Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“My lord!” protested the secretary.

“Never fear, Master Drollo,” Sithas said. “It would take far worse wind than this to upset a craft of this size.”

The ferry master tooted another command on his horn, and the turtle swung the barge around. Lord Dunbarth’s guard rattled from one bulwark to the other, and the horse team whinnied and shifted nervously as the deck moved beneath them. The mighty turtle butted his shell against the bow of the ferry and pushed it backward toward the dock. Elves on the dock guided the barge in with long poles. With a short, solid bump, the ferry was docked.

A ramp was lowered into the barge, and the dwarven guard mustered together to march ashore. They were much disheveled by the bumpy crossing. Plumes were broken off their helmets, capes were stained from the guards’ falls into the scupper, armor was scuffed, but with commendable dignity, the sixteen dwarves shouldered their battle-axes and marched up the ramp to dry land. The horses were re-hitched to the coach and, as whips cracked, they hauled the coach up the ramp.

It began to rain as they rolled through the streets. Dunbarth peered through the curtains at the fabled capital of the elves. White towers gleamed, even under the lowering sky. The peaks of the tallest—the Tower of the Stars and the Quinari Palace—were clothed in murky clouds. Dunbarth, his face as open with wonder as a child’s, admired the intricate spell-formed gardens, the graceful architecture, the almost musical harmony embodied by Silvanost’s sights. Finally, he drew the curtains tight to keep out the gusting rain, then turned his attention to Sithas.

“I know you are heir to the Speaker of the Stars, but how is it you have the task of greeting me, noble Sithas?” he asked diplomatically. “Isn’t it more usual for the younger son to receive foreign ambassadors?”

“There is no younger son in Silvanost,” Sithas replied calmly.

Dunbarth smoothed his iron-gray beard. “Forgive me, Prince, but I was told the speaker had two sons.”

Sithas adjusted the folds of his rain-spattered robes. “I have a twin brother, several minutes younger than I. His name is Kith-Kanan.” Saying the name aloud was strange for Sithas. Though his twin was seldom far from his thoughts, it had been a very long time since the prince had had reason to speak his name. He said it silently to himself: Kith-Kanan.

“Twins are most uncommon among the elven race,” Dunbarth was saying. With effort, Sithas focused on the conversation at hand. “Whereas, among humans, they are not at all uncommon.” Dunbarth lowered his gaze. “Where is your brother, speaker’s son?” he asked solemnly.

“He is in disgrace.” Dunbarth’s face registered only polite attention. Sithas inhaled deeply. “Do you know humans well?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

“I have made a number of journeys as emissary to the court of Ergoth. We’ve had many disputes with the humans over exchange rates of raw iron, copper, tin…but that’s ancient history.” Dunbarth leaned forward, close to Sithas. “It is a wise person who listens twice to everything a human says,” he said softly. “Their duplicity knows no bounds!”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Sithas responded.

By the time the coach arrived at the palace, the storm had strengthened. There was no flashing lightning or crashing thunder, but a swirling, howling wind drove buckets of rain through the city. The coach pulled up close to the north portico of the palace, where there was some shelter from the wind and rain. There, an army of servants stood poised in the downpour, ready to assist the ambassador with his luggage. Lord Dunbarth stepped heavily down from his conveyance, his short purple cape lashing in the wind. He doffed his extravagant hat to the assembled servants.

“My lord, I think we should dispense with the amenities for now,” Sithas shouted over the wind. “Our rainy season seems to have come early this year.”

“As you wish, noble prince,” Dunbarth bellowed.

Stankathan waited inside for the dwarven ambassador and Sithas. He bowed low to them and said, “Excellent lord, if you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters.”

“Lead on,” said Dunbarth grandly. Behind him, the drenched Drollo let out a sneeze.

The ground floor of the north wing housed many of the pieces of art that Lady Nirakina had collected. The delicate and lifelike statues of Morvintas, the vividly colored tapestries of the Women of E’li, the spell-molded plants of the priest Jin Falirus—all these lent the north wing an air of otherworldly beauty. As the dwarves passed through, servants discreetly mopped the marble floor behind them, blotting away all the mud and rainwater that had been tracked in.

Dunbarth and his entourage were lodged on the third floor of the north wing. The airy suite, with its curtains of gauze and mosaic tile floor in shades of gold and sea-green, was quite unlike any place in the dwarven realm of Thorbardin. The ambassador stopped to stare at a two-foot-long wooden model of a dove poised over his bed. When Drollo set Dunbarth’s bags on the bed, the cloth-covered wings of the dove began to beat slowly, wafting a gentle breeze over the bed.

“By Reorx!” exclaimed the secretary. Dunbarth exploded with laughter.

“A minor spell,” Stankathan explained hurriedly. “Activated when anything or anyone rests on the bed. If it bothers your lordship, I shall have it stopped.”

“No, no. That’s quite all right,” Dunbarth said merrily.

“If you require anything, my lord, simply ring the bell,” said Stankathan.

The elves withdrew. In the hallway beyond Dunbarth’s closed door, Stankathan asked when the human delegation was expected.

“At any time,” answered Sithas. “Keep the staff alert.”

The major-domo bowed. “As you command, sire.”

Lord Dunbarth dined that night with the Speaker of the Stars in a quiet, informal dinner that included only the closest confidantes of both sides. They talked for a long time about nothing of importance, taking the measure of each other. Lady Nirakina, in particular, seemed to find the elderly dwarf engaging.

“Are you married, my lord?” she asked at one point.

“No; Lady, never again!” Dunbarth boomed. He shrugged. “I am a widower.”

“I am sorry.”

“She was a good wife, my Brenthia, but a real terror at times.” He drained a full cup of elven nectar. Smoothly, a servant stepped forward to refill his goblet.

“A terror, my lord?” asked Hermathya, intrigued.

“Quite so, Lady. I remember once she burst into the Council of Thanes and dressed me down for being late for supper five nights in a row. It took years for me to live that down, don’t you know. The Daewar faction used to taunt me, when I was speaking in the council, by saying, ‘Go home, Ironthumb, go home. Your dinner is ready.’ ” He laughed loudly, his deep bass voice echoing in the nearly empty Hall of Balif.

“Who are these Daewar?” asked Hermathya. “They sound rude.”

“The Daewar are one of the great clans of the dwarven race,” Sithel explained smoothly. He prided himself on his knowledge of dwarves and their politics. “You are yourself of the Hylar clan, are you not, Lord Dunbarth?”

The ambassador’s blue eyes twinkled with happy cunning. “Your Highness is most knowledgeable. Yes, I am Hylar, and cousin to many kings of Thorbardin.” He slapped a blunt hand on the back of his secretary, who was seated on his right. “Now, Drollo here, is half-Theiwar, which accounts for his dark looks and strange temperament.” Drollo looked studiously at his plate and said nothing.

“Is it usual for dwarves to marry outside their class?” asked Sithas curiously.

“Not really. Speaking of such things,” Dunbarth said languorously, “I hear tales that some elves have married humans.”