the unwanted elves 8

 Simon wrote the last chapter yesterday; which he's been saying he's been doing for several days, but it took a bit more to wrap than he anticipated.  So it weighs in at an impressive 34 chapters and 90k words! 

Unwanted Elves

Chapter 8

 

We were going to have to kick our heels whilst Demonslicer was reforged, meanwhile we had been offered apartments suitable for visiting dignitaries. On my previous visits we had stayed with a friend of Harmon’s, a dwarven mage whose rooms were cosy and inviting. I thought I knew what to expect having seen the royal apartments when meeting with King Beremar, but these were positively sumptuous. The rooms we had been allocated were huge, broken only by sturdy pillars of rock that had been left to support the roof. Their surfaces covered with decorative carvings and scenes of dwarven life which were echoed in several hanging tapestries. The floors were covered with thick pile carpets woven in intricate patterns, complementing those of the brocade wall coverings.

“What beautiful decorations!” Exclaimed Chessina, rushing to examine the embroidery of the nearest tapestry, “and isn’t it warm. I did wonder, despite what you said that our rooms might be chilly.”

“That reminds me love,” I replied pointing, “those squat things standing proud of the wall can get very hot. They heat the room using hot water pumped up from deep below ground. Of course as dwarves like things to be decorative as well as functional they are enamelled.”

I was relieved to notice that the most of the furniture in the room was sized for people with longer legs than dwarves, more normal dwarven sized pieces were also provided.

Chessina preceded me into the next room which turned out to be our bed-chamber. I didn’t really get to notice much of the decoration, even of the bed curtains, as Chessina had definite ideas of our next order of business.

 

After attending to certain pressing needs, other needs became pressing and we discovered the luxurious bath room. The floor and walls were tiled and the centre was dominated by a large bath, carved from marble. Standing taps provided hot and cold water and radiators made the room comfortably warm. I showed Chessina the toilets in small cubicles.

“When you have finished, pull that lever and water rushes in to flush anything away.” I explained.

“I hope it doesn’t just go into the river as that would offend Silavara mightily.” Chessina replied. “Mind you with the number of people in the city the river would stink and I didn’t smell anything when we flew over it.”

“The outflow is treated by dwarven machinery which produces clean water,” I continued, “which goes back into the river, it also produces substances the dwarves use in alchemy and fertiliser, some of which goes to the dwarven fields, the remainder is sold. I don’t think the buyers have any idea where it comes from though.”

“How does the machinery work, Castamir?”

“Dwarven magic, which I don’t really understand.”

“Why not? I thought you understood magic, even though there are things you can’t do yet.”

“Dwarven magic is fundamentally different from the type we use. Where we mostly cast spells, dwarven magic is much more ritual based, often incorporating mechanical devices. Dwarves are reluctant to share their magical techniques, even to Dwarf Friends like Harmon.”

“Do the toilets in the Tower work the same way?”

“Not really. From what Harmon told me, the Tower is more like an organism and any waste produced inside is processed by the Tower itself and helps to sustain it.”

It was very pleasant to wash away the dirt of travel in hot water and fortunately the bath was big enough for both of us so I didn’t have to wait my turn. Just as fortunately, the floor had a drain as a fair amount of water ended up on the floor, what with one thing and another.

 

oOo

 

I had various appointments with the forgemaster who was remaking Demonslicer, because they wanted to use my blood to add one or two extra goodies to the weapon. Obviously, any wizard is chary about sharing his blood with anyone else, but that was why I was to attend in person; dwarves are quite as cautious, or indeed, paranoid, as wizards, and I was to see my blood used and any extra destroyed in front of me. I was happy with that.

Meanwhile, Chessina went to chat to the Princess Neveslava.

She returned in a state of high excitement.

“Castamir!” she said. “It is imperative that you cast whisper immediately so I can show you something without saying it out loud!”

I never deny my wife anything. Especially not when she speaks in that tone of voice.

I cast the spell.

“I know a part of Fishface’s name!” said Chessina.

“That’s amazing! How?” I asked.

“I was chatting with the princess – poor thing, she is from a family considered rather low for being provincial, though wealthy, they mine salt, which is vital, but it seems dwarves also have snobbery,” said Chessina. I clamped down on thoughts of impatience, as I knew that she would get to the point in her own good time. And having established good relations with the princess, who had resented Chessina at first, was important.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said, cynically.

“Well, her family have ties to Agarak,” said Chessina. “And she had a book on the Tale of Djehuty. And before you mention that we read it in the Royal Library in Adalsburg, this one mentioned the demonic father of Sekhemef. And though it was mangled, I had one of those moments when I knew how to shed the Agarakian construction of it and I could feel... almost taste,” she added, with a grimace, “The foul sense of Fishface. Now, I don’t know if I ever told you what he was known in the Abyss?”

