Margaret Weis - Elven Star

“Hey, Blackbeard, what are you doing—getting cqsy with my wife, huh?” Roland eased himself back down at the table. Another mug awaited him, and he drank deeply.

Noting the shocked and darkening scowl on Blackbeard’s face, Rega gave Roland a swift and painful kick beneath the table. “We were discussing legends, dear. I’ve heard it said that dwarves are fond of songs. My husband has an excellent voice. Perhaps, sir, you would like to hear the ‘Lay of Thillia’? It tells the story of the lords of our land and how the five kingdoms were formed.” Blackbeard’s face brightened, “Ya, I would like to hear it” Rega thanked the stars she had spent time digging up everything she could about dwarven society. Dwarves do not have a fondness for music. They have an absolute passion for it. All dwarves play musical instruments, most of them have excellent singing voices and perfect pitch. They have only to hear a song once to catch the melody and need hear it only a second time to pick up the words.

Roland had an excellent tenor voice, and he sang the hauntingly beautiful lay with exquisite feeling. The people in the bar hushed to hear him, and there were many among the rough crowd who wiped their eyes when the song came to the end. The dwarf listened with rapt attention and Rega, sighing, knew that they had another satisfied customer.

Rega concluded the story. “Thillia’s body was recovered and placed in a sacred shrine in the center of the realm in a place that belongs equally to all five kingdoms. The bodies of her lovers were never recovered, and from this sprang the legend that some day, when the, nation is in dire peril, the brothers will come back and save their people.”

“I liked that!” shouted the dwarf, thumping the table with his hand to express his appreciation. He actually went so far as to tap Roland on the forearm with a stubby finger; the first time in five days the dwarf had ever touched either human. “I like that very much-Have I got the tune?” Blackbeard hummed the melody in a deep bass.

“Yes, sir! Exactly!” cried Roland, much amused. “Would you Bice me to teach you the words?”

“I have them. Up here.” Blackbeard tapped his forehead. “I am a quick student.”

“I guess so!” said Roland, winking at the woman. Rega grinned back.

“I would like to hear it again, but I must be going,” said Blackbeard with true regret, shoving himself up from the table. “I must tell my people the good news.” Sobering for a moment, he added, “They will be greatly relieved.” Putting his hands on a belt around his waist, the dwarf unbuckled it and flung it on the table. “There is half the money, as we agreed. The Other half on delivery.”

Roland’s hand closed swiftly over the belt and pushed it across to Rega. She opened it, glanced inside, made a swift eye count, and nodded.

“Fine, my friend,” said Roland, not bothering to stand up. “We’ll meet you at the agreed-on place in late Fallow.”

Afraid that the dwarf might be offended, Rega rose to her feet and extended her hand—palm open to show there was no Weapon—in the age-old human gesture of friendship. The dwarves have no such custom; there had never been a time when dwarves fought each other. Blackbeard had been around humans long enough to know that this pressing together of palms was significant. He did what was expected of him and hurriedly left the tavern, wiping his hand on his leather jerkin and humming the tune to the “Lay of Thillia” as he walked.

“Not bad for a night’s work,” said Roland, buckling the money belt around his waist, cinching it in, for his waist was torn and the dwarf was robust.

“No thanks to you!” Rega muttered. The woman drew the raztar [13] Originally a child’s toy known as a bandalore, the raztar was made into a weapon by the elves. A round case that fits snugly in the palm holds seven wooden blades attached to a magical spindle. A coiled length of cutvine, wrapped around the spindle, is looped around the middle finger. A quick Scfc of the wrist sends the spindle lashing out, blades magically extended. Another flick pulls the weapon, blades shut, back into the hand. Those skilled in the art can send the weapon out as far as ten feet, the flashing blades ripping through flesh before the opponent knows what’s hit him. from its round scabbard she wore on her thigh and made a show of sharpening all seven blades, glancing meaningfully at those in the inn who were taking just a bit too much interest in their affairs. “I pulled your fat out of the fire. Blackbeard would’ve walked out, if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Ah, I could’ve cut his beard off and he wouldn’t have dared take offense. He can’t afford to.”

“You know,” added Rega in an unusually somber and reflective mood, “he was really, truly frightened.”

“So he was frightened? All the better for business. Sis,” said Roland briskly. Rega glanced around sharply, then leaned forward. “Don’t call me ‘Sis’! Soon we’ll be traveling with that elf, and one little slip like that will ruin everything!”

“Sorry, ‘Wifey, dear.’” Roland finished off the kegrot, and shook his head regretfully when the barmaid glanced his way. Carrying this much money, he needed to remain relatively alert. “So the dwarves are planning an attack on some human settlement. Probably the SeaKings. I wonder if we couldn’t sell our next shipment to them.”