Soon, they began to pass dwarves going the other way, carrying serving trays piled high with the greasy remains of a great feast. One trotted by with a dozen empty flagons rattling along a stick, and then, at an intersection, they had to stand aside as two dwarves rolled a wooden cask down the corridor, yelling, “The King demands more ale! More ale for the King!”
“Oh dear,” Dr. Pym said, “I do hope he is not too drunk.”
“I wouldn’t bet money on it,” Robbie McLaur muttered.
As they approached a set of enormous golden doors, the dwarf captain called out in a booming voice, “Captain Robbie McLaur escorting the prisoners requested by King Hamish!” and the two dwarves standing sentry pushed the doors open to admit them.
Kate reached for Michael’s hand.
“Stay close.”
Michael nodded, but said nothing. He was afraid if he spoke, his sister would hear how excited he was to be entering the throne room of a real dwarf king.
“And maybe don’t grin so much,” Kate suggested.
“Quiet!” Robbie McLaur barked, for they were just then stepping over the threshold. But he needn’t have said anything; the hall itself silenced the children.
It was the largest room the children had ever seen. It stretched on and on and on. The ceiling was so high that the great stone columns supporting it seemed to rise up and disappear into darkness. But beyond the size and scale, it was the wealth on display. Diamonds embedded in the ceiling sparkled like stars in the night sky. Precious gems were laid into the floor like flagstones. Murals painted in gold and silver covered the walls, depicting dwarf victories over trolls, goblins, dragons, hordes of salmac-tar. Everything about the hall was designed to impress the visitor with the majesty of the dwarfish throne.
Kate and Michael stood in the doorway, staring.
Then Kate said, “It’s a pigsty.”
All around them were stacks of dirty plates, rotting scraps of food, half-empty flagons of ale, and unconscious, filthy dwarves. Exhausted servers hustled back and forth along the sides of the great hall, exchanging empty plates and flagons for full ones. Robbie McLaur let out a low growl of displeasure.
“King Hamish is known for his appetites,” Dr. Pym whispered. “A feast might go on for days or weeks at a time.”
“This isn’t right,” Michael said. “Dwarves shouldn’t behave like this.”
“Aye, lad,” growled Robbie McLaur, “truer words were never spoke.”
“Well, lookee lookee!” called a voice from the other end of the hall. “If it ain’t the conjurer! And he’s got brats with ’im too! Bring ’em ’ere! Bring ’em ’ere!”
The guards marched their group forward. The children took care to step over snoring dwarves and puddles of fetid ale.
“Very ’appy you could trouble yourself to visit us, Magician! Ha! You prat!”
Hamish sat at the center of a long table of greasy-faced dwarves. A few were still eating and drinking listlessly, but most were unconscious, either slumped forward onto the table or propped sideways against a neighbor. Hamish was the only one still going strong.
He was by far the largest dwarf the children had yet seen. Though only the height of a small man, he possessed enormous mass. Kate thought he looked like a giant, bearded warthog.
“Hope you’ve been comfortable down in the dungeons. We like to keep our guests happy, we do. Wouldn’t want people speaking ill of us.” He laughed unpleasantly and took a long slurp of ale, most of which ended up on his beard. Kate thought that his beard, which spread down his chest fan-wise, resembled nothing so much as a hairy blond apron. She could even see things stuck in it: bits of cheese and pie, a crust of bread, a drumstick, a fork. He was a sharp contrast to Captain Robbie McLaur, standing at attention beside them, with his neatly trimmed beard and spotless uniform.
As Hamish drained the last of his ale, a serving dwarf quietly removed an empty platter and began to hurry away.
“Oi!” Hamish yelled, hurling his goblet so it bounced off the dwarf’s head. “I wasn’t done with that, you!”
Amid bows and mumbled apologies, the dwarf returned the platter, and Hamish scooped up the last crumbs of whatever it was and crammed them into his mouth.
“There!” he mumbled, tossing the platter over his shoulder so it clanged loudly against the floor. “Now you can take it.” Then he wiped his fingers on his beard—in the process dislodging several miniature sausages—and belched. The sound echoed the length of the hall and back and seemed to rouse the dwarves at the table, for they all suddenly sat up and began belching in unison, as if trying to cover for their king’s lapse in manners. Soon the great hall reverberated with the echoing symphony of burping dwarves.
