Chapter 7

A Thief on the Hunt

— Part the Second —

True to the guard’s word, the tavern's hearth was so vast that Habel glimpsed the fiery, dragon-hued glow long ere he reached it. The blaze crackled with an orange ferocity that made him grimace at the very thought of passing by it. He tugged his gloves snugly onto his webbed hands, bracing himself. Evening had fallen, and the tavern was filling up. From within came the faint strains of a zither mingled with the low murmur of voices.

Inside, a heavy, enclosing gloom clung to the place. Dark wood panelled the tavern, lit only by a few weak torches whose flames burned with that same dragonish hue — fierce and foul. This must be what the inside of a volcano looks like, Habel mused, trying to mask the unease that gnawed at him whenever such a fire was near. I wonder if it reeks of smoke there, too.

In the centre of the room, beside a smaller, closed hearth, sat a zitherist — a red-haired maiden clad in a coarse, mossy-green dress. The zither lay upon the bench before her, and she played with an absent, dreamlike focus, as though the life bustling around her were but a distant echo.

She seemed strangely luminous here, amidst the gnomish sneers and sidelong glances, so much so that Habel found himself staring. He slipped onto an empty seat by the wall, his shadowed form melting into the dimness. The narrow, green-tinted panes of the nearby window darkened the room further rather than letting in light.

Erelong, a gnome shuffled up to the zitherist, clad in an equally coarse and frayed cloak. He looked like some caricature of the Spruce Master, and Habel thought he might well be his gnomish incarnation, with a long beard the colour of spruce bark that nearly swept the floor, a lean, hunched frame, and eyes as dark as coal beneath thick, conjoined brows.

As he stood beside her, the zitherist paused, lifting her head, though she did not turn toward him. Instead, she seemed to listen intently. Her blue eyes were veiled, cloudy like the gossamer wings of sylphs.

Blind! Habel thought with surprise, straining his bat-like hearing to catch their conversation — or rather the gnome’s harsh, hostile whisper as he leaned toward the girl.

"Play something livelier or clear out! The guests are complaining. You’re as dreary as a tomb."

The zitherist showed no fear whatsoever. Instead, she bared her white, even teeth in a smile.

"But we are in a tomb," she said. Habel was startled by these words, though the gnome seemed to accept them as entirely reasonable or self-evident. "You don’t understand, Gnod — neither you nor your foolish guests. The sorrow of a zither is worth more than its joy."

"Do as I say and stop prattling!" Gnod barked, then strode off with swift, sweeping steps toward the counter, the back of his cloak flaring behind him like a banner in the wind. The maid's sightless gaze followed him awhile, then she resumed playing — this time a livelier tune.

So that was Gnod, the tavern keeper, Habel mused. Yet an idea struck him suddenly — it might be safer, and draw less attention, to ask the girl about Jorén instead. She seemed sharp-witted, and her blindness was an advantage: one less witness to remember his face or presence.

He tugged at his gloves once more, then slipped over to the thick pillar behind the zitherist, leaning his back against it. His figure melted once again into shadow, whilst the flicker of a torch fixed to the pillar cast light upon the maid's red hair, woven into a braid.

Habel stood just behind her, yet she neither turned nor showed any sign that she'd heard him. Her playing continued, steady and unbroken. He realised he had no notion of how to begin speaking with her.

"I preferred it when you played mournfully," he said at last.

He felt rather than saw the gnome-maid bare her teeth in another grin.

"Still, I shall play as I am now, if you don’t mind," she replied. "If I change the tune or stop altogether, they’ll all start gawking at us. And my father will come back uninvited."

"That’s your father?"

"Let’s say so," she answered, well-nigh cheerfully.

Habel offered no reply. It had once been told to him that his mother had left him among the reeds shortly after his birth and flown off into the distance like a black wandering owl. Not an uncommon practice among the sylphs of the dark marshes. As for anything resembling a father, he had no such knowledge.

The matter was so foreign to him that he left it untouched entirely.

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Yet he was struck dumb, far more so when he heard the girl’s question.

"What do you want from me, batling?"

The gnomes ofttimes used that word, half in jest, half in scorn, for the Children of Eternal Night. The zitherist must have heard the sharp intake of Habel’s breath, for she grinned wide once more.

"It may not be plain to see," she continued, still plucking at her strings, "wings can be hidden beneath a cloak, hands in gloves, and feet in boots. But what can be seen matters not a whit to me. I judge by what I hear, and my hearing's sharper than yours. And in your voice dwells the moon, not the sun — your heart beats with moonlight."

"Do not fret, though," she added after a pause. "This is no elven town, though I know even the gnomes sometimes look askance at your kind. But in the Cave, far stranger folk than you come and go — especially here, in my father’s tavern. So, what is it you seek?"

Habel, long estranged from candour, felt his head reel at the girl’s unguarded chatter. A fierce urge rose within him to escape her company as swiftly as possible.

"I’m looking for a glassmaker named Jorén," he muttered, almost disdainfully. "They told me I’d find him here."

