The next morning, the crossbows were preceded by an unexpected appearance from Grigor. He pranced and danced around, then came close and whispered, “There’s a surprise coming.” Then he danced away, a broad grin across his face, to spend the next while among the women.
A half hour later, the crossbows arrived on a wagon, packed in crates. Niko’s man Ivor was driving. Beside him was another, hooded man. Well, perhaps a man; the hairs on the back of my neck went up: This must be the surprise. What was more surprising was that apparently Grigor didn’t think it deadly hostile.
With annoyance, the driver told me, “He came with the merchandise. Said we needed him along to get full use out of it.” Clearly Ivor was unconvinced.
The hooded man was small, and he stepped down from the wagon with agility. He came up to me and said, “Baron Rostov, I presume.” Before I could respond he went on talking in a most peculiar voice. “No need to stand on formality. I’m Lorenz Waffenmeister. When I heard that this style of crossbow was headed into your valley, I realized immediately that you would be in need of special ammunition as well, am I not correct?”
I had only opened my mouth when he continued, “No need to answer that, but I do have a need, for food and refreshment—the journey has been long,” At which point he turned and said, “Please hand me down my bag, Ivor, and thank you for that superb display of mule skinning. You are a credit to wagon masters everywhere.”
Ivor handed down the man’s bag without a word, then unloaded the crates into the workshop, with a casual strength that did not invite assistance. I got the feeling the little fellow had talked him to death on the trip. But apparently all the talking had had some positive effect; Ivor did not seem actively suspicious of Lorenz.
With his bag in hand, the weapon master—for that is what the German Waffenmeister means—turned back to me and asked, “Is lunch ready yet?”
I, too, decided Lorenz was not sinister. I laughed and called out, “Ladies, we have one more for lunch. Or will you stay, too, Ivor?”
“Wife expects me back. Thanks anyway.”
“And my thanks to you and the Chancellor. Come this way, sir, and I will point out the facilities.”
“Grigor,” I continued, “won’t you sing as they set the table?”
As we sat down to lunch indoors and Lorenz removed his hooded cloak, I realized where I had heard such a voice before. He was a large Gnome, not a small human. Having discovered that Nymphs, Elves, and Dryads were just as real as they had always been told, my ladies accepted this revelation with equanimity. They also listened calmly as I explained how I planned to use the crossbows that Lorenz had brought.
The Gnome ate quickly and lustily, though not a large amount, and as the women seated themselves at one end of the table, to eat after serving us, he started talking rapidly again.
“An excellent repast! I see that Your Excellency trusts all present concerning your new merchandise?” I had barely nodded before he continued, “Excellent! Then you may want to see some additional hardware of my own design.”
From his bag he took a long, lacquered box that looked as if it should hold a large magic scroll. He placed it on the table and pushed it towards me. I opened it and found a steel quarrel of intricate design. The tip looked hardened and deadly. The shaft was hollow and slotted, to allow the contents of an internal vial to quickly leak out once the quarrel had penetrated its target, and covered with intricate glyphs.
“Impressive workmanship,” I commented.
“Yes, it is,” he responded slowly, suddenly sounding more like a craftsman and a wiseman than the fast-talking peddler he had seemed to be. “If you hunt with crossbows such as these, then you hunt something rather large, I presume. … Something rather difficult to bring down. … If I am not mistaken?”
“I do,” I admitted calmly. “You are not mistaken.” But my hackles were back up. Had I been so obvious that this stranger could divine my tactics for the upcoming battle? If he knew, did the Queen know? If so, I must call the whole plan off—only surprise made it viable!
He held up his hands. “Your secret is safe with me. I am privy to information that another resident of this valley does not have, and won’t get.”
“And what brings you, Lorenz Waffenmeister, to our fair valley?” I asked.
“Why, the story, good Baron, the story. Which tale is to be told has not been decided yet. But your actions of late insure that the tale will be an interesting one, and that is why I have come.”
Gnomes do not come to my valley often, and now I remembered why I was glad of that. They are at the same time obsequious and patronizingly knowing, which affects me like chalk screeching across a slate. Whenever I run into a Gnome, I’m grateful that the Kalzov Valley is home to other beings instead.
“By which you mean,” I said, “that you see a contest coming but you don’t know who the winner will be?”
“Bluntly well put, Baron.”
“And you are here to take a side in that contest?”
“Indeed I am!”
“Which side?”
The Waffenmeister pretended to cringe. “You cut me to the quick, Baron, but I can see why. Your opponent is no fool, and you know that. Allow me to offer you this as a reference.”
From the folds of his clothes, Lorenz pulled out a second, rather ordinary looking, scroll case. This one in fact held a magic scroll. He handed me case and scroll to examine. The scroll contained a fire-starting cantrip with instructions for its use—quite valuable on a sufficiently wet and stormy night, but just a common traveler’s spell, nothing noteworthy. And while I could feel the case was magical, it was no more so than ordinary. If something exceptional was going to happen, the disguise was good.
I showed the scroll to Grigor, then the women.
Lorenz took the empty case, closed it, and held it out to me across the table. “Take the other end, and twist.”
I did so. There was a slight magical pulse and an audible click. Lorenz let go.
I opened the case again and inside was another scroll. I looked at it briefly, then handed it to Grigor. “What do you see on this scroll?”
“Another cantrip of fire starting. What is the point?” he asked.
“Hand it back, Grigor. What I see on it is something quite different. It is a letter from my ethics teacher in Florence … dated five years before we first met.” I read it out loud:
My dear Iglacias (I am told that will be your name):
This letter is to introduce a trusted associate of mine, Philosopher Luarne. He says this letter will come to you in time of great need.
He further says that one of his specialties is Dragon slaying. This I cannot vouch for.
However, I will vouch strongly for his character in general. He is an honorable and trustworthy man (I use the term loosely, because that is how I think of him) with whom I have worked and adventured for ten years, and expect to do so for many more. So I can vouch for his adventuring abilities in particular. He is an old adventurer, not a bold one.
Philosopher Luarne says you will bring me great honor, so I shan’t bother to wish that upon you. Therefore, wishing you good luck (it sounds as if you may still need some of that) in whatever adventure occasions this letter, I am
Your future—or former—teacher,
Philosopher Bernini
“You see that?” asked Adrijana, looking over my shoulder. “I see a different fire-starting cantrip, just like Grigor said.”