Brrrraaaappht—
Errrapphth—
Grrappphhaaaa—
Blllluuupppgggg—
Ugggrrraapphhhh—
“E-NOUGH!” shouted Hamish, bringing a fist down on the table. The dwarves instantly fell silent, and in a few seconds the last eerrrppptt had died away.
“Honestly,” said Dr. Pym, “he does set a terrible example.”
“Dr. Pym”—Kate tugged on the old man’s sleeve—“what’re we going to do?”
But the wizard only shushed her and kept looking at the King.
Suddenly, Hamish clapped his hands. At first, nothing happened; then, in the distance, the children heard a rhythmic thundering. It grew louder and louder, and all at once the great doors flew open and two lines of armored dwarves marched into the hall. They separated, stamping their mail-bound feet as they came down the line of columns, and in what seemed like mere moments, the hall was filled with hundreds of dwarves, their helmets gleaming, the edges of their axes razor-sharp and shining in the torchlight.
“Right, then, Magician”—Hamish loaded the word with as much contempt as he could muster—“I believe I’m ready to receive you proper-like. But ’fore we get started on the whole thingamabob, what’re the names a’ these brats a’ yours who think they can just go walkin’ in my land when and where they please? Eh? Tell me that.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Kate began. “We—”
“Oi!” Hamish smacked the table. “Did I tell you to speak?! Huh? Did I say, ‘I want to hear from one of the brats’? Did I say, ‘I wish one a’ them brats would pipe up’?” The dwarves around him shook their heads vigorously. “No! I said, ‘Magician.’ That’s ’im!” He pointed a chicken wing at Dr. Pym. “So you, lassie, just keep your yapper shut. Bloody manners on this one.”
“May I present,” Dr. Pym said calmly, “Katherine and Michael. Surname P.”
Kate managed sort of a half curtsy, but Michael just continued staring glassy-eyed at Hamish. He seemed to be in a state approaching shock.
“And as I believe Katherine was about to tell you, their presence in your lands was entirely due to chance. You see, they had fled from the Countess—” At the mention of the Countess, there was a great deal of ill-tempered harrumphing. “And in running away, they stumbled into your lands.”
“A likely story,” Hamish said. “Very neat and pretty.”
“In fact, while in your maze, they became separated from their younger sister. If Your Majesty would give leave, they wish very much to be reunited with her.”
“Youngest sister, you say? How old’s she?”
“Eleven,” Kate said. “Her name’s Emma.”
“Little Emma out there all alone. That’s right terrible, that is. Brings a bloody tear to me eye. Don’t it bring a tear to your eye?” Hamish smacked the dwarf on his right, who nodded and wiped at some gravy dribbling down his cheek.
“Well, then,” said the King, “since you been so honest with me, about how it was you come here and your business and all, I guess I got no choice but to let you go, maybe send out a party to escort you to your sister, then. How’s that sound, hmm?”
Dr. Pym smiled genially. “That would be most kind, Your Highness.”
“Specially since”—Hamish dug his paw in
to the middle of a pie, scooping out a hunk of meat and cheese—“these ’ere children are just innocent and all, and not after the same bleedin’ magic book you and that witch’re after, the one buried in some bloomin’ secret vault under the Dead City and that by rights belongs to the dwarves! Ain’t that so?”
Hamish stuffed the mass of pie into his mouth and smiled through it at Dr. Pym. Kate felt her legs suddenly lose all strength. They were in deep trouble.
“Your Highness—” Dr. Pym began.
“Shut yer yap, you!” Hamish jumped up and swept his arm across the table, sending platters and goblets crashing to the floor. His face was bright red and bits of food flew from his mouth as he jabbed a short, thick finger at Dr. Pym. “Don’t go lying to me! Who the bloody ’ell you think you’re dealing with, eh?! You think Hamish’s some Simple Simon simple dwarf, that it? You think ’cause I’m a dwarf and my body’s smaller that my brain’s smaller than yours too, that it?! Think it’s so easy to fool me?! You think I don’t know every bloody word that’s spoke in my own bloody dungeons! That there weren’t bloody dwarf stenographers listening to your every snore and whisper?! That I don’t have a bloody complete and spell-corrected transcript of every prisoner’s midnight bloomin’ murmurings delivered every morning?” He reached under his beard, presumably into his shirt, and pulled out a sheaf of parchment, which he threw across the table. “And you come here and try to lie to me! To me! To take treasure that belongs to the dwarves! Bloody Books of bloody Beginning. I think not! I think not indeed!”
