"Flat?" said the dwarf in surprise, taking a grateful sip of his beer. The children drew closer, listening intently.

Opatja nodded. "Think of it as a giant tablet of soap that slipped from Palandiell's hands. It's four hundred paces high, three hundred paces wide, and it runs for a full mile plus another two hundred or so paces." To show the dwarf exactly what he meant, he sliced a hunk of cheese and cut long vertical gouges into its sides. "That's from the wind and rain," he explained to the children.

"Ah, a table mountain! They call them that because the summit is flat like a tabletop. I read about them in my magus's library." He tried to imagine how the Blacksaddle would look in real life. Opatja's description had vaguely reminded him of a legend, but he couldn't for the life of him remember how it went. Oh well, the three-hundred-mile march would give him ample opportunity to search his memory.

"What do you want with the Blacksaddle?"

"I'm looking for a wizard, a former apprentice of my magus. He moved there some time ago and now Lot-Ionan is concerned for his well-being. He won't rest until I've seen him for myself."

Opatja contemplated Tungdil's injured leg. "Leave it a few more orbits before you set off. We'll give you some healing herbs so you can keep treating it while you're on the move." He picked up the letters to Lot-Ionan and rose to his feet.

"Thank you," Tungdil said warmly. "I'm most grateful to you."

"Don't mention it," replied the former merchant with a laugh. "I've never seen the little rascals so quiet!"

He left his guest with the children, who resumed their persistent questioning as soon as he was gone. They could hardly believe their ears when Tungdil told them he was sixty-three cycles old.

"Shouldn't your beard be much longer?" Jemta asked suspiciously. "I asked Grandpa and he said groundlings grow their beards to the floor."

"I'm a dwarf, not a groundling! And besides, I grew my beard for thirty cycles before I had to shave it off. It kept getting scorched by the sparks in the forge and then some scoundrel dyed it blue."

The boy with the protruding ears reached out to touch it. "It's much wirier and curlier than Father's!" he pronounced.

"You should try combing it! Imagine how long it takes to braid." The dwarf grinned and showed them one of his plaits. "It's willful and unruly, just like us. We dwarves hold competitions to see who can grow the longest, bushiest beards, and we decorate our braids with beads and metal trinkets. Most of my kinsfolk look like me. Very few of us have mustaches, sideboards, or chinstraps, and fewer still have no beard at all." He could tell them all about it, thanks to Lot-Ionan's books.

Giggling, the children fashioned their own beards by plaiting stalks of hay and sticking them to their chins with globules of sap scraped from the wooden beams.

"Do all groundlings… I mean, do all dwarves have beards?"

"Absolutely. If you see a clean-shaven dwarf, you can be sure that it's a punishment for something. An exiled dwarf won't be allowed home until his beard has reached the length of his ax haft. And since our beards grow so slowly, the banishment lasts for cycles." Book-learning, he thought sadly. Book-learning passed on to me by humans. He sighed.

Jemta seized her chance and snatched the straw from the chin of the jug-eared boy. "There, you're banished! Be off with you!"

In no time the battle of the beard was raging with all the youngsters intent on banishing one another from the barn. In the end Rйmsa reappeared and put an end to the fun. Amid loud protests, the children were made to say their good nights and go to bed.

The woman smiled at him warmly. "They've taken to you," she said. "They're not this friendly with everyone, you know. Good night to you, Tungdil. We'll ask Palandiell to mend your leg."

They actually like me. It came as a welcome surprise. Frala and her daughters would surely feel at home here. So much has happened already; they won't believe the half of it! He stroked the scarf that Frala had given him, then lay back and put his arms behind his head. If only he could have answered the children's questions about dwarven hoards and dwarven customs with proper authority instead of gleaning his knowledge from books. It's about time I got to know my own people, he thought.

Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil soon had the chance to repay his hosts for their kindness in nursing him back to health. Two orbits later, when his leg was almost mended, he set to work in the hamlet's little forge, tackling all the jobs that the regular smith, the only one in the vicinity, was unable to do on account of a broken arm. From the man's point of view, the dwarf's assistance-unpaid, of course-was a godsend.

While the children worked the bellows and squabbled over taking turns, Tungdil placed the iron in the furnace and waited until it glowed red with heat.

The youngsters watched as he hammered the metal amid showers of sparks. With every thud of the hammer, there were squeals of delight.

The smith nodded at Tungdil admiringly. "It's not often you see such swift work," he complimented him. "And good quality too. Maybe it's true that metalwork was invented by groundlings."

"We're dwarves, not groundlings."

"Sorry," the man said with an apologetic smile. "I meant dwarves."

Tungdil grinned. "Well, no matter how fast I work, there's enough to keep me busy for a good long while. How about I stay another orbit? I can always leave for the Blacksaddle after that."

They were interrupted by Jemta. "Show me how to make nails!" she demanded.

"You want to be a smith, do you?" Tungdil patted the blond child on the head, then set about teaching her how to make a nail. While she ran off proudly to show her handiwork to her parents, he turned his attention to forging a new windlass for the well.

It was midafternoon when he left his perch to lie down in a tub of cool water. His clothes reeked of perspiration, so he climbed in fully dressed.

I'm surprised my skin doesn't hiss like hot iron, he thought. The cold water took his breath away, but then he sank luxuriously below the surface and came up, snorting and gasping for air. He was just wiping the water from his eyes when a shadow fell over the tub. There was a clunking of metal and the smell of oil.

Plate armor, thought Tungdil, blinking nervously.

A solid man of around thirty cycles was leaning against the outside wall of the forge, arms folded in front of his armored chest. Despite the various weapons about his person, he had no uniform or insignia to identify him as a soldier.

"Were you looking for me, sir?" asked Tungdil, stepping out of the tub. Water streamed from his clothes, drenching the sandy floor.

"Are you the smith?"

"I'm standing in for him at the moment. Is there something you'd like repaired?" The dwarf did his best to be polite even though he had taken an instant dislike to the man. The stranger's gray eyes bored into him as if to read his innermost thoughts.

"Two of our horses need shoeing. Are you up to it?"

That was enough to turn Tungdil against him forever. "I should hope so. What else would I be doing in a forge? I may as well ask you if you know how to ride!" The dwarf left the bath, trying to look as dignified as possible while leaving a trail of water behind him and making squelching noises as if he were tramping through a bog. His hair hung limply down his back.

Waiting outside on the narrow rutted road were six horses and four men in what looked like full battle dress. One of the horses was laden with kitchen utensils, leather packs, and two rolled-up nets.

The men were conversing in low tones but fell silent when Tungdil approached. They looked at him oddly but made no remark.