From what she’d gleaned of Bäalâle Seatt, its fall—its destruction—had been the work of a traitor. That one’s name had been forgotten long ago, and only a cryptic title in ancient Dwarvish remained: Thallûhearag, the “Lord of Slaughter.” Only Ore-Locks seemed to know his true name.
Byûnduní—Deep-Root—had been a stonewalker of Bäalâle Seatt, just as Ore-Locks was in Dhredze Seatt. But the connection went deeper than that, for Ore-Locks claimed it was this spirit of his ancestor that had called him to sacred service as a stonewalker, a guardian and caretaker of the dwarves’ honored dead.
Ore-Locks worshipped this genocidal traitor, claiming that Deep-Root—that Thallûhearag—was not a Fallen One, those who stood for the opposite of all that the dwarves’ Eternals represented.
Chane claimed, by his truth sense, that Ore-Locks truly believed Deep-Root was no traitor. But there was no proof in mere believing. Knowingly or not, it all made Ore-Locks a potential tool of the Enemy through the spirit of a mass murderer. Perhaps he already was.
Wynn wanted no part of him.
Then she noticed his attire.
He no longer wore a stonewalker’s black-scaled armor. He still bore their twin battle daggers on his belt, along with the new, broad dwarven sword in its sheath. But the long iron staff in his large hand was the first bad sign. He was dressed plainly in brown breeches and a natural canvas shirt, and through the split of his cloak, Wynn saw the burnt orange, wool tabard.
Stunned, she stared at his vestment. “What are you wearing?”
“I am in disguise,” he answered quietly.
That was something else about Ore-Locks; he didn’t behave like a typical dwarf. Most of his people were slow to anger and quick to laugh. They wore their emotions on their broad faces, their feelings expressed proudly with booming voices.
Ore-Locks’s voice was too often low and quiet, his dark eyes devoid of his people’s heartfelt emotions. She could never be certain what lay behind his words. And while she wasn’t religious, his choice of disguise, that tabard and staff, were blasphemous.
Ore-Locks had “disguised” himself as a holy shirvêsh of Bedzâ’kenge—“Feather-Tongue”—the dwarves’ saintly Eternal of history, tradition, and wisdom. That was as far removed from the deceits of Thallûhearag as possible.
“Take that off,” she told him.
“The shirvêsh of Feather-Tongue are well received in most northern lands. I do not wish to be noticed along the journey.”
“I said ... take it off.”
Anyone who worshipped a servant of the Enemy had no business masquerading as a shirvêsh, a religious servant, of Feather-Tongue.
“When do we leave?” he asked.
“I never agreed to let you come.”
“That was settled in fair barter with your companion.”
Wynn glanced away.
Chane had broken his sword trying to get them past a massive iron door because of her obsession with finding the Stonewalkers. When they’d returned to the guild, Ore-Locks had appeared. He’d brought Chane a new sword made of the finest dwarven steel, which Chane never could have afforded.
Chane distrusted Ore-Locks only half as much as Wynn did, and he needed a new sword. At the offer of one of such craftsmanship, he hadn’t said a word to refuse it.
“When do we leave?” Ore-Locks repeated.
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for funding and ... other matters to settle.”
She wasn’t about to tell him anything more than necessary.
Ore-Locks turned away. “I am at the Harvest Inn, west of the Grayland’s Empire district. Send a message when you are ready.” He paused with his back to her. “You would do well not to leave without me.”
Shade’s rumble turned to a snarl. Though Ore-Locks’s quiet tone hadn’t changed, those last words had sounded like a threat. Or perhaps Shade had snatched a memory that rose in the dwarf’s conscious thoughts. Either way, Wynn kept silent as Ore-Locks strode toward—through—the wall.
She sank on the bed’s edge, feeling stretched thin on all sides, and snarled her fingers into Shade’s scruff. Shade shoved her head against Wynn’s neck, but soft fur and a warm, wet tongue weren’t comfort enough as Wynn glanced at the door.
Where was Chane?
Upon rising at dusk, Chane dressed quickly, pausing briefly at the mirror over the short dresser. He tried to smooth his raggedly cropped, red-brown hair. Several objects, the results of his nightly errands, rested upon the dresser. As of yet, he had not told Wynn about these extra acquisitions.
The sword that Ore-Locks had brought him now had a plain leather sheath. A fresh cloak of deep green wool, with a full hood, was folded atop the dresser’s end. Upon it lay a matching scarf, a pair of new, fitted leather gloves, and two small leather triangles with attached lacing for their final purpose.
He still had two more items to attain, and tonight, he was already late in seeking one.
Rushing through the small study and into the outer passage, Chane locked the door to his guest quarters and hurried to the end stairs. When he reached the building’s ground level, he did not head for the courtyard. Instead, he ducked into one ground-floor chamber laden with workbenches, books, and glass contraptions and other tools. Rounding to the back, he headed down another flight of stairs.
Emerging in the building’s first level of underchambers, he stepped into a narrow stone corridor lit by two sage-crafted cold lamps set in wall-mounted metal vessels. Alchemically mixed fluids provided mild heat to keep them lit. By their steady light, he counted three wide iron doors on both sides of the passage. These were the lower laboratories of the guild.
In two previous visits over eight nights, he had never seen what lay behind any but one. He had tried opening others to peek in and satisfy his curiosity. Not one budged, though there were no locks or bars on their outsides. He headed for the last on the right, but tonight it was shut tight, like the others.
Chane let out a sigh, an old habit left over from living days. He knocked, listening for an answer, but none came. He tried the heavy iron handle, anyway, expecting the door would not open. To his surprise, it slipped inward as he twisted the handle. He hesitated and glanced along the other heavy doors.
This was wrong. Still, perhaps she was within and had not heard him. He pushed the door wide.
“Géorn-metade,” he called in Numanese.
No one answered his formal greeting.
A short, three-step access hallway emptied into the left side of a small back chamber. He had come here twice before, just past dusk, both times in haste before going to Wynn’s room. He never told her where he had been.
Chane entered, quietly closing the door. All he could see from the hallway were shelves pegged in the chamber’s left wall. They were filled with books, bound sheaves, and some slender, upright cylinders of wood, brass, and unglazed ceramic. As he stepped out of the passage, the room filled his view.
Stout, narrow tables and squat casements were stuffed with more texts, as well as odd little contraptions of metal, crystal and glass, and wood and leather. A rickety old armchair of tattered blue fabric barely fit into the back right corner beyond the orderly mess upon the age-darkened desk of many little drawers. Atop the desk’s corner sat the dimming cold lamp, brighter than he had first thought.
Someone had been here recently to rub its crystal to brilliance.
Chane scanned stacks of parchment and three bowls of powdered substances. An array of brass articulated arms anchored to the desk’s other corner each held framed magnifying lenses. They were mounted so that one or more could be twisted into or out of alignment with the others.
Chane stood in the private study of Frideswida Hawes, premin of the Order of Metaology. And he was tempted to dig through everything in sight.