Through Stone and Sea - By Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee Page 0,32
and Wynn found the dog peering around her side.
“Don’t you start,” she warned, and headed off.
Her boot toe snagged in her robe.
She teetered for an instant and righted herself in a few tangled steps. She wasn’t going to give Chane’s accusation any credence. She wasn’t drunk, damn him. It was just the greeting house’s stinky air.
Shade padded beside her, intermittently whining and huffing. Chane caught up on her other side. Why was he so tall? He towered over everyone here among the dwarves. That too annoyed her.
They passed varied closed shops so worn and nondescript she couldn’t even tell what they were.
“You never told me that story,” Chane said, catching her off guard.
“What . . . what story?”
“About the white woman—the one you call Li’kän. I did not know that you had kept her from killing you by the power of words.”
Wynn peered up at him and almost tripped again. His pale features were drawn and pensive.
“Oh . . . that.” She hesitated. “I didn’t figure everything out by myself.”
“I assumed as much,” he answered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he returned quickly. “It seemed too brief and simple—but necessary for a tale. I see that.”
“Chap figured it out,” she admitted. “I helped once he understood what we should do . . . embellishment is part of dwarven ‘telling.’ The teller has to be the hero. Facts wouldn’t have gained fair trade.”
“You did well,” he said. “Very well. I had no idea you could give such a performance.”
Wynn flushed, surprised by the effect of his praise.
“I thought they would jeer you off the floor in three or four phrases,” he went on.
She stopped in her tracks. “You thought what?”
Chane’s expression went blank. “I only meant—”
Wynn hissed at him, mocking his voice, and trudged onward. Jeered off the floor? Indeed! Was that what he thought of her? She lost count of the tunnels, and spun about to check again.
“Five!” she said tartly, and turned back to the last one they’d passed. “Let’s find the smithy.”
Then her stomach rolled. Or the stone beneath her seemed to do so. An acrid taste coated her tongue.
Chane’s mouth tightened, as if he were still puzzled by her offense—the dolt.
Just as Hammer-Stag had said, they couldn’t have missed the smithy. Of the few establishments or residences cut into the dark path’s stone, it was the only one still aglow. With its old door shoved inward, warm red-orange light flickered upon the tunnel’s floor and opposite wall.
“It’s still open?” Wynn said in surprise.
“Not likely,” Chane answered. “It is well past the mid of night . . . unless . . .”
Wynn didn’t need him to finish. How long had they lingered in the greeting house? Was dawn already near?
Shade sniffed—and then sneezed—as she crept toward the door.
The scent of char and metal increased around Wynn, sharpening her dizziness, but she spotted no smoke. That seemed impossible at this depth. She stepped in beside Shade, peeking through the smithy’s open door.
Inside, a young dwarven woman pounded on a red-hot mule shoe gripped in iron tongs. Sparks flew at the hammer’s dull clanks. Although wide like her people, she looked slight for a dwarf. A mass of sweaty red hair was tied back at the nape of her neck.
Her simple shirt was of some coarse, heavy fabric and rolled up at the sleeves. She wore leather pants with a matching apron darkened from labor. Strangest was her glistening, soot-marred face.
All dwarves had small, pure black irises, but hers seemed a bit larger than High-Tower’s. Her nose was a touch smaller, and she didn’t have his blockish wide jaw. Hers was smoothly curved. Severe-looking, she still didn’t bear much resemblance to her older brother.
Was she an Iron Braid or a hired craftswoman in the family’s smithy?
Glancing into the red-lit space, Wynn took in the long, open stone forge, its hot coals so bright they stung her eyes. Thick-planked tables lined the walls, laden with tools as well as rough collections of goods either finished or needing more work. A pile of mule shoes rested on the table nearest the door. A way back was another table burdened with ax, pick, and sledge heads, and other implements for miners.
There was so much for such a small, out- of-the way place that Wynn realized other workers must be employed here. But on this late night, the young woman labored alone. That didn’t seem right for hired help.
Then, upon the rearmost table, Wynn caught a soft glint—two glints, actually.