The Toymaker motioned to me.
"This way," he directed, and led me through a different door. The
offstage hammering I had heard, tiny bell tones like a fairy xylophone,
began again as the door opened, and we passed into a workroom which made
me remember nursery tales from a half-forgotten childhood on Terra. For
the workers were tiny, gnarled _trolls_!
They were _chaks_. _Chaks_ from the polar mountains, dwarfed and furred
and half-human, with witchlike faces and great golden eyes, and I had
the curious feeling that if I looked hard enough I would see the little
toy-seller they had hunted out of the Kharsa. I didn't look. I figured I
was in enough trouble already.
Tiny hammers pattered on miniature anvils in a tinkling, jingling chorus
of musical clinks and taps. Golden eyes focused like lenses over winking
jewels and gimcracks. Busy elves. Makers of toys!
Evarin jerked his shoulders with an imperative gesture. I followed him
through a fairy workroom, but could not refrain from casting a lingering
look at the worktables.
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