The lady runeknight—Helnat is her name—agrees to take us to her guild once she finishes repairing her helmet, apparently cut badly on her last expedition. I leave Nthazes to explain some of the details of what happened down in the fort, so that she can hopefully get her guild seniors to agree to arrange a private meeting, while I return our trolleys to the station.

I try to suppress my misgivings—can we really trust her?—and take in the sights and sounds of the grand city. It’s just as overwhelming as it was when I first stepped out the station. It’s just as busy also, crowded with gangs of runeknights or rich commoners chatting amiably or else rushing to the next pub, eatery, music house, or theater. The windows in the pillars are etched to signal what lies inside: food and drink, instruments, overly-tall dwarves in silly costumes.

This Fireflea District truly is one of leisure. The concept of having an entire district dedicated to this is strange to me. There was nothing like it in Thanerzak’s city, nor in Broderick’s. Everything there was geared to trade or war, and even the trade was geared to war. They were cities on the brink, frontier realms, and had barely known peace for the whole of their existence.

Allabrast has not known war for several millennia since Runeking Ulrike came to power, and even during the days of his rise there was not so much bloodshed. From what Feltram told me of his history, he took his position with little fighting. His Crown of Eyes was recognized as the masterpiece it is by all. His predecessor fell on his own sword from the shame of being outmatched so badly.

Feltram told me a little about the Crown of Eyes also. It's a band of gold with runes worked so finely you'd need a magnifying lens to read them, and its points are sharp as swords. These details are insubstantial though. What makes it a craft worthy of kingship are the famous eyes, crystals grown painstakingly into perfect spheres, also enruned—some say the runes in them were grown also, not carved.

And those spheres have their siblings all over the city. We were in a hurry yesterday, so I didn't catch sight of the Eyes, but now, as I run the trolleys along the paths and walkways, I spot them everywhere. Placed secretly into little streetlamps, set high into the cavern roof, into guardrails—they are everywhere. Each is a translucent, milky-white sphere set with a black ellipsis in the center.

The Runeking can look out of these Eyes to observe his subjects. Some claim he is always looking out of them, though I can’t imagine that to be true. Surely so much movement is too much for any one dwarf to concentrate on? His crown's true strength comes in war, on those rare occasions he goes forth himself, for then he can observe the whole battlecavern, every tunnel and trail, from Eyes carried atop the standards of his forces.

For now though, he is in his palace-foundry, working on who knows what awesome craft. I doubt he has much time to spend observing the movements of his citizens—yet even so the Eyes, which seem to follow me as I walk, make me uneasy, even if the other dwarves are paying them no regard.

After returning the trolleys to the station, trying not to be seen by the attendants lest they attempt to wrangle another silver or two from me, I make my way back up to the inn. I take a circuitous route, and end up close enough to the edge of the Fireflea District that I can see past the final few pillars.

Beyond are straight canals of molten metal, glowing bright, illuminating sturdy squarish buildings. Many of these look to be shops by their signage and glass windows. Forging supplies! How long has it been since I entered such a store? Or, indeed, any store?

It turns out, I learn after I return to Nthazes and Helnat, that this district is the one governed by Thanic Guardsdwarf Halmak. It’s called the Bronze District, a rather ordinary name, but an appropriate one, since the molten rivers flowing down it are of tin and copper.

After we clean up our armor, we head to it.

“Residents pay to have part of the flow diverted to them, so they can create the alloys themselves,” Helnat explains as we walk over a bridge of dark stone. Bright copper runs underneath, radiating incredible heat; I’ve taken my helmet off but my beard still drips with sweat.

“Isn’t that the foundry workers’ job?” I say.

“It was fifty or so years ago, but now there’s a fad of making the bars yourself.” She scowls unpleasantly. “Slippery slope if you ask me—next we’ll be crushing the rocks ourselves, then mining them out ourselves... A lot of runeknights are experimenting with enruning the alloys as they cool, including our guildmaster, but I’ve never seen the point.”

“What I don’t get,” says Nthazes, “is why your guildmaster isn’t considered a Runethane. Doesn’t he govern this district?”

“Yes, but the final authority falls to the Runeking.”

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“Isn’t that the same with the Runethanes’ realms?” I ask.

“No, not at all. You really don’t learn much about politics down in the depths, do you?”

“No,” says Nthazes.

“It’s different. A Runethane swears allegiance to a Runeking, but what goes on in his realm is his own responsibility.”

“Then how does the Runeking have power over him?” I ask.

“The Runethane will still do what is asked of him, because the Runeking gives him protection. The other realms agree to come to his aid if he’s attacked. It’s an alliance—though one that can’t be broken from easily.”

“They’ll always come to his aid, ay?” I say in a low voice. “Always?”

She gives me a dark look. “From what I’ve heard, you deep dwarves were fiercely independent. Barely even under Runeking Ulrike’s authority. Never showing to important councils, and such.”

