But he must not! He must not lose his self-control. For after all, among craftsmen, Frahel, may the forest flame tear out his liver, was one of the small number of Masters with a capital M. Only this dwarf was capable of creating what the race of elves required.
“Well, there’s no doubt about that. Every race has its shortcomings,” the dwarf continued. “For instance, take our cousins, the gnomes, curse them, every one. They don’t know how to do anything except mine ore and drill corridors in the rock. They’ve never created a single thing, the rotten idlers!”
“Let us not discuss your relatives,” Elodssa said hurriedly.
“That’s right, we won’t talk about relatives,” the dwarf grunted, getting up from his workbench. “You and the orcs have been slitting each other’s throats since time out of mind, and you still can’t simmer down.”
At this point Elodssa was obliged to grit his teeth. Frahel was openly mocking him, in the realization that if the elf had endured the preceding insults, he would endure this one, too, and many others as well.
“Very well, very well, my worthy sir elf,” the master craftsman said, raising his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “I know I have touched on a sore spot, and I apologize for it. But as for your little proposal . . . It is very tempting but, alas, impossible.”
“Why?”
“I do not have that much talent.”
“Oh, come now,” the elf said with an irritable frown. “My dear Master Frahel, modesty becomes you as the absence of a beard becomes a gnome.”
The dwarf imagined the gnomes without their beards and appreciated the joke.
“Master Frahel’s fame resounds throughout the northern lands of Siala. Was it not you who created the magic bell and the suit of arms for the emperor? Who else should the elfin houses turn to? Vrahmel? He is too greedy, so he will damage the material. Smerhel? His fame as a craftsman is somewhat greater than he deserves. Or perhaps we should pester Irhel? But he has not a shred of talent. Dear master, for our commission we need the very best. You!”
When the elf said that the finest master craftsmen of the dwarves were not capable of doing anything, he was lying in the desire to flatter this obstinate dwarf. Frahel found the flattery to his liking, and he thawed somewhat.
“Well then,” he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “perhaps I will take on this little commission of yours when I have some free time. You can see for yourself . . .”
He gestured casually at the tables crammed with jobs and feigned an expression of regret.
The elf was not at all disconcerted by this little performance. Frahel was simply trying to push his price up.
“We cannot afford to wait. The doors have already been made and now we need a key. At least one.”
“They need a key,” the dwarf grumbled, casting a quick glance at the elf. “You’re masters when it comes to hammering together the doors for your underground palaces. But as soon as you need a little key made, you come running to the dwarves. I’m not even sure that it will work. Our types of magic are too different.”
“Of course, that is so,” Elodssa said with a polite smile. “But that is why the elves have come to you and no one else. Only you are capable of creating an artifact fitting for the Twin-Door level.”
“All right!” the dwarf agreed in a slightly irritable tone. “I can do it. But the key has to be special. I think you know what I mean. The material must be worthy of the doors. I don’t have anything suitable, and I don’t know how long it will take to obtain it.”
“I think I can help you there.” The elf took a long, elegant case out of his bag and handed it to the dwarf.
“Hmm! Red Zagraban cherry?” said the master craftsman, turning the wooden case over in his immense hands, and then he slowly opened it.
Inside there was a small black velvet bag tied with a golden thread. The dwarf snorted in annoyance. These elves loved all sorts of frills and flourishes. They couldn’t just give you something, they had to bundle it up in a hundred wrappings, and then you had to unwrap them!
But Frahel’s annoyance evaporated without a trace when he saw what he had been given.
A large, long, dirty-white stone of irregular form. At first glance it was nothing special—there were plenty of cobbles like that to be found on the bank of any river. But that was only at first glance. If it was worked with skill, this stone would become a genuine treasure: a bright gem that would glitter in the light, sparkling with all the colors in creation. This was the magical child of the mountains, the rarest of stones, which the earth only surrendered to alien hands with the greatest reluctance.
“A dragon’s tear! And such a huge one!” The old dwarf’s face glowed with rapturous delight. “But where did you get it from? The last time we found this mineral was more than two hundred years ago!”
“This stone has belonged to my house for more than a thousand years,” the elf replied. “In those days dragon’s tears were found far more often than now. The House of the Black Flame bought it in your mountains.”
“The dwarves would never have sold such a treasure!” Frahel protested indignantly.
“The gnomes sold it to us,” the elf admitted.
“Those bearded midgets!” Coming from a dwarf who was only slightly taller than a gnome, these
