Shade!" Chane rasped, and pointed to Wynn. "Stay."
Shade wrinkled a jowl at him. The order was unnecessary, as the dog had never willingly left Wynn's side. Halfway to the end cavern and downward passage, Chane stopped one last time, gazing at Wynn's pretty face—so miserable.
As Chane backed away, Shade drew in next to Wynn. He turned and jogged back into the depths, his own emotions a puzzle to him.
For so long, he had tortured himself with visions of Wynn the sage, the perfect and pure scholar—the one he could never have. In his mind, she was always in clean gray robes, her brown hair tucked back, a parchment before her, a glowing cold lamp and a mug of mint tea nearby. Always studious, intellectual, inquisitive, she was so far above the human cattle of the world.
Yet this night, she had entertained a mass of common dwarves, performing for them—something he could not possibly have imagined. Now drunk, her own vomit staining her hands, she slumped in a doorway, bemoaning her mistakes.
This Wynn was nothing like the one in Chane's mind. Yet, he was driven to care for her, to protect her, even more than the one of his fantasies. He hated leaving her alone, but he kept hearing her words concerning all that was in her pack.
Someone will find them.
Chane rushed into a cavern where the downward-curving tunnel ended. He ran past the greeting house, counting off northbound passages until the fifth. He slowed near its mouth, looking inward. A full red glow spilled into the passage where the smithy was positioned.