Dr. Pym kept his voice calm. “No, Your Highness, the book does not belong to the dwarves. They were merely guarding it.”
“It’s buried beneath a dwarf city! In a vault built by dwarves! It belongs to the dwarves! Period! Full stop! End of the bloody story!”
Dr. Pym looked at the children and smiled. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” Kate hissed back. “How are we not supposed to worry?”
“Well,” Dr. Pym said, “maybe worry just a little bit.”
Hamish was still ranting. “I’ll teach you to trifle with a dwarf, my good conjurer.”
“My King—”
Hamish waved his hand. “Nah nah nah, don’t you go ‘my king-ing’ me; we’re too late in the day for that.” Hamish stood and began pacing back and forth, running his hand down his beard and talking half to himself. “Now ’ere’s what’s gonna happen. We slip in quiet-like to this back door, find Mr. Magic Book all on ’is lonesome—What’s that? Why, yes, we will ’elp ourselves—book goes in the bag, we sneak out all rickey-tick, and the witch never has to know it was us that took it. She just finds the vault and thinks, Oh, ’ello, empty vault, what?”
“Yes, but as you no doubt read in your transcript, I cannot remember how—”
“The bleedin’ golden cavern; I know, I know,” and Hamish turned his head and screamed, “FERGUS!”
An extremely old dwarf, bent nearly double with age and with a long white beard that touched the floor, emerged from the shadows along the wall and tottered forward … slowly.
Hamish groaned. “Oh, for the love of—would you ’urry up there, Fergus? You’re gonna die before you get to the bleedin’ table!”
And, in fact, Kate could see dwarves exchanging money, presumably making bets whether or not Fergus would die before he got to the table. But then Captain Robbie stepped up and supported him the rest of the way.
“So, Fergus,” said Hamish, “you know this”—he snapped his fingers and a serving dwarf, bowing obsequiously, brought the transcript forward, and Hamish flattened it on the table and read—“this ‘golden cavern’ below the Dead City that Mr. I’m-Such-a-Bloody-Smart-Wizard was talking about.”
The old dwarf’s voice came out in a quiet, shaky rasp. “Oh yes, yes … golden cavern. Dead City … secret passage below the … the … the …” Kate thought he was going to be stuck on the word indefinitely, but then he managed to get it out: “… the throne room.”
“That’s right, Fergus, that’s right. In the Dead City. A secret passage below the throne room. You said you knew a way to that cavern, ain’t that right?”
Fergus didn’t respond.
“Fergus?”
For a second, Kate thought he might actually have expired. Clearly, a few of the dwarves agreed, for there was more exchanging of money.
“FERGUS!”
“Hmm? Wha …” The old dwarf had fallen asleep.
“You told me you know a way into this ’ere golden cavern?”
“Ah yes, there’s a way. Dangerous, though. Dark passage …”
“Right, then,” Hamish said, looking satisfied. “That’s settled. Now, you”—he looked at Dr. Pym—“are gonna hand over the key to this ’ere vault, and maybe, just maybe, I won’t chop off all your ’eads when I come back with me magic book. How’s that sound, then?”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Your Highness,” Dr. Pym said mildly. “You see, I am the key.”
“What?”
“Neither the main entrance to the vault nor the back door has a lock in the traditional sense. The door was sealed by an enchantment. It can only be opened by a designated few.”
As Kate and Michael watched, Hamish’s face went from his normal unhealthy pallor to red to deep red to purple to finally almost an indigo color, like a bad bruise. Then he started screaming—
“You think I’m an idjit?! You think because you say that, I’m gonna take you along so you can do some hoinky-doinky magic and escape with me book?! You think—” Hamish stopped himself. “Wait, you said a few—it can only be opened by a few. Who else can open it?”
Dr. Pym opened his mouth, then paused.
“Ha! I caught you, didn’t I? Who else?”
“I’d rather not say,” Dr. Pym replied.
