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. He
put the final touches to it, tempered its face and its spike,
and set it on a shaft of sturdy darkwood, with rawhide
lashing for the hand to grip. Then he fashioned a thong
to carry it, took a deep breath, and looked around for
the metal that would make a sword.
A man stood a few feet away, leaning casually on a
staff, watching the dwarf. Chane had no idea how long
the man had been there. He had not heard him approach.
But the faded red robe beneath the bison-pelt cape told
him what the man was, and the dwarf felt a twinge of dis-
taste... distaste and more than a bit of caution. A wiz-
ard.
"I see nothing wrong with becoming rich and famous,
Chane Feldstone," the wizard said in a voice as thin and
as cold as winter wind. "It is a proper approach to some
worthwhile goals."
The dwarf frowned at him, backing off a step. "Have
you been listening to my thoughts? If you have, you
know it wasn't me who said that, it was some kender."
"There'd be no need to read the thoughts of one who
speaks them to himself while he is working, Chane Feld-
stone."
"How do you know who I am? I didn't tell myself my
name."
"Oh, I know of you, Chane Feldstone," the wizard
said. "I might even know more of who you are than you
do."
"Who are you, that you know about me?"
The man sighed, bowing his head, and whiskers of
sleet gray bobbed as he nodded
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