“Actually, dear, you never did,” I said, mildly. The name by which he was known would have the power to summon him, but would not, of itself, have much power over him, if it was a fraction of what his name was. I knew enough to know that a demon adds to his name over his existence. Thus a demon known as Ashrak by one culture, and Bazarkee to another might well be Ashrakabasarkee or more, at either end. And don’t worry; you’re not likely to meet a demon whose name means either ‘Poo face’ or ‘Fat arse’ which is why I chose those Abyssal words – in approximate translation – unless he is one of the lesser demons so named by his master.

“Well, I knew him as Lord Bel-lez,” said Chessina. “But in the story book, he was called, ‘Lord Sekanub’ and I had one of those moments of knowledge... you know, love.”

I knew. Arcana, bless her, cheated outrageously sometimes.

“So what did you know, my dear?” I asked.

“An early part of his name is Sekkanweb,” said Chessina, in triumph. She was almost vibrating.

“Are you sure that the spell will be enough to prevent him hearing?” I asked, “Should I cast a protective circle?”

“There’s no need, master. Fishface will be in his egg for years.” Chessina said with certainty.

“Egg?” I queried.

“That’s the closest translation I could come up with. A demon would say that we egged him.” Said Chessina, “They are crystal... wombs, I suppose you could say, that a demon’s... essence returns to if their body is destroyed on another plane as his was in the Halls of Waiting. They stay inside for about three years and I’m told the process of regrowth is very painful. Those inside can see and communicate but only very close to. While Fishface was distracted Arcana retrieved my egg and used it to help make my new body. That’s why I can still have horns and a tail and certain demonic abilities.”  

“Do you recall that the pact with Agravar had the signature of his patron demon, who we knew to be Fishface as Itssek?” I asked.

“Yes, so that could be connected as Itsekkanweb as demons rarely repeat syllables.”  Chessina answered. “I also had a nightmare, last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I protested. “You could have woken me up.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” Chessina said soothingly, “But the thing is, I remembered what the guardian shouted out when it summoned Fishface ‘Bellezeen’, the –een coming from my former name Shareen which because it happened recently, would probably be at the end of his name. So we have ‘Itsekkanwebbelleseen’. That’s seven syllables.”

I hugged Chessina in joy.

 

oOo

 

I went on my way to my appointment at the forge. A weapons forge is much the same whether it is human or dwarven, and hardly needs description. The forge fire runs day and night, whilst complex weaponry is forged, the bellows plied by sweating apprentices stripped to the waist, whilst metal is heated, hammered on an anvil, quenched, and the whole process done over for the necessary number of times. Special mud is used to place on some blades so they heat and quench slower, to make patterns in the steel when it is washed away, which may be used to place simple patterns for decoration or runes of power, which might also be carven into the surface of the finished blade, laid upon the hilt, or tang.

As I entered the forge the first thing that hit me was a wave of heat. This brought with it a cacophony of smells. The first I noticed was hot metal, interspersed with the sweat of those working it. The forge was very noisy, it seemed as though I was inside some gigantic bell. There were various tones of hammers striking metal, like a raucous orchestra. The ringing sound of hammers against cold metal, and the slightly duller sound where the metal was glowing hot. Added to this was the roaring of bellows like a chorus of dragons accompanying the discordant music of hammers.

The weapons master greeted me with a grunt and a nod.

I could see he was going to be a bundle of laughs.

“Right, I need your blood for the quenching,” the forgemaster said peremptorily. “And don’t go using any fancy spells and incantations to open up your right palm for the bleeding,” grunted Thebroval, the weapons master, He was a dour fellow, even for a dwarf, with flaming red hair and beard, which he wore divided in two and plaited back together down his back, which made sense in the light of not wanting to get it set alight. He went on, “You can use this silver knife, it’s designed for ritual blood-taking.”

“Silver doesn’t take much of an edge,” I protested. I’m not a coward. I just don’t like pain.

He spat into his forge, which hissed.

“Magical, ritual silver knife,” he also hissed. “Do keep up. And don’t whine.”

I didn’t think I had.

I felt, briefly, like a small boy in my first year’s apprenticeship.

“I’m concerned about drawing enough blood,” I said, trying to sound insouciant.

“I’ll tell you if it isn’t,” he grunted. “You need to fill two of these.”

He produced two small silver goblets.

Fortunately they were smaller than the goblets used for the dwarven spiritous liquour of choice, called Khirolka, and reputedly strong enough to knock grown men out with one swallow, and being wood alcohol, to kill any human if they finish the glass.

