Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

“How? Fly past the sun? Impossible!” Voices murmured disbelief and outright shock, sounds that slowly faded as the dragon raised his head and, once again, looked lordly and imperial.

“I will make the attempt,” he informed them. “And I shall have a little help. Perhaps my counselor would be good enough to explain?”

For the first time Natac saw that Socrates, far from daydreaming, was paying very close attention. The scholarly druid came forward and shrugged his shoulders tentatively. “There are forces hammering upon the Fourth Circle, as we all know. Most notably, the Worldfall.

“But less is understood of the counter to that force, in the region of Winecker. My analysis has shown that there are periods of great upheaval there, especially of wind. This, I believe, is air swelling upward in response to the power of the Worldfall. It is theoretically possible that someone-a flyer, of course-could exploit this upward current of air, riding it even beyond the Fourth Circle, perhaps all the way to the Overworld.”

“Theoretically?” declared Natac. “But practically speaking, you’ll burn up as you go past the sun!” Why did it seem as though all those he cherished were determined to throw their lives away on doomed, foolish quests?

“Not necessarily,” Regillix Avatar demurred. “It will be hot, certainly, but I may survive. And in any event, I intend to try.”

The Goat Hair Inn was a worker’s tavern, the kind of place Darann had rarely entered. She was grateful to have Konnor at her side as they passed through the door and seemed to draw every eye toward them. There were two or three dozen patrons, loosely assembled into groups at the low, stone tables; males outnumbered females by at least three to one.

She heard a low whistle of appreciation, but when Konnor took her arm, the other dwarves turned back to their conversation. The pair made their way between the tables to the bar, where the burly innkeeper was busy wiping out mugs with a somewhat grimy towel.

“What’ll wet ye down today?” he asked.

Darann was about to ask about Greta Weaver, when Konnor pinched her arm and spoke. “We’ll take a couple of ales from the cold cellar,” he said pleasantly, dropping a gold coin onto the bar.

“Ah, the good stuff,” replied the bartender.

As he went to draw the mugs, she leaned close to Konnor. “We’re in a hurry, remember?”

“Yes,” he replied calmly. “But we’ll stand a much better chance of finding out what we need to know if we’re happy customers, not strangers who come in asking a bunch of questions.”

The wisdom of her companion’s words was proven a short time later, when Darann found out that Greta Weaver had a room upstairs and that she had returned an hour ago from her job in the Royal Tower. “We don’t rub elbows wi’ the lordly types down here, not too much,” the bartender explained. “But she’s up there reg’lar, even sees the king now and then!”

They finished their drinks in a hurry and went up the stairs at the back of the common room, to the third door on the right, the room described by their host. Darann knocked quietly.

“Wh-who’s there?”

“Greta? Greta Weaver?” asked Darann, responding to the tremulous voice. “Can you open up? I need to talk to you.”

“No… go away,” replied the pailslopper.

“Please… its important. It’s a matter of life and death-not for you, but for a thousand, ten thousand, of our friends at the bottom of the hill!” She was pleading now, casting about for the right words, desperate to reach the frightened dwarfmaid. She didn’t know what to say, and Darann was startled to see the door squeak open, a brown eye study her warily through the narrow crack.

“What friends?” asked Greta suspiciously.

Darann lowered her voice. “Hiyram told me that I might find you here. I am the daughter of Rufus Houseguard.”

Finally the door opened all the way. Within was neither the scruffy serving wench nor the decrepit chamber that Darann had expected. Instead, Greta Weaver wore a brightly colored frock and maintained a very tidy room, brightly lit by a flamestone lamp. The pailslopper’s face and hands were clean.

“How is Hiyram?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “It’s terrible, what they’re doing… because they claim a gob killed a dwarfmaid!”

“But they didn’t, did they?” Darann asked.

Greta shook her head. “It sounds like the kind of thing only Nayfal could do. But Hiyram-is he safe?”

“He’s not safe, but he was alive when we left. Hiyram is doing the best he can to save his people. What we need to do is to help.”

“But… how?” Greta asked. “What can we do? Your father tried to help, and Nayfal-”

“Yes, I know what Nayfal did to my father, and I thank you for trying to get word to me, to warn him.” Darann reached into the pocket of her tunic and pulled out the golden letter tube. Quickly she opened it and pulled out the parchment. “Tell me, did you write this?”

Greta barely glanced at the page, then met Darann’s eyes. “Yes.”

“You say that Cubic Mandrill was Nayfal’s toady. Do you mean the attempt on the king’s life was a ploy, staged by Nayfal? In an attempt to turn the Seers against the goblins?”

“Yes, that’s what the purpose was. And it worked perfectly. The king agreed to wall up the ghetto, to keep the goblins locked up. And they started to hate us, and this scourge happening right now-it was inevitable!”

“How do you know about Nayfal?” Konnor asked.

Greta Weaver sat straight and looked at them both, her expression defiant, even proud. “Cubic Mandrill was my father,” she said. “He did not know that I knew what was happening, but I listened at the door. I was just a little girl. He and Nayfal paid me no attention, just sent me to bed. But I heard them make the plot.”

“But your name is Weaver,” Darann noted.

“I was married-to a soldier, who’s dead, now. But I kept his name; I did not want the kind of attention the name Mandrill would have brought me.”

“Will you tell the king what you just told me?” Darann asked, stunned.

Greta shook her head. “Nayfal would kill me!”

“Not if we can make the king believe you. Then you would have the protection of the crown and perhaps redeem the wrong done by your father,” Konnor interrupted, “What we need is proof of this plot, proof that we can take to the king!”

“You told my father, in the letter, that you had proof. Do you?” pressed Darann.

“Yes, I have proof, here,” Greta said. She went to a small chest at the foot of her bed, opened it, then took out a tiny strongbox, which she unlocked with a key she wore on a chain around her neck. She produced a small leather sack, and from that removed a very large golden circlet, a disk too large to be called a coin, though that is what it most resembled.

“My father insisted that Nayfal pay him with this… I think he was worried about betrayal, later. But he never thought he’d be killed in the very act he was being paid to perform. He was just supposed to catch these goblins sneaking in to the throne room. They were going to be slaughtered by the Royal Guards. I think Nayfal made sure that Cubic was killed, too, because he was the only one who knew that the lord was behind the plot.”

“Why didn’t you tell someone about this years ago?” demanded Konnor, causing Greta to flinch as if she had been struck.

Darann placed a hand upon the warrior’s shoulder. “Because she was a child,” she said. “And who would have believed her? May I look at that?”