I am taken to my new cell. The corridor outside is neatly tiled, which I feel is a good sign, though the door is still one made of bars. A guard stands outside it. Special investigator Natarak nods to him and he unlocks it.

“Your home from now until the trial's end,” says Natarak. “You will find that it's better furnished than you deserve.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He has an unpleasant look in his eye, as usual. I wonder what his grudge against me is. His accent is of Allabrast, but maybe he knew someone from Thanerzak's realm.

“I'll visit you in a while,” says Wharoth. “I have to talk to the guild. Explain to them what's going on.”

“So there's still a guild?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“Did most survive?”

“We were at the front of the battle when the dragon came, and close to the tunnels into the mountain. We were lucky. And our ranks have swelled somewhat. We are honored for having fought the dragon before.”

“I'm glad to hear that. I hope they... Well, I suppose it's too much to hope they don't think of me poorly.”

“It is.”

“Maybe they'll change their minds when they hear of what I did down below. You've learned from Nthazes, right?”

“I have.” Wharoth looks thoughtful. “You did good deeds down there, and maybe they were partly for selfless reasons.”

“I wanted to help my friends.”

“And yourself also, I don't doubt.”

I look down. “That too, perhaps.”

“Anyway, I will be off now. I'll do what I can to convince the guild that you didn't betray Thanerzak out of malice. See you in a while.”

“Goodbye.”

He leaves, and Natarak orders me to enter the cell. I do so; the door shuts and I am alone once more.

This cell, though! Can it really be called such? It is the finest quarters I've ever called my own. I look around it in wonder. There is a plump bed in the far corner, with a desk and crystal sleeping lamp next to it. The covers look warm. A little away from it is a small dining table, with three chairs around it should I get visitors. Away at the other corner is a partitioned area where I guess the toilet must be; beside that is a basin—with one of those fancy spouts with a wheel you twist at the top to make water come out.

All this is what you'd expect for good living quarters, except there's more. At the center is a small anvil, a glass-fronted tool cabinet, and clean-looking furnace. Even better than this: the entire left wall is taken up by bookshelves.

It occurs to me that most prisoners awaiting trial probably aren't treated so nicely. This trial by forging must be a rare occurance, its participants honored. Guildmaster Wharoth must have pulled some significant chains. He must really not want Vanerak to get his hands on me.

I'll try my best to win. I owe that to him, even if this isn't the kind of justice I've been looking for.

Or, maybe it is. That feeling, the pressure sinking from my head to my feet as the high justice passed his hammer over my head... He said I'm bound to the trial, and I don't think he meant in merely ceremonial fashion. I couldn't read the inscription on his hammer—but he's a first degree. Likely the runes were powerful, and effective. Maybe if I win, that means I deserved to be found innocent. Maybe this trial will give me true justice.

A dwarf can hope.

I walk over to the bookcases first. I recognize a few titles that were in the Association of Steel's library, all that time ago, but most are new to me. There are treatises about metal, illustrated manuals of gems, lengthy works about alloying, and runic dictionary upon runic dictionary. Some are of scripts I know—or at least thought I knew—and others contain strange runes entirely new to me.

For a moment I forget the pressures of the trial and the burden on my heart. I pull one off the shelf, sit down and start to read. It is of a script called Gathabak, and each of its runes spirals in on itself. Myriad possibilities appear in my mind: webs of runes and half-formed poems write themselves upon half a dozen different metals.

I am nearly finished the book when my eyelids begin to grow heavy; I push on, unwilling to place it down. When I turn over the last page, I fall back and sleep right there on the floor.

My dreams are of dancing, twisting runes.

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

I wake up on the floor and wonder how long I just slept. I crawl to my feet and stretch. Probably it's been just a few hours—I feel fairly refreshed but if I lie back down I reckon I could probably sleep further.

The smell of my clothes and beard is bothering me, though. I search a large chest at the foot of my bed to see if there's anything clean, and am happy to find a selection of neat and soft robes, as well as rougher forging overalls beneath them.

I also discover that in the partitioned area there's not only a toilet, but a bathtub too—with the same clever hot water arrangement as the sink. There's also bars of soap and scented beard shampoo.

After cleaning myself, I ask the guard outside my cell where I can wash my dirty clothes. He tells me there's no need, that they'll be collected when my meal arrives. Apparently that'll be in one short-hour. In the meantime, I examine the forge.

It's small compared to what I'm used to, and the tools in the cabinet are rather undersized as well. I frown as I turn over a pair of jeweler's tongs. Are the crafts I make to be on the smaller side, then? Rings, bracelets, or gauntlets at most? I suppose that would save this Allabrast Civil Prison some money, but if they were concerned about the cost of this trial I don't think I'd be in such a plush room.

No, probably the trial will take place at a separate forge. That's how I've been imagining it—as a kind of duel, with my opponent forging next to me so the judges can look upon us both working—though of course, to prevent the stealing of techniques, we won't be able to see each other.

