I'm bitter. I admit it. I survived my five and made it home, but I was the first of my family to do so. And nobody thanked me for my trouble when I got back.

Hell with it.

Dwarf House covers four blocks. A north-south street cuts through the middle. A canal spur runs through east to west. Rumor says the blocks are connected by tunnels. Maybe. They're connected by bridges four stories up. Make that four human stories. Dwarves are dwarves. There would be more floors.

The buildings have no outside windows and few doors. Humans seldom get inside, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was if they let me in and didn't want me out, I was sunk. Not even my pal the King would come rescue me. Dwarf House enjoys virtual extraterritoriality.

I looked the place over before I knocked. I didn't like what I saw. I knocked anyway. Somebody has to do these things. Generally somebody too dim not to back off.

I knocked again after a reasonable wait. They weren't in any hurry in there.

I knocked a third time.

The door swung inward. "All right! All right! You don't have to break it down. I heard you the first time." The hairy runt in red and green was probably six hundred years old and had been assigned to the door because of his winning personality.

"My name is Garrett. The Dead Man sent me to talk to Gnorst Gnorst."

"Impossible. Gnorst is a busy dwarf. He doesn't have time to entertain every Tall One who wanders past. Go away."

I didn't move except to insert a foot into the doorway. The dwarf scowled. I guess. He wasn't much more than eyes inside a beard big enough to hide stork's nests. "What do you want?"

"Gnorst. He owes the Dead Man."

The dwarf sighed. What might have been a conciliatory smile stirred the brush on his face. He grunted and made noises that would be considered rude at the dinner table. "I'll inform the Gnorst." Bam! He slammed the door. I barely saved my foot. Then I snickered. These characters had to get a little more imaginative. I mean, Gnorst Gnorst, son of Gnorst, the Gnorst of Gnorst? Hell. I guess they don't have much trouble remembering who's related to who. If Gnorst lost his voice, he could answer most personal questions by blowing his nose.

I bet it makes perfect sense to dwarves.

The hair ball was back in five minutes. Probably record time for him. "Come in. Come in." Either the Dead Man's name was magic or they were short on chow for their pet rats. I hoped the character with the imaginative name was impressed with my credential. "Follow me, sir. Follow me. Mind your head, sir. There'll be low ceilings."

The door dwarf did me the added courtesy of lighting a torch off a lamp that yielded a light so feeble it would have done me no good at all. He gave me a look that said this was first-class treatment, properly reserved for visiting royalty.

Dwarf House inside was all gloom and smell, like tenements where families crowd in four to the flat. Only more so. Ventilation was nonexistent.

We trudged up stairs. We went down stairs. I stooped a lot as we marched through workshops where dwarves by the platoon worked on as many projects as there were dwarves working. The lighting was uniformly abysmal, but my guide's torch added enough to reveal that these were all proud craftsmen. Each dwarf's product was the best he could fashion. Which would make that item the best of its kind. Dagger, shield, plate armor, clock, or clockwork toy, each was a work of art. Each was unique. Each artisan was a master.

My lower back was gnawing at me before we were halfway where we were going. I breathed through my mouth because of the smell I hoped nobody took offense. The racket was incredible. Those dwarves banged and clanged and scraped and squeaked like crazy, all for the sake of maintaining an image as industrious little buggers. I bet they started loafing the second I was out of sight.

The dwarf with the silly name didn't look silly. Mostly he looked hairy. I assumed a beard was an emblem of status. He was two beady black eyes peeking out of gray brush. I couldn't tell what he was wearing behind all the foliage. He did have a standard-issue sort of dwarf's hat perched on top, complete with pheasant tail feather.

Gnorst of the many Gnorsts met me in a shaded garden on top of one of the buildings. Very stylized and arty, that garden, with white marble gravel paths, teensy trees, little wooden bridges over fish ponds. The works, all in a style usually associated with high elves.

I rubbed the small of my back and gawked. Gnorst said, "An affectation of mine, Mr. Garrett. My tastes are very undwarflsh. My worldly successes allow me to indulge my peculiarities." This before the introductions and amenities.

"It's restful," I said. "I'm surprised to see it atop a building."

My guide faded away. Another hairball brought refreshments. The goodies included beer. Maybe they'd heard of me. I took a long drink. "You all make beer like you do everything else."

It wasn't that good but I had to be diplomatic. Gnorst was pleased. Maybe he'd had some hand in its brewing.

Dwarves shun alcohol and drugs, so wouldn't have any real standard by which to judge the product.

"I wish I had time for a relaxed chat, Mr. Garrett. I'd love to catch up on the adventures of my old friend, your partner."

"My partner?" Maybe he is but I don't go around admitting it in public. I laughed. "I'll forget you said that. I don't want to give him ideas."

"To be sure. He's stubborn at times. I'll drop in someday. It's been too long. Meanwhile, indulge my impatience. I'm pressed"

"Sure. I'm in a hurry myself."

"What brought you, then?"

"The Dead Man's idea. A friend of mine was knifed yesterday. The gang that did it were mostly dwarves."

Gnorst popped up. "Dwarves! Involved in a killing?"

"Attempted killing. So far " I explained

"Strange. Very strange." But he relaxed visibly, like maybe he'd concluded his own bunch couldn't he responsible. "I don't see how I can help you."

"The Dead Man hoped you could give me a line on those guys. The dwarf community is pretty tight."

"This one is. But there are dwarves who aren't part of this enterprise. Still... the behavior isn't to be countenanced. It aggravates prejudice. That's bad for business. I'll quiz my people. Someone may know those dwarves— though I hope not. A dwarf gone bad is a bad dwarf indeed

That sounded like a proverb. I told him, "Thanks for your time. I didn't think it would help. One more thing. You ever heard of something called a book of shadows? Or a book of dreams?"

He jumped like somebody goosed him with a hot poker He stared at me a whole minute. I exaggerate not. Then he squeaked, "A book of dreams?"

"A woman came to the house before I came over here. She looked a lot like my friend who got stabbed. I think she was the intended victim. She wanted to hire me. Gave me a long story about a witch called the Serpent and a book of dreams that got stolen from her and is supposed to be in TunFaire now."

"Excuse me, Mr. Garrett " Gnorst scuttled off, mumbled at the guy who'd brought the beer. He stomped back over. "I just canceled some appointments. You have more time."

"I ring a bell or something?"

"A gong. A carillon. I guess you're unfamiliar with early dwarf history."

"Everybody else's, too. What's up?"

"You've recalled an ancient terror."

"Maybe you'd better explain." Before I got dizzy.

"The Book of Dreams, more often called the Book of Shadows, is infamous in dwarfish legend. It must be unimaginably ancient to you. It dates from before men walked the earth."

Yesterday's breakfast is unimaginably ancient to me most of the time, but I didn't say so. I didn't want to seem shallower than I am. Wipe off that sneer.