Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (14 page)

Caprice Morgan stood beneath one of the streetlamps, brushing a tear from her eye. She did not see him standing there watching her as she gathered her jacket about her and stepped into the Cooper’s Hall alone.

Jarod could only stare.

“What is it?” Vestia asked with a bright innocence, even though this was one area where she was uncannily aware and knew a threat to her when she saw one.

“Oh, nothing,” Jarod said, though in his heart he knew it was absolutely everything.

“Come on, then,” Vestia tugged at his arm. “Let’s show this town how a Couples’ Dance is done!”

Jarod looked down into her radiant, beautiful face and felt nothing except his own sense of obligation and a kind desire not to embarrass or hurt this lovely creature who had been thrown in his path through no fault of his own.

Jarod managed a smile. “Very well, Vestia. You need to show off your hat.”

Jarod vaguely wondered as he stepped into the Cooper’s Hall why the troubadours were not playing. Indeed, the crowd in the hall was milling about excitedly and muttering in harsh undertones.

“What’s going on, Jarod?” Vestia asked.

Jarod was craning his neck, trying to see over the heads of the throng around him. “I don’t know. Something’s wrong.”

“You don’t think it will delay the dance, do you?” she asked with genuine concern.

“I don’t know . . . Father!”

Ward Klum, looking, if anything, more grim than usual, turned toward his son’s voice and motioned Jarod toward him.

“You wait here, Vestia,” Jarod said, then abandoned her as he pushed his way carefully through the party costumes and dresses of the evening. “Father, what’s happened?”

“Beulandreus Dudgeon. Xander’s placed him under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Jarod was incredulous. “For what?”

“It’s Livinia Walters who’s made the charge but her evidence is so unusual I just don’t know . . .”

“What is he charged with, Father?’ Jarod repeated.

“Theft,” his father answered. “Theft and fraud.”

• Chapter 9 •

The Curious Dwarven Smith

Earlier that same evening, in the deepening blue twilight of the early spring night, a dwarf had stood atop a crate in the shadows behind the Cooper’s Hall. There, in the settling chill of night, he had gripped a windowsill with his large hands and peered quietly inside.

On the other side of the slightly distorted glass, the women of Eventide gathered together in the open center space of the Cooper’s Hall for the Ladies’ Dance. Under the bright glow of a half dozen pixie lamps provided by Xander Lamplighter, and with a roaring fire in the enormous hearth casting warmth and a cheerful glow over the crowd, a tradition as old as anyone’s memory joyfully began once more. All of the eligible young women of the town pranced lithely into the cleared center of the floor, fluttering like butterflies from the streams of colorful ribbons each had tied to their wrists. Vestia Walters, Evangeline Melthalion, Megeri Kolyan, the Bolly twins, and all three of the Morgan sisters—with Sobrina doing so under only the slightest of protests—all these and a dozen more from beyond the town boundaries fluttered together. Many of the younger girls joined in out of sheer exuberance, and occasionally one or two of the older ladies—usually including the Widow Merryweather—had been known to take a turn or two during the dance. Ariela Soliandrus, the Gossip Fairy, hovered among the Spring Revel hats of the married women, watching intently but never once joining in, as she had made a point of abstaining at every Ladies’ Dance since she came to the town. The young men were also watching intensely, though their motives were easier to guess than those of the Gossip Fairy.

Aren Bennis, the centaur who generally kept to himself, watched with several visiting centaurs from where they stood together near the door. Bennis had managed to comb his hair and shave for the occasion. There were several fillies among the visiting centaurs, but they would hold their own dance later out at the Bennis farm. Ten years before there had been an attempt to integrate the centaur fillies—most of whom came from Butterfield—into the Ladies’ Dance, but the results had been nearly disastrous for everyone involved. Since that time the centaurs were always invited to attend the Ladies’ Dance, where they would politely decline to participate—an expected ritual much to everyone’s mutual relief.

Jep Walters, his plump cheeks flush with a rosy glow—it being entirely a matter of speculation as to whether the color came from the heat in the hall, the mead he had downed, or just excitement at commanding the event—banged his long staff down on the floorboards of the stage he had built for the occasion.

“Oyes! Oyes!” he bellowed. “Let the dance begin!”

