Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [79]
That thought struck him as funny, and in that moment of utter relaxation, he managed a kick at the dwarf’s elbow, and the ax flew clear. With his next thrust, he buried his blade in the angle of jaw and throat. The dwarf staggered; Arvid shoved and twisted; the tip of his sword was stuck in the back of that hard, thick skull. The dwarf grabbed at the blade one-handed and thrust at Arvid with the other, but could not reach him. Finally—too slowly—the dwarf slumped to his knees and fell over. Arvid waited … the dwarf was, at last, obviously dead.
So he hadn’t needed Gird after all? A man’s laugh—whose?—rang in his head, and someone—who?—asked how he planned to escape. The lamps were guttering now; the air already smelled close and stale. He could die here—suffocate here—and be entombed forever. Even if other rockfolk came, they would not give his corpse any honor, not with a dead dwarf in the same chamber. No one would ever know—
Panic returned. No one would ever know what he had planned to tell the Archivist about Paksenarrion.
Well, then, the voice suggested, best use the wits the gods gave you and find a way out.
Panic receded; the pain in his arm returned; blood dripped off his fingers. Arvid tore off his bloody sleeve and used it to bind the wound, an awkward task one-handed, but it was not the first time he had tended himself. He would clean it properly later, if he made it out of here alive. He had a grisly time removing his sword from the dwarf’s body, then cleaned it on his cloak before sheathing it again.
He went to look at the crack in the floor. There, an arm’s length down in the shifting shadows, the gnome lay huddled, filling the space. Even as Arvid watched, the gnome’s eyes opened; he could see the gleam. Beyond the gnome was a passage that might lead to the outside, if the rockfolk had not closed it behind them.
He reached in, grasped the gnome’s shoulders, and hauled him up into the room, then laid him gently on the floor, facing away from the dwarf’s corpse. He bore no visible weapons; Arvid forbore to search him closely. The gnome lay still, gazing up as if confused.
“You were ill-used, rockbrother,” Arvid said in their language. “Your companion drugged your ale and then reft the rock-magic from you. You will want water, I daresay, and perhaps some bread. May I fetch it for you?”
“Why—help me? What trade?”
“You are injured; we will talk trade when you recover,” Arvid said. He turned aside, slipped the knives from their pockets in his cloak, and laid the cloak over the now-shivering gnome, then fetched the bowl of water and the bread. “May I lift your head?”
“What price?” the gnome said again.
Arvid sighed. “Rockbrother, I know not if you are fully aware yet, and I know that among your people a valid contract may not be made between one who is aware and one who is not. I honor your desire to set the terms and be sure they are just, but you must recover first—”
“You named me kteknik.”
“So I did, and so you are. But I do not treat you differently for all that. I am not your prince; I have no cause to punish you. If you permit, I will lift your head so you can drink; I think water and bread will help rid your mind of the drug, and then we can bargain.”
“I am thirsty,” the gnome said. “I will pay what you require for water.”
“I require only your permission,” Arvid said. Indeed he felt pity for the gnome, who was probably kteknik for something he himself would not consider a crime, and who had been abused by one he trusted. He lifted the gnome’s round head, noticing as he did that it felt rock-hard for all the thick hair on it, and held the bowl to his lips. The gnome sipped, sipped again, and then brought his own hands up to hold the bowl. Arvid slid an arm under his shoulders to lift him a little more. “There is bread,” he said, indicating it.