there he came across several gnomes in armor, holding battle-mattocks. The bearded little folk were arguing heatedly about something.
“Good day, respected sirs,” Elodssa greeted them.
“What’s so good about it,” grumbled one of the gnomes. “You’ve heard what’s going on, I suppose?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“All the sentries at the hundred and fifteenth gate near Zagorie have been killed. Eight dwarves and the same number of gnomes have lost their lives.”
“Do you know who has done this?”
“No.” The gnomes’ faces were all darker than a storm cloud. “But there is a chance that the killers could have made their way into the kingdom.”
“Maybe that’s so, of course, but what in the name of a soused turnip are we hanging about here for?” a mattock-man in heavy armor asked angrily. “That’s a hundred and fifteen leagues away from here. No mortal being who doesn’t happen to be a gnome or a dwarf will ever get that far on his own! He’ll lose his way in the galleries!”
“Never mind, we’ve been posted here, so this is where we’ll stand,” the first gnome said calmly. “Where do you want to go?”
The question was addressed to Elodssa.
“To see Master Frahel.”
“The fifty-second gallery, isn’t it? Right, get onto the lift. Do you know the way?”
“Not very well.”
“Turn left at every second crossing and do that five times. Then straight on for six crossings and take the third corridor to the left. Will you find it?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Hey!” the gnome shouted upward. “Take the honorable gentleman to the fifty-second!”
“Right!” a voice called back down.
The lift shuddered and started downward.
Frahel heaved a sigh of relief and sat back in his chair. He had managed to do the impossible. This work was the finest thing he had ever created in all his long life.
The effort had completely absorbed the master craftsman, the challenge to his skill had required his absolute commitment—and now there was the key made out of the dragon’s tear, lying on the black velvet. The slim, elegant object already contained immense power, and after the dark elves endowed it with their magic, it would become a truly mighty artifact.
Frahel grinned. The orcs were in for a big surprise when the doors stopped opening for them. The elves were cunning and sly; they had decided to deprive the orcs of the memory of their ancestors by slamming the door in their face!
Now for the final, quickest, and most complicated stage—endowing his creation with life and memory. The master craftsman stood up, opened an old book, and raised his hand above the slumbering key.
And at that moment someone knocked on the door of his workshop. The dwarf swore furiously. That elf must be here already. Too early! Well, prince or not, he would have to wait until Frahel had done everything that was needed.
“Ah, damn you! It’s open!” Frahel called, preparing a couple of choice endearments for his client.
A man came into the workshop. “Master Frahel?” the man asked, looking carefully round the room.
“And who’s asking?” the craftsman replied rather impolitely.
“Oh! Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Suovik.”
“Suovik?” The dwarf was quite certain that this Suovik had a title. If only because there was a gold nightingale embroidered on his tunic. He thought that someone in Valiostr wore that crest.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Master Frahel. Simply Suovik will do.”
“Simply Suovik” was about fifty years old. He was tall and as thin as a rake, with gray temples and streaks of gray in his tidy little beard. His brown eyes regarded the dwarf with friendly mockery.
“What can I do for you?” Frahel asked, attempting to conceal his irritation.
“Oh! I would like to buy a certain item. Or rather, not I, but the person who sent me. My Master . . .”
“But, by your leave,” said Frahel, interrupting his visitor with a shrug, “I am no shopkeeper. I do not have anything for sale. I carry out private and very well paid commissions. If you wish to buy something, talk to Master Smerhel, two levels higher, gallery three hundred and twenty-two.”
Frahel turned his back to Suovik to indicate that the conversation was at an end.
“Oh! You have misunderstood me, respected master.” The man showed no signs of wishing to leave the workshop.
He walked up rather presumptuously to the table and sat down, crossing his legs.
“My Master wishes to acquire an item created by your own hands.”
“And what exactly does he intend to buy from me?” the dwarf asked with unconcealed mockery, setting his