his disposal to run the council like his own private piggy bank.
It had come as quite a shock when Bradok learned of his father’s death. According to the report, Mirshawn and a dozen other dwarves had been crushed in a cave-in down in the lower tunnels. Bradok almost refused to believe the news. Everything about his experience with his father led him to believe that the old man was too wicked and cantankerous to die.
Die he did, however, leaving Bradok, his only heir, to complete his term on the city council.
“Don’t worry lad,” Much said, misreading the expression on Bradok’s face. “You’ll do fine. There isn’t much on the docket today, just a trade delegation from some hill dwarf city. I think they want the council to remove the tariff on wool or wood or some such thing. I wasn’t paying attention when the master of schedules brought it up last time.”
Much offered Sapphire his arm, which she took, and the three of them passed out of Mattock Street and into the main cavern of the city. Main Street led straight along the long axis of Ironroot. At its upper end were the ironbound gates that led to surface world; the lower end exited out into miles of tunnels-some natural, some painstakingly carved-that made up the rest of the city.
On either side of the street, long poles reached up, almost to the roof of the massive cavern. Lanterns filled with phosphorescent stones were strung between the poles, casting the street in the glow of their slightly blue light.
Most of Ironroot’s shops and business were there, with easy access to the great gates that led to the surface. Ironroot’s citizens lived in the side passages and the lower tunnels of the Undercity. Smiths and other trades that required open fires were restricted to the Artisans’ Cavern, a specially-constructed series of tunnels designed for maximum ventilation.
In the center of Main Street stood the central square, a gathering place and garden under the shaft of light cast by Ironroot’s only other crystal vein. The central square looked more like a circle than a square and was lined with shops, taverns, and other places of business. In the center stood a great fountain with a spire in the middle culminating in a statue of Argus Gingerbeard, Ironroot’s founder. Below Argus and all along the spire were figures of beasts that squirted water in all directions and served to pull some of the soot and dirt from the air. That feature alone made the fountain a popular spot for picnickers or people wishing to sit a spell.
The three walked in silence, and Bradok took the time to note his surroundings. He’d lived in Ironroot all his life and had walked that path daily for the past dozen years. On that morning, with the sunlight radiating over Argus Gingerbeard, Bradok wondered if he’d ever truly
Beyond the square, on the far wall of the cavern, the Temple of Reorx had been cut into the living stone and worked by master artisans for more than a century. As the stonework and carvings aged, they darkened from bright white to the gray of granite. That gave the temple a blotchy look, as if it had caught some disease that only time could heal. The building itself stood three stories high, its top spire nearly brushing the roof of the upper city. In its heyday, more than a dozen priests and functionaries were housed within the ornamental walls of the temple. Nowadays, however, fewer and fewer dwarves joined the priesthood, reducing the temple to five priests and an acolyte.
Sapphire’s eye caught a small group of dwarves mounting the temple steps, making their way in for the Third Watch service. “Idiots,” she said with a sneer, venom dripping from every syllable.
“Not now, Mother,” Bradok said, trying to head off the diatribe he knew would follow that remark.
“Don’t you dare shush me, boy,” Sapphire said. “I’ll speak my mind when I want to, and I’ll call a fool a fool when I wish.”
“Just because they pray in the temple doesn’t make them fools, Mother,” Bradok said, a sigh in his voice.
“Of course it does,” Sapphire snapped. “Believing in a bunch of nebulous gods in an age of industry and enlightenment? No rational person would believe the foolish superstitions those phony priests try to push on us.”
Like most of the dwarves in Ironroot, Bradok considered himself a secularist. He honored the concept of Reorx, the patron deity of the city, but he wasn’t sure there ever was such a being. The secularist movement had been growing for years, ever since the dwarves began expanding beyond their homeland. Among the cities of the humans and the elves, they had seen wizards work mighty miracles just from studying moldy old books. If they had power as great as that of the priests, the secularists reasoned, then perhaps the priests used a similar kind of magic, conjuring illusions of gods to keep the people under their thumb.
Bradok wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole issue of religion. His mother, however, had very definite opinions.
“The council ought to expel them from the city,” she spat.
Bradok decided not to argue. Sapphire’s voice had a tendency to carry loudly when she got angry.
They continued past the temple, with Sapphire muttering heatedly under her breath the whole time, and passed into the central square. Only a few people were moving among the shops and peddler carts at that hour of the morning. Wagons of trade goods bumped and clattered over the cobblestones, making their slow and steady way down toward the Artisans’ Cavern. On a corner, by an alley between two buildings, a ragged dwarf stood under a glowpole, holding a sign on which a shaky hand had painted in red:
As the secularists gained power, more and more street preachers and low priests began to appear among the people of Ironroot, calling the citizenry to repentance, prophesying dire things. Mostly they were a nuisance, but occasionally one would lead a petition or rally for redress of some wrong or other that would annoy the city fathers.
A handcart bearing the unmistakable signs of hill dwarf construction stood before the Brasswork Inn, no doubt where the trade delegation lodged.
“It’s still early,” Much said, pulling an ornately etched brass watch from his breast pocket. “How’s about a quick breakfast at the Bunch o’ Grapes? I hear the ham’s fresh there-not more than four days old.”
Bradok hadn’t eaten, but he knew that Sapphire would never approve of a tavern as folksy and comfortable as the Bunch o’ Grapes.
“No thank you,” he said. “Mother wants to get to her seat in the gallery before the meeting starts.”
Sapphire nodded stiffly next to him, though he didn’t know if it came as a result of his thoughtfulness or her imminent public appearance as the mother of Ironroot’s newest councilman.
“Suit yourself,” Much said with a shrug and a smile. “Fasting is a young man’s game, however.”
He stopped and took Sapphire’s hand, kissing it gently. “Enjoy the preliminaries, my dear. I’m afraid I must see to my rumbling stomach.”
Sapphire smiled in return, and Much moved off to the Bunch o’ Grapes. Bradok watched him go for a moment then walked his mother around the gardens of the fountain and, finally, on to City Hall.
Unlike the temple, City Hall had been built with a facade of wood, giving it the appearance of a surface- dweller’s building. Brass lanterns adorned its face along with wide glass windows. Inside, the vast round audience chamber dominated the main floor. Two levels up, a ring of balconies and private boxes allowed visitors of all social standings to view the proceedings.
Bradok had arranged for a private box for his mother. Special privileges like that could be counted on to keep her happy.
The boxes lined the rear of the chamber, facing the podium. Each one had red velvet curtains-in case their occupants chose to remain anonymous-and dark cherrywood doors that separated them from the hallway beyond. Four squat, elegantly carved chairs, with padded seats upholstered in purple occupied the box, which had room for more should they be required.
Bradok ushered his mother inside the box, not really expecting her to be impressed by the richness of it. He had just held her chair so she could sit when a jovial baritone voice broke over them like a wave.
“There you are, Bradok.”
The intrusion of the voice had a dramatic effect on Sapphire. Her face flushed and she quickly stood.
Bradok turned to find himself face-to-face with the mayor of Ironroot, the honorable Verdel Arbuckle. Arