Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [17]
Morgalla the Mirthful perched on a stool, swinging her small, booted feet and wielding a hunting knife as she intently carved the last of the meat from a roasted chicken. The well-picked bones on the serving platter before her attested to a typically dwarven appetite, as did the thick wedge missing from a wheel of cheese and the crumbled remains of a barley loaf.
Then Danilo noticed that she had layered the meat and cheese between slices of bread, and arranged the hearty snack on a platter along with pickles and small dishes of condiments. Apparently she intended to share, for the table was neatly laid with plates and mugs for four, and a foaming pitcher of ale stood ready. When the two men entered the room, Morgalla laid down the carving knife and affixed Danilo with a long solemn stare. Then she hopped down from her perch and stuck out a stubby hand in greeting.
"Well met, bard. I be Morgalla of Clan Chistiesmith, darl of Olam Chistiesmith and Thendara Spearsinger, of the dwarves of Earthfast. It's proud I am to be entering your service."
Danilo was familiar enough with dwarven custom to know himself honored by this detailed introduction. Even in cordial situations, the naturally cautious dwarves usually gave only first and sometimes clan names. If she had wished to insult him, she would have been "Morgalla of the dwarves," delivered with a firm undertone of "Wanna make something of it?"
He grasped the dwarf's wrist in a brief salute and shot a venomous glance at Khelben. The young Harper had never yet refused a mission assigned him, but he resented his uncle for leaving him no choice in the matter. This evening was very like being swept downstream on a white-water flood. Even worse, the archmage had led Morgalla to believe that he, Danilo, was a bard worth following.
"When I am called upon to describe you," Khelben pointed out divining the source of his nephew's ire, "bard is not the first word that comes to mind. That title is of Morgalla's own choosing."
"Aye." The dwarf's head bobbed in agreement "And yer more cut to the cloth than most who wear the mantle." Dan looked at her with a question in his eyes, so she explained, "A traveling bard sang yer songs at Azoun's court. They're better'n most My favorite's the tale of the magic sword."
"Not the Ballad of the Harper Assassin?" Dan slumped against the kitchen wall. First the damnable ballad showed up in Tethyr, and now far to the east in the courts of Cormyr?
"That's the one. Good story. Little on the short side, though."
"Short?" Danilo's look of befuddlement deepened. "But it has nine-and-twenty stanzas!"
"Like I said," Morgalla agreed.
Danilo gave up that line of inquiry and looked more closely at the dwarf. Morgalla appeared to be quite young, for she was still beardless. Large, liquid brown eyes reminded Dan of his favorite hunting hound; the earnest, doleful expressions were almost identical. Her face was broad, with high cheekbones, full lips, and a small nose with an insouciant tip. Thick russet hair was tightly plaited into two long braids, and an impressive amount of muscle and curve was packed onto her four-foot frame. Morgalla was dressed for the road in a simple brown kirtle that fell to her knees, brown leggings bound with leather thongs, and iron-tipped leather boots. A small axe was tucked into her weapon belt and leaning against the kitchen table was a staff of battle-scarred stout oak. The latter was capped by the grinning head of a jester doll, complete with the traditional floppy capof yellow and green motley. Danilo was no judge of dwarven beauty, but Morgalla struck him as cute and rather harmless, despite her weapons. Or, perhaps,