Sabira doubted any of them would be worried if they were privy to just how little she actually knew, but she wasn’t going to deprive Kiruk of what might wind up being the only thing he had to celebrate when this was all said and done.
Afterward, on the walk back, she’d pretended a chill, and Kiruk, expansive in his triumph, had offered her his cloak before they parted ways. She wore it now, hood up, and consciously changed her walk so it was a little heavier and carried a little more swagger. In the darkness, she could pass on first glance for a dwarf, albeit a tall and slender one. And one glance was all anyone would get.
But she saw no one on her way down to the Warrens and found Rockfist where he’d said he would be, in a small, unused alcove boasting a statue of Boldrei in her dragon form.
“Were you seen?” he asked, peering over her shoulder dramatically.
“Only by the entire dining room of the Crown and Scepter,” Sabira replied airily. At the barrister’s glare, she added, “Relax. Even if I was seen, I certainly wasn’t followed, which I imagine is what you’re actually worried about.”
The dwarf harrumphed, his spectacles momentarily reflecting the light from a distant everbright lantern, turning his eyes into golden disks. “Well, I hope you’re right. Now, let me give you a quick idea of the layout of the Tombs. The sooner you find what you’re looking for and get out again, the better.”
“You’ve been inside?” Sabira asked, surprised.
“Blackiron had privileges—most high-profile barristers do. Since I was his apprentice, he’d occasionally send me inside on errands he didn’t have time to complete himself.”
“Well, then, why didn’t we just pretend I was your apprentice? Then we wouldn’t have to be sneaking around in the middle of the night when no one is even supposed to be here.” Sabira couldn’t believe there’d been another option that the barrister had conveniently neglected to mention. Though, on second thought, she probably shouldn’t be all that surprised—Rockfist was clearly enjoying skulking around in the darkness like a burglar, and seemed to all appearances to be regretting the fact that he’d joined the bar and not the local thieves’ guild.
“The Caretaker isn’t the only security we have to circumvent to get inside—he’s just the only one we can influence.”
At Sabira’s cocked brow, he continued.
“The Tombs are warded against entry by any means other than the front door. Any breach—including teleportation—sets off alarms both here and at the nearest guard stations, and triggers a second set of wards that make exiting the building impossible. A very powerful mage might possibly be able to manage it, especially if they had some sort of focus already in place inside, but someone that skilled could probably get access to whatever they needed through other, less risky means in the first place. And those are just the security measures that are publicly known. I imagine there are all sorts of other nasty little traps for intruders that no one but the Caretaker knows about. No, all things considered, this is probably the only way to get you inside that won’t result in an immediate and agonizing death.”
When Sabira didn’t respond immediately—and what could she say to that, really?—the barrister continued. “Now, the Tombs are made up of thirteen levels, one for each clan. Each level has a series of rooms named for a gemstone or a metal, and not only is that the motif, that’s also usually how the rooms are referenced—’the Sapphire Room,’ as opposed to ‘the room on the Doldarun floor containing mining claims for the northern Hoarfrost Mountains.’ When you ask the Caretaker about the document you’re looking for, that’s how he’ll describe its location, and you’ll either need to already know what floor it’s on yourself or else have someone with you who does.”
“Someone like you?” Sabira asked, not happy about feeding the dwarf’s burgeoning ego, but she saw no way around it, at least not until she was safely back outside the Tombs with the information she needed.
“Exactly. Although there are some floors I’ve never been to, so if the report you’re looking for happens to be on one of those levels, I won’t be able to tell you much more than that.”
“So how does the Caretaker know? Does he look it up in some great master index or something? Can’t we just use that?”
“No one knows. Or at least, if they do, they’re not telling. But somehow, once the Caretaker is appointed, he—or she—automatically gains knowledge not only of the entire inventory of the Tombs but also of the exact location of each scrap of paper therein. But he won’t tell you more than the room that it’s in, because ‘enlightenment must be earned; it cannot be given away.’ Or something like that, anyway.” Rockfist shrugged. “The clan chiefs all have maps, of course, but the Caretaker frowns on their use. If we’d had more time, I probably could have procured a copy. I guess I’ll save that for next time you want to break into the most sacred site in Krona Peak.”
That’s one thing Sabira certainly didn’t miss about the Holds. At least out in wider Khorvaire, most dwarves stifled their sense of humor, to the point where the average citizen of the world probably didn’t think such a thing existed. But here in the Holds, the dwarves let their mirth run free, and jokes were common. Actual humor, on the other hand, was a much rarer commodity.
“Clever. But if you’re done with the history lesson, perhaps we should get started? Kiruk booked passage for me on a caravan headed to Lake Home, and it leaves exactly at the fifth bell.”
“You’re taking a barge up the coast of Mirror Lake?” Rockfist asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Given the way his recently deceased boss had died, she supposed she couldn’t blame him.
“It’s quicker than going overland,” Sabira said. And cheaper, and undoubtedly safer, as long as you could swim.
“If you say so,” Rockfist replied, shuddering. “But you’re right about one thing: We do need to hurry. The dark hours only last for two bells, and we’ve already used up half of one. Let’s go.”
Rockfist led the way out of the alcove toward a large wooden door that looked like it could have led to a storeroom or a block of cells. On closer inspection, however, it was clear that this was no ordinary portal. Where a handle would have been on a regular door, there was instead a silver plate bearing the imprint of a hand. And while the wooden planks were pristine, the iron battens were blackened, as if by fire, as was the stone wall around the door frame.
Pausing in front of the door, Rockfist withdrew something wrapped in wool from beneath his cloak and handed it over to Sabira. Whatever was inside the fabric was warm and pliable and filled Sabira with a sudden unease. Unwrapping it carefully, she wasn’t completely shocked to see it was a severed hand—dwarven, from the stoutness of the fingers and the calluses on the palm, and still sticky with congealing blood.
“What in the name of—”
“Save it. The only way to get past the front door is by placing your hand on that plate, and if the hand doesn’t belong to a dwarf—well, you can see for yourself it doesn’t end pleasantly,” Rockfist said, indicating the char marks.
“But where did you get—”
“Are you sure you really want to know?”
He had her there. Suppose he told her it was from some cutpurse, who’d lost the hand as part of his sentence? She wouldn’t have a problem with that. But what if, instead, it was from some poor beggar woman, who’d traded the appendage for food? How could she abide that? And yet, she needed to get inside to save Aggar, and she was already skirting the law to do so. Would she really object if Rockfist told her the hand had come from some innocent? If the alternative meant not getting inside?