I could do that.

“Does it have to be my right palm?” I asked.

“Unless you’re left-handed,” he said.

Riiiiiight.

“And what are you doing with my blood?” I asked.

“Finally, the sensible questions,” said Thebroval. “I’m going to use one of the goblets to soak a pale opal, and the rest in the quenching of the blade. When you concentrate on imagining it in your hand, it will be in your hand, and any magics you cast through the opal as a focus will be magnified.”

“Master Thebroval, I am impressed,” I said.

I was.

He nodded curtly.

“Come back in forty-seven hours as you humans count them, and be prepared to bleed. Eat a hearty meal before then and drink only pure water between now and then,” he said. “I want to work out the best way to add the extra material component to the forging.”

“Would knowing parts of the demon’s name also help?” I asked, meekly.

“Ye gods! Are you only now asking that? Of course it would,” he declared. Or rather, bellowed.  “I can inscribe them on the core of the blade and embed them deep. Make it seventy hours, and write down the cursed name-parts. I don’t want you speaking such filth out loud.”

“I have a demon and one I conjecture is his half-demonic son to deal with,” I said. “Would it be a problem to use both?”

“The more the merrier,” said Thebroval.

I wrote down Sekhemef’s name as well as the seven syllables Chessina had managed to discover about Fishface. I had had one of those feelings about him, but if Chessina felt his essence in the name she found for Sekhemef’s father, that almost confirmed it. After a brief hesitation, I added what Chessina knew of the name of the demon we referred to as ‘Pointy-teeth,’ who had caused so much trouble in Adalsburg.

So, having three days in which to kick my heels, I went exploring. To avoid the problems I’d had when Harmon and I first visited the dwarven capital I took a guide, my friend Alvarek. What I hadn’t known on my first visit was that the city was so large there were a network of magical gates to facilitate travel within the city. This led to me becoming completely lost and trying to seek help with my, at the time limited command of dwarvish. A young dwarven stonecutter had taken pity on me and returned me to Harmon. That dwarf was Alvarek, now my great friend.

My first excursion was to visit the marvellous water-powered dwarven automatic looms. Alvarek was accompanied by his wife Meghimira who was very keen to show me the looms as she was a weaver of great skill. Also accompanying us was Silavara. As she explained, “Although I wear homespun’s most of the time, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t be interested in seeing the gorgeous dwarven fabrics.”

As we approached the chamber where the looms were located I could feel a low rumble through the floor. I was not therefore quite as surprised by the noise when Meghimira opened the door. Although not as loud as the forge the comotion of thumps, bangs, clanks and clicks would make normal speech difficult. I could see more than a dozen machines that were activated by whirling overhead shafts and belts running from these to the looms themselves. Heddles thumped up and down and shuttles whizzed back and forth with no intervention from human, or indeed dwarven hands. Two dwarven women were working on the one loom that was at rest. They were singing as they worked, and fairly loudly as I could hear them over the din.

 

Clickety clackety thunk

The loom is saying all day

Clickety clackety thunk

Weaving the fabric so gay

Clickety clackety thunk

My head hurts as if I were drunk

Pity the weavers a pulling their levers

To clickety clackety thunk

 

A dwarven woman with an air of authority came forward and smiled at Meghimira.

Meghimira introduced us to Loom-mistress Perzamira, a dwarven lady of middle years with no beard dressed in leather garments with nothing dangling that might catch in machinery. Her hair was confined under a tight cap. Meghimira and Alvarek had inspected our garments with great care before leaving our apartments to avoid problems with the looms. Indeed Alvarek had confined his beard in a kind of pouch which he tucked in his clothing.

“This is why the weavers working on the Stroynielv looms are women.” Alvarek explained. “A man’s beard could be ripped out by the roots if it got caught.” He shuddered at the thought. I knew that for a dwarf, such a fate was worse than death.

“Thank you for taking the time to indulge our curiosity, Loom-mistress,” I said, speaking somewhat louder than usual. “I have missed seeing the looms on my previous visits. I have never seen such complex machinery.” This was obviously the right thing to say, as Perzamira beamed with pleasure.

“These looms can produce large quantities of very intricately patterned cloth, which merchants flock here to buy.” Perzamira said, with obvious pride. “They form a large part of our income.”

“I don’t want to monopolise your valuable time, Loom-mistress, so we will leave you to your work.” I said, bowing in the correct fashion. Truth to tell, I was glad to get out of the noise, and judging by her expression, Silavara was too. As neither Harmon nor I had encountered deaf dwarves, their ears must be more robust than humans’.