"What a terrible pity," said Rodario in an exaggeratedly aristocratic voice. "It seems churlish not to visit our wealthy neighbors after living on their doorstep all this time." He was relieved to see that the solid city walls were lined with armed guards: The orcs would never be able to get hold of them once they passed through the gates. He turned to his companions excitedly. "Why don't we put on a play? Nothing long or complicated-just a short, impromptu performance. We'd earn enough bronze coins to fill our bags with victuals and keep the proverbial wolf from the door."

"Can't you speak normally for a change?" growled Boпndil, scratching his stubbly cheeks, which were long overdue for a shave.

"I shall speak in whichever way I choose, master dwarf," the actor said huffily. "Some people are blessed with communicative talents beyond the level of primitive grunts, burps, and growls. I don't see why I should disguise the magnificence of my education when you do nothing to hide the paucity of yours."

"Fine," Boпndil muttered malevolently. "We'll see how far your fine words get you when we meet a pack of orcs."

His brother changed the subject by asking how the impresario had breathed fire at the bцgnilim.

Rodario beamed. "You can thank Furgas for that. The trick is to fill a tube with lycopodium spores, put on the dragon mask, and blow through the tube. The spores pass over a burning wick at the mouth of the mask, and the monster spews fire." He rolled up his sleeves. "I use a smaller version when I'm playing the magus. The tube runs down my forearm, connecting a leather purse of spores at my elbow with a miniature tinderbox just inside my cuff." He held up his arm and gestured expansively to demonstrate the technique. "I squeeze the purse like so, and the seeds shoot down the tube. Meanwhile, the pressure on the pouch activates a cord that pulls the flint backward and produces a spark. Presto, the seeds are ignited as they exit my sleeve!" His hands mimicked the flight of a fireball. "So there you have it: a magic trick for magic flames."

Boлndal, who had been following the explanation carefully, shot Furgas an admiring look. "An ingenious invention!" The prop master accepted the compliment with a nod.

They joined the back of a queue of wagons and carriages owned by Mifurdanians and merchants who had fled the unfortunate city.

Sentries were checking the vehicles, noting exactly what they were carrying, and demanding a toll. No distinction was made between farmers, traders, and other travelers, so the city of Sovereignston made a considerable profit from the dwarves. Not only that, but as visitors to the kingdom of Weyurn, Tungdil and the others were restricted to the poorest districts of the city and given the address of a boarding-house in which they were required to stay.

Thus constrained, they trudged up a narrow street and turned into a passageway that was barely wide enough for single file. Both sides of the alley were crammed with timber houses whose upper stories jutted out dangerously, almost meeting overhead. The uneven cobblestones never saw daylight. All in all, it wasn't dissimilar to an underground gallery, except for the stench of sewage and detritus. Mounted on one of the bulging walls was a sign showing a prancing pony; they had found their address.

With a shudder of disgust, Rodario searched the pockets of his rain-drenched coat, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it to his mouth and nose.

"With all due respect," he said firmly, "nothing could induce me to sleep in such a hovel." It was evident from their expressions that Furgas and Narmora felt the same. "Fortunately, I have a solution to our dilemma. My companions and I will spend the night in more salubrious accommodations, and we'll meet you tomorrow morning at the gates. You'll have time to buy your ponies and so forth, and we'll find a venue and put on a play. How does that sound?"

The suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Boпndil, who was tired of the actor's voice.

Rodario didn't wait for further permission, but strode away at once, his vibrant robes flapping around his legs. There was no denying that he looked like a nobleman, but the duffel bag rather ruined the effect. Furgas and Narmora followed him down the alleyway, boots squelching as they trudged through the foul-smelling mud.

"To be honest with you, I think they've got a point," ventured Goпmgar, peering after them regretfully. "I don't much like the look of it either."

"We were told to stay here," Boлndal reminded him, steering the ponies into the barn while the others made for the door. "I'll see to the ponies and keep an eye on the ingots. They'll be safer in the stables, I'll warrant. I'll sound my horn if I need you."

"Very well. I'll order you some food," Tungdil promised. He pushed open the door and stepped into an impenetrable fog of smoke. Quite apart from the cloud of tobacco, it was evident that the chimney needed a thorough sweep. They made their way through the crowd of drinkers, sat down at a table by the fire, and stretched their soggy boots toward the flames.

"At least we won't be sleeping outside again," said Goпmgar, softening. "I can't stand the rain." The others nodded in silent agreement: None of them were accustomed to coming into contact with water unless they chose to-which was seldom enough. "If only it were a bit more homely…"

Tungdil was happy to forgo all other comforts, provided that the roof didn't leak. The heat from the fire was beginning to dry his leather garments, and he closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Soon the conversation faded to an indistinct hum as he gave into his tiredness and dozed. He woke when the publican arrived with a tray of food and beer ordered by Bavragor. "Do you have a room for us? We're not fussy, so long as it's warm and dry."

The man nodded. "Come this way." The dwarves grabbed their packs, picked up their plates and tankards, and filed out behind him. They weren't sorry to be leaving the other drinkers, whose demeanor failed to inspire much trust.

The chamber to which the publican led them was a garret room with a chimneybreast at one end. The warmth exuding from the brickwork was enough to heat the whole room. "Another beer for the gentleman?" Bavragor accepted with a nod.

They hung their clothes to dry on a rope around the chimney, then Boпndil, wearing nothing but chain mail and breeches, left the chamber to take his turn in the stables.

Tungdil waited until Boлndal had joined them, then took off his boots, stood them next to the chimneybreast, and climbed into a little bed. "Time for an afternoon nap," he told the others, pulling up the sheets. "I'll go into town and ask about the firstlings later. It would be good to know what to expect."

"It's been such a long time since anyone heard from them," said Bavragor, shaking his tankard and gazing at the swirling beer. "What if something's happened to them?"

"I expect they're just loners like you," Boлndal teased him. He stripped to his chain mail and underwear and climbed into bed.

The mason finished his beer, burped, and polished off the leftovers of Boлndal's meal. "I'd really like to meet them," he admitted. "I've been asking Vraccas to keep them safe." He fell silent and stuffed his pipe with tobacco.

Tungdil was staring at the beams overhead. The fine cracks in the paint reminded him of the way the дlf's face had fractured. "He knew my name."

"What's that, scholar?" Boлndal asked drowsily.

"The дlf knew my name." He reached for the head scarf that Frala had given to him. There was something soothing and reassuring about the cloth. "They know more about me than I thought," he said uneasily.

"The most powerful of Tion's creatures are frightened of a dwarf," observed Bavragor with a low chuckle. He lit his pipe, filling the chamber with the smell of tobacco spiced with a hint of brandy. It was surprisingly pleasant. "That's the way we like it."