I lay out the ten rectangles of titanium that are to become the fingers of one of my new gauntlets. Each makes a dull clink on the covered anvil. I sigh. I am at a total loss.
Ten: the same number as the number of dwarves who stumbled across the two bodies in storeroom four—too large a number for us to keep track of easily, and those whose conversations Jaemes has managed to listen in on do not seem like promising leads. Even less so now that a stern warning from Commander Cathez has quieted the rumor mill, so that conversations about sensitive topics have all but died away.
The only promising part of the whole situation is the fact that Galar and Fjalar were in the group of ten. Yet I can see nothing suspicious about their behavior: Galar is diligently working on his trident of light, and Fjalar on his own weapon, also to be light-enruned.
No, we have discovered no clue, no hint, nothing at all that seems likely to lead us to the identity of the killer, and already another month has passed.
I tell my racing mind to shut up and concentrate. I came down here to forge, not fret.
I place the first section of titanium into my vise and begin to tap to create a gentle curve along its long edges. Each carefully measured blow impacts with the exact force I intend, and has the exact effect on the titanium I see in my mind’s eye the moment before I flex my wrist. Everything feels natural: not only does the hammer feel like an extension of my body, but the titanium does also. Shaping it feels little different to curling my finger or opening or closing my hand. It’s not quite an unconscious effort, there’s still a gap between my imagining it changing and it actually doing so—the most experienced runeknights liken their forging to an act of imagination in and of itself—yet I have come a long way since my first fumblings with the material.
The section becomes a perfect quarter-circle in cross section, and a tap with the sounding-rod confirms its perfection: the note is clear.
I put it down, immediately all my worries about the killer come back into my head, and I let out another frustrated sigh. How in hell are we going to catch him? We have one chance, one suspect to wrestle down, peel the armor off and dig out the weapon from. We try that on someone innocent and I don’t even want to think about the consequences. Nthazes, upstanding as he is, might be forgiven, but Jaemes and I will not.
I briefly see a vision of myself being thrown bodily down the Shaft.
We just need more time to think, I tell myself. An opportunity will present itself: after the next killing, something will be left behind—but I cannot imagine what, and how many killings will that take, anyway? And who’s to say the next victim won’t be me?
Concentrate!
I go back to my forging, put the next section of titanium into the vise, misjudge the strength of my first blow and curl the corner badly. I throw my hammer down and curse.
“Fuck!”
I’m in no state of mind to be forging today. I wasn’t in any state to be doing much yesterday either, nor the day before—certainly not after the last hunt either—we now carry torches on them, attracting predators with the heat like moths to a candle. Another miserable disruption to normal life, because now we’re all hungry most of the time.
“You all right down there?” someone calls from up above. It’s Cathez. He sounds irritated.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just been having trouble lately. Hard to concentrate properly.”
He nods. “I understand. Just try to keep it down. Unexpected shouts... They aren’t good for everyone’s nerves.”
“I apologize.”
“Accepted.”
He leaves and I sit down on the steps. Maybe I ought to do something that really demands my full concentration, a cerebral challenge. I take out one of the gems I recently requisitioned—the only good thing about the hunts becoming more dangerous is that they pay better—and turn it over in my palm.
For the moment, at least, its beauty expunges my fears. The gem is a ruby, five millimeters in diameter, ten in height, long-octagon cut, clearer than glass and the color of strong wine. I bring it up close to my eye and admire how its facets duplicate the furnace into several that each look somehow more vivid and real than the real thing. I bring it to my ear to listen for the vague heartbeat some dwarves claim all well-cut gems have, and think that I hear something, though that could just be my imagination.
An excellent stone, which makes the stress of having to etch it perfectly all the heavier. The stanzas are nearly set in my mind now. I just need to fit what’s in my head to the particular peculiarities of this gem: its hardness, luster, angles to the fraction of a degree, and half a dozen other factors, all of which I must determine by eye alone. No matter how skilled the appraiser who wrote the certification, Nthazes has impressed on me, before you engrave you need to know the gem better than your own beard.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
So I spend the next few hours—I think, for my focus allows me no sense of time—turning it over again and again in my hands, drinking in each facet, edge and corner, thinking hard on which stanzas will be suitable for what facet, which lines have to be altered, which runes replaced with their mirror-versions, and in turn how the metaphors must be re-written in such a way that the all important subtext doesn’t change.
