"They are unobtrusive enough," the gnome replied, referring to the dwarf pair who had quietly shadowed his every movement through the tunnels. Nanfoodle wiped the sweat from his face, then pulled off his red robe and began to cross it over his forearm. Noting the soot that had already settled upon the fine garment, the gnome crinkled his long nose, brushed the robe, then reversed it back to its weathered brown. "Could we expect anything else?"
"Of course not," Shoudra agreed. "And I do not complain of our treatment here, certainly. Steward Regis is a fine host. But if we are to carry out our designs, we might need a bit of deceptive magic. Easily enough accomplished."
The sceptrana narrowed her gaze as she scrutinized Nanfoodle's sour expression.
With a shrug, the gnome continued on his way, Shoudra falling into step beside him.
"Why here?" she asked. "Would we not have a better opportunity in the lower transfer rooms, where the separated orc awaits delivery?"
Still the sour expression, and Nanfoodle noticeably increased his pace.
"Or have you perhaps forgotten why we ventured here to Mithral Hall?" Shoudra asked bluntly.
"I have forgotten nothing," Nanfoodle snapped back.
"Second thoughts, then?"
"Have you noted the treatment Mithral Hall has afforded Torgar and the others?"
"Regis needs the warriors," Shoudra replied. "Torgar was a convenient addition."
Nanfoodle stopped and stared hard at her.
The sceptrana smiled helplessly back. Of course the gnome was right, she knew. Torgar and the other dwarves of Mirabar were helping the cause, and in a vital role, and it was just that vital role that proved Nanfoodle's point. Bruenor's clan had taken the Mirabarran dwarves at their word and on their honor, without question. Especially in such dangerous times, that was no small thing.
"You have made a friend in the other visitor to Mithral Hall, I have heard," she remarked as Nanfoodle started on his way once more.
"Nikwillig of Citadel Felbarr—a place that is as much a rival to Mithral Hall as is Mirabar, surely," the gnome explained. "Have you heard his tale?"
"You will tell me that Bruenor fell avenging him," Shoudra predicted, for she had indeed.
They came up to a large wood and stone table then, its front side holding a rack of pigeon holes and each with a rolled parchment inside. Nanfoodle bent low, reading the descriptions, then he pulled forth a map and unrolled it on the sloping tabletop. A quick perusal brought a frustrated sigh, and the gnome bent low again, seeking a second map.
"None are better at shaping an axe blade, but one would think that these dwarves would know how to label a simple map!" he complained.
Shoudra put her hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention.
"We are being observed, you understand," she said.
"Of course."
"Then what are you doing?"
Nanfoodle drew out the second map and stood straight, spreading it over the first one before him.
"Trying to determine how I might aid in the cause of Clan Battlehammer," the gnome said matter-of-factly.
Shoudra's hand slapped down on the center of the map.
"Bruenor fought for the dwarves of Felbarr," the gnome responded.
"Bruenor himself! Fighting for a rival. Would Marchion Elastul think of such a thing?"
"Is it our place to judge?"
"Is it not?"
Shoudra glared at her diminutive companion—or tried to, for in truth, she had a hard task in defending their mission. They had come to use Nanfoodle's alchemical potions to secretly ruin a great deal of Mithral Hall's orc, that Clan Battlehammer would produce a batch of inferior works—perhaps enough to weaken Mithral Hall's reputation with the merchants of the North, thus affording Mirabar an upper hand in the trade war.
"How petty are we two, Shoudra?" Nanfoodle quietly asked. "The marchion pays me well, 'tis true, but how am I to ignore that which I see about me? These dwarves follow a course of justice, first and foremost. They welcomed Torgar and the wayward pair from Felbarr with open hearts."
"Dwarf to dwarf," came the skeptical reply.
"And dwarf to gnome, and dwarf to sceptrana," Nanfoodle countered. "Consider our welcome here compared to that which Elastul afforded King Bruenor."
"You are beginning to sound a bit too much like Torgar Hammerstriker," the tall and beautiful woman remarked.
"You did not disagree with Torgar."
"Not with his greeting of King Bruenor, no," Shoudra admitted. "But with his abandonment of Mirabar? I do indeed disagree, Nanfoodle. I am glad of our reception, do not doubt, and I harbor no ill will toward Bruenor and his clan, but I am first and foremost the Sceptrana of Mirabar, and there remains my first loyalty."
"Do not ask me to poison their metal," Nanfoodle pleaded. "Not now. . I beg you."
Shoudra stared at him for a few moments, then backed away, removing her hand from the map.
"No, of course not," she agreed, and Nanfoodle gave a great sigh of relief. Our actions would do more than wound them in trade, but would likely cost the lives of many now engaged with the foul orcs. Clearly Elastul would agree with our decision to abort the mission … for now."
Nanfoodle nodded and smiled, but his expression told Shoudra clearly that he, like her, did not believe that last statement in the least. Shoudra knew— and it truly pained her to know—that Marchion Elastul would insist on attack-ing the orc even more aggressively if he thought it might bring even greater catastrophe upon Mithral Hall.
"So tell me what you are looking for, and what you plan to do?" she asked the gnome, and she peered at the map over his shoulder, recognizing it at once as the westernmost reaches of Mithral Hall, the gate at Keeper's Dale and the tunnels below.
"I do not yet know," Nanfoodle admitted. "But I will see what I can see and try to find a way to use my expertise to the benefit of the cause."
"Seeking a better offer from King Bruenor?" Shoudra asked with a wry grin.
Nanfoodle started to protest, until he noted her expression.
"I have been here but a couple of days and already I feel as if Mithral Hall is more my home than Mirabar ever was," he admitted.
Shoudra didn't argue the point. She wasn't quite as enamored of the place, for the whole of it was below ground, but she certainly understood the gnome's feelings.
"You should study beside me," Nanfoodle said, turning his attention back to the map. "Your skills with magic could prove of great value to Clan Battle-hammer in this dark time."
Again, despite herself, Shoudra didn't argue the point.
* * *
Exhausted and with several new wounds to attend, Catti-brie was barely back into Mithral Hall that night when she heard the commotion of the clerics rushing to her father's side. The woman dropped her cloak, her bow, and even her sword belt right there in the hallway and sprinted off to the room, to find her father's bed surrounded by a handful of priests and Pikel Bouldershoulder. All of them were chanting, praying, and one by one they placed their hands gently on Bruenor's chest and released their healing magic.
Halfway through the process, Bruenor actually moved a bit and even coughed, but then he settled quickly back into his completely sedentary state.
Cordio Muffinhead and Stumpet Rakingclaw, the two highest ranking clerics, took a moment to examine Bruenor, then looked around and nodded with satisfaction. They had staved off another potential disaster, had once again brought Bruenor back from the very brink of death.
Catti-brie spent more time looking at the priests then, than at her resting father. Several leaned on the edge of Bruenor's bed, obviously spent, and though they had performed another apparent miracle, not a one of them seemed overly pleased—not even the perpetually happy Pikel.
They began to filter out then, moving past Cathi-brie, most of them patting her on the shoulder as they passed.