"Ah, him ," the zitherist replied, a note of disappointment in her voice. "Yes, he’s here most every day, unless he’s wandered off to the alder woods beyond the river. The Lord of Trees alone knows what he’s up to in the boglands, but Gnod says he’s got dealings with a philosopher who buys strange bits of glass from him…"

You’ll come to a bad end, girl, Habel thought pityingly, taking note of her reckless habit of sharing every bit of gossip with a stranger.

The gnomish maid tilted her head, listening keenly, as though searching through the sounds and voices like a hand rummaging in a dark sack.

"The one sitting alone by the bench under the stairs, drumming his fingers against a clay cup — that’s Jorén," she said.

Habel cast a discreet glance over his shoulder. Beneath the stairway that ran up along the side wall of the tavern, a rather stout gnome sat in the half-light. His face was round, neither old nor young, and flushed ruddy from cheeks to his large ears. He tapped absent-mindedly at the bulbous shape of the clay cup with his right hand, as though playing some silent melody upon it.

The sylph cast a glance back at the zitherist, silently marvelling at her keen hearing, yet said nought. He turned his steps toward the bench where Jorén sat and took a seat opposite him. With a curt wave at a gnomish boy bustling between tables, Habel reached into his pocket, pulled forth a gleaming gold oakling, and set it down upon the wooden table.

"Fetch a jug of cider," he said to the lad.

Jorén’s gaze flickered to the gold coin, then settled on Habel, who was already fixing his wide, sapphire-blue eyes upon the glassworker, round as a jay’s.

"And who might you be?" asked Jorén as the boy pocketed the coin and made for the counter.

"They said you were a sage glassworker," Habel answered bluntly. "I seek work at the furnace."

"Work?" Jorén chuckled, his face merry though sharp with wit. "I’ve no need for anyone."

"They pointed you out at the gate, sage glassworker," Habel pressed, not taking his gaze off the gnome's face. "Said you’re glad to take on help."

"They said that, did they?" Jorén laughed louder. "If you’ve been flashing gold at the gate like here in the tavern, it’s no wonder they said so. They’d send even a daemon to craft stars from stardust with that much enthusiasm."

I thought the same, Habel mused grimly. At that moment, the boy returned, setting down a clay jug of cider and a second cup for the sylph. Jorén grasped the jug by its handle and poured generously for them both.

"Show me your hands, then," the gnome said, "so I may judge what skill you’ve got."

Likho take me, I’m a fool, thought Habel, feeling the colour drain from his face as he realised he had no ready plan for whenas Jorén would discover he was a bogland sylph. The gnome, however, mistook his hesitation entirely.

"You’re no glassmaker," Jorén scoffed, "any more than I’m a meadow dancer. Your hands have never known the fire. Do you think I see few enough drifters come wintertime? All wrapped in gloves, thinking that because there’s a great glassworks here, work's easily won? You’d be more likely to burn the place down. So no, I’ll not hire you. Yet this cider we may share."

Habel exhaled inwardly, grateful for the reprieve. He took a small sip of the cider, then fixed Jorén with a lingering gaze.

"A pity," he said. "Jalo told me you never turn anyone away. Apparently, you didn’t refuse him either."

Jorén’s hand, holding the cup, froze halfway between the table and his lips. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the sylph.

"And where did you come across Jalo, hmm?"

"One meets many on the roads," Habel answered with feigned indifference. "He was travelling with his family — a wife and three children. Seemed unsure where he was headed." He decided to risk pressing with uncertain hints to learn more. "I reckoned he either had the heart of a wanderer or was searching for something."

"The lake," Jorén said at once, firmly and with sudden pensiveness. Habel's ears pricked sharply, as though on command. Just what I hoped for, he thought.

Yet Jorén swiftly shook himself free from that moment of reverie. For the briefest instant, a flicker of unease had glimmered in his grey eyes — the kind that surfaces when one lets slip a guarded secret unawares. In the blink of an eye, however, the gnome’s face brightened once more, and he met Habel's gaze with a cheerful countenance.

"Some lakes," he said, "are more perfect for glassmakers than others. It's said that such lakes hold the secret of the flawless mirror — not crafted by hand but shaped by nature itself. There are precious few of these, if any truly exist. Most would scoff at the notion. But Jalo" — here Jorén laughed — "he was a strange one. He might believe in nothing, yet in the perfect mirror he did believe. Claimed that on the surface of glass one could forge new life. I never rightly knew what he meant by that. But he could work wonders with glass, that much was true."

"The sort of wonders that would interest philosophers, perhaps?" Habel asked pointedly.

Jorén did not answer. He sipped his cider slowly, studying the sylph for a long moment ere speaking again.

"What name do you go by?"

"Habel," the sylph answered honestly. His true name had long been known only to the Sorcerer and Hercho — and perhaps to the lightless depths of Nan Farlas and its prisoners, though those poor wretches seldom returned from its dungeons.

"Mayhap I’ll have use for you, Habel," Jorén mused after a pause. "I’ll not let you near the furnace — I've no idea what nonsense Jalo thought of you, nor do I much care. But I might find a task fit for you yet. You can lodge by the glassworks tonight, and we’ll see what comes of it on the morrow."

Habel inclined his head with a stony expression, though inwardly, his lips curled into a smile.