Through Stone and Sea - By Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee Page 0,22
shimmering head wrap and short umber robe. Dark skinned, with a sheathless curved sword slid into his fabric wrap belt, he returned Chane’s stare with haughty disdain before moving on.
“Do not get out of my sight,” Chane warned.
Wynn shot him a glare. She was as well traveled as he was, and far more accustomed to this culture.
Shade growled.
The tone was different from her pained suffering on the tram, and Wynn forgot Chane’s irritating manner. She spun about and found Shade watching a dwarf in a leather hauberk striding toward them along the mainway. Two matched, overmuscled, and short-haired hounds padded beside him.
Both animals were barrel- chested, their raised heads easily higher than the dwarf’s belt. In contrast, Shade looked even more like a slender, long- legged wolf. Her hackles rose as she pulled back her jowls.
One dog slowed and began growling back.
Wynn crouched, quickly laying down her staff and grabbing Shade’s neck. She’d tried to warn Shade about growling at strangers, but doing so with memories hadn’t been easy. She hadn’t mentioned—shown—Shade anything about other dogs.
“Apologies,” she said in Dwarvish. “My dog is a bit protective.”
“Dog?” the dwarf replied.
His bushy brows rumpled as he eyed Shade, who obviously looked like a wolf. But he didn’t appear offended and nudged his own animal with his knee, growling, “Quit!” With a polite smile to Wynn, he continued on his way.
Wynn watched the houndmaster and then saw Chane’s hand on his sword’s hilt. The dwarf either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. Holding Shade fast, Wynn called out in Numanese so that Chane could follow.
“Sir?”
The dwarf paused and half turned.
“Do you know of the Yêarclág . . . the Iron-Braids?” she asked. “And where they reside?”
“No, miss,” the dwarf answered, this time glancing at Chane’s tensed hand. “But you are in the upper trade district. You may need to head beyond it, possibly down, to find dwelling districts. Maybe someone there can help you.”
His Numanese was perfect, but most dwarves spoke it well enough, along with a smattering of other tongues. Dwarves, who valued good trade with other cultures, were so oral that language came easily to them.
“Thank you,” Wynn called.
The dwarf returned a shallow bow and headed off with his hounds. Shade was still leering after them, and Wynn grabbed her gently by the snout.
“No!” she whispered firmly.
Shade rumbled, glaring back with blue crystalline eyes. She shook herself free of the grip.
Wynn sighed in frustration. Sometimes she forgot that Shade didn’t understand language—not like her father. Trying to use memories and present them in clear and meaningful strings was daunting. Wynn stood up and turned on Chane.
“And you!” she said. “Keep your hand off that sword, unless you have no choice! Most dwarves are quick to laugh and slow to anger, but once aroused, they don’t calm easily. Even you would have trouble facing one of them.”
Chane’s eyes widened and his jaw muscles bulged. Clearly offended, he opened his mouth to respond.
“I’m not questioning your skill,” she went on, but lowered her voice to a whisper. “And keep your sword in plain sight. To them, only a villain carries concealed weapons. Magiere and Chap both saw visions of the past . . . through the memories of others. Dwarves are a match—or better—for an undead’s strength.”
Chane’s expression relaxed. Perhaps he took her at her word—or he was patronizing her. The barest slyness surfaced in his expression—almost a thin smile—and he lunged sideways.
By the time Wynn twisted to catch sight of him, he was behind her.
“They would have to get a hold on me first,” he rasped.
She just stared at him. Was he joking? Did Chane know how to joke?
Wynn almost smiled—and then scoffed. He might be faster than a dwarf, but that wasn’t the point. The last thing she needed was his overprotective gallantry getting them into trouble.
Chane gestured down Oblique Mainway, then cocked his head toward the side tunnel.
“Onward or outward?”
Wynn had no idea. If the Iron-Braids lived in the poorest district, then they would have to head below sooner or later. How and where was another matter, and she would rather have the answers before they tried navigating unknown regions. She should’ve asked more from the polite houndmaster.
“The main tunnel,” she finally answered. “Maybe it will lead to some way down.”
At that wild guess, they were off once more.
A single row of sculpted-based columns stretched along the avenue’s center. The structure of Oblique Mainway was plain but astonishing, not only for size and supports but for the chaotic structures that lined