I get a good day’s sleep before the robbery, and wake up sweating.

Thievery. Taking another dwarf’s hard earned work, what he’s bled for, maybe. He’s at least sweated for it. And then the thief comes along—he’s been lying in bed all day. He doesn’t work hard, but he gets the reward.

Hardrick was a thief.

Am I like Hardrick?

No! I tell myself firmly. I’m doing this for my guildmates. They’ve helped me along. I don’t want them to burn. This crime is for them.

Or is it for myself? The black dragon threatened me, yes, but it also made me a promise. Help it, and I will learn where my brother went.

This is the real reason I do not tell anyone of it. To throw this chance away would be tantamount to watching my brother throw himself into the chasm once more.

Out of my bed I get and dress. No armor of course, no spear either—a thief dresses in something anonymous and uses a knife, if he has to use anything at all. I’m not planning on stabbing anyone tonight though. In and out with the salthazth, the salterite, also known as the anti-reagent. That's all we're doing.

Yezakh’s agreed to meet me at the plaza outside the gates of the forging district. It’s a peaceful area, tiled with large, flat granite slabs. Four fountains stand at each corner; in daytime couples sit by these, and children play in them. Now at midnight the plaza is deserted but for a few drunks lying face up in the fountain furthest from us.

“Ready?” I ask him. “You have what I said?”

He nods silently, hands me a folded sack, and shows me his own knife.

“Did you forge that yourself?” I ask him.

“Yeah.”

“You should have brought one from your kitchen. Something anonymous.”

“Wouldn’t get through armor, if it comes to that.”

“It won’t. In and out, and we’re done.”

“I hope so, but...”

“It won't," I tell him firmly. "Let’s hurry up.”

We enter the forging district. Unlike the one on Runethane Broderick’s side of the city it’s not closed off; the wall is low and the gates kept open. Dwarves of all classes are free to walk in to marvel at the beautiful diamonds, bars of gold and platinum and tungsten, and glowing reagents in the shop windows.

But the wares we're after aren't so openly displayed. Salterite is not a well-regarded material. It is shameful to be seen buying it, for to do so is to admit your forging failed. Not a good look, especially for those of higher degrees. Our target store keeps its stock up on the third floor. We crouch down in the shadows of an alley opposite.

“How are we going to climb up?” Yezakh whispers.

“We’re not," I say. "I scouted in here yesterday. The locks on the first floor windows are iron, but the wood they’re screwed into is old." I point to the middle window. "Hammer that dagger of yours into the crack, at the center, and the lock will come right off.”

“Won’t it clatter when it hits the floor?”

“No. Thick carpets.”

He nods. “Let’s try it.”

He slinks over to the window and I follow. Carefully he jabs the tip of his dagger into the crack between edge and frame, then with the palm of his left hand hammers it in. There’s a crunch. I wince. He levers the window open partway with his dagger, then I pull it fully open. He climbs right in without further instruction.

When we had our talk, he took far less persuading to come around than I’d anticipated. Might be the gold I promised, but there was something else too. He’s an angry boy, not just on the surface but deep down. Doesn’t like his father’s position, and his own even less. I think he burns to move upward even more than me, to be honest. He’ll do anything to get an advantage.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

We tiptoe over the carpet and up the stairs. On the second floor landing we can hear deep snoring.

“I thought you said there’d be no one here?” Yezakh whispers.

“I said it wasn’t guarded at night like some of the richer shops. I guess the owner lives here though. Let’s just try not to wake him up.”

“Yeah.”

We continue up the rest of the stairs to the third floor, where a door awaits us. There’s no lock, but it creaks loudly despite my opening it as slowly and gently as possible.

“Should we shut it?” Yezakh asks.

“Best not to.”

“Really?”

Is it just the distance, or has the snoring from the second floor lessened somewhat?

“Yes. Less risk that way. Stay here and warn me if the snoring stops.”

“Okay.”

I walk over to the only feature of the room, a rectangle covered by a dark cloth. Eerie glows of various sizes shine through the velvet. I kneel down, put my eye close, and lift up the fabric a touch to peek into the glass case it covers.

Up close, the jagged hexagonal columns of the salterite are exactly as depicted in the textbooks, but they did not do the color justice. The salterite is not merely pale green: it emanates a harsh light that stings to look at, as if the rays are attempting to boil the jelly of my eyeballs.

Blinking, pained tears running down my face, I peer around the case to see how to open it. Just as I saw on my scouting, there’s no visible handle, no hinges, but this time I notice thin runes etched into the top—a script of opening, a riddle one must whisper the answer to.

A head without an eye,

An eye without a head,

One twin hanged,

Painless by a thread.

I rub the tears from my eyes and read the riddle again. It’s a tough one. I’m not so clever with words, despite all the reading I’ve been doing recently. The answer must be two things, and animals, if we're talking about heads and eyes.

“Troglodyte and beholder,” I whisper.

The runes flash red, and the glass case begins to vibrate and emit a keening sound.

“Shit!” I swear.

The glass case takes my curse as my next answer. The runes flash a brighter red—bright enough I’m sure the room lit up—and the keening increases in volume.

I begin to sweat. How many chances do I get? Three is the usual.

“What’s going on?” Yezakh whispers at me.

I put a finger to my lips. He frowns at me, then turns back to the open door, dagger clutched tightly.

I need to consider the second half of the riddle. Hanging, an execution. One evil creature, and one good? But what animal is so weak that it dies instantly and painlessly just from being hanged by a thread? I'm beginning to feel that maybe the answer isn’t a pair of animals at all. A lot of riddles are like that, with some mundane object described like it’s alive.

The keening is growing louder minute by minute.

“Zathar!” Yezakh hisses. “Zathar! The snoring’s stopped!”

I grit my teeth and think harder. Think! But my brain is addled from my fanatic study, and no answer comes. The keening isn’t helping either; likely it was designed specifically to impede critical thought. Maybe I should call Yezakh over, but if he doesn’t understand the rule, and says something before thinking of an answer...

Eye with no head? Head with no eyes? Not something living? I take a wild guess.

“Window and blinds!” I hiss. Something blind but an object, and something that's kind of eyes.

The entire case flares scarlet; the keening becomes a scream. I shout in frustration and bring the hilt of my dagger—just a kitchen knife, but heavy enough—down on the glass which smashes; the screaming stops. Someone below yells, and a second later I hear thumping footsteps.

“What do we do?” Yezakh shouts.

“Don’t kill him!”

I grab handfuls of salterite and throw them into my sack one after another. My hand burns from touching it; I wipe it on my trousers and now my thigh burns too.

“Fuck!”

“He’s almost here, Zathar!”

I rush for the open door past Yezakh, who’s holding his knife point out. A thick-set dwarf is storming up in a robe.

“What the hell’s going on!” He sees our knives and goes pale. “Wait—”

I smash him in the forehead with my knife hilt. He cries out and falls backwards, clutching at the banister to stop himself tumbling down.

“Shut up!” I hiss. “We’re not after much! Just shut up! Come on, Yezakh!”

I jump over the groaning shop owner and hurry down the stairs, Yezakh at my heels. I force open the drawer under the shop counter, grab fistfuls of gold and all but throw them at Yezakh, who stuffs the coins into his pockets.

“Stop!” shouts the shop owner, one hand pressed to his swollen forehead. “Thieves! Thieves!”

But we’re already out the window and sprinting into the night, and by the time the city alarms begin to ring, we’re far away.