The Reign Of Istar (27 page)

the lead shadow stopped again. Others piled up behind, and again there were abrupt, soft
sounds.

THUD. A hushed voice, “Oof!” Another voice, “Ow! Careful!” “Sh!” “Somebody bump into
somebody.” “Sh!”

THUMP . “Somebody fall down again.” “Shhh!” Silence again, and the little shadows crept
one by one through the crack and into a large, lamp-lit, vaulted room where ovens radiated, meat
sizzled over coals, pots steamed on blazing grates, and people worked - people far larger
than the shadowy little figures that darted across an open space and under a laden cutting
table.

One of the tall people in the kitchen glanced around. “What was that?”

“What?” another asked. “Did you see something just then?” “No. What was it?” “Nothing, I
guess. Take a look at those loaves, will you?” A large person turned away and bent to peer into an oven. “A few more minutes. I ... now where did THAT go?” “What?” “Half a duck.” The voice
sounded mystified, then irritated. “Come on, now. These roast ducks are for the guards' hall. Who took it?”

“I didn't, so don't glare at me. It doesn't matter. Get that tray ready. You know how the
guards are when they're hungry.”

“All right, but I hope nobody notices that there are only eleven and a half ducks here.”

Large people came and went, and the little shadows worked their way from cover to cover,
across the kitchen to a half-open pantry door in a shadowed corner. Behind them, another
voice shouted, “How many loaves did you put into this oven? I think some are missing”

Through the pantry the little shadows moved, fanning out, investigating everything. Here
and there, small items disappeared from shelves and benches. Past the pantry was a wide
hall, dimly lit, where linen robes hung from pegs on the walls and pairs of sandals lay
beneath them. Curtained cubicles lined the hall. From behind some came the sounds of
rhythmic breathing and an occasional snore.

“Oh!” a voice whispered. “Pretty.” “Sh!” Tools and implements lay on heavy-timber benches
in a stone-walled workshop. As the shadows passed, a few of these items disappeared. At the
far wall of the workshop, tanned and treated hides stood rolled and bound. Other hides
hung on the wall, and others were stacked in piles beside large, covered vats.

A shadow paused near a big elk hide, freshly cured. “Pretty,” a whisper said. “Make nice
sleeping mat.”

“Gorge'! I take that for hisself,” another whisper noted. “After th' fight, he will,” the
first said, determinedly. Candles lighted a wide eating hall, where large men sat at long tables, wolfing down food and ale as servants carried in laden trays, took them
out empty.

“Burnish and polish, scour and shine,” a deep voice growled. “I'm about worn out from
rubbing armor.”

“Captain's orders,” another grunted. “Spit and polish all the way. Big things afoot.”

“Whole council's here now,” a third said. “The ninth delegation just came in. Kingpriest's
birthday, the clerics say.”

Between ranks and rows of large legs and big feet, small shadows scurried single file
beneath a row of tables. Here and there, near the edge of the tables, bits of food
disappeared.

THUMP . “Sh!” “Somebody fall down again,” a faint whisper explained. Above the table a guardsman turned to the one next to him. “What?” “What, what?” “Who fell down?” “Who did WHAT?” “Never mind. I ... owl Keep
your feet to yourself joker!” Beyond the feasting hall, past a crack behind a tapestry, a wide, dim room held ranked cots. Here and there were sleeping men. Suits of
armor hung on wooden stands.

Shadows moved about.

“Not much here,” a voice whispered. “Nice stuff, but all way too big.”

“Sh!”

“Here somethin'. Hey, nice an' shiny.” Metal clinked against metal.

“Sh!”

After a time, the shadows were gone, back the way they had come. Except for the ordinary
sounds of the temple, now there was only silence.

*****

Through ancient seeps caused by ancient rainfall, shadows moved - small, hurrying shadows
laden with bulging net sacks, armloads of various things, and objects of all descriptions.
The seeps widened into caverns and ahead were glows of light and the muffled sounds of
voices.

THUMP ... CLATTER. CRASH.

The line slowed. “What now?” the lead shadow demanded.

“Somebody fall down.”

The shadows moved on, then stopped abruptly as a mighty roar came from somewhere - a roar
like the rushing of water. A shout mingled with the sound, then stopped abruptly, only to
return as a frantic echo of someone splashing and coughing.

The shadows had disappeared into hiding places. Now, as the sound subsided, they crept
forth again, cautiously.

“What that?” one or more whispered.

“Who knows?” the answer came. “Gone now, though. Come on.”

Again the shadows moved, hurrying toward the light.

Again splashing ... “Stop!” the lead one ordered. “What this stuff on floor?“ ”Dunno. Wasn't here before.”

“Not water. What is it?” “Smells funny. Tastes good, though. What is it?”

Slurping sounds. “Who knows? Stop wastin' time! Let's go!”

*****

The Off Day was never planned. Like most historic events in This Place during the long and
lusterless reign of His Boisterousness Gorge III, Highbulp By Choice and Lord of This
Place and Maybe Some of Those, the Off Day just happened.

It began innocently enough, with a question posed by the Highbulp's wife and consort, Lady
Drule. The lady, accompanied by a gaggle of other female gully dwarves, had just returned
from an expedition into the Halls of the Talls, in search of something - some said it was
roast rice and stew bones, which could sometimes be scrounged from the kitchens when the
Talls were distracted; some said it was feathers; some said nice, juicy mice; and most
simply didn't remember what it was.

Some things - as far as the Aghar were concerned - were worth remembering, and some were
not. Reasons for actions already taken rarely qualified as worth remembering. It was the
excursion itself that mattered.

Lady Drule and others had gone as far into the halls as they dared - through middens and
pantries, rooms and shops, through a dining place where Talls were having a meal and
talking about someone's birthday, and into interesting places where there were cots,
personal effects cabinets, and various things just lying about.

The Aghar ladies, instinctively adept at scurrying through half-open doors and under
tables, at hiding in shadows and creeping unobserved among the ranked feet of larger
species, had quite a successful expedition, by gully dwarf standards. Most of them
returned before nightfall - whether all of them returned was not known, because none of
them knew for sure how many had gone in the first place - and the treasures they brought
back to This Place were a source of great excitement for at least several minutes.

There were two clay pots with morsels of food in them; an assortment of gnawed bones; an
ornamented sandal far too large for the foot of any Aghar; two white linen robes, each of
which would make marvelous clothing for eight or ten Aghar; a keg nearly half full of Tall
ale; half a roast duck; a mirror; a footman's pike three times as long as the height of
Gorge III himself; two loaves of bread; a heavy maul; a potato; fourteen feet of twine; a
chisel; a Tall warrior codpiece, which would make an excellent tureen for stew; and a
complete dressed elk hide, with skull-pan and antlers attached.

This final treasure so delighted Gorge III that he claimed it as his own ... after the
scuffle.

Tossing aside his rat-tooth crown, Gorge pulled the elk hide over his shoulders, squirmed
about beneath it for a bit, then emerged with the skull-pan on his head, huge antlers
jutting above him. The remainder of the hide trailed far behind as he moved.

Never in his life had he felt so regal. He strutted around in a circle, demanding, “See!
All look! Highbulp impres ... pres ... lookin' good!”

He was so insistent on showing off that a crowd gathered around him, elbowing aside Lady
Drule and the others who had actually acquired the treasure. Murmurs of “See Highbulp,”
“Mighty Gorge,” and “Who th' clown in th' elk suit?” arose among them.

“All kneel!” Gorge demanded regally. “Make obei... obe ... make bow to Great Highbulp.”

A few of his subjects dropped to their knees obediently, though most had lost interest and
wandered away by then. Some of those behind him, kneeling on the trailing length of the
elk hide, discovered that it was a very comfortable mat. Two or three promptly lay down
upon it and went to sleep.

“Pretty good,” Gorge nodded, satisfied at the attention he was receiving in his regal new
garb. Then, “Uh-oh!” The weight of the great antlers above him tipped forward, off
balance. The nod became a bow, the bow a cant, and with a tremendous clatter of antlers
and oaths, the Highbulp fell on his face, buried completely beneath the great hide.

The opportunity was too much for some of his loyal subjects. Noticing those already asleep
on its rearward expanse, others now crawled aboard and curled up for their naps.

With the hide thoroughly weighted down by sleeping gully dwarves, it was all that Gorge
could do to crawl out from under it.

His wrath abated somewhat when a sturdy young Aghar came running from somewhere, shouting
at the top of his lungs, and skidded to a halt before him. The youth was soaking wet and
stained from head to toe - a deep, purplish red.

“Highbulp!” the newcomer gasped, panting for breath. “News from royal mine!”

