"Alchemy is a means to make a few potions of minor magic, and a bit of powder that blows up more often on its creator than on its intended target. Beyond that, it is a sham, a lie perpetrated by the cunning on the greedy. You can no more strengthen the metal of Mirabar's mines than transmute lead into gold."
"Why, from the solid earth I can create hungry mud at your feet to swallow you up!" Nanfoodle roared.
"With water?" Shoudra calmly asked, the simple reply taking most of the bluster from the excited gnome, visibly shrinking him back to size.
He started to reply, stammering indecipherably, and just gave a snort, and remarked, "Not all agree with your estimation of the value of alchemy."
"Indeed, and some pay well for the unfounded promises it otters."
Nanfoodle snorted again. "The point remains that I owe nothing to your marchion beyond my position to him as my employer," he reasoned, "and only as my current employer, as I am a freelance alchemist who has served many well-paying folks throughout the wide lands of the North. I could walk into Waterdeep tomorrow and find employ at near equal pay."
"True enough," Shoudra replied, "but I have not asked you for any loyalty to Elastul, only to Mirabar, this city that you have come to name as your home. I have been watching you closely, Nanfoodle, ever since Councilor Agrathan came to me with his knowledge of the imprisonment of Torgar. I have replayed many times my encounter with Djaffar, and I know whose door it is that abuts my own. You are out this day, walking nervously, meandering your course, which is obviously to the mines and the dwarves. I share your frustration and understand well that which gnaws at your heart, and so, since Councilor Agrathan has taken little action, you have decided to tell others. Friends of Torgar, likely, in an effort to start some petition against the marchion's actions and gel Torgar freed from his cell, wherever that may be."
"I have decided to tell the friends of Torgar only so that they might know the truth," Nanfoodle admitted, and corrected. "What actions they might take are their own to decide."
"How democratic," came the sarcastic reply.
"You just said you share my frustrations," Nanfoodle retorted.
"But not your foolishness, it would seem," Shoudra was quick to respond. "Do you truly understand the implications? Do you truly understand the brotherhood of dwarf to dwarf? You risk tearing the city asunder, of setting human against dwarf. What do you owe to Mirabar, Nanfoodle the Illusionist? And what do you owe to Marchion Elastul, your employer?"
"And what do I owe to the dwarves I have named as my friends?" the little gnome asked innocently, and his words seemed to knock Shoudra back a step.
"I know not," she admitted with a sigh, one that clearly showed that frustration she had spoken of.
"Nor do I," Nanfoodle agreed.
Shoudra straightened herself, but she seemed not so tall and terrible to Nanfoodle, seemed rather a kindred soul, befuddled and unhappy about the course of events swirling around her and outside of her control.
She dropped a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of sympathy and friendship, and said quietly, "Walk lightly, friend. Understand the implications of your actions here. The dwarves of Mirabar are on the fine edge of a dagger, stepping left and right. They among all the citizens bear the least love and the most loyalty to the present marchion. Where will your revelations leave them?"
Nanfoodle nodded, not disagreeing with her reasoning, but he added, "And yet, if this city is all you claim it to be, if this wondrous joy of coexistence that is Mirabar is worthy of inspiring such loyalty, can it suffer the injustice of the jailing of Torgar Hammerstriker?"
Again, his words seemed to set Shoudra back on her heels, striking her as profoundly as any slap might. She paused, closed her eyes, and gradually began to nod.
"Do what you will, Nanfoodle, with no judgment from Shoudra Stargleam. I will leave your choice to your heart. None will know of this conversation, or even that you know of Torgar—not from me, at least."
She smiled warmly at the little gnome, patted him again on the shoulder, and turned and walked away.
Nanfoodle stood there, watching her depart and wondering which course would be better. Should he return to his apartment and his workshop and forget all about Torgar and the mounting troubles between the dwarves and the marchion? Or should he continue as he had intended, knowing full well the explosive potential of his information, and tell the dwarves the truth about the prisoner in the marchion's jail?
No question of alchemy, that most elusive of sciences, had ever perplexed the gnome more than this matter. Was it his place to start an uproar, perhaps even a riot? Was it his place, as a friend, to sit idly by and allow such injustice?
And what of Agrathan? If the marchion had convinced the dwarf councilor to remain silent, as seemed obvious, was Nanfoodle playing the part of the righteous fool? Agrathan must know more than he, after all. Agrathan's loyalty to his kin could not be questioned, and Agrathan had apparently said nothing about Torgar's fate.
Where did that leave Nanfoodle?
With a sigh, the little gnome turned back and started walking for home, thinking himself very foolish and very uppity for even beginning such a course. He had barely gone ten strides, though, when a familiar figure crossed before him, and paused to say hello.
"Greetings to you, Shingles McRuff," Nanfoodle responded, and he felt his stomach turn and his knees go weak.
His short legs churning, Councilor Agrathan burst into Marchion Elastul's audience chamber completely unannounced and with several door guards hot on his heels.
"They know!" the dwarf cried, before the surprised marchion could even inquire about the intrusion, and before any of the four Hammers who were standing behind Elastul could scold him for entering without invitation.
"They?" Elastul replied, though it was obvious to all that he knew exactly of whom Agrathan was speaking.
"Word's out about Torgar," Agrathan explained. "The dwarves know what you did, and they're none too happy!"
"Indeed," Elastul replied, settling back in his throne. "And how is it that your people know, Councilor?"
There was no mistaking the accusation in his lone.
"Not from me!" the dwarf protested. "You think I'm pleased by this development? You think it does my old heart good to see the dwarves of Mirabar yelling at each other, throwing words and throwing fists? But you had to know they would learn of this and soon enough. You cannot keep such a secret, Marchion, not about one as important as Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker."
His emphasis on that telling middle name, a distinguished title indeed among the dwarves of Mirabar, had Elastul's eyes narrowing dangerously. Elastul's middle name, after all, was not Delzoun, nor could it be, and to all the marchions of Mirabar, humans all, the Delzoun heritage could be both a blessing and a curse. That Delzoun heritage bound the dwarves to this land, and this land bound them to the marchion. But that Delzoun heritage also bound them to a commonality of their own race, one apart from the marchion. Why was it, after all, that every time Agrathan spoke of the weight of Elastul's decision to imprison the traitor Torgar, he used, and emphasized, that middle name?
"So they know," Elastul remarked. "Perhaps that is the proper thing, in the end. Surely most of the dwarves of Mirabar recognize Torgar Hammerstriker as the traitor that he is, and surely many of those same dwarves, merchants among them, craftsmen among them, understand and appreciate the damage the traitor might have caused to us all if he had been allowed to travel to our hated enemies."
"Enemies?"
"Rivals, then," the marchion conceded. "Do you believe that Mithral Hall would not welcome the information that the traitor dwarf might have offered?"