Dread Brass Shadows by Glen Cook Page A

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.
     
     

12
     
    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 undwarfish. 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