The white light of the special investigator's lamp fades and the dark shadows of the bars meld into the underground night of Allabrast Civil Prison. I wait, tensely, for Wharoth or the guards to return.

No one comes. Exhausted by the thoughts and worries and guilt whirling inside my head, I fall asleep. When I wake, the usual thin tray of food and cup of water has been pushed between the bars of the cell door. It tastes even blander than usual, and I spill half the water down my front, for my hands are shaking badly.

How much longer? The waiting is suddenly unbearable. What kind of a trial will I get? Or will my next visitors be Vanerak's dwarves, come to take me to the fate he has planned for me?

Another meal comes, then another. My count steadily begins to increase once more. Two weeks pass. Justice is slow here, then. Maybe that's a good sign—in Thanerzak's and Broderick's realms, it was often meted out on a whim. Military rule was the excuse. Here they have more luxury for ideas like fairness, and the value of weighing opposing opinions.

Or at least, that's what I hope. Money is still the main means to power here, I remind myself, and I'm sure Vanerak has plenty.

----------------------------------------

I'm awoken by light. Once more, there are dwarves walking along the corridor—this time it sounds as if there's at least five. Are they here for me? My heart begins to race again. Maybe it's just a new prisoner being taken down. Maybe they're not here for me at all.

The special investigator appears at the cell door, white scarf bright in the light and its emblazoned gold hammer brilliant. He's flanked by two pairs of guards. One of them is the dwarf who took me from Vanerak's dwarves—I recognize his axe. Their faces are grim. But a moment later Wharoth comes into view and relief floods me.

Nothing unjust will happen while he's here.

The special investigator unlocks the cell door, opens it.

“Come out,” he orders. “There are proceedings to be gone through.”

“What proceedings?” I ask as I walk out. “What's going to happen now?”

“Prisoners don't talk,” snaps a guard.

“We've got you your trial,” Wharoth says. “You'll need to give your signature after your options are explained to you.”

“Options?”

“Prisoners don't talk!” snaps the special investigator. “Speak out of line in your trial and your head will be off before you know it!”

“Everything will be explained in a bit,” Wharoth says. “Stay silent for now.”

I nod.

We exit the corridor of cells and begin to spiral up. Briefly I wonder if we'll end up at the carriage drop-off again, but we take a turn into a tunnel I don't recognize, with a tiled floor. At the end of it is a rough mat. I'm ordered to scrub my feet on it. A thick robe is thrown at me, and I'm told to hide my clothes with it—they're in a terrible state, ruined by many layers of dried sweat.

We take a right turn into a carpeted corridor, and then the special investigator opens a door and leads me and Wharoth into a spacious room. The other four guards remain outside. A fireplace in the wall opposite us casts a friendly orange glow across the thick carpets and reflects glossily on the dark wooden chairs and desk. The special investigator beckons us both to sit down.

“Don't speak out of turn,” he warns me. “If anything is unclear, you are to ask me, or your defense representative, after the explanation is finished.”

I glance at Wharoth; he gives me a slight nod. He's officially defending me, then. I suppose Nthazes doesn't know enough about this place to take on the job, and no one else was willing.

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Even so, the look in his gray eyes is less than friendly. He seems troubled, as if he's beginning to worry that he's made the wrong decision. I wonder how the Association of Steel feels about him being here.

If there are enough members left for them to still qualify as a guild, that is.

“I will explain your options,” says the special investigator. He adjusts his scarf so the golden hammer gleams more brightly in the firelight. “The council of high justices has approved two possible methods of trial. The first is a trial by jury. In it, you will tell the full story of your actions to the jury. Then, you will be cross-examined by investigators to determine how likely it is that you're telling the truth.”

I want to ask how exactly they'll determine if I'm lying or not, but don't.

“Those findings will also be given to the jury,” continues the special investigator. “After that, the common vote will take place, and then the special vote. If both sections of the jury determine you to be innocent—that is to say, determine that your actions were not done of your own greedy impetus but out of manipulation—you will be given your freedom. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“Good. This is the usual method by which matters of justice are handled here in Allabrast. It is the best method to determine the cleanness of motive of a dwarf.”

