When Drugar came to, he found himself lying in a partially collapsed section of tunnel, the bodies of several of his men lying on top of him. Shoving the corpses aside, he paused to listen, to see if he could hear any sign of life.
There was only silence, dreadful, ominous. For the rest of his life, he would hear that silence and with it the words that whispered in his heart.
“No one …”
“I will take you to your people,” said Drugar suddenly, the first words he’d spoken in a long, long while.
The humans and the elf ceased their bickering, turned, and looked at him.
“I know the way.” He gestured into the deeper darkness. “These tunnels . . . lead to the border of Thillia. We will be safe if we stay down here.”
“All that way! Under . . . down here!” Rega blenched.
“You can go back up!” Drugar reminded, gesturing.
Rega looked up, gulped. Shivering, she shook her head.
“Why?” Roland demanded.
“Yes,” said Paithan. “Why would you do this for us?”
Drugar stared up at them, the flame of hatred burning, consuming him. He hated them, hated their skinny bodies, their clean-shaven faces; hated their smell, their superiority; hated their tallness.
“Because it is my duty,” he said.
Whatever happens to a single dwarf, happens to all.
Drugar’s hand, hidden beneath his flowing beard, slipped inside his belt, the fingers closed over a sloth-bone hunting dagger. Terrible joy flared up in the dwarf’s heart.
CHAPTER 21
TREETOPS, EQUILAN
“AND HOW MANY PEOPLE DO YOU THINK YOUR SHIP WILL CARRY?” INQUIRED Zifnab.
“Carry where?” asked Haplo, cautiously.
“Come fly with me. Up, up, and away in my beautiful baboon. Gone with the wind. Somewhere over the rainbow. I get no kick from champagne. . . . No, wrong verse.”
“Look, sir, my ship isn’t going anywhere-”
“Well, of course it is, dear boy. You’re the savior. Now, let’s see.” Zifnab began to count on his fingers, muttering to himself. “The Tribus elves had a flight crew of mpfpt and you add the galley slaves and that’s mrrk and any passengers would be mpfpt plus mrrk, carry the one-”
“What do you know about Tribus elves?” demanded Haplo.
“-and the answer is . . .” The old wizard blinked. “Tribus elves? Never heard of ’em.”
“You brought them up-”
“No, no, dear boy. Your hearing’s gone. Such a young man, too. Pity. Perhaps it was the flight. You must have neglected to pressurize the cabin properly. Happens to me all the time. Deaf as a doorknob for days. I distinctly heard myself say ‘tribe of elves’. Pass the brandywine, please.”
“No more for you, sir,” intoned a voice, rumbling through the floor. The dog, lying at Haplo’s feet, lifted its head, hackles raised, fur bristling, growling in its throat.
The old man hastily dropped the decanter. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, somewhat shamefacedly. “That’s just my dragon. He thinks he’s Ronald Coleman.”
“Dragon,” repeated Haplo, looking around the parlor, glancing out the windows. The runes on his skin itched and tingled with danger. Surreptitiously, keeping his hands hidden beneath the white linen tablecloth, he slid aside the bandages, prepared to use his magic to defend himself.
“Yes, dragon,” snapped an elven woman peevishly. “The dragon lives beneath the house. Half the time he thinks he’s the butler and the other half he’s terrorizing the city. Then there’s my father. You’ve met him. Lenthan Quindiniar. He’s planning to take us all to the stars to see my mother, who’s been dead for years. That’s where you come in, you and your winged contraption of evil out there.”
Haplo glanced at his hostess. Tall and thin, she was straight up and down, all angles, no curves, and stood and sat and walked stiff as a Volkaran knight in full armor.
“Don’t talk like that about Papa, Callie,” murmured another elven woman, who was admiring her reflection in a window. “It isn’t respectful.”
“Respectful!” Calandra rose from her seat. The dog, nervous already, sat up and growled again. Haplo laid a soothing hand on the animal’s head. The woman was so furious she never noticed. “When you are ‘Lady Durndrun’ miss, you can tell me how to talk, but not before!”