IN DANK CHAMBERS of the Helfratheim court, a world away from Sylvan Estates, torches were blazing. At the gaming table Prince Macta's face was a mask of calm. He raised his fist, gave the four knucklebones a shake, and flung them onto the table. The Elves on Macta's side of the room jostled for a better view, as the Dwarves on the other side did the same. Rows of candles sputtered in the air as the knucklebones clattered to a stop.
Small black dots were burned into the six sides of each bone, and everyone in the room knew what the combination of dots meant. Macta leaned back, smiling. All eyes were on the table. The Dwarves who were crowded behind the players saw the outcome of the toss and groaned. "Tough luck, my friend," Macta exclaimed. "Three ones and a two. The Rat."
The game had been going nonstop since early the previous evening, but in the subterranean chamber where Macta liked to play, the light of the sun never shone. Zelimir, the fat, pockmarked Dwarf sitting opposite Macta, tried not to frown. In the underground city where he lived, Zelimir was a respected member of the merchant class. Business often brought him to the palace of the Dockalfars. Elves and Dwarves rarely mingled, but money, as Macta often said, has a way of fording many an abyss. Zelimir's eyes never left Macta as he reached for the knucklebones. His translator whispered in his ear. Zelimir grunted, reached into a satchel hanging from a strap around his neck, and counted out a number of coins. He placed them on the table and sat back.
Macta's face was smooth and, for an Elflad, almost pretty. Around his neck hung a silver pendant shaped like a stag's skull, and jeweled rings decorated many of his nervous fingers. His deep-set eyes were green, with flecks of gold. The eyes of all Elves were huge, and much was revealed in their liquid depths. Yet Macta's eyes were veiled by a lifetime of caution. Smoke hung over the heads of the Faerie Folk that crowded into the room, as they drank, puffed their cigars, and gnawed at greasy joints of meat. Servants snaked through the crowd, sloshing ale into mugs. Shaggy Goblins snatched discarded bones.
Macta's brother-in-law, Baltham, stood in the shadows behind him. His soft hands clutched the edge of Macta's chair, and he giggled nervously as Macta dropped a fistful of coins next to the mound that already lay heavy on his side of the table. Baltham was too timid to risk a penny of his own money, but he thrilled to watch his wife's proud, irresponsible brother in action. For his part, Macta thrived on Baltham's envy.
Across the table Zelimir's gaze was steady. He knew that if he lost the next roll of the knucklebones it would cost him everything. He could stop the game at any time, and go home a free, though poorer, Dwarf. Still … he had come so far. And what would his wives say if he returned home empty-handed? Zelimir whispered a prayer, then scooped up the knucklebones and gave them a toss. Two sixes, a four, and a one: the Dog. Macta picked up the knucklebones and held them in the palm of his hand. "All or nothing, my friend," he said. His bet was reckless, he knew, but it would be worth it all to see the Dwarf suffer. The translator spoke to Zelimir and turned away, giving Macta an icy stare. The other Dwarves shook their heads. Zelimir was livid with rage, and yet his lust for the mountain of coins filled him with a greed he could hardly contain. Finally he sat back, nodding. Just then there was a knock on the chamber door. "See who dares disturb my game," ordered Macta.
A rumpled-looking Elf, out of breath from his long passage in the Cord, stepped briskly into the room. His name was Nebiros, and his official job was to sharpen obsidian knives in the Alfheim kitchens. His real occupation, however, was to pass messages between Macta and his secret accomplice in Alfheim. He pushed his way through the crowd to whisper in Macta's ear. A moment later, the Prince leaned back and grinned. "An object of infinite worth has just been discovered," he said. "'Tis the key to my future happiness, because it is the wedding shoe that will enable me to marry the Elfmaid I have loved since I was a lad. Compared with such a prize, the coins on the table are worth less than the dirt under my feet. And yet, on the day I propose, these coins will buy me some pretty baubles and a bouquet for my beloved!"
The translator did not bother to tell his Master what Macta said; all that mattered now was the next roll. Macta flashed a confident smile and gave the knucklebones a toss. Silence filled the room. One, one, one, and one. It was the lowest of scores, the Ant. Zelimir roared with relief as the Pixies pushed the mountain of coins toward him. Macta leapt up, overturning his chair. Losing was not an acceptable outcome. He crashed into the shoulder of his brother-in-law, still standing close behind. "Get out of my way, you idiot," he hissed, and gave Baltham a swift kick in the shin. "I've got more important things to do than stand here looking at you!"
