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said, from scrying and
probings of the mind, and suchlike. So we can all sing songs and have too much
to drink well into the
morning."
"Stout one," Delg murmured, "if you keep on like this, it will be morning."
Mirt rolled his eyes in silent reply and waved at them to accompany him. They
followed the stout,
wheezing old adventurer down into a little gully in the rocks, where several
dark doorways opened out
of crumbling wallsthe cellars of now-vanished buildings. Mirt shambled toward
one opening.
Shandril yawned, stumbled, and almost fell. Narm rushed to hold her up and
found her swaying with
weariness, almost asleep on her feet.
Mirt wheezed up close to them, peered into Shandril's sleepy face, and sighed.
"The problem with
ladies, lad," he remarked to Narm, "is that they take all the fun out o'
things. After, that is, they've put
most of the fun into things, I grant."
He lurched on into the darkness. "Mind yer step, now. The best adventures
begin when yer boots step
proper and sure along some path or other to glory. . . ."
When Shandril opened her heavy, sleep-encrusted eyes again, the light told her
that it was late
afternoon. She sat up with a start, fearing that something had gone very
wrong. They should have been
up and away from here at the first light of morning. Narm's cloak fell from
her; underneath it, she wore
only her breeches.
Narm smiled reassuringly at her from nearby, where he sat in the arch of an
old, ruined stone window,
his spellbook on his lap.
"What happened?" she demanded to know, pulling on her boots and getting up.
Where was her tunic?
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"You needed sleep-sleep you didn't get enough of, after all your fire-hurling.
So we let you sleep.
Delg's been fishing most of the day in some pools at the other end of the
ruins."
Shandril strode to him. "Fishing?"
"Aye-he said he wanted to be done before you were ready to bathe in the same
water." Narm grinned-
and then ducked aside to get his spellbook out of the way of her friendly
fists.
She pummeled him playfully, until he caught her wrists. They rolled over,
chuckling and straining to
slap and tickle each other-until their struggles took them over the sill of
the window, to a hard and
graceless landing on the turf below
Delg stumped toward them in dripping triumph, gleaming fish gasping and
flapping in both hands. He
raised an eloquent eyebrow.
Shandril met his gaze, blushed, and said, "It's not what you think."
"Oh, no," Mirt said in jolly derision, from behind the dwarf. "Of course not.
. ."
Shandril scrambled to her feet. "Well, it's not," she said indignantly and
marched back to where she'd
lain. She turned, a dangerous look in her eye, and stood with hands on hips to
glare at them all. "What
have you done with my tunic?"
Then she met Mirt's appraising eyes, blushed, and covered herself with her
arms. Delg kept his eyes
carefully on hers, and said, "It's drying, on the rocks yonder. It took me
awhile to find the right plants
to scrub your smell out of it with."
"My smell?" Shandril sighed; she just didn't have any more energy left to be
indignant. She turned to
snatch up
Narm's cloak-but stopped, staring.
"Look," she said in tones of wonder, then reached out a hand.
"Don't!" Delg flung his fish down and shoved her roughly aside. "In strange
places, girl, don't reach for
things barehanded."
Fast as the dwarf was, Mirt was faster. The fat merchant strode around them
both, boots flapping, and
plucked up what had caught Shandril's eye. It had lain among the stones beside
where her head had
been the night through. They all saw it then-a teardrop-shaped gem, smooth and
hard and iridescent,
like the still-wet scales of the fish Delg had dropped in his haste to stop
Shandril. It winked and
sparkled in Mirt's hand.
As he turned it, the colors in the heart of the gem mirrored the rainbow and
seemed to flash and swirl
like liquid in a glass goblet. "My, but it's a beautiful thing," the fat man
said softly. The gods must have
left it here for ye to find, lass."
He held it out toward her; Delg gave a hoarse exclamation and grabbed it from
him. "Look!" One
stubby finger pointed at a tiny, exquisite engraving on the curving flank of
the stone: a harp between
the points of a crescent moon, with four stars spaced around. "The sign of the
Harpers!"
Shandril reached for it, and he laid it gently in her cupped hands.
"Aye, keep it, lass-it cannot be a bad thing." The dwarf turned to rake Mirt
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with a keen look. "D'you
know what sort of gem it is?"
The fat man nodded. Aye. A rogue stone."
The dwarf nodded, eyeing him suspiciously. "I wonder how it came to be here?"
he asked.
Mirt shrugged, smiled slightly, and looked up at the sky. "The gods work in
strange ways, their wisdom
hidden from us 'til after they're done," he quoted, in the manner of a pompous
priest.
Narm thought Delg would bristle at that hoary old saying, but the dwarf only
smiled and said, "Keep
that stone safe, lass-and not worn openly, for all to see. You'd best leave it
with your lad while you
wash-if you go down with him now, we'll have these fish ready when you're
done."
Shandril smiled happily and did as she was bid.
The fire crackled, dying to hot red-glowing coals. Delg poked at it, and then
went to his pack, which
lay among the rocks. Well back from the coals, Narm sat beside a small
candle-lamp, intent on his
spellbook. Mirt stood watch somewhere off in the darkness.
Shandril, comfortable for the first time in what seemed like days, lay at ease
?in the warmth of the fire.
No spellfire roiled or tingled within her, she was at peace with the world.
She looked up as Delg bent
over her-and sighed at his intent expression. She could hardly believe she'd
once been hungry for
adventure, now it seemed as if it would never let her alone.
"Lass," the dwarf said in low tones, unwrapping dark cloth from something he'd
dredged out of his
pack. "We need you to have spellfire. Touch this."
Wondering, Shandril peered at what he held. It was long, massive, and black-a
dwarven war hammer. It
looked ancient, made for brutal killing. From the deep cracks running across
it and the bands of beaten
metal that held it together, it looked to have seen use in some mighty
battles. Awed, Shandril laid a
finger on it to trace a curving crack-and felt the tingling of magic.
She looked up at Delg. "Oh, no. Delg, I couldn't." He
looked back at her, his intent expression unchanged. "It must be old, and
precious to you," Shandril
added softly. "I've never seen it, not in all the days since you first came to
the inn with the company."
"It's a lump of forged metal, lass-my friends are far more precious to me than
things 1 can make, and
make again." "You made this?"
"No-'tis ancient, lass; a war hammer of the Ironstar clan. It's about the only
magic I have left."
Shandril looked at him, shocked. "I can't, Delg! Not your only magic-it must
have cost you dearly."
Delg put a hand on hers. "Do you ... are you my friend, Shan?" He seemed to
find the words difficult.
Shandril reached out a hand to stroke his bearded jaw. "Of course, Delg. You
know that." Impulsively,
she leaned forward and kissed his grizzled cheek.
The dwarf harrumphed and shifted on his haunches. 'Then, please, Shan-take the
magic out o' this old
thing . . . I've a bad feeling that we'll all be needing it, right soon now.
Please?"
Reluctantly, staring into his beseeching eyes, Shandril grasped the cold, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]