“Father, the dwarves come,” the youngest of Jessup’s boys shouted as he came in through the door.
“Very well, Wistala, up the chimney.”
Though it was wide, she had a little difficulty backing up it. Her tail end found purchase, and she braced herself with her legs.
“As you bid, we’ve returned with a response from the scroll-sorters,” Elgee said upon entering and after words of introduction. “And a whole host of seals and ribbons their baton contains. Caps are intact, you’ll see, Sir Elf.”
“Thank you. I’ve prepared a purse with the balance of your fee. Would you care for it now?”
“Only if you’ll deduct the cost of a pouring of this fine-smelling mead!”
Rainfall again: “That’s quite impossible, my good dwarf. I rounded up, and there are no pennies within.”
“Then the round and sup besides will be paid by our expense purse. A feast, good Innkeeper, and don’t skimp on the side dishes!”
Wistala shifted her weight in the chimney, wishing Rainfall would play his trick.
More drinking, lip-smacking, and beard-wiping followed. “This is one dragon I’ll be glad to see anytime I’m on the Old North Road,” Embee said.
“Would you like to hear the tale of how the inn came to be named?” Rainfall said.
“Stories always make the food come faster,” Elgee said.
“Then put that kindling on the fire, would you, Embee.”
Wistala saw a short-fingered hand appear, placing the splinters in a stack with plenty of air space between. “Shall I call for the innkeeper’s fire?” Embee asked.
“This inn has all the modern conveniences,” Rainfall said, and snapped his fingers.
Wistala let loose her foua on the stack of wood, which promptly burst into flame. She heard gasps of astonishment from the dwarves. Then she heard a sizzle like fresh meat thrown on a hot stove, and green smoke boiled up the chimney. Wistala hadn’t been expecting that, and as she held her breath, Rainfall snapped his fingers a second time.
She dropped down the chimney and jumped to avoid the small fire. She was a bit clumsy with her tail, knocking the burning wood to the side, but landed credibly.
The dwarves fell backwards off their hearthside bench and did amazing backrolls, coming up with hands at sheath hilt.
“What in the Lavadome?” Elgee sputtered. Embee moved to draw his weapon, but his uncle held his arm.
“Rah-ya,” Rainfall said. “I’m sorry, good dwarves, I couldn’t resist. Please, laugh with me at this little trick. This is the Green Dragon herself.”
“What, have you conjured her?” Embee said.
“Ach, she was hiding up the chimney, blockhead,” Elgee said. “Sorry for the violence of our reaction, sir. Robbers may be found round the keg-tap as well as on the road, and we’re accustomed to being always on our guard when outside the Delvings. Let me replace the spilled drinks.”
When everyone was settled, Wistala told her tale. It came haltingly at first; then the words flowed more smoothly. She found herself imitating the strange, loping, two-by-two run of the troll and mimicking its roars.
The dwarves’ eyes were white behind their masks, and they hardly looked away save to take another mouthful from their mugs until she was finished.
“Well told, good drakka,” Rainfall said. “You have a talent for pleasing an audience.”
Wistala bowed, hoping the dwarves didn’t hear her prrum.
“Will she dine with us?” Elgee said.
“You’ll find your expense purse lighter than you might like when you pay the tally,” Rainfall warned. “I’ve been feeding her these eight months.”
“What’s the price on being able to say you dined with a dragon?” Elgee said.
“Though my grandfather said many’s the time he feared being dined on,” Embee added.
“Keep your—,” Elgee warned.
“Oh, I’m sure he meant it as a joke,” Wistala said. “You dwarves tweak your beards when you jest, and I saw Embee pull at his.”
“So we do,” Elgee said. “Mark! I look forward to telling this tale to my directing partner when I return to the Delvings. A courtly dragon!”
Wistala ate, even tasted a little of the honeymead on her tongue, but found it too sweet. But even a drakka’s appetite, somewhat guarded by Mother’s repeated warnings against gluttony, couldn’t compare to the amount of food the dwarves ate.
When farewells were said and the dwarves installed in their room upstairs, weighted by the vast meal, mead, and Rainfall’s coin purse, Rainfall sat beside the fire with the bit of craft from the Library at Thallia on his lap.
