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Not all of the other warlords agreed with this view of the world, but Mortis Helm was not bound by such mundane considerations as ethics, and he had the support of the Rhonas Legions of Conquest. A little treachery went a long way, especially when it was coupled to an incredibly huge lie: He convinced the stone gnomes that he and his tribe had actually affected the surrender of the elven Legions to him. At the same time, Mortis offered to hand over the effective rule of the stone gnomes to the elves so long as they were discreet about their arrangement and supported his deception. Soon the elven commanders with smiles on their faces-not unlike the one which Soen now wore-fulfilled their promise and installed Mortis Helm as the first Caliph of the Dje’kaarin-master of all the stone gnomes of the Vestasian Coast.

Succeeding generations saw the dreadfully accurate fulfillment of Mortis Helm’s original vision. With the establishment of an Occuran Trade Portal in Yurani Keep-the farthest portal of the northwest fold chain-trade goods from the heart of the Empire were soon flooding the village. The stone gnomes, once proud nomadic warriors, were enslaved at last not by chains or whips but by soft clothes, easily bartered meals, and their own complacency. The old stories were still told to their children, but with each generation it was harder to believe that gnomes had lived any other way than as a drone outpost of Rhonas civilization.

The one thing that never seemed to fade was the general hatred of the Dje’kaarin gnome citizens for their Helm Caliphate rulers. The Helm dynasty’s treachery was by no means limited to the origins of the Caliphate and over time had become the stuff of legend among the Stone Gnomes. Down the centuries there had been repeated attempts by various factions-usually descendants of the ancient warlord families-to oust the contemporary Helm Caliph, install their own warlord, and foment a radical change in the Dje’kaarin government. Time and again, the Iblisi were called upon by the successive Caliphs to journey to this miserable outpost of the Empire and shore up the sagging fortunes of the Helm dynasty.

Soen’s shining black eyes studied the Caliph even as he strained at his studied, pleasant grin. Argos was only the latest incarnation of the line of succession and, if anything, had proved himself as typical an example of his forbearers as possible. He was short even for a gnome, the top of his head-minus the ridiculous crown-barely coming to the midpoint of Soen’s thigh. His gray beard was carefully groomed, coming to two separated points just below his waist. These he kept tucked inside a wide belt that he wore incongruously over an elven Imperial tunic. His skin was of a reddish brown color reminiscent of cherrywood. He had the large, hooked nose that was typical of his race and bright, narrow eyes with perpetual smile lines at the corners. The top of his head was bald-shaved, Soen suspected, so that he might look more like the elves with whom he did his most important business.

Indeed, the Great House Hall itself was a ridiculously bad imitation of the Emperor’s audience hall in Rhonas. The great domed ceiling was reincarnated as a stick framework tied together with rawhide thongs. Even then it was not properly put together and sagged badly toward the eastern wall. Someone had shored it up with additional long poles inside the dome, which destroyed any marvelous architectural affect the dome might have presented in the first place, but at least it didn’t look on the verge of collapse. The walls were entirely of native stone covered in a thick adobe mud, but the mud itself had been scratched at by gnome artists with sticks in an attempt to reproduce the delicate marble friezes of the Emperor’s throne room. The mud had proved to be a poor medium for such reproductions, and Soen often had to remind himself not to look at them. The throne was bad enough-a vulgar and unintentionally sacrilegious copy of the Seat of the Empire that, were its existence generally known, might have been deemed sufficient to put an end to the Helm Caliph line once and for all. The throne was, like most things, entirely too big for Argos Helm.

The Caliph had to bounce twice on the cushion before he could gain enough momentum to hop down from his perch. “You honor me and all my people. For you the generous nature of my heart is laid open without reserve-but, how it is you have come to me in such a state? What long roads have brought my favorite son of the Empire to my humble self?”

“I regret that my mission requires urgency, oh great Caliph,” Soen said, letting a hint of deference into his voice. “I would have made myself more presentable to you, but I am on the Emperor’s errand and time is against me.”

“The Emperor’s errand!” Argos’ rubbery face affected astonishment as he waved the Iblisi to approach him. “Perhaps from the Imperial City itself?”

“Yes, oh great Caliph,” Soen began.

“Ah, to visit the heart of the Empire!” Argos opined. “To see its towers and walk its streets! I have heard of your citadels that float among the clouds and the magic of your Aether that flows like water from your Wells. I should dearly love one day to make the journey and stand among my fellow citizens!”

Soen gripped his staff until his fingers lost all color. Argos was a citizen of the Empire, but only just; he was considered to be of the Sixth Estate-technically a citizen by the laws of the Empire but devoid of any real rights. It was reserved largely for elves who had no social station whatever and was the last refuge of elven criminals. It was also a status held out as a reward to slaves who had performed some heinous deed for the Empire: betrayal, murder, assassination, spying, and the like. It was rarely granted to slaves-and was relatively meaningless when it was given.

“Perhaps the Caliph shall see it one day,” Soen said as evenly as he could. “But the way is long and arduous. I myself had some trouble along the way. .”

“No! May the gods forbid!”

“The Northmarch Folds can be treacherous,” Soen advised. “And dusty, as you can see. . but my need is great and my time short.”

“Then come at once, my friend! I shall forgive at once your ill manners to the need of haste and history-for no doubt you are on a mission that impacts both!”

Soen tried for a moment to make sense out of Argos’ words but realized it was pointless. The Caliph often misspoke-a problem that had been the root cause of several assassination attempts. The Inquisitor simply took in a long breath, nodded, and walked quickly toward the short ruler with his staff in hand. “Oh great Caliph, your words are as wise as they are meaningful. You have no doubt already divined that I have come to request a boon of your eminent self.”

Argos frowned uncertainly.

“I need a favor,” Soen urged.

“Ah!” The Caliph’s face brightened. “Of course! I am most anxious to assist the Will of the Emperor in all things! You have but to ask, and Argos Helm shall grant all that is in my power to give! Please. . sit with me as brothers and we shall discuss your needs.”

The Caliph indicated three curved benches set at one side of the hall. Together they formed a broken circle-a mychural in the gnome tongue-which translated into “story circle.” It was where gnomes traditionally gathered to converse, discuss, and listen to stories. It was, Soen noted, the only gnomish conceit in the entire hall.

The tall elven Inquisitor sat down on one of the benches. It was, unfortunately, built to gnome specifications. Soen was more stooping than sitting. Argos took no notice of his guest’s discomfiture and plopped himself down on an opposite bench.