“Hak’kaarin?” Soen urged.
“Foolish creatures. . you could barely call them gnomes really,” Argos shrugged. “Mud gnomes of the great savanna. Backward savages that constantly wander the savanna wastes traveling from mudpile to mudpile. They have no appreciation for property, no understanding of the finer things of the world. Uncivilized and unworthy of your attentions, my friend. They cover the savanna like a river of idiots, never stopping long enough to build anything of value. But if anyone will have seen your. . ‘bolters’ did you call them?. . the savages of the Hak’kaarin will know of it.”
The doors were closed, and at last, Argos pulled himself back up onto his throne and sat on it with satisfaction.
The gnome Caliph relished the moment. After all, he had a family tradition to uphold. All of his Helm ancestors had been brilliant politicians and strategists, he reasoned, otherwise how could they have stayed in power so long? So he, too, had to be as masterful and cunning as his forebears.
This time he was more cunning than them all-for he would outsmart an Iblisi.
“Fon!” the Caliph yelled, and at his word a gnome guard appeared from a side door, resplendent in his ridiculous armor.
“Yes, oh great Caliph!” Fon barked.
“There is an elf awaiting word from me in the Shadow Caves-do you know them? They’re in the gully north of the city.”
“I know them, oh great Caliph!”
“Tell him his friend journeys into the Great Savanna,” the Caliph grinned. “And tell him to follow the trails of the Hak’kaarin.”
The gnome bit his lower lip for a moment. “Oh great Caliph. . how will I know I have the right elf?”
“You idiot!” Argos screamed. “How many elves are there in this province?”
“Sorry, my Caliph!” the gnome mumbled.
“Oh, very well,” Argos grumbled. “His name is Jukung. He is an Inquisitor of the Empire and will reward us for our service.”
“Yes, oh great Caliph!”
“And we must always be grateful to the Empire,” Argos sighed, then, in a flash of inspiration, turned and put his hand in a semblance of benevolence on the helmeted head of the guard. “Quickly write this down so that we can have it written on our next wall. We must always be grateful to the Empire, for without it all the gnomes would be forced to endure terrible suffrage!”
“Aye! There he stood, Drakis the Just, atop the very throne of the dwarven kingdoms! His hands were stained with the blood of a thousand dwarves-the sworn enemies of his cruel masters-as he took the crown from the last of the Dwarven Kings!”
The dwarf’s voice filled the cavernous space inside the mud gnomes’ city adjacent to the main fire pit. He stood in the center of an enormous crowd of mud gnomes, all staring back at him in rapt attention. On the fringes of this congregation, however, a number of gnomes were talking excitedly and gesturing wildly. These would then fall away from the crowd and meld back into the constant stream of mud gnomes that swept past them in an unending river only to be immediately replaced with yet more gnomes who would chatter away at the fringes of the group, trying, it seemed, to catch up to events in the story before they arrived. A few of these would settle more toward the middle where the dwarf was blathering on while others fell back into the perpetual parade. It was an audience whose comings and goings seemed to have little reference to the story as it was being told. The mud gnomes might love stories, but Drakis could not be sure that any one of them had heard a single one of Jugar’s tales from beginning to end. They seemed to be perpetually in motion and unable to stay in any one spot long enough for a long joke, let alone an epic tale.
At the edge of the cavern, two additional figures watched in stillness as the river of gnomes swirled around them.
“Jugar is in rare form tonight,” said Ethis, both pairs of his arms folded across his chest.
“Yes,” Drakis said in disgust. “Rare. . almost raw.”
“You don’t approve?” Ethis asked in a calm, droll manner.