Patricia Briggs by The Hob's Bargain

that was the king’s tongue. Only noblemen knew how to write anything else, noblemen and scholars.
    The harper nodded. “A bit. I think. Some of the runes are different.” He pointed at one. “I’ve never seen anything like that. And here, see, this didn’t have this tail—but it makes sense if I change it so.”
    â€œSo what does it say? Do you know who wrote it? How old it is?”
    â€œWell,” he said dryly, “it’s older than the last time you saw this. Any scholar could have written this. It’s an ancestor of Manishe—a common tongue among scholars, though it hasn’t been in everyday use for four hundred years or so.”
    He said “four hundred years” as if it were a few days. Harpers were strange that way.
    â€œThe mercenary patois has its roots here.” He tapped the rock with the hand that still held the char, leaving a dark blotch on the stone. “But of course they have altered it almost beyond recognition—simplifying it to three or four hundred code words that even the stupidest man can command in a short period of time with the proper instruction. That way it doesn’t matter what country a man comes from.”
    He paused, happily surveying the black marks. “But this, this is very old. Legend says that mankind stole writing from another race—the dwarves. There’s some of their work in the museum at the king’s castle of state. A goblet, three plates, and a sword. The sword has runes on it, one of which looks just like this.” He pointed to a faded mark, one that looked to me just like the one next to it—or the one above it, for that matter.
    â€œThat’s a mark we don’t have in our Manishe, though it’s supposed to be read as if it were two other glyphs combined. Now a scholar who wanted you to think this was a message written by dwarves would probably write something that looked like this, but—” he said intensely, “—but how many scholars do you think would have climbed down the backside of this infernal mountain to do that?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Right. That’s how many of them I think came here, too.”
    His enthusiasm was infectious—I had obviously happened upon a hobby of his.
    â€œSo you think it was written by dwarves?” I asked. The dwarfs had died out a long time ago, victims of plague, war, or the same thing that had killed the rest of the wildlings.
    â€œPerhaps, but we weren’t the only ones to steal dwarf runes. This says…” He continued speaking in a language that was harsh and nasal.

    H IDDEN FROM THEIR SIGHT, THE HOB WINCED, FLATTENING his ears against his head. His spells allowed him to interpret what they were saying, but he knew the language the musician was butchering. Manlings had little enough appreciation of beauty in their souls, but this was extreme. Never had he heard such an accent, though he supposed after—how long had he been asleep?—things could have changed.
    The girl, the one he’d seen in that brief seeking vision yesterday, spoke again. “What, exactly, does that mean?”
    The older man smiled, his face lit with the joy all scholars share in new discoveries. Some things had not changed. “It says, ‘Be welcomed here, fair travelers of good heart: benevolent souls have always been welcome on the mountains of the hob.’”
    Close enough , thought the hob.
    â€œHob’s Mountain,” she said touching the stone.
    The hob drew in his breath at the magic that pulsed wildly around the girl. Didn’t they teach their younglings better than that? Such a signature would attract all sorts of nasties.

    I TOUCHED THE ROCK . I T WAS OLD, SO OLD THAT ONLY bits and pieces came to me.
    A dark-skinned hand, twisted with hoary years, held a brush that he carefully dipped in a clay pot of dark ink…a sense of mischief, for hiding the message would