the crowd, spreading his massive arms wide. “Perhaps one of your own worthy exploits.”
Wynn choked on smoky air and swallowed very hard.
“If your tale is as grand as your nerve,” he added, “someone here might point your way.”
Mixed reactions broke out in the greeting house. Someone laughed aloud, and that laughter spread, laced with grunts of disdain. Others shook their heads in disagreement, shouting in outrage at some young girl taking the thänæ’s place.
Wynn felt small compared to Hammer- Stag’s hulking stature as her mind raced for some way out of all this. Hammer-Stag raised his large hands in a gesture to quell the crowd.
“Of course, you must win the audience along the way,” he continued, pointing to a large tankard resting before one soot-covered listener. “At any need, take your fill, if you dare . . . if the mug’s owner finds your tale worthy so far. That is the way of a telling.”
Wynn’s stomach tightened, and a bit of the tram ride’s nausea returned.
Even a stout human male would find dwarven spirits hard to bear. Would she give more offense if she didn’t stop to drink? What if she accidentally sipped wood alcohol? Playing this game—this unknown custom—without knowing all the rules grew more daunting by the moment.
“Oh, dead deities!” she whimpered—another crass phrase picked up from Leesil.
But she was sick of all the hoops she’d been forced to jump through in the past year. Her guild superiors had looked at her with Hammer-Stag’s same arrogant expression every time they dangled a carrot before her. Always one more proof of loyalty, obedience, propriety, always one more requirement, one more game.
Amid panic came anger.
She wasn’t leaving here without learning of the Iron- Braids—and of the friends she’d lost in returning home.
“Wynn?” Chane whispered. “Do something.”
“I am! I’m trying to think!”
“No more low-life nonsense!” Chane hissed, reaching for Wynn. “We find directions elsewhere.”
She grabbed his wrist before he got a grip, but her attention remained fixed on the blustering dwarf.
“I can do a tale justice only in my own language,” she stated clearly.
Hammer-Stag frowned as Chane’s eyes widened. The dwarf scratched his beard thoughtfully and then called out to the crowd, “Skíal trânid âns Numanaks?”
More grumbling rose among the listeners. Chane heard “chourdál” uttered more than once.
“Done!” barked Hammer-Stag, and nodded assent to Wynn.
“No!” Chane whispered, but Wynn pushed him off.
“If my tale is enough,” she went on, “will you also tell me more of the white woman, the silver dog, and the elf who isn’t an elf?”
Surprise spread across Hammer- Stag’s broad face. Then it was gone. A wry smile took its place, and Chane shook his head. Wynn had just upped the stakes before her tale had even begun.
Rumblings sharpened around the room, but she stood her ground.
Chane was at a loss. Would pulling her out of here start an outright brawl?
Hammer-Stag slowly began to laugh. His guffaws grew until it seemed tears welled in his eyes. Others began to chuckle as well.
“By the Eternals,” he barely got out. “This must be some tale. Agreed, O mighty little one!”
Hammer-Stag stepped down and, with a wide sweep of his hand, ushered Wynn to take the platform. Shoving his way onto a bench at the nearest table, he dropped down, grabbed a mug, and clacked it once on the table with a shout.
“To the telling!”
Chane saw too many eyes locked on Wynn amid stony, disgruntled expressions filled with doubt. At more chuckling around the room, Hammer-Stag slapped his table.
“Silence!” he shouted. “And respect!”
The room went instantly quiet.
Wynn stepped up amid the crowd and turned slowly about. Shade trotted closer as well, perhaps unwilling to let her get too far away. All Chane could do was fight the wild urge to throw Wynn over his shoulder and haul her out of this detestable place.
Why had they ever come in here? What was she thinking? He could not believe she would succeed at what amounted to street-level theater. Wynn was a guild sage, the highest of scholars, yet she had made a bargain upon her word. He could not break that any more than she would herself.
Chane crossed his arms, waiting. Within moments, she would be jeered out of this commoners’ arena, and he could finally take her away.
Wynn raised one hand and pointed to Hammer-Stag. Her voice low and not quite steady, it still carried.
“This honored thänæ spoke of a pale woman, a silver dog, and an elf,” she began. “These were my companions of old. In company, we faced horrors