A solid, white-haired dwarf leaned out and peered at the duo upon the landing, his face rather flat and wrinkled like a half-dried white grape. Wavy hair flowed down and broke over his wide shoulders, becoming one with his thick beard in front, though no mustache sprouted below his broad nose. He was dressed in brown breeches and typical heavy dwarven boots, and his muslin shirt was overlaid with a hip-long felt vestment of fiery burnt-orange.
Recognition dawned in the old one’s widening eyes. “Chane Andraso?”
Chane bowed his head slightly. “Forgive me, Shirvêsh Mallet. I know it is late, but may we enter?”
“We?” Mallet muttered, glancing at Chap before ushering them both inside. “Where are Journeyor Hygeorht and her charcoal companion?”
Chane did not know how to answer; the truth would take too long if he dared speak of it at all.
“She is well but overly occupied,” he answered, hoping it was true as he entered with Chap. “She has sent me here in her place for something important.”
Glancing down, he found Chap studying the entryway’s mosaic floor. Colored thumbnail tiles created the image of a stout, dark-haired, and bearded dwarf bearing a tall, char-gray or black staff. He wore a burnt-orange vestment like the elder shirvêsh and appeared to step straight out of the floor from the open road leading away from a hazy violet mountain range. This was Feather-Tongue.
When Chane looked up, he found Shirvêsh Mallet studying him.
“And why did the young miss send you?” the dwarf asked.
Time was short, and Chane took the straightforward approach. “I need to speak with Ore-Locks. Would you please send for him?”
From anyone else, this would have been a shocking request, but Ore-Locks himself had made this arrangement.
Shirvêsh Mallet blinked twice, frowned, and sighed. “Come to the meal hall. At this time, it is the most private place in the temple.”
Chap grew anxious over lost time after Shirvêsh Mallet finally left them alone in the meal hall. It was nearing the mid of night, and Chap wasn’t certain what to expect next. As Chane dropped his packs, Chap went over and pawed at the one containing the talking hide. Chane knelt to dig and roll it out. Chap began pawing words and letters, but his questions took a while even with the skipping of unnecessary words.
If stonewalkers in underworld, how long till O comes?
“A little while,” Chane answered. “I do not know how contact is made, but Ore-Locks will hurry in, knowing I am waiting. He has several ... ways to do so.”
Chap pawed again.
Ways?
Chane shook his head. “It is easier to wait and see.”
Growling, Chap was about to argue and changed his mind. Since he had learned to use memory-words to speak to Magiere, Leesil, and some others, the talking hide now felt slow and clumsy.
Chane rolled up the hide and put it away, and they waited in silence.
Chap had no way to gauge the creep of time. It seemed quite long before he heard heavy booted footsteps echoing in from the outer passage. He barely got up, watching the way in, when three dwarves entered.
The first was Shirvêsh Mallet.
The second was a dour stranger. Though his head would only reach Chane’s shoulder, he was nearly twice as wide and three times Chane’s bulk.
Wild, dark-streaked locks hung to his shoulders, framing the hard line of his mouth within steely bristles of a beard. Over his char-gray breeches and wool shirt, he wore a short-sleeved hauberk of black leather scales, each scale’s tip sheathed in ornately engraved and polished steel. Two war daggers in like-adorned black sheaths were tucked slantwise in his thick belt.
Then the third dwarf stepped into plain sight.
Chap had briefly met Ore-Locks Iron-Braid in Calm Seatt before everyone had split up in search of the last two orbs. The stonewalker wore his long red hair tied with a leather thong into a tail hanging over his collar. Unlike most male dwarves, he was clean-shaven. Though he appeared much younger than the dark juggernaut, he too wore the black-scaled armor and two daggers of his caste.
“I will leave you now,” Shirvêsh Mallet said politely. “I can see you have much to discuss.” With that, he left.
Chane turned to the elder dwarf in visible surprise and perhaps some anger. “Master Cinder-Shard, I did not send for you.”
“No,” the dwarf answered. “And yet I am here.”
Chap was instantly on guard. He’d expected some resistance from Ore-Locks about turning over the orb, but the presence of this other man was completely unexpected.
Chane tensed all over, and then Ore-Locks stepped around Master Cinder-Shard to approach.
“It is good to see you,” he said, “though I know you would not have come nor called for me without a serious reason.”
Chane’s tension eased slightly. By shared trials and battles, the young stonewalker had become something close to a friend. And Chane did not have many friends.
“It is good to see you as well,” he answered, “and I—”
“Enough niceties!” Cinder-Shard barked. “Why has a ... Why have you returned here, and how does one of your kind hold influence with a head shirvêsh?”
His gaze flicked toward Chap, and his eyes widened a little.
Chane followed his gaze. Did Cinder-Shard recognize a majay-hì?
That stood to reason, considering the master stonewalker was friends with Chuillyon, the white-robed sage of the Lhoin’na ... and a notorious liar.
Cinder-Shard’s focus shifted to Ore-Locks. “I hope you had nothing to do with this.”
Ore-Locks hesitated and then straightened. “Yes, I did.”
Cinder-Shard’s face tinged red.
Chane saw no way to be diplomatic. “I need the orb of Earth,” he said bluntly. “And there is good reason.”
At this, Cinder-Shard’s reddish tinge went gray, and even Ore-Locks was silenced in wary shock.
Chane had not expected to deal with the master of the stonewalkers, and he felt somewhat blindsided. He had to regain control quickly and raised a hand to forestall outrage or arguments.
“I will not explain here,” he said, and nodded to Chap. “This majay-hì and I traveled a great distance, and we fear minions of the Enemy could have followed. We need a place they cannot go ... or hear ... before anything more is said.”
Expressing such concerns was risky, and it might simply cause Cinder-Shard to retreat beyond reach and order Ore-Locks to follow. The last time Chane had been here, he, Wynn, and Shade had been followed by the wraith, Sau’ilahk.
In hunting them and an orb, Sau’ilahk had infiltrated the underworld.
Although this was not Chane, Wynn, or Shade’s fault, their own actions had led to the havoc and loss caused by the wraith. In the aftermath, further safeguards had been implemented below. The underworld of the dwarves’ most honored dead was still the most secure place in the seatt. It had to be.
Cinder-Shard’s expression was flat. He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, and then his left shifted back a few inches and planted. His large right hand rose to settle around the hilt of a battle dagger.
“You ... among the honored dead ... again?” he said. “Your kind ... with an anchor of creation?”
Chane almost reached for his own sword, anticipating an attack. And if possible, he chilled slightly at this particular opponent.
“Master,” Ore-Locks said, turning quickly. “No matter what else he may be, he is no liar. And he was there to help in retrieving the orb.”