A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [183]
“The lands of the map,” he announced. “This is how we dwarves get our omens, my lady, and if ever a man needed an omen or two, it’s me. See, each one is the true home of a metal. Number one here is iron, two copper, and so on. The fifth is gold, and that stands for a man’s art, whether if’s the working of stone or of metals, and nine is tin, for our religion, you see, because like tin the gods are cheap things more often than not.”
“Otho! What an awful thing to say!”
“Oh, you people can swear by your gods all you want, but it’s little good they do for you, for all your sacrificing and chanting and so on. But each land is the home of a metal but the last, number twelve here, right above one, so it all circles back, like. And that one is the home of salt, not a metal at all. And that land stands for all the hidden things in life, feuds and suchlike, and the dweomer.”
“This is fascinating. How do you tell fortunes with it?”
“Witch. I’ll show you.”
Otho took the second stick, held it over the second tray, then turned his head away and began to poke dots into the sand, as fast as he could. When he was done, he had sixteen lines of dots and spaces to mull over.
“Now, these are the mothers, these lines. You take the first lines of each to form the first daughter, and the second lines for the second, and so on. I won’t bother to explain all the rules. It’d take me all day, and you’d find it tedious, no doubt. But here in the land of iron, well put the Head of the Dragon, just for starters.” Deftly he poked a figure into the waiting sand, two dots close together and below them three dots vertically for the dragon’s body. “And humph, I can’t resist looking ahead. Oh, splendid! The little Luck goes in the land of salt. That gladdens my heart, because it means the omens won’t be horrible. They might not be good, mind, but they won’t be horrible.”
Carra leaned on the table to watch while he muttered to himself in a mix of several languages, brooded over the lines of dots, and one at a time poked corresponding figures in the lands of the map. When he was done he stared at the map for a long time, shaking his head.
“Well, come on, Otho, do tell me what it means.”
“Not sure. Humph. That’s the trouble with wretched nonsense like telling fortunes. When you need it the most it’s the least clear. But it looks like everything’ll work out right in the end. You see, I just sent off letters to my kin, asking if I could come home again. I got into a spot of trouble in my youth, but that was… well, a good long time ago, let’s just say, and I’ve got some nice little gems that should do to pay a fine or two if they want to levy one.” He paused, chewing on the ends of his mustache. “Now, it seems like they’ll take me back, but this I don’t understand.” With the stick he pointed at the third land. “Quicksilver with The Road in it. Usually means a long journey and not one you were planning to make, either. It troubles my heart, it does.”
Carra leaned forward for a better look, but The Road was a simple line of four dots and not very communicative.
“It wouldn’t just mean the journey you already made, would it? To get here, I mean. I—”
A hiss, a spitting sound like water drops on a griddle—Carra jerked her head up and saw one of the young dwarves, his sword drawn, walking slowly and ever so steadily toward the table. Otho suddenly hissed, as well, an intake of breath.
“Don’t move, my lady. Still as stone, that’s what we want.”
Wrapped in such a false calm that Lightning never barked or moved, the dwarf reached