"That's a risk I'm prepared to take," Tungdil retorted. Alone in his chamber, he stood in front of the mirror, put his hands on his hips, and squared his shoulders. Rather than get dressed, he practiced looking steely until he was confident of his ability to assume a determined expression whenever he pleased. It took considerable willpower not to crawl back into bed.

He was in the process of removing his nightshirt when someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, a female dwarf in a skirt and leather blouse strode in and placed some fresh linen on the marble dresser. She giggled when she saw him rooted to the spot. I should say something, he thought, racking his brains desperately, but already she was gone.

"I guess it takes practice," he muttered, pulling on his clothes absentmindedly. His mind was whirring with a thousand different thoughts.

It was dispiriting to know that he was still a foundling dwarf. For the first time in his life he was surrounded by others of his race, but deep down he was the loneliest soul in all Girdlegard. In fact, he'd been better off when he'd lived among humans; at least then he'd belonged to Lot-Ionan and the school.

It didn't help that he was obliged to pose as a fourthling and put on a show of happiness at being reunited with his folk. For all his honest intentions, it made him feel like a terrible fraud.

Keen to distract his thoughts, he reread Lot-Ionan's letter about his provenance, memorizing every fabricated detail until he was sure that none of the delegates could pick a hole in his story. There was nothing else to do in his chamber, so he wandered into the corridor and roamed the majestic stone passageways while his stomach growled hungrily.

Dwarves streamed past him, clad in leather aprons and covered in a dusting of rock. Tungdil guessed from their appearance that they were heading for the quarry. They smiled and called out to him and he returned their greetings with a nod.

Soon afterward he was intercepted by an attendant who marched him off to breakfast. Tungdil understood the real purpose of the summons when he was welcomed to the table by Balendilнn, who wanted to prepare him for the hustings.

"It's all under control," the counselor assured him. The trinkets on his braided beard swung back and forth as he spoke, which earned him fascinated glances from Tungdil. "Three dwarves from Gandogar's delegation have agreed to say they remember hearing a rumor about a missing child. Their testimony, together with the letter from your magus, should give us the credibility we need. After that, you'll make your speech and then-"

"My speech?" said Tungdil, looking up sharply from the array of pungent cheeses, salamis, pickled mushrooms, and roasted lichen. All of a sudden he stopped caring about the absence of ham, porridge, and bread: The prospect of addressing the assembly had banished any thought of food.

"It needn't be terribly long. You can talk a bit about your journey and your encounters with Nфd'onn and the Perished Land. You'll lose the vote, of course, but that's no great inconvenience; we'll proceed to the next stage of our plan." Balendilнn's eyes twinkled. "It's all under control," he said again.

"I'm glad you think so." Tungdil sighed and piled his wooden plate with a small helping of everything. He told the counselor of Bislipur's visit.

"That's just the kind of underhanded behavior I'd expect from him." Balendilнn seemed to take the news in stride. "You know what it means, don't you? We're on the right track. The scoundrel wouldn't bother with you unless he thought you were a threat."

Tungdil didn't share his optimism. He hadn't forgotten that Bislipur had tried to murder Balendilнn, and he saw no reason to suppose that the fourthling wouldn't do the same to him.

"There's one more thing," said the counselor. "The maga and her bodyguard have gone."

"Gone?" Tungdil echoed, aghast. So she's really left us? How could she give up like that and leave Girdlegard to its fate? "When did she leave?"

"This morning, just after dawn. We had to let her cross the pass. There wasn't any justification for detaining her, and besides… how do you stop a maga?"

"You don't." Tungdil put his head in his hands. It was hopeless; no one apart from Andфkai had anything like Nфd'onn's power and now she was searching for force fields beyond the Blue Range. She must have given up on Gorйn's books. Why couldn't one of the other magi have survived instead? He felt certain that Maira or Lot-Ionan would have stayed and led the fight against the traitor.

"We'll have to rely on you to decipher the tomes," said Balendilнn. "You can always consult our archives, if you think they'll be of use."

"You should ask your historians. I'm sure they'd do a better job than me," muttered Tungdil.

Balendilнn shook his head. "They don't know the magi's writings as well as you do. No one understands the long-uns better than you." He looked encouragingly at the dejected dwarf. "I know it's a heavy burden, but a great deal is at stake. We'll never forget it."

"I'll do my best," he promised, forcing down his mouthful. He hiccuped discreetly. His palate had adjusted to the cheese, but his stomach was proving less adaptable-not unreasonably, considering the quantities involved. To round off the meal he poured a mug of sour milk and stirred it through with a spoonful of honey. Dwarven cuisine was a lot better than he had thought.

Excusing himself from the table, he made his way back to his chamber, this time looking fixedly at the floor so as not to be distracted by the magnificent marble carvings. The speech that was taking shape in his mind was going to cover all the events of the previous weeks and more.

Tungdil drained the strong malt beer from his tankard, wiped his beard, and looked up at the assembly. The delegates had listened patiently while he'd read out Lot-Ionan's letter and tried to establish his lineage as the illegitimate offspring of the dead fourthling king.

True to their word, three of Gandogar's chieftains claimed to recall a rumor about a missing heir. Bislipur instantly accused them of lying.

"I expect you're wondering why I think I would make a good king," said Tungdil, raising his voice above the tumult. The beer had settled his nerves and quashed his inhibitions about appearing before an assembly of dignitaries and chieftains. "The fact is, I know better than anyone the dangers that lie ahead. I know the power of the Perished Land; and I know we need to stand united. It would be fatal to squander our strength on a campaign against the elves. Their numbers may have dwindled, but their army is not to be mocked."

"We're not afraid of the pointy-ears!" Bislipur shouted, incensed.

"Maybe not, but dead heroes are no use to us at all," Tungdil retaliated. "The elves have been fighting the дlfar for hundreds of cycles. What chance would we have of defeating them? Their bowmen are the best in Girdlegard. Before we get within three hundred paces, they'll bombard us with arrows!"

"Not if we sneak up on them," Bislipur objected.

"You can't honestly believe they won't notice an army of a thousand dwarves! Friends, this war will end in our defeat." He looked at them beseechingly. "Darkness has eaten its way into the heart of our lands. Vraccas entrusted the safety of Girdlegard to our race; it's our duty to defeat Nфd'onn and expel Tion's minions-and if the elves and humans are able to help us, we must ally ourselves with them!"

"The high king's puppet has learned his part well," sneered Gandogar.

"Our minds think alike because we both see reason. If there was anything between your ears but sheer bloody-mindedness, you might see sense as well." A ripple of laughter swept the room.

"The elves must be punished," shouted Bislipur, drawing himself up to full height. "You heard how they betrayed our kinsfolk and allowed Tion's beasts to storm the Stone Gateway. Their crimes cannot go unavenged!"