A withered leprechaun set eyes into the head of
a minikin hound. Furred fingers worked precious metals into invisible
filigree for the collarpiece of a dancing doll. Metallic feathers were
thrust with clockwork precision into the wings of a skeleton bird no
longer than my fingernail. The nose of the hound wabbled and sniffed,
the bird's wings quivered, the eyes of the little dancer followed my
footsteps.
Toys?
"This way," Evarin rapped, and a door slid shut behind us. The clinks
and taps grew faint, fainter, but never ceased.
My face must have betrayed more than conventional impassivity, for
Evarin smiled. "Now you know, Rakhal, why I am called Toymaker. Is it
not strange--the masterpriest of Nebran, a maker of Toys, and the shrine
of the Toad God a workshop for children's playthings?"
Evarin paused suggestively. They were obviously not children's
playthings and this was my cue to say so, but I avoided the trap. Evarin
opened a sliding panel and took out a doll.
She was perhaps the length of my longest finger, molded to the precise
proportions of a woman, and costumed after the bizarre fashion of the
Ardcarran dancing girls.
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