Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [71]
At last he could hear the two behind him. They spoke low, in the language of rockbrothers.
“I tell you, we did not make it.” That was the gnome, Arvid was sure by the timbre of his voice.
“Nor we.” The dwarf cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “But the elves say—”
“The elves care nothing for truth.” The gnome, though wearing blue and green instead of sober gray, had not lost the gnomish accent. “Perhaps they made it, perhaps not. The question is, what should be done?”
The buxom serving maid came by with a full pitcher of summerwine and Arvid’s herbal drink; she set it on the table, and he winked at her. Behind him, he heard the pitcher being set on the table, a resonant thunk. The girl went back to the bar; Arvid sipped his drink.
“We take it,” the dwarf said. Arvid smiled to himself. What had promised to be a boring, hot midsummer journey now offered a delightful complication, perhaps even adventure. “And I still want to know where the stones came from,” the dwarf went on. “Not from our mines, but where? Where are such mines, with such stones? Do we have brethren there, and if so, why do we not know it?”
“Take it where?” the gnome asked. “To whom? To whom does it belong now? That paladin?” Arvid could almost see the lift of the shoulder a gnome would give to the dwarf’s other questions.
“It matters not whose it was,” the dwarf said. “But the stones—”
“Not from your mountains, not from our hills; beyond that does not matter.”
Arvid risked a casual glance all around the common room, including the table where the rockfolk talked; they were ignoring him, leaning across the table to talk to each other.
“Nor the Westmounts,” the dwarf said, counting out the ranges on his thick fingers. “Nor the red rocks of far Kolobia, nor the gray rocks within sight of there.”
“So far it does not matter,” the gnome said again, impatient now. “But there is something … the rock sings trouble.”
“Indeed it does,” the dwarf agreed. “But it might also sing profit. Trouble and profit go oft together.”
“You are greedy,” the gnome said.
“I am not,” the dwarf said. “But if gold falls into my hand, I will not let it slide through my fingers.”
“If it is not your gold—”
“All the better.” The dwarf grinned. “Is it not obvious that the Girdish do not need that necklace? It came to them by thievery, after all—contaminating their paladin-candidate that a thief gave it to her. We serve her reputation by taking it away, that reminder of her impurity.”
“We cannot keep it!” the gnome said. “It is not ours; we neither made it nor bought it!”
Arvid had heard enough. Checking the hang of his sword, he rose and without hurry moved to their table. “Excuse me.” He put his hand flat on the table between them. The dwarf should recognize the small tattoo on his thumb web. “Arvid Semminson, of Tsaia. It would be impolite to conceal from rockbrethren my fluent command of their speech, and perhaps by so doing discover that of their plans they would prefer not to have revealed.” He smiled, showing very human teeth; rockfolk noticed such things. They would smell the metal of his sword and dagger and the hidden blades he wore here and there about his person as well. Good steel. Excellent steel. They would know the ore from which it had been forged.
“You are that thief who brought her out alive,” the gnome said, recovering first.
“I am no thief,” Arvid said, without heat and still in their tongue. “It is true I am in the Thieves’ Guild, and of some consequence there—”
“It is said you saved her life.”
“No. The gods saved her life; I but saw her carried to safety.”
“You killed the accuser.”
“That I did, but killing is not thievery.”
“Of breath it is,” murmured the gnome, but the dwarf shook his head.
“To kill one bent on