The halfling woman placed her forefinger before her lips and breathed out. In the dying light of late afternoon, Cephas was able to recognize that she was not a perfect double of the one by the grill, though the resemblance was uncanny.
The woman standing at his side lowered her hand and drew a cylindrical object from the pouch at her belt. Still moving in perfect silence, she handed this over to Cephas. It was a long sheet of some thin, fibrous material, and Cephas had a good idea what it was. Thinking of the tale of the Land-locked Marid, he gingerly unrolled the sheet. He whispered, without meaning to, “A scroll …”
The sisters-for they were clearly such-exchanged a quick, confused glance. The one next to Cephas, who wore her chestnut-colored hair to her shoulders whereas her sister’s was cropped close to the scalp, eyed Cephas uncertainly. She twirled the fingers of her left hand-Cephas noted that her right held a dagger-mimicking his unfurling of the scroll in a faster pantomime.
Complicated rows of black lines were inked onto the parchment. He showed the unrolled scroll to the women. “I’ve never held writing in my hands before,” he said, still unsure of their purpose but unable to believe they would give him a scroll
The sister closer to him opened her mouth and eyes wide, as clear an indication of surprise as any Cephas had ever seen on the canvas. In response, the other woman clapped her free hand against her forehead and shook her shoulders. Even though it was silent, Cephas recognized the halfling’s laughter.
“You thought I would be able to read this,” he said. “And now you mock me because I cannot. But it’s no fault of mine. Azad says that letters are for the free. If you are free women, then read me what is written here.”
They leveled long, inscrutable looks at each other. Then, as one, they kneeled before him and put their hands to the heavy scarves wrapped around their necks. As one, they lowered the scarves, and Cephas saw the flesh there was gray and lifeless. If these halfling sisters meant to mock him, they would have to find means other than taunts, for it was clear they had no voices.
There was a dwarf among the caravan guards up from Saradush-a greasy-bearded spearman with evil breath-and Azad sent for the man to serve as a translator. He did not want to depend on the strange dwarf whose Alzhedo was too flawless for Azad’s liking. Luckily, the guard was more or less sober, but his usefulness proved limited.
The man was awestruck by the pair, and, in any case, it grew apparent that the one Talid had claimed spoke only a Dwarvish tongue-this Legate Arnskull-had no plans to speak in Azad’s presence.
“He ain’t likely to start any time soon, neither, sir,” said the spearman, running dirty fingers through his beard. It took Azad a moment to realize that the man was actually attempting to groom himself. “Look at them runes on the legate’s armor. Look at the pattern of the gems in his beard-sapphire, then garnet, then sapphire, then diamonds colored like chalcedony. Sir, that is a lord out of legend sitting on your pillows there-one of the high councilors of Iltkazar; a prince of Old Shanatar, and liegeman to the Clanless King.”
The elderly dwarf with the mustache sat ignoring everyone in Azad’s quarters, sniffing at the plate of figs and dates Shaneerah had ordered brought, without deigning to let one pass his lips. Azad grabbed the caravan guard by the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet.
The other strange dwarf, who had not given a name and chuckled when Shaneerah suggested that he sheathe his sword, watched the Calishite with undisguised interest, and not a little amusement. Azad reminded himself that these fools-whoever they were-had elected to come alone and barely armed into
He shoved the spearman toward the exit. Shaneerah, standing guard beside it, opened the cedarwood door and hurried the dwarf along with a curse and a kick. Azad turned to the supposed legate’s bondsman, and said, “Your finery impressed that fool. But that’s still not to prove the old man is some kind of ambassador from the dwarves who built this place. If you thought he might encounter the forces who took the mote from your people, why would he come without an armed escort?”
“The legate’s mission, freedman,” said the dwarf, still using the archaic dialect of Alzhedo that the djinn of the deserts favored, “is one of investigation and research. The outpost that was here when you and your people arrived was
Azad glanced at the older dwarf’s supposed badges of rank. Sapphire, then garnet, then diamond, the spearman said. Yes, these dwarves could afford to buy anything Azad might be willing to sell.
“We put all the machines we’ve found to our own uses,” he said. “That’s why there is an arena for our fighters to meet upon. What if you’re after something we don’t wish to part with?”
The bondsman said, “The legate considered this possibility when we heard of the … imaginative way in which you deploy the furlers and the taps. Not to worry.” From his sleeve, the dwarf drew forth a small book, the gilded clasp of which was crafted not only to lock the cover, but to hold an ebony stylus topped with a ruby the size of a robin’s egg. “Should you have found a use for the particular instruments we wish to retrieve, I will simply execute a schematic, and the legate will re-create the devices upon our return to Iltkazar. You have been here for twenty years, after all,” he added. “The machines have no doubt suffered in your unskilled hands.”
“No doubt,” Azad agreed. “Which only leaves the question of why I shouldn’t let my dear wife relieve the legate of his enormously impressive mustache and send the two of you back to your holes with a warning to this clanless king that the next time he wants something from me, he should send a more impressive delegation.” Azad ran his hand over his own smooth chin. “The legate shouldn’t worry, of course. Shaneerah has a steady hand with a shaving razor.”
The pleasant expression on the standing dwarf’s face did not change. “The fee for merely studying the machines, instead of taking them with us when we leave, is, of course, smaller.” He still held the unadorned short sword loose at his side and made no moves with it, not even the idle gestures that would normally accompany conversation.
The old dwarf made a sign then. He waved the younger one over and indicated that he wanted to stand. The bondsman took one smooth step to his master, and, still not varying that loose, easy grip on his sword, extended his other arm. The legate made a wheezing noise as he pulled himself to his feet. The inelegant effort was painful to watch. He murmured something that reached only the younger dwarf’s ears.
“The legate wishes to begin our inventory of the mote’s machinery,” said the bondsman. “The sun begins to set, and he does not like to sleep above ground.”
The old dwarf produced a pair of silver canes, and began shuffling to the door, not even glancing in Azad’s direction. Azad started to speak, but to his surprise, Shaneerah interrupted him.
“There is a stairway cut out of the ground a few paces to the left. It is the closest,” she said, swinging the door open. “Please wait for me there, and I will take you down to the winch below our quarters. I ask that you not go down alone-the man working the machine will draw on you if I do not accompany you. I will be there in a moment.”
The legate never even slowed but simply hobbled through the door. Azad noted the old man did turn left, even though his bondsman had not offered a translation. The younger dwarf sketched a brief bow to Azad, then swept out the door.
Shaneerah put a hand on his shoulder, and Azad leaned his head over to kiss her weathered fingers. “You mean to kill them in the narrow spaces where the works are housed?” he asked.
His wife squeezed his shoulder, then withdrew her hand. “Oh, my husband,” she said, “did you never face any of the stout folk in the arena? Confine them in close quarters and they become twice as deadly. No, my love, your eye has grown dull if you believe that old man endangered himself coming here. I do not know what the one you called a ‘bondsman’ is, but I know my heart and head tell me he could kill us both with a thought.”
Though Cephas was trained to always think of gladiatorial combat as a show for a paying audience before anything else, at heart he was a warrior-the moves he made that elicited the guttural cheers and savage hisses of the unlawful arena crowds were theatrical because they were the moves he knew best. The nature of the arena