It proves a formidable challenge. Not a single stanza of what I scribbled down paper is going to remain untouched. It’s like a puzzle box—toys children of richer dwarven families are given to prepare them mentally for tasks just like this—except the pieces are oily and slippery, and change shape each time they are repositioned.
My mind reaches its breaking point and I wrest the ruby away from my eyes, which I realize have sharp pains stabbing through them: until now such bodily concerns were on only the barest edge of my awareness. I take some deep breaths, and though the air is hot I feel like I’m taking deep gulps of purest spring-water.
The pain fades from my eyes and I cannot help but look down at the ruby nestled in my palm once more. Such power and beauty! It sings to my heart, moves me nearly to tears as it would any dwarf. Its regular shape, its clarity, its color like that of wine or blood...
The murders come back to my mind to shatter my forging trance. My mouth opens in a scream, which I halt, so my frustration comes out in the form of a strangled groan.
----------------------------------------
More hungry and frustrating days pass. Try as I might, I cannot get my mind into the calm and collected state prolonged forging requires. Each time I go down I find myself circling the anvil, over and over again, tossing my hammer from hand to hand or else I sit in front of the anvil, spinning the lever on the vise to open and close, open and close it. Half-forged ideas spring into my mind one after the other, only to be rejected like the malformed failures they are.
“You ought to rest,” Jaemes tells me one meal. “When your mind won’t turn properly, sleep is the best oil for it.”
“A terrible play on words,” I say bitterly. “I’d kick you if you were a runeknight. And you don’t understand. You don’t improve your forging by sleeping, you improve it by forging. I’ve known runeknights to spend days in front of the anvil without a single wink of rest.”
“I imagine they got a good amount before and afterwards, though,” he says drily.
“Yes, in their own homes, in their own beds, in silence, and in darkness they aren’t afraid of.”
“You just need to practice.”
“Practice resting?”
“Yes. Just shut your eyes tight and blank your mind.”
“That probably works for humans. Just shutting your eyes doesn’t work so well for us dwarves. Our distinction between bright and dark isn’t as strong as with you lot, as you’ve told me on several occasions.”
“Hmm. That’s a good point. My good point still remains, however: you need to rest if you’re going to get your mind into the right state for forging.”
By forging he means forging an idea about who the killer is: it’s become our code when discussing such matters. Obviously I would never consult with him about actual forging.
“Every time I lie down I can’t help but think about it,” I say. “Like I told you, even if I try to rest, I can’t.”
“Well then, if you’re thinking about it, you must have come up with something small at least.”
“Still nothing. The two cobalt pieces are proving remarkably un-pliable,” I say, lowering my voice a little—our conversation would still sound strange to anyone listening closely.
“Still?”
“Yes. They just aren’t exhibiting the unique properties I hoped for.”
“Nothing at all?”
“They do as they always do.”
“I’m still not convinced they’re the right choice for the craft. Cobalt is an interesting metal, yet not one particularly suited for what you’re trying to do.”
“It’s the best,” I say stubbornly.
“What about the copper bar?”
That’s our code for Nelyik, a nervous-wreck of a ninth degree who was the first to catch sight of Danak’s desiccated body. Jaemes thinks he’s playing up the terror and anxiety. I don't.
“As usual, it’s behaving just as I expect it to.”
“The titanium and steel?”
“You told me there was nothing impure about them.”
“No, but maybe you or Nthazes noticed something with your dwarven eyes.”
“We haven’t,” I say sourly. “How about the soft steel?”
“Nothing odd about it.”
“The other four?”
“They’re running scared, in a manner of speaking. Won’t heat up properly when they’re together.”
By which I think he means they won’t talk about the murder anymore, are maybe trying to forget about it.
“Damn this!” I hiss, and clench my fists hard.
Jaemes shakes his head. “Just get some sleep. Something will come. No metal stays un-forged forever.”
“At least try to come up with metaphors that make sense,” I say bitterly. “Good night, I’ll try.”
“Good night, Zathar.”
I drain the last of my beer and trudge over to my blankets. To my surprise, Nthazes is sitting next to them, back leaned against the wall. Under his eyes are dark circles, his face has taken on a yellowish tone, and his shoulders are slumped. For half a second I think he’s been attacked, half-drained, but he raises a hand and gives me a weak smile to stop me panicking.
“You look awful,” I whisper to him.
“As do you. Listen,” he says, eyes suddenly bright. “I have an idea. But I’m not sure about how you’re going to feel about it.”