“You’d rather not say, you’d rather not say!” Hamish pointed at Michael. “Chop off that one’s ’ead!”
“Wait!” Dr. Pym said, sighing. “Very well. The vault will open under my hand or … the hands of these children.”
Both children whipped their heads around and looked up at Dr. Pym. He, however, was staring at Hamish.
Michael whispered, “What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know.” Kate had no idea if Dr. Pym was lying, if this was some plan he hadn’t told them about, or if he was, in fact, telling the truth. And if so, how was it they could open the vault? What did that mean?
For his part, Hamish seemed to accept Dr. Pym’s statement as being perfectly reasonable. He scratched his chin (or he scratched his beard; his chin was under there somewhere) and wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. “Aye, I figured there was something to do with them brats. Wandering through the maze and they come bang up to the secret door. Fishy, that was. Right! Someone lock up the wizard, and collect them runts! We’re going on a field trip.”
Kate heard the words before she was aware of having spoken. “I won’t help you.”
The hall fell silent. Hamish leaned forward onto the table so that he rested on his knuckles like a gorilla. His voice was slow and full of menace. “What did you say?”
“I won’t help you open the vault.” Kate wasn’t entirely sure why she was standing up to Hamish. Obviously, she didn’t want him to have the book. But mostly, she reflected, she just thought he was gross. She let go of Michael’s hand so that she could cross her arms, thinking it made her appear more resolved.
“Un-bloody-believable.” Hamish looked to the dwarves on either side of him. “You hear the cheek on this one? Whose bloody throne room is this anyway? Who’s the bloody king of the bloody dwarves? Oh, you’ll help me, my girl! Trust me, you will help me. What is this? Stand Up to the King Day? I don’t think so. ’Cause if it was …” He paused, unsure how to continue, then said, “Well, there ain’t no such day!”
“Whatever,” Kate said, turning her head imperiously to the side. “I’m not helping you.”
Hamish stood there, snorting in anger and glaring at her. “You’v
e got spirit, lass, I’ll give you that. ‘Owever, unfortunately for you, I don’t need your help, since according to this silly prat of a magician, all’s I need is your pretty little hand.” He threw a fork at one of his soldiers to get his attention. “Oi! You there! Bring me that little tart’s hand. But leave the rest of her! I’ll teach her who’s king round ’ere!”
“You’re no dwarf!”
The entire hall, Hamish included, turned and looked at Michael. The King raised his hand to stop the dwarf who’d taken a step toward Kate.
“What did you say, boy?”
Michael was red-faced and furious and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. “I said you’re not a dwarf! And it’s true!”
Kate immediately understood what Michael meant; she knew how gravely Hamish, a real, actual dwarf king, must have disappointed him.
“I know more about dwarves than almost anyone,” Michael continued hotly. “All my life I’ve read anything I could find. They were the bravest soldiers, the most loyal friends. People were always underestimating them, but they always won because they were the smartest and worked the hardest.”
The dwarves who’d been slouching at the table had perked up as Michael spoke. Kate saw Captain Robbie staring at her brother, a stunned expression having broken through his soldier’s mask.
“But, you,” Michael said, “you’re a disgrace.”
“Is that right, then?” Hamish said coldly.
“Michael,” Kate whispered, reaching for his sleeve to pull him back. But all Michael’s focus was on the dwarf king, and he took a step forward, out of her reach.
“That’s right. And if you knew half the things my sister has done, it’d be you kneeling to her and not the other way around. She’s twice as brave as you could ever be. We only want the book so we can get home. You just want it because you’re greedy. You want to cut off someone’s hand—cut off mine.” And he stepped up and laid his thin wrist on the table.
For a long moment no one moved or spoke. All the hundreds of dwarves in the hall, those sitting at the table and the ones standing at attention, were as still as statues. Kate was both terrified for and unbelievably proud of her brother. Michael, the little boy who’d gotten picked on at orphanage after orphanage, who’d frequently had to have his younger sister bail him out of fights, whose glasses were routinely stolen and thrown into toilets, was now standing up to an ax-wielding (and clearly unstable) dwarf king. He looked so small and thin. Yet his hand was perfectly still upon the table and he was staring boldly at Hamish. Kate had always known Emma was brave, but she had never thought of Michael that way. She vowed she would never do him that disservice again.