The Revenge of the Dwarves by Markus Heitz

applauded again and returned to their market-day tasks.
    Rodario grinned at his herald. “Well cried, cryer. Do a couple more rounds through the back streets and make lots of noise. Let’s make sure the whole world knows who’s in Storm Valley tonight.”
    His man returned the grin: “After a session like that word will get around faster than a fart in the wind.”
    “Not a happy choice of simile, but accurate enough in the circumstances,” said Rodario as he went over to a market stall selling wine. He got himself a beaker, tasted it and nodded. “Exquisite little drop. Worthy of an emperor. Send me a barrel of this to the road that leads south out of here. That’s where we’ve put up our tents,” he told the wine merchant, handing him a heap of Bruron’s coins. “Will that cover it?”
    “Of course, sir,” The man bent over the money to count it. With these show folk you could never quite be sure. He even took the trouble to scratch at the surface of one of the coins with a knife to check whether perhaps it was merely lead coated with silver. Satisfied, he shoveled the money into his pocket.
    Rodario grinned, leaning back against the makeshift bar—a plank balanced on two wine barrels. “Don’t you trust me?”
    “No,” replied the vintner in a friendly enough manner. “You wanted to try the wine before you ordered the barrel, didn’t you?” He filled Rodario’s beaker again. “There, that cup and the next for free as a bonus.”
    “Too kind, my good man,” laughed the showman and he looked around, secretly hoping he might catch sight of the pretty girl again. “If you saw my little contretemps just now, have you any idea who my opponent might be?” he enquired, and called a lad over who was peddling delicacies from a tray; he was offering freshly baked black bread with cream, ham and a layer of melted cheese. Rodario knew he must eat something or the wine would have a devastating effect. He didn’t want to turn up that evening theworse for wear, let alone to fall off the stage drunk and incapable when he faced his audience. He’d seen that happen to others. He bought himself one of the savory snacks in exchange for a quarter. He contemplated his purchase and thought of his good friend who had so loved these flatbreads.
    “Sure I know who it is.” The vintner topped up the jug from the barrel and thus prevented Rodario’s thoughts becoming too melancholy. “Nolik, son of Leslang, the richest man in Storm Valley. The two of them own a quarry that supplies the finest marble in Gauragar. King Bruron is a personal friend of theirs.”
    “And yet the man has no breeding.” Rodario took a bite. “He gets his wife to work as a washerwoman?”
    The wine seller took a quick look around before answering. “Nolik is a bad man. No idea how he won Tassia’s heart. Can’t have been honestly.”
    “Who will ever understand women? Perhaps his inner virtues are as gold compared to his behavior?” Rodario rolled his eyes. “This savory flatbread is de-li-cious,” he praised, his mouth full, as he juggled the snack from one hand to the other, “but it’s still too hot!” He gulped some wine to quench the burning and sighed happily.
    The other man laughed so loud that the folk around them turned their heads. “Nolik and inner values? No, definitely not.” Quietly he added, “Tassia’s family owed his father money. Need I say more?”
    “No.” Rodario chewed his last morsel, picked up the jug and the beaker and moved on. “Don’t forget my wine!” He raised his two prizes in the air. “You’ll have these backthis evening if the barrel gets delivered,” he placated the man.
    Rodario loved to wander through a busy throng of people; this was life. He had had enough of death, heroic deeds or not. He was a showman: a skilled mimic and an excellent lover—better than any other in Girdlegard. And for both areas of expertise he needed real people around him to appreciate his god-given