The air this far below the upper reaches seemed to have been trapped here for centuries. It was stagnant, hot, and humid. The rains that fell in torrents above trickled below, filtered through innumerable branches and leaves and moss beds. The water was not clear and sparkling, but had a brownish cast to it and tasted strongly of moss. It was a different, dismal world and after a penton’s [19] traveling, the humans in the party grew heartily sick of it. The elf, always interested in new places, found it rather exciting and maintained his usual cheerful demeanor.
The trail had not been built to accommodate loaded caravans, however. Often, the vines, trees, and brush were so thick that the tyros could not crawl through with the packs on their hard-shelled backs. This meant that the three had to remove the loaded baskets, lug them through the jungle by hand, all the while cajoling the tyros into following them.
Several times, the path came to a halt at the edge of a bed of shaggy gray moss and plunged downward into even deeper darkness; no bridges had been built connecting the way. Again, the tyros had to be unloaded so that they could spin their webs and float down. The heavy baskets had to be lowered by hand.
Up above, the two men-arms nearly breaking-braced themselves and slowly paid out the rope, lowering the baggage through the air. Most of the heavy work fell to Roland. Paithan’s slender body and light musculature were of little help. Eventually he took the job of fixing the rope around a tree limb and holding it fast, while Roland-with a strength that seemed marvelous to the elf-handled the lowering by himself.
They dropped Rega down first, to be on hand to untie the baskets as they were lowered and to keep an eye on the tyros to be certain they didn’t crawl off. Standing at the bottom of the cliff in the stagnant gray-green darkness, alone, hearing growls and snufflings and the sudden, hair-raising call of the vampire sloth, Rega gripped her raztar and cursed the day she’d let Roland talk her into this. Not only because of the danger, but because of another reason-something completely unforeseen, unexpected. Rega was falling in love.
“Dwarves really live in places like this?” asked Paithan, looking up, up, up and still not being able to see the sun through the tangled, dark mass of moss and tree limbs overhead.
“Yeah,” said Roland shortly, not particularly eager to discuss the issue, afraid that the elf might ask more questions about the dwarves than he-Roland-was prepared to answer.
The three were resting after encountering the steepest drop yet. Their hempen ropes had barely been long enough, and even then Rega’d been forced to climb up a tree and untie the baskets, which were left hovering some three feet off the ground.
“Why, your hands are covered with blood!” Rega exclaimed.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Paithan, looking ruefully at his palms. “I slipped coming down that last length of rope.”
“It’s this damn wet air,” muttered Rega. “I feel like I’m living under the sea. Here, let me treat those for you. Roland, dear, can you bring me some fresh water.”
Roland, slumped wearily on the gray moss, glared at his “wife”: Why me?
Rega shot her “husband” a vicious, sidelong look. Getting me alone with him was your idea.
Roland, glowering, rose to his feet and stomped off into the jungle, carrying the waterskin with him.
Now was the perfect time for Rega to continue her seduction of the elf. Paithan obviously admired her, treating her with unfailing courtesy and respect. In fact, she had never met a man who treated her so well. But holding the slim white hands with long graceful fingers in her own short, stubby-fingered brown hands, Rega felt suddenly shy and awkward as a young girl at her first village dance.
“Your touch is very gentle,” said Paithan.
Rega blushed hotly and glanced up at him from beneath her long, black eyelashes. Paithan was regarding her with an unusual expression for the carefree elf-his eyes were grave, serious.
I wish you weren’t another man’s wife.