in by the polished steel mirrors in its heights. She craned her head back, staring up at the giant statue with one hand reaching out, palm up in an offering . . . of what?
Domin Tilswith once told her that Bedzâ’kenge—Feather-Tongue—was the closest thing to a saint of sages the world would ever know. A nice notion, though she wasn’t certain how it mattered. Sages were people of reason, not faith.
Shade rumbled, and Wynn found the dog staring the other way.
“Ah, Mallet mentioned we had visitors.”
Wynn spun about, coming face-to-face with a female dwarf in an orange vestment.
“Oh . . . banê,” Wynn greeted her. “Could you direct me to the meal hall? I’m supposed to meet him for supper.”
Wynn had read some ludicrous Stravinan folklore in the Farlands. Dwarves—by other terms—were described as gnarly earth dwellers. Some tales claimed it was impossible to tell a female from a male because both wore beards.
What nonsense!
The female shirvêsh looked her up and down, and cocked her head at the sight of a “wolf” standing guard before a small human. She had long, shiny black hair draped down over her vestment’s shoulders. Some might not care for the stout structure and wide features of a dwarven woman, but to Wynn’s mind this one was perfectly alluring. A bit stern and severe- looking, until her expression broke with a wide grin.
“Follow me,” the shirvêsh said. “I am headed there myself.”
Wynn fell into step. Only a little way to the front doors they turned into a left-side passage. Loud, cheerful voices booming in Dwarvish echoed off the walls. Before Wynn even stepped inside a long hall, she smelled the aroma of mushrooms sautéed in herbs and butter.
Six shirvêsh were gathered at the nearest table, boisterously filling mugs and chattering away. Two more long tables with wooden benches filled the room on either side, and the one on the right, near a another archway, was laden with platters of mushrooms, spiced lumpy goat cheese, boiled root vegetables, and a little stewed venison.
Wynn realized how hungry she was just as she glanced down to find Shade salivating.
“Young Hygeorht!”
Shirvêsh Mallet rose from a stool at the food table’s far end and waved her over. His white beard spread with his smile of welcome, and Wynn hurried toward him, pausing at the late-afternoon repast.
“This all smells wonderful,” she said, ladling mushrooms into a wooden bowl and preparing another with venison for Shade.
“Where is your young man?” Mallet asked.
“He is not my . . . He is still sleeping. I didn’t wish to wake him yet.”
The shirvêsh grunted as he settled and lifted a small pitcher. Before Wynn could intervene, he poured some steaming brown liquid into a mug, sliding it over as she sat down. She peered hesitantly into the mug, smelling its vapor, and found that it was only heated broth.
“Thank you,” she breathed in relief.
At the guild, most sages sipped wine only on special occasions, and tea was Wynn’s normal preference. Dwarves often drank beer or ale, sometimes heated, in place of water. They weren’t nearly as affected by alcohol as humans and even drank distilled spirits from wood—a beverage deadly to other races. Mallet’s gesture was most considerate.
Wynn barely got Shade’s bowl on the floor before the dog began snapping up the venison.
The shirvêsh swallowed a mouthful of mushrooms and washed it down with foaming ale.
“Tell me of your project,” he asked. “What are you seeking to scribble in your journals?”
Wynn tried not to grimace. She was well acquainted with dwarven opinion of humans always writing everything down. It was common for dwarves to live two hundred years. But in addition, they found sages to be “funny little people” who spent their short lives hoarding tidbits of information, regardless of any practical purpose these served. To a dwarf, gathering more knowledge than one could remember, let alone use, seemed a waste of years. Better to pursue personal excellence or the enrichment of daily life and one’s culture.
But for three nights Wynn had been contemplating exactly what she would say in this moment. She had to depend upon dwarven bias to make the old shirvêsh believe her.
“It’s a delicate matter,” she began, and leaning closer, she lowered her voice. “Our guild’s Sumanese branch recently completed biographies of all their domins for their archives. They felt such records would be beneficial examples to future sages. The premin council of our branch decided to follow suit . . . but it’s not seemly for domins to write their