3
Even in the glare of the noonday sun, the Tokoloshe embassy appeared only slightly less sinister than it did in night’s darkness. The monoliths, the squat, cubical building and the barren grounds were all a uniform shade of gray, as though all other colors had been leached away from them long ago.
From the outside, it was difficult to imagine that anyone could – or would even want to – reside in the grim edifice, which was devoid of any sign of an entrance. It was as though a god or giant had sculpted a perfect cube of granite, put it down, and walked away, never returning to retrieve it.
Life itself seemed unwelcome in this forbidding place. Yet inside and underground, the Tokoloshes’ domain teemed with activity.
Pale light suffused the interior of the embassy. The torches in the walls were not burning; the light was cast from incandescent balls that floated among the stalactites hanging from the roof. These spheres did not serve as receptacles for disembodied faces from the Tokoloshe homeland; illumination was their only purpose.
In the main hall, a feast was underway. The Tokoloshes’ guests were the Dwarven people from the White Gull. Similar feasts had been held almost every day since the outlanders’ ship had appeared out of the mist. For the Dwarven, it was as though they had already entered the paradise the Seer said awaited all Almovaads after they died. Some dwarves had joined the new religion; others had not. But all, Believers and non-Believers alike, took part in the revelries their hosts provided.
The main table was laden with plates heaped high with meat – mostly beef and quagga, but also wild game, including buffalo, zebra and elephant. The Tokoloshe had quickly learned that the dwarves shared their taste for well-cooked meat, as well as hearty appetites that belied their short stature. Along with the meat, the guests quaffed talla and kef from stone cups.
Tokoloshe women, who were never seen outside the embassy, kept the dwarves’ plates and cups filled. Their squat bodies were scantily clad, and beads bedecked their long, frizzy hair. They did not appear to mind the way the visitors’ hands wandered across their bodies while the food was being served. Indeed, the Tokoloshe men encouraged their guests to take such liberties.
A drumbeat boomed through the hall: slow, steady, unchanging, with none of the elaborate rhythms favored by humans. The slow, steady beat was familiar to the Fidi Dwarven. But never before had they seen a drum like the one the Tokoloshe musician played.
Hewn from the trunk of a massive tree, the instrument stood on four legs anchored by feet in Tokoloshe shape. At each end of the drum, a Tokoloshe face had been carved. A narrow slot ran down the top of the instrument. The drummer pounded out his hypnotic beat with sticks as thick as a bull’s leg bone. In the dim light cast by the spheres, the legs and face of the drum sometimes appeared to move.
Rumundulu looked at the dwarf who sat in the place of honor next to him. Although they were still learning each other’s languages, he had discovered much about the outlander, whose name was Hulm Stonefist. And he had found out even more about Hulm’s people.
He learned that they preferred to dwell under the ground in caverns and tunnels, as did the Tokoloshe. He learned that while they were not immortal, the dwarves were much longer-lived than humans – as were the Tokoloshe. He learned that the newcomers valued plain stone above gems and precious metals – as did the Tokoloshe.
But there were also differences ... differences that ran deeper than the shade of the two peoples’ complexions.
All Tokoloshe were born with the potential to perform sorcery. Some possessed greater abilities than others, but the gift was present in all. It was an advantage that offset the numerical superiority of the humans during their long history together.
Among the Dwarven people of Cym Dinath, however, magical talent rarely appeared, and was seldom nurtured when it did. However, Rumundulu was inclined to believe the dwarves’ capacities were latent rather than absent, needing only stimulation and tutelage to blossom.
The other difference lay in the dwarves’ fertility. While not nearly as prolific as the fecund humans, the Dwarven birth rate greatly exceeded that of the Tokoloshe. And the Tokoloshe found that fact to be of great interest indeed.
A Tokoloshe woman poured talla into Hulm Stonefist’s cup. Her breasts brushed against his shoulder as she bent to serve him. Hulm’s eyes were drawn to the tuft of hair that grew in the cleft between them – a sight that was stimulating to Tokoloshes and Dwarven alike.
The woman smiled at Hulm as she walked away. And she exchanged a secret glance with Rumundulu – an acknowledgement of the promise she and the other women had made when the Tokoloshe became aware of the existence of others of their kind.
Rumundulu drank deeply. His talla did not contain the ingredient that had been added to what the dwarves were quaffing. The ingredient was by no means harmful; its purpose was merely to increase the concupiscence the Tokoloshes’ guests were already experiencing.
“She likes you, my friend,” Rumundulu said.
“I know,” Hulm said, a broad grin splitting his face.
He took another swallow, and his eyes tracked the woman as she made her way across the room. Rumundulu’s elbow nudged him with enough force to have knocked a human off the bench. Hulm merely grinned even wider as he rose and followed the woman as she walked through a door that led to another, darkened chamber.
Behind him, the Tokoloshe smiled knowingly.
4
Under the diffuse illumination of the Moon-Stars, Sehaye stuffed a message-tube down the gullet of yet another gede. He had sent many such messages to the Uloas since the day the Fidi ship had appeared out of the mist. He had written about the ease with which the newcomers had been accepted
