It has been a hard session at the forge. I sit down on my bed. Sweat is pouring from my brow, down my face, and soaking into my beard. My hands are still shaking from my runeforging, though I did not push all my strength into it this time; I just needed a few new runes for some tricky stanzas at the top of my cable. The float-section I am to do next will be a harder job. Hopefully my skin won't burn when I attempt it.
All I want to do is sleep, but I force myself to clean up. I drag myself to the partitioned part of my cell, strip down, and scrub off the sweat from my body with ash-water. I examine my face in my shaving mirror and am appalled at the state of my beard—it looks like a wild animal.
I trim it with as much care as I would a piece of metal. Some runeknights are happy to let their beards run wild, and take pride in never letting a razor come within two feet of their face, but I am not one of them. Unkempt beards are for miners; I keep mine even.
Mid-way through slicing apart a particularly ugly mat, I hear a click from the lock. I still my hand. I hear the door swing open softly. I clench my hand tighter around the handle of my razor. Usually the guards will announce who enters, unless it is a first degree or the Runethane himself, who announce themselves.
I wait for a few seconds, then quickly pull on my robe. This is very strange—whoever just entered still does not speak. I remember what Nazak told me on my arrival to this realm: some here hate me more than they fear Vanerak. And hatred of me has not dimmed in everyone.
If it is an assassin then I am likely dead already. Even a Runethane, even a Runeking, and perhaps even a Runegod, can do nothing when caught with his armor off and bare flesh exposed.
My only chance is to rush and jab my razor through my would-be killer's eye. I peek from behind the curtain. I need to judge the angle to strike at—but I am shocked to see that the dwarf who has entered is no runeknight.
He wears no armor, only a plain linen robe dirtied with many shades of rock-dust. The weapon hanging from his belt is a hammer, though I do not think he is capable of fighting with it, for he is frail and old, ancient! He is stooped almost double, with rheumy eyes sunken deep into his wrinkled flesh, and his beard is a wispy white cloud. I judge that he is at the limit of an ordinary dwarven lifespan.
He is vaguely familiar—then I remember. I saw this dwarf on my first arrival to Vanerak's palace. He was working on a section of floor, or maybe wall. Back then he looked a little healthier—the long-hours that I have barely felt have taken their toll on his mortal flesh.
I pull open the curtain and walk out.
“Greetings, master mason,” I say loudly. “Do you have some reason for entering unannounced?”
He smiles. He is not at all intimidated by the bright steel I'm still clutching. “If I had no reason, Second Runeforger, I would not have come here.”
“Of course. But I asked why you didn't announce yourself.”
“Did I not? Forgive me. My memory is crumbly—I often forget my manners. May I sit down?”
He may not be a runeknight, but to have been given permission to come and talk to me proves that his status is equal to a senior one. It would not do to offend him, so I gesture to my table.
“Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” He sits. “And would you be so kind as to sit opposite me? I have a few things I wish to discuss.”
I put my razor on its shelf—it would not do to intimidate someone so ancient and helpless—and sit down opposite him.
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“Give us some privacy,” he says loudly. “Our conversation is not for just anyone to hear.”
My door shuts.
“Would you like some beer?” I offer.
“No thank you,” he says. “My liver is too old and weak for anything stronger than water.”
“I'm afraid I don't have any water, master mason.”
“Never you mind that. I am here to talk, not to drink or eat.”
“Of course. Did our Runethane send you down?”
“No. I come on my own business.”
“I see. Though I didn't know that those who aren't runeknights were permitted to see me.”
“Rules are metal, not stone. They can be bent.”
“Of course.”
It does not strike me as particularly strange that this ancient dwarf—though in truth he is far less ancient than most runeknights—should be allowed to bend the rules a little. Masons hold more influence here than they did in Allabrast or Thanerzak's city, for Vanerak needs a vast amount of stonework carried out to make his realm habitable, and more than that, respected for its beauty.
The masons have a number of jobs. First, every cave that dwarves are to reside in must be rigorously inspected. Some caves do not take well to construction, and badly planned work can result in devastating collapses. Senior masons go over every inch of rock, judging walls, ceiling and floor with eyes, hands, and ears. Every last stalactite and stalagmite is measured, each species of rock recorded.
The construction work itself is, of course, carried out by masons too. They chisel out stone blocks to erect buildings in open spaces, and smooth out and beautify ragged miner-tunnels to extend lodgings into the walls. It is grueling work, I've been told, more difficult even than mining—for one errant stroke of the chisel could ruin untold hours of labor.
And masons are expected to be artists also, nearly as much as runeknights are. The great mosaic of history laid out on the road to Vanerak's palace was the work of this master mason, and all the lesser mosaics and etchings carved throughout the realm were conducted under his supervision. Each piece, I've been told, has been made better than the last, and all are greatly pleasing to look upon.
Masons pour their skill into stone just as we runeknights pour ours into metal. For this they are somewhat respected—only a fool would equate them to rough-handed miners. And because of their vital work, even Vanerak must grudgingly make concessions to their desires. He cannot treat them as slaves like he does the miners.
“So, Second Runeforger,” says the master mason, “I would hear what you have to say of your runes.”
I frown “Of my runes? I thought masons had no interest in runes.”
“Until now we have not been permitted to take an interest in them. Runes are of metal, a substance we are forbidden to have anything to do with.”
“My runes are also of metal, master mason.”
“Yes, but the runes we are dredging up are made of stone. It may be that the curious properties of the stone, whose near invulnerability is a mystery I have been tasked by our Runethane with solving, are a result of these runes—and so I have decided to come and talk to you, who know more of runes than anyone else.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Compared to our Runethane, and even to his first degrees, my knowledge is nothing.”
“Your breadth of knowledge is lacking before their tens of thousands of long-hours of study, yes. But your depth is greater. You have seen runes at their creation—manipulated them at their creation.”
“The Runethane would never permit me to tell others of their creation. That knowledge is mine and his only.”
The master mason laughs. It is a strong and harsh laugh, and does not quite sound as if it should come from such a frail-looking figure.
“Of course,” he says. “You are loyal. You will not tell me your secrets in full.”
“I cannot tell you any of them,” I say.
“Naturally.” He suddenly leans forward. “Yet I will ask anyway. And I will remind you that there are many masons, all throughout the realm, and we perhaps are aware of more than you runeknights realize.”
I narrow my eyes. “You are threatening me.”
“Never. I am merely illuminating the facts.”
“I am not a fool, master mason. I know a threat when I hear one.”
He shrugs. “Believe my words to be what you will.”
“You know full well whose protection I am under.”
“Could he protect you from the cliff you reside in collapsing into the magma sea?”
I rock back a little, shocked. He is threatening me openly! I stand up and look toward the door. I have half a mind to call on the guards—but remember that it is closed tightly. That does not matter so much. If I ran to the door and knocked hard they would open it. I could have this age-crazed master mason arrested. Vanerak would not take kindly to my being threatened—if he believed me, that is.
Whether Vanerak would believe me is immaterial, I realize with a chill. However hard I bang on the door, and however loudly I shout will make no difference, for my guards are almost certainly incapacitated.