slaughter her," Tarathiel said, and Innovindil winced at the thought.
"Perhaps that would be the most merciful course of all," the female said quietly, and she looked up at Tarathiel, whose face grew very tight, whose eyes narrowed dangerously.
But that expression softened in the face of Innovindil's simple logic, in the undeniable understanding that Ellifain, the true Ellifain, had died that night long ago on the moonlit field, and that this creature she had become was ultimately and inexorably flawed.
"I do not think that Ivan and Pikel Bouldershoulder are the ones to deliver such a message to King Bruenor," Innovindil remarked, and Tarathiel's dark expression brightened a bit, a smirk even crossing his face.
"Likely they would jumble the message and bring about a war between Mithral Hall and the Moonwood," he said with a forced chuckle.
"Boom!" Innovindil added in her best Pikel impression, and both elves laughed aloud.
Tarathiel's eyes went to the western sky, though, where the setting sun was lighting pink fires against a line of clouds, and his mirth dissipated. Ellifain was out there, or she was dead, and either way, there was nothing he could do to save her.
Chapter 18 A CITIZEN IN GOOD STANDING
It never took much to fluster the gnome, but this was more than his sensibilities could handle. He walked swiftly along the streets of Mirabar, heading for the connections to the Undercity, but not traveling in a direct line. Nanfoodle was trying hard-too hard-to avoid being detected.
He was cognizant of that fact, and so he tried to straighten out his course and settle his stride to a more normal pace. Why shouldn't he go into the Undercity, after all? He was the Marchion's Prime Alchemist, often working with fresh ore and often visiting the dwarves, so why was he trying to conceal his destination?
Nanfoodle shook his head and scolded himself repeatedly, then stopped, took a deep breath, and started again with a more normal stride and an expression of forced calm.
Well, a calm expression that lasted until he considered again his course. He had told Councilor Agrathan of Torgar's imprisonment and had thought to let his incidental knowledge of the situation go at that, figuring that he had done his duty as a friend-and he truly felt that he was a friend-of the dwarves. However, with so much time behind them and no apparent action coming on Torgar's behalf, Nanfoodle had come to realize that Agrathan had taken the issue no further than the marchion. Even worse, to the gnome's sensibilities, Mirabar's dwarves were still under the impression that Torgar was on the road to, or perhaps had even arrived at, Mithral Hall. For several days, the gnome had wrestled with his conscience over the issue. Had he done enough? Was it his duty as a friend to tell the dwarves, to tell Shingles McRuff at least, who was known to be the best friend of Torgar Hammerstriker? Or was it his duty to the marchion, his employer and the one who had brought him to Mirabar, to keep his mouth shut and mind his own business?
As these questions played yet again in poor Nanfoodle's thoughts, the gnome's strides became less purposeful and more meandering, and he brought his hands together before him, twiddling his thumbs. His eyes were only half-open, the gnome exploring his heart and soul as much as paying attention to his surroundings, and so he was quite surprised when a tall and imposing figure stepped out before him as he turned down one narrow alleyway.
Nanfoodle skidded to an abrupt stop, his gaze gradually climbing the robed, shapely figure before him, settling on the intense eyes of Shoudra Stargleam.
"Urn, hello Sceptrana," the gnome nervously greeted. "A fine day for a walk it is, yes?"
"A fine day above ground, yes," Shoudra replied. "Can you be so certain that the Undercity is similarly pleasant?"
"The Undercity? Well, I would know nothing about the Undercity . . . have not been down there with the dwarves in days, in tendays!"
"A situation you plan to remedy this very day, no doubt."
"W-why, no," the gnome stammered. "Was just out for a walk. Yes, yes . . . trying to sort a formula in my head, you see. Must toughen the metal..."
"Spare me the dodges," Shoudra bade him. "So now I know who it was who whispered in Agrathan's ear."
"Agrathan? The Councilor Hardhammer, you mean?"
Nanfoodle realized how unconvincing he sounded, and that only made him seem more nervous to the clever Shoudra.