Margaret Weis - Amber and Iron

Straightening, the two tried to appear at ease, as if they were completely unconscious of the fact they were standing on a stone floor awash in dragon’s blood, with the overturned basin of dragonmetal wobbling about at their feet.

The tall Caele looked down his long nose at Basalt, who glared up from beneath his heavy black brows at Caele.

“Tell him,” Caele mouthed.

“You tell him,” Basalt growled.

“Someone had better tell me, and tell me soon,” hissed Nuitari.

“Chemosh discovered the illusion,” Basalt said, trying to meet the god’s dark and unforgiving eye, and finding it difficult.

“He was coming straight at us,” Caele whined, “waving a huge sword. I told Basalt the god couldn’t harm us, but the dwarf panicked and insisted on ending the spell—”

“I didn’t insist that you upend the basin,” snapped Basalt.

“You were the one howling like a wounded wyvern—”

“You were just as scared as I was!”

Nuitari made an abrupt gesture with his hands.

Basalt, quailing, asked in a low voice, “Master, will Chemosh come to free her?”

No need to name which “her” he was talking about.

“Perhaps,” said Nuitari. “Unless the Lord of Death is more wise than he is obsessed.”

Caele looked sidelong at Basalt, who shrugged.

The god’s round moon face with its lidless eyes and full-lipped mouth held no expression. The mages could not tell if he was pleased or displeased, surprised, or alarmed, or simply bored with the whole procedure.

“Clean up the mess,” was all Nuitari said before he turned on his heel and walked out.

It took both Caele and Basalt to lift the heavy basin, which was in the shape of a serpentine dragon with the coiled tail forming the bowl, back onto the pedestal. Once the basin was in place, they stared down at the pool spreading across the stone tile floor.

“Should we try to salvage some of the blood?” Basalt asked. Dragon’s blood, especially that given by a willing dragon, was an extremely rare and valuable commodity.

Caele shook his head. “It’s been tainted now. Besides, the blood loses its potency for spellcasting after forty-eight hours. I doubt the Master will be attempting this spell again any time soon.”

“Well, then fetch rags and a bucket and we’ll—”

“I may be your underling, Basalt, but I am not your lapdog!” Caele returned angrily. “I do not fetch! Get your own rags and bucket. I must inspect the basin to see if it was damaged.”

Basalt grunted. The basin was made of dragonmetal. He could have dropped it off the top of the Lords of Doom, and it would land at the bottom without suffering a dent. He knew from experience, however, that he could either spend the next half hour in a bitter argument with Caele that the dwarf would never win, or he could go fetch the rags and bucket himself. The pantry where they kept such mundane objects was located some three levels from where they were standing, a long trek up and down the stairs for the dwarf’s short legs. Basalt considered magicking away the spilled blood or conjuring up rags. He rejected both, however, for fear Nuitari would find out.

Nuitari had forbidden his mages from using magic for trivial or frivolous tasks. He maintained that for a mage to use magic to wash his supper dishes was an insult to the gods. Basalt and Caele were expected to do their laundry, catch their food (one reason they had devised the contraption in which they had caught Mina), cook and clean—all without the benefit of spellcasting. Other mages who would eventually come to live in the Tower would have to live under the same restriction. They would be required to perform all such menial tasks with labor that was physical, not magical. Basalt stalked off on his errand, returning with aching calf muscles and in a bad mood.

He came back to find Caele amusing himself by drawing stick figures with his toe in the dragon’s blood.

“Here,” said Basalt, tossing Caele a rag. “Now that you’ve inspected the basin, you can clean it.”

Caele regretted not having taking advantage of the dwarf’s departure to leave. The half-elf had continued to hang about the spellcasting chamber in hopes that Nuitari would return and be impressed to find Caele taking such excellent care of the basin that was one of the god’s favorite magical artifacts. Since there was still a chance Nuitari might come back, Caele began to wipe away the remnants of dragon’s blood.

“So what did the master mean by Chemosh being wiser than he is obsessed?” asked Basalt. The dwarf was down on his hands and knees, scrubbing vigorously at the stained stone with a bristle brush.

“He’s obsessed with this Mina, that much is clear. That’s how we were able to perpetrate this fraud on him.”

“Something that I never understood anyway,” Basalt grumbled.

Caele, mindful that the Master might be in earshot, was effusive in his praise.

“Actually, I consider Nuitari’s ploy quite brilliant,” said the half-elf. “When we first captured Mina, the Master intended to use the threat of her death as a way to keep Chemosh’s mouth shut. Chemosh, you see, had threatened to tell Nuitari’s two cousins that he had secretly built this Tower and was trying to establish his own power base independent of them. He threatened to tell all the gods that the Master has in his possession a cache of holy artifacts belonging to each and every one of them.”

“But the threat of death didn’t work,” Basalt pointed out. “Chemosh abandoned Mina to her fate.”

“This is where the Master’s true brilliance shone,” said Caele. “Nuitari killed her as Chemosh watched, or rather, the Master pretended to kill her.”

Caele waited a moment, hoping Nuitari would enter and thank his faithful follower for the compliments. Nuitari did not come, however, and there was no sign he’d overheard the half-elf’s flattering remarks. Caele was growing bored with cleaning. He threw down the rag.

“There, I’m finished.”

Basalt stood up to inspect the job. “Finished! When did you start? Look at that. There’s blood in the scales around the tail, and in the eyes and teeth, and it’s seeped in all these little crevices between the scales—”

“That’s just the way the way the light hits it,” said Caele carelessly. “But if you don’t like it, do it yourself. I have to go study my spells.”

“This is precisely the reason why I was made Caretaker!” Basalt told Caele’s back as the half-elf was walking out the door. “You are a pig! All elves are pigs.”

Caele turned, enmity flickering m his slanted eyes. His fists clenched.

“I’ve killed men for such insults, dwarf.”

“You killed a woman for it, at least,” Basalt said. “Strangled her and pushed her off a cliff.”

“She got what she deserved and so will you, if you keep talking like that!”

“Like what? You have no love for elves yourself. You say worse than that about them all the time.” Basalt polished the basin, working the rag deep into the crevices.

“Since the bitch who gave birth to me was an elf, I can say what I like about them,” Caele retorted.

“Fine way to talk about your mother.”

“She did her part. She brought me into this world, and she had a good time doing it. At least I had a mother. I didn’t sprout up in a dark cave like some sort of fungus—”

“You go too far!” Basalt howled.

Just not far enough!” Caele hissed in fury, his long fingers twitching.

The dwarf threw the rag to the floor. The half-elf forgot about studying his spells. The two glared at each other. The air crackled with magic.

Nuitari, watching from the shadows, smiled. He liked his mages to be combative. It kept the sharp edges honed.