The Flag Four Troubadours struck up a lively reel. The young women reached out their hands and began the dance—a weaving reel with three circles that intertwined as they passed one another from hand to hand, whirling in time with their ribbons fluttering about them.

Outside in the deepening cold of the night, Beulandreus Dudgeon took in every step, every turn, and every pose of the grace and beauty beyond the glass, his hobnail boots—as quietly as possible—mimicking the steps atop the crate that supported him.

The dwarf longed to dance.

Beulandreus Dudgeon was a dwarf from the Eastern Mountains. That fact meant that he was an expert blacksmith. What else could he be? Everyone knows that dwarves are good only for ironwork, and it would have been foolish to expect them to entertain any other profession when they were so obviously good at smithing. No one ever questioned why he had come to Eventide, what would cause him to leave the deep mountain home of the eastern dwarves, or anything about his past. They already knew everything they needed to know about him: he was a dwarf, therefore gruff, rough, and unsociable—an outsider with skills the town needed, whose strange, foreign ways could be politely tolerated.

It was this general expectation of the Eventide townsfolk that Beulandreus tried to live up to. He was gruff and abrupt. He had no talent for small talk, which, in his view, was the only kind of conversation in which most of the humans in the town were ever engaged. There were some in the town—Farmer Bennis chief among them—who tried to befriend the dwarf, but Beulandreus always became guarded when anyone threatened to get to know him.

The deep truth—deeper than the farthest mines of his ancestors’ dwarven home—was that he found it too painful an expectation. He felt desperately alone but feared being hurt or, worse, hurting someone else. More vulnerable and fragile than anything was the tender, kind heart of Beulandreus Dudgeon, and he kept it locked safely behind his leathery skin and his iron will.

So Beulandreus came up into his shop each morning, stoked the fires, tested the bellows, and began to work the metal as he had done every day since coming to the village. Each night he banked the coals, secured the shop, and then walked down the short stairs into his home that was more underground than not. He would unlock the door with a large key and step inside, leaving the world untroubled by him until the next morning when he emerged again to open his shop.

Occasionally he would make the trip down King’s Road and cross the bridge from Charter Square to the traders’ market. His boots would resound against the cobblestones as he moved from stall to stall and picked out meats, fruits, and vegetables. He always spoke quietly and never bartered too much with the sellers, his eyes downcast and his voice almost too quiet to hear. Arms full, he would then turn and make his way back home.

Were someone to stand outside the dwarf smith’s door for months on end, they would agree with the consensus of the town that there was nothing more to this dwarf than his ironwork, eating, and breathing.

And never once would anyone have seen him smile.

Yet somehow, Jarod Klum had made the dwarf dare—if only just a little—to open the locked secrets of his heart and allow a sliver of his life behind his locked front door to come out. The boy’s desperate yearning to win the heart of his young love had found an unguarded seam in the dwarf’s armor. Beulandreus had been filled with a sudden desire to help the boy and had run down the stairs to his front door, pulled out his large iron key, and entered his secret world. When he emerged, Beulandreus had the Treasure Box in his hand. The genuine appreciation and admiration offered by the earnest Jarod as well as Aren Bennis and that Edvard fellow touched the dwarf more deeply than he had expected. It became a wedge of longing that opened in the dwarf the thinnest line of hope.

Beulandreus had surreptitiously watched every dance that had been held in Eventide since his coming—sometimes from the shadows of an alley near the square or sometimes from a rooftop where he knew he would not been seen. Spring, summer, fall, or winter, at every dance he would be in attendance, and no one in the town was the wiser. He had watched every Ladies’ Dance at Spring Revels, and although the crates he used had changed each year, he always watched from some unnoticed window or hiding place, his heavily booted feet shuffling to the music.

He would imagine himself in the hall, his hands reaching up above him and holding hands with the lithe human girls whose form he found artfully beautiful. He envisioned himself dancing with them, their smiles falling like impossible grace upon him, their ribbons flying as he moved with them, a glorious gap-toothed smile beaming from his rapturous face.

And then, each time the dance concluded, he would weep hot tears at the glass that separated them and, unnoticed and unseen, retire behind the locked door of his cellar home.

But not this year, he said to himself. This year he had hope.

Beulandreus took in a deep breath, stepped down off the crate, and stomped around the building to enter the Cooper’s Hall.

Livinia Walters stepped onto the stage platform that Jeb had built for her to the sporadic applause of the crowd in the Cooper’s Hall.

“Thank you! Thank you all!” Livinia said in her pinched, nasal voice that pierced the air to every corner of the room. The crowd quieted down and turned their attention to her. She noticed at once that there were a number of young people who had managed to escape before she had begun. That charming Dragon’s Bard fellow was no longer to be seen, but she noticed that his apprentice, at least, was still in the hall trying to get the attention of Melodi Morgan—so there was at least the possibility of her practiced words being recorded for posterity. “May I take this opportunity to offer my personal thanks to each and every one of you for gracing our Hall this evening. You honor us and our Hall.”

It was a well-known fact in the town that Livinia had campaigned hard to have the evening festivities of Spring Revels in the Cooper’s Hall. Previous years had seen the dance and contests held in the larger Guild Hall across the river on Trader’s Square. The choice ultimately had more to do with giving in to Livinia than it had with honoring her or her Hall.

“Master Abel, are you getting all this?” Livinia called down from her perch on stage.

The apprentice scribe waved at her but did not look away from Melodi.

Livinia continued, “For generations we have celebrated our Spring Revels with dances and contests of prowess, craft, and artistry. While some of our contests have sadly been curtailed in recent years . . .” Livinia nodded with condescending sympathy toward Melodi. The popular afternoon Wishing Contest had had to be abandoned after the wishing well was broken, and its absence was an annual reminder of the Morgans’ change in fortunes. “ . . . still, one of our finest traditions—the Local Crafts Contest—endures.”

“As we endure it, Livi!” a man called out from the back of the hall, drawing a laugh from a number of the other men present.

Livinia magnanimously ignored the remark. “We’ve had a number of magnificent entries this year, but I must report that the final judging was unanimous.”

A murmur went through the crowd at this news. The judges for the contest included not only Livinia Walters but Daphne Melthalion, the wife of Squire Melthalion, and the Widow Marchant Merryweather—three women who had never agreed completely on anything between the three of them in their lives. For them to reach a unanimous consensus on anything was itself worthy of an award.

Livinia turned to the Flag Four behind her. “Are you ready, gentlemen?”

The troubadour troupe readied their instruments.

“Awarded the yellow ribbon and third place in this year’s Crafts Contest . . . number fifteen!”

A delighted squeal came from the side of the Cooper’s Hall. Deniva Kolyan pushed forward through the crowd toward the stage. She was an enormous, stocky woman who some said could have worked the docks at Blackshore but preferred her bakery instead. She usually preferred to wear men’s trousers while working at her shop—the subject of constant speculation by the ladies of Cobblestone Street—but tonight was in her best dress. Her flat face was beaming as she held aloft her numbered square of parchment signed on the back by Xander Lamplighter, the Constable Pro Tempore. The Crafts Contest had become so heated between the ladies of Eventide, and suspicion in the judging so rampantly fueled by the Gossip Fairy, that each entry was received by the constable and matched with a number so that the judges would have no idea which person had submitted which entry.

Xander brought out Deniva Kolyan’s submission from the workroom behind the makeshift stage—a cake platter carved from a single piece of wood and polished to a shine that gleamed in the light of the pixie lamps. Xander showed the platter to the crowd and handed the baker her large yellow ribbon award. The appreciative applause of the crowd was genuine if somewhat restrained.

“Congratulations, Deniva,” Livinia smiled. Then, turning back to her audience, she announced, “Earning second place and the red ribbon this year is . . . number seven! Number seven, please!”

“Here!” called out the cheerful voice of Winifred Taylor from just below the stage. She too was waving her square of parchment. She was helped up on stage at once by her proud husband, Joaquim. There she bowed profusely as Xander came back again from the workroom, looking terribly uncomfortable as he carried a magnificent dress fitted with faceted sequins in patterns along the bodice, high collar, and sleeves. An appreciative murmur came from the crowd pressing forward in the Cooper’s Hall, and their applause was heartfelt.