“Aren’t you curious to see this opened, Wistala?”
“Honestly, I am,” she admitted. The “baton” was made of black shining leather, stiffened in some manner, and capped at one end.
“Then open Heloise’s seal, and let us see their answer.”
The wax—it featured what looked like two sets of identical steps rising to a peak—yielded to Wistala’s sii-claw with no trouble at all. The seal held a leather thong closed over a tiny metal nub, which in turn secured the leather cap in place, as tight fitting as a hominid’s footwear covered the feet. Both a rattle and a rustle came from inside, as she turned the tube.
She looked within. Rolled paper, and something glinting. She extracted the thick paper.
“Fine cotton paper, Wistala,” Rainfall said. “I expect good news.”
“I can’t read it.”
“May I?” Rainfall asked.
“Of course.” Wistala handed it to him.
“Ah, it’s in the priestly tongue, the oldest script of Cloud-temple of Thellasa and therefore Hypat, and only used these days for ritual. I shall translate:
“Be it known within and without the . . . ahem . . . civilized land that Wistala of Hesstur, having been of service to scholarship and common enlightenment, is recorded among the ancient and exalted order of Librarians, Keepers, and Archivists; is entitled to call herself an Agent in and of the Librarians; is admitted to the commons of all Hypatian Libraries; and is presented with insignia of rank and station in the Hypatian Order, all of which are to be recognized and held for the remainder of her natural life.”
A thin hammered disk of gold had been set into wax and pressed hard into the paper. Wistala inspected the device, another triangular shape with a star at the top.
Rainfall smiled at her. “The old phraseology sounds a little ignorant these days. It was used before Hypatia knew of aught but barbarians beyond its borders. How do you like being an Agent-Librarian, Nuum Wistala?”
“Nuum? Oh, for an expression easier on dragon-tongues.”
Wistala sniffed the paper: ink and a dry sandlike smell were overlaid by the gold and the wax. “I can’t say yet. What must I do?”
“Avoid swaggering your entitlement about, unless you wish to be laughed at. Even a Surveyor-Mapper will receive more bows, for on his lines are fields and pastures divided. Should you want to take pupils, it is useful, I suppose. Now let us admire your badge of title.”
The badge was a triangular gemstone, about the size of Yari-Tab’s nose, set in silver and fitted on the top with an eyehook for a chain.
“Golden topaz,” Rainfall said. “It matches your eyes nicely. Symbolic of a clear head and clear vision, and enlightenment. The motto on the back reads lun-byedon, ‘light-giver,’ in the old priestly tongue.”
The polish of the stone made the baubles Father used to give Jizara and her seem like dull quartz. “I would like to wear it.”
“It would look well set into one of your scales, I suppose, and all elves would smile, for our victory garlands are of wound green and gold—but you shed them, don’t you? Chain about your neck? But you’ll outgrow anything we can find around here.”
“How do the others at the library wear them?” Wistala asked.
“Some fit them into their hair so they hang just above and between the eyes, an old tradition dating back to the priestly scroll-keepers. Or they will puncture the earlobe and dangle them there by a sort of hook.”
Wistala looked at her reflection in a polished piece of copper near the door. Hominids made a little ritual of gazing at themselves before stepping outside.
“Then I shall fix it in my fringe, at the fore, as I don’t have a hominid head with that grotesque plate of greasy skin above my eyes. You may have to help with your blacksmithing tools. A drakka’s fringe is nerveless, but tough.”
Jessup returned, and he and Rainfall pointed out different features of the public room to Wistala, and Rainfall suggested the addition of a notice-post outside the door. “I fear I’m becoming in danger of being entirely too pleased with myself,” Rainfall said. “Making Wistala a librarian and getting you the rank of postman.”
“Postman? I’m hardly able to read, sir,” Jessup said.
“Oh, I’ll improve you. Without being able to work my gardens, I need more mental diversions, and if I stay within my library all hours, I’ll be thought a hermit. A reliable post will bring visitors to the inn. But before making you postman, I must give Tala her oath of citizenship.”