I wonder who it'll be? A fourth degree nearing third in ability, Wharoth said. I begin to grow nervous. Though my skills have improved during my time in the fortress, they're nowhere near third degree. Wharoth is third degree, isn't he? Or he was—yet everyone said his skills were far beyond that, and he'd just been too busy with guild business to take the examination.

“Your food is here,” a guard announces. “Along with a guest.”

The cell door opens and in walks Wharoth; his guild business must have taken less time than I presumed it would, or more likely my sleep was a longer one than I thought. He gestures to the table.

“We should sit down.”

I do so, and a servant lays food and ale upon the table before quickly departing. The cell door remains open a touch, and the guard is still present and watching us carefully. Listening too, no doubt.

Wharoth tucks into the bread and meat, and I follow suit. We eat without speaking; I don't really know what to say. His scarred face frightens me a little, as does the cold look in his eyes.

“So,” he says finally. “You went on quite the journey after the catastrophe.”

“Yes. I ran, and kept on running. Down and down.”

“Ten years, your friend tells me.”

“I think so. I'm not really sure how long it's been.”

“Thirteen and a half. Us refugees drink to the dead on every anniversary.”

“How many dead were there?” There's a tremor in my voice.

“About a quarter of the realm.”

“Less than I'd have thought. The heat... Didn't it melt the whole city?”

“Yes. There's nothing left of any building. Even the chasm is narrowed somewhat, at least at the top. The rock softened and both sides leaned in. Fortunately, most everyone not fighting was hiding underground during the battle. They were able to flee down, just like you.”

“Not everyone, though.”

“No.”

“And then what happened? You gathered together and marched to Allabrast? What happened to Broderick and his forces?”

He tells me in some detail. There was a temporary truce as the combatants fled the black dragon's heat—though it was broken eventually, by whom isn't known. Then the two groups split; those from Broderick's realm went west, those from Thanerzak's realm marched down. There was argument in the realm below—there wasn't enough room for so many—and so for most, the journey continued. Through many caverns they traveled, for just under a year, battling trolls and other assorted awfulness. Eventually a party sent by Runeking Ulrike found them, and they were invited to Allabrast and allowed to settle. It is a great city, after all. What were another few tens of thousands when a million reside here?

As for Wharoth, his guild grew. Many wanted to meet the dwarf who had struck the black dragon. When rumors spread that I'd been the one who betrayed Thanerzak's secret power to it—what power that was I still don't know—he suffered a period of unpopularity. Yet he was able to persuade enough dwarves that he hadn't know of the betrayal, and so the Association of Steel is still greater and more influential than it once was.

“I am also of the second degree now,” he says. “Closing in on first, if I decide to risk the examination.”

“Everyone always said your skills were far above third.”

“I don't think skill can be so easily quantified. But before we get sidetracked, I want to hear your tale. I only know part of it.”

I tell him of my escape, my long journey—

“Wait,” he says. “In the magma sea, there was what?”

“Some kind of moving construction. Like a ship they have on the surface—you can see pictures in books.”

“I know what a ship is.”

“It was metal though, and didn't melt. I called out to it but it turned away.”

“A strange occurrence.”

“Do you know what it was? Who?”

“No. It just interests me a little. Continue the tale, please.”

I do so, detailing the fight with the bizarre beast in the cave above the fort's forging hall, and my subsequent plummet. Then the murders, the hunt for the white jelly, and Runethane Yurok's doomed expedition. Finally, I tell him of my unmasking of Fjalar.

Wharoth nods approvingly. “The worst sort of dwarf, that. One who puts his own forging above the lives of everyone around him. You, at least, have never been that bad.”

“Not quite.”

He takes a swig of beer. “A most interesting tale.” Suddenly he lowers his voice. “And I saw on your armor that your runes are strange as ever. And they seem more powerful.”

“Yes,” I say, glancing nervously at the guard, who's frowning at us. “Do you think the judges will notice?”

“They will, as will some of the spectators.”

“Spectators?”

“Yes. Your trial is going to be a very public event, Zathar. One of the reasons I gave to persuade the court to allow it, is so that every victim of the black dragon can watch.”

“Wait! This is a public spectacle?”

“Yes. Trials by forging always are. They're a rare and popular event—tickets sell for high prices. And your infamy is going to sell a lot of tickets.”

I scowl. “So even justice here comes down to greed, does it?”

“I'm afraid so. I wish it were otherwise. Yet, there is power in the strange hammers the high justices wield. I felt it, as I'm sure you did. So maybe, in the end, you'll still have your justice.”

“Except Vanerak isn't interested in that.”

“Yes.” His expression turns hard. His eyes narrow. “So if you lose, I'll execute you myself, before he can snatch you away.”

And with that, he stands up and leaves, not giving me a single glance back. I sit there stunned—though what did I expect? He lost many friends because of me. Of course he'll take justice into his own hands, if Vanerak seeks to deny him it.