“You from mine?” Gorge squinted at him. “What is mine?” “Yes, Highbulp.” The red-stained
one grinned. "I Skitt.

Work in royal mine.“ ”Fine.“ Gorge thought a minute. ”What is work?"

Shrugging, he turned away, trying to recall what had so irritated him just a moment
before. Peering around, he walked into a splay of elk antlers and found himself thoroughly
tangled.

Lady Drule hurried forward, shaking her head. “Highbulp clumsy oaf,” she muttered, and
began extricating her lord and husband from his dilemma.

“Highbulp listen!” the red-dripping miner insisted. “News from mine!”

Gorge was in no mood to listen, but Drule turned to the newcomer. “What news?” she asked.

“What?” “News! News from mine! What news?” “Oh” Skitt collected his thoughts, then stood
as tall as a person less than four feet in stature can stand. “Hit pay dirt,” he said. “Mother load.
Real gusher.”

“Pay dirt?” Gorge was interested now. “What pay dirt? Mud? Clay? Pyr ... pyr ... pretty
rocks? What?”

“Wine,” Skitt said. Gorge blinked. “Wine?” “Wine,” Skitt repeated, proudly. “Highbulp got
royal wine mine, real douser.” Drule finished the untangling of His Testiness from the elk antler trap, then strode to where Skitt stood and moved around him, sniffing. “Wine,” she said. “From mine?” “Whole mine full of wine,” he
gabbled. “Musta hit a main vein.” Drule stood in thought for a moment, then turned to the Highbulp. “What we do with wine?” “Drink it,” Gorge said decisively. “All get intox
... intox ... inneb ... get roarin' drunk.“ ”Dumb idea, Highbulp,” a wheezy voice said. A tiny stooped figure, leaning on a mop handle, came out of the shadows. It was old Hunch, Grand
Notioner of This Place and Chief Advisor to the Highbulp in Matters Requiring Serious
Thought.

“Drinkin' main-vein mine-wine not dumb, Hunch,” the Highbulp roared. “Good idea! Got it
myself!”

“Sure,” Hunch wheezed. “Drink it all, then what? We all wind up with sore heads an'
nothin' to show for it. 'Stead of drink it, trade it. Get rich.”

“Trade to who?”

“Talls. Plenty of Talls pay good for wine. I say make trade. Get rich better than get
drunk.”

Drule found herself thoroughly taken with the idea of becoming rich. Visions of finery
danced in her head - strings of beads, unending supplies of stew meat, matching shoes ...
a comb. “Hunch right, Gorge,” she said. “Let's get rich.”

Outreasoned and outmaneuvered, the great Highbulp turned away, grumbling, and began
reclaiming his elk hide by kicking sleeping Aghar in all directions.

“Calls for celebration,” Drule decided.

Hunch had wandered away, and the only one remaining to discuss such matters with her was
the wine-stained mine worker. Skitt stood where he had been, not really paying much
attention, because he had caught sight of the lovely Lotta, a pretty young Aghar female
quite capable of making any young Aghar male forget the subject at hand.

Still, he heard the queen's statement and glanced her way. “What does?” he asked.

“What does what?” “Call for celebration. What does?” “Ah ...” Lady Drule squinted, trying
to remember.

SOMETHING certainly called for celebration. But she had lost track of what it was. Like
any true Aghar, Drule had a remarkable memory for things seen, and sometimes for things heard, but only a brief and limited memory for ideas and concepts. The reasoning of
her kind was simple: Anything seen was worth remembering, but not much else was, usually.
Ideas seldom needed to be remembered. If one lost an idea, one could usually come up with
another. She had an idea now. Turning, she shouted, “Gorge!”

A short distance away, the Highbulp kicked another sleeping subject off his elk hide, then
paused and looked around. “Yes, dear?”

It was then that Lady Drule asked the question that led ultimately to that most historic
of episodes in the legends of the Aghar of This Place: the Off Day. The question came from
a simple recollection of something she had heard in the Halls of the Talls, during her
forage expedition with other ladies of the court.

“Gorge,” she asked, “when your birthday?” *****

It was the acolyte Pitkin who discovered that Vat Nine had been drained of its blessed
contents - drained down to the murky dregs, which were beginning to dry and crust over. At
first, he simply could not believe it. Making the sign of the triad, he closed the sampler
port and backed away, pale and shaking, reciting litanies in a whisper.