The seven of us—six dwarves and Jaemes—walk in the blackness. Once again, Belthur and his friends have agreed to cover for us while we try to work out who the killer is. The Runethane’s threats have done nothing to dampen their resolve. Instead it has been inflamed; they are burning to prove him wrong and a fool. According to Nthazes, they believe that if the killer is proven to be a dwarf, the Runethane will have no choice but to admit his mistakes and call off his foolish ideas, or face rebellion.

A runethane is only so strong: while even the merest of them could defeat ten first degrees in combat, combat is not the only way to take one down. Accidents can be planned—a drop far enough onto a hard enough surface will end any dwarf. No armor can protect against poison. Or Runeking Ulrike could be petitioned.

I don’t think anything so drastic is being plotted. However, Runethane Yurok is a coward, so Belthur and his friends predict that he likely won’t want to take any chances with over a hundred disgruntled runeknights.

We arrive at Belthur’s group’s assigned guarding point.

“Before we go,” I whisper. “I have a suggestion. You should hear it too, Belthur.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“Fjalar and Galar are who we suspect. I’m sure Nthazes has told you already.”

“He has.”

“We should take this opportunity to search their quarters.”

Belthur frowns. “Surely they wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave the weapon there?”

“No, of course not. But maybe they left something else there. Something they wouldn’t think was suspicious, but might be a vital clue for us.”

Jaemes is nodding. “I agree. Not every piece of evidence has to be so glaringly obvious as a bloody knife, or barrel filled with blood.”

“I agree also,” says Nthazes. “Do you think we can get away with it?”

Belthur thinks for a few seconds. “Probably. All right. Just try not to make too much noise. Echoes carry far, even from under closed doors.”

“We’ll be careful,” I promise.

We creep away from the light of their weapons and up the twisting stairs to the chambers. Every tap of our boots and every breath we exhale sounds frighteningly loud in my runic ears. As I walk I wonder who’s been telling Runethane Yurok about the rumors spreading—is it one of the rank and file runeknights, or one of the senior ones? The chamberlain perhaps: his runic ears are impressive indeed. Perhaps he can hear everything going on in the fort, no matter how distant. A disturbing thought.

The door to Jaemes’ chambers creaks as he opens it and we walk in. Same as before, he sits while Nthazes and I stand.

Nthazes starts the discussion this time:

“I told Belthur everything we talked about last time. He said he’s not sure about Fjalar and Galar being involved, either one or both of them, but he’s open to the possibility. As for working out how the fifth killing happened, he suggested some kind of ranged weapon, some kind of needle-thrower that Galar might have loosed at Utlock while the others weren’t looking. He admitted that it’s a poor idea though. The weapon must have complex runes, and to write them that small is probably beyond the twins’ abilities.”

“They’re more able than they let on,” I say. “You were right about why they haven’t bothered to rise up through the degrees—don’t want responsibility. At their current position they can be left alone to do their forging. And they’ve done a great deal of it.”

“Did you find out when they came to the fort?” Jaemes asks.

“A very long time ago. Yurok wasn’t runethane yet.”

“I see.”

“They must know every rune, every script there’s knowledge of down here. And they’re skilled with metalwork to boot. Galar told me—hinted to me, at least—that the weapon of light he’s making will be hollow.”

“I see. I doubt he’ll be making it out of hollow piping; he’ll have some clever technique.”

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“He’s already made it. He’s experimenting with almergris now. Working out what runes to use and how to graft them.”

“Did you get anything else out of him?” asks Nthazes.

“Yes. He and his brother don’t hate each other quite as much as they let on. They’re rivals, for sure, but part of their arguing is just an act. Partly because they enjoy irritating Cathez and the other senior runeknights, and partly so they won’t be given much responsibility.”

“I wonder why they’re so keen to avoid it,” says Jaemes. “Nearly all dwarves I’ve known take pleasure in putting their crafts to good use.”

“They don’t want to go near the Shaft, for one,” I say. “Galar mentioned that. He doesn’t want to lead hunts and he doesn’t want to stand guard at the Shaft.”

“Then why make a weapon of light now?” Nthazes asks.

I puzzle over that question, can find no answer. “I’m not sure. Maybe they were just tempted by those runes’ interesting properties. Wanted to test themselves. Or Galar might be lying—perhaps he does want to move up, but in a spectacular way.”

“How about you, Jaemes?” Nthazes asks. “Did you notice anything about Fjalar, or the other dwarves in the infirmary?”

“Most are still unconscious, Fjalar included. I searched his person and belongings, but didn't find anything.”

“Nothing at all?” I ask.

“Nothing at all. Though I will say that he’s doing better than most of the others. His breathing is quite hale, and his heartbeat strong. His wounds seem to be healing fairly fast too.”

“Another reason to be suspicious, perhaps,” says Nthazes. “Maybe he took blood to make himself healthier. Maybe some of it goes into his amulet. Did you see his amulet?”

“I did.”

“What gem was it?” I ask. “It was coated in blood when I saw it.”

“A ruby. A suspicious color, though I understand that gem is a fairly common choice for an amulet of unaging.”

“True,” says Nthazes. “That’s not good enough evidence.”

The discussion stalls while we each think separate thoughts.

“Anything else to report?” I eventually ask. “Has Belthur noticed anything odd in the storerooms?”

"Nothing," says Nthazes. "Shall we begin our search?"

Jaemes and I nod. We tip-toe out of the room. I shut the door as slowly as possible, trying to make sure it doesn’t creak—it does. Along the corridor we creep until Nthazes stops just outside one of the rooms farthest down.

“This is Galar’s room,” he whispers. “The one next to it is Fjalar’s. They’re linked—apparently they got permission to put a door in the dividing wall.”

“Let’s stick together,” I suggest. “We’ll go into Galar’s room first and divide it into three.”

“Good idea,” says Nthazes.

He turns the doorknob; it stops halfway. It’s locked.

“Shit!” I hiss. “I don’t suppose you thought to forge some lockpicks.”

“No one down here has anything like that.”

“We’ll have to break in then,” I say. “Your mace should do the trick.”

Nthazes grimaces, raises his mace, gently hammers at the doorknob. Each strike, weak though they are, makes me wince. The sound of titanium on brass echoes again and again until there’s a crunch and the doorknob drops to the stone with a clang.

“Shit,” I say. “I hope no one heard that.”

“Hopefully they’ll just think it’s a echo from the forges, or the storerooms,” Jaemes says. “Clangs are far from unheard of down here.”

“Let’s just hurry up about this anyway,” I say. “Let’s go in.”

I pull open the door and enter. Nthazes take a few layers of cloth from his mace so we can see clearly.

The room is a mess. The detritus of at least a century of forging lies strewn across the floor, under the bed, is stacked on shelves bending under the weight of all the metal, gem, and glass contraptions. Only a few objects are proper pieces of equipment: there’s a couple suits of plate on armor stands, one poor quality and one fairly decent, and several spears stand in a rack beside them—aside from these, everything is of unidentifiable function.

There are plain steel bars inscribed with faintly red runes of light. A half-open drawer contains what looks like enruned cutlery. A knife feels hot to the touch—it has runes of fire along the edge in a script I can’t read.

To cook food while you cut it? To use runes for such a frivolous task is disrespectful, but of course to Galar nothing is taboo.

“Zathar, you check the shelves and drawers,” says Nthazes, leaning his mace head-up against the wall. “Jaemes, you go over what’s strewn on the floor, and I’ll take a look at what’s under the bed.”

We get to work searching our respective areas. Shelf by shelf I rummage through twisted pieces of iron, steel, titanium, bronze, and a host of exotic alloys. Many are rings wrapped in runes of durability and healing. One has a poem about regrowth after violent destruction—if it would actually regrow your finger I cannot say. There’s also a neck-torque with an extended version of the same poem on it.

Protection against beheading? Somehow I doubt it's been tested. I continue to rummage until I come to a lidless box filled with steel knives. Is this it?

I pull it from the shelf and, fingers trembling in anticipation, bring it closer to the light of Nthazes’ mace. Immediately my heart sinks. These are not killing-daggers, but steak knives. Their runes are plain, uninspired poems about sharpness and cutting. The metalwork is poor too, and some at the bottom of the box even have spots of rust on them.

Old crafts, these. I return the box to the shelf and keep on searching, yet there is nothing here with runes about blood, instant transportation or annihilation, strength-sapping, nor anything else I predict the murder weapon to have inscribed.

Then:

“Found something!” Nthazes whispers. “Come take a look at this.”