I guess she thinks I'm talking about Runethane Yurok, though I was thinking of Thanerzak’s desperate fight against Broderick.

“That’ll change,” Nthazes says. “Runethane Yurok... Well, I told you before. He had some strange ideas, which we of course respected, since he was our Runethane, but in the end... Well, I think some changes might be welcomed.”

Helnat nods. “We’ll see what Halmak has to say. If we manage to get an audience with him, that is. Usually he’s too busy forging to talk much.”

“Who isn’t?” I laugh.

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

The guildhouse of the Red Anvil lies in the center of the district. It’s an octagonal pyramid, tall and thin like a stalagmite. It's inscribed with massive runes of bronze down each of its faces. They read:

Copper cheap and red as blood

Tin cheap and white like teeth

Together bronze

One in two and two in one

Metals weak and metal strong

Wrought in flame

Pay no mind to shining steel

Wrought of bronze our weapons are

They’re in Bezethast script, famous for its lengthiness, verbosity and general redundancy; there are about a hundred runes on each side of the pyramid, all to make that rather simple poem—yet I don’t doubt its power. A dwarf on the brink of ascending to Runethane would not have something of inferior quality inscribed upon his guildhall. And bronze, though weaker than steel, is well-known to take on runic scripts of extreme length very well.

Helnat leads us through the triangular entrance. Unlike most guildhalls, there is no long table laid with beer and meat, hearth, and a crowd of runeknights. Instead we stand at the lip of a crater in the floor, an ashen hollow strewn with tools and materials. In its center is the greatest anvil I've ever seen, longer than I am tall. It glows red, though not the red of hot iron. It is like a ruby lit from within.

“Strange,” says Helnat. “He’s not forging at the moment. Must be taking a rare rest.”

“Will he be much delayed?” Nthazes asks.

“Probably not,” Helnat answers as she leads us up a stairway to the second floor. “He only sleeps once every long-hour, and never for very long.”

The second floor is more ordinary. Here are hearths and tables, and food and beer, and dwarves at talk or rest. We get a few odd glances, but most don't see us, since most of the seats face to the center of the room, where there's a hollow in the floor. Through it shines the glow of the red anvil.

“Is Halmak the only one who uses the anvil?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Will we wait for him?” Nthazes asks.

“No. We have to go through the guild elders. Unfortunately.”

This Halmak must be a strange dwarf, I think as I look across at the great glowing anvil. Most dwarves hate to see others watch them work, most especially those of high degrees, who do not want their secrets stolen or runes copied. Maybe this Halmak is so confident in his power that he believes no one could replicate his work even if they were to observe every last detail of it.

Helnat leads us up another flight of stairs, then several more. We pass a window. The rivers of metal below are like a network of glowing veins.

We travel up several more stairs, and then we meet a guard. I’d guess him to be about third degree—his bronze armor is finely worked with a complicated poem utilizing several scripts I’m not familiar with, and the edges of his two swords, visible through rectangular slats in his scabbards, gleam an unnatural shade of violet.

“Greetings, Helnat,” he says in a bored voice. “What brings you all the way up here? And who are our guests?”

“Well met, Makthar. I need to have a talk with the elders. These two seek an audience with our guildmaster.”

“They do, do they?” Makthar looks us over, and seems none too impressed, not even by Nthazes bright mace. “New applicants to the guild, I imagine?”

“No. They have an opportunity for us.”

“You mean they want to pay their way in?” Makthar gives a derisive snort. “Not again.”

“No!” says Nthazes. “You misunderstand. This opportunity is not about money. It’s about land.”

“Land?”

“A large piece of it,” I say. “We know your guildmaster will be interested.”

The guard tilts his head. “How large? And it comes with the mineral rights also?”

“I presume so,” says Nthazes.

“I see. Though our guild already owns a fair bit of land.”

“Not as much as this.”

“How much are we talking, then?”

“Just let us in already, Makthar,” Helnat says. “You’ve no right to deny me a meeting with the elders. I’m fifth degree now.”

“You don’t need to talk to them,” Makthar says, shrugging. “You can ask Halmak directly. He’s meeting with them right now—you can give him your proposal at the end.”

“He is?” Helnat says in surprise.

“Yes. There’s been some issue with the tin pumps, and also our profits off this ridiculous scheme to provide everyone with molten bronze aren’t quite what the elders hoped for.”

“Ridiculous scheme? Those are strong words to criticize our guildmaster with.”

“They’re his own words. If you ask me, he’s sick of this place. Full of ‘ungrateful bastards who won’t cough up the coin we deserve’. Those were his words too.” He gives me and Nthazes a meaningful look. “Maybe this opportunity of yours is just what he’s looking for.”

Nthazes can't help but smile. I do not—I feel nervous. This all seems far too lucky, far too easy. Success is not won without blood and sweat, or at the very least sweat. Can the second dwarf we've met in this city really be the one to lead us to a saviour of the fort?

Surely there's some kind of catch here.