Cleanness of motive. It seems that the fact of my actions is beyond question, then. This trial is instead to determine whether or not I can be held responsible for them. The insane sometimes have similar trials, I believe.

“The other option,” continues the special investigator. “Is a trial by forging.”

My eyes widen. I've never heard of this before.

“The purity of one's crafts has been believed since the times of the runeforgers to show the purity of one's soul. The purer the craft, the stronger it be, and thus through a test of strength of equipment can the goodness or evil in the soul of a dwarf be found.”

I blink.

“It is highly irregular, however, your friend from the deep was able to persuade certain influential members of the courts that you have valor and worth in you as well as treachery. Thus, this method of determining if your actions were done from base desire was proposed.”

Nthazes! He came through, then. My deeds down below have redeemed me in certain eyes. This is some good news, at least.

“Now I have presented you with your options, I will hear your decision.”

I look to Guildmaster Wharoth.

“We will discuss,” he says.

“Very well. You will be left in private; you have that right.”

The special investigator walks to the far side of the room.

“A trial by forging?” I say. “I don't quite understand.”

“It's as he said: the strength of your craft will be taken as the measure of your worth.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It's an old tradition. It makes sense to certain dwarves of higher degrees. Even if someone is cruel beyond measure, it's said, at the forge their worth will be laid bare. The metals will decide: natural power.”

“How can a metal decide better than a jury?”

“It's superstition.”

“If I win by it, will that decision really hold? Will I be forgiven?”

“By enough, you will.”

I shake my head. “I'd rather be judged by my fellow dwarves. If they can forgive me, maybe I can accept what I did.”

Guildmaster Wharoth gives me a strange look. “You've changed,” he says. “The Zathar I knew was not so interested in being forgiven by himself. Only by others. You feel true guilt now, then.”

I look him in the eye. “For ten years I wandered, or maybe even more. Myself was all I had, and I thought long and hard about my crime.”

“Indeed.”

I frown. “You've changed too, guildmaster. In my cell, I thought back to our old conversations. You wanted me punished. Yet you've saved me!”

“I wanted a fair punishment.”

“Execution seems fair,” I sigh, and I sink into the seat. “Guildmaster, many thousands are dead because of me.”

“Yes, and also because of Thanerzak's folly. I've since learned what it was the black dragon found with that key of yours. Something that never should have been allowed.”

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Now is not the time. And like I said back in your cell: I haven't changed my mind. Your guilt still needs to be determined and your punishment decided. Yet this trial won't determine anything.”

“It isn't going to be a fair one, you mean.”

“Vanerak's tongs are long. He reaches far and manipulates with precision. It did not take him long to become a member of the Thanic Guard, and over the years he has grown in influence. He's a very crafty, very ruthless dwarf, Zathar.”

“I know.”

“You don't know the half of it! If you choose a trial by jury, there will be none in the upper ranks on your side.”

I sigh. I bow my head. “If I'm to die, then...”

“Stop being a fool, Zathar!” he snaps. I look up, startled by the anger in his voice. “I know you want to believe death will absolve you, but think! If death without fair judgement was the answer, then you would have thrown yourself into the magma sea long ago.”

Anger flares in me. “That is never an option!”

“No. It isn't. But choosing trial by jury will be tantamount to what your brother did. Or it would be, if the execution ever took place.”

“What do you mean? I thought I'd escaped Vanerak. Though I still don't understand how.”

“Don't be so naïve. By the time the trial ends, he'll have pulled enough chains that he'll get another chance. Except he won't execute you, Zathar.” Wharoth lowers his voice. “We both know why he wants you.”

I shiver. “Yes. My runes. My power. It's... grown in strength, guildmaster.”

“That's good. You'll need all the skill you can muster for the trial by forging.”

“But what happens in it? I forge a craft, and it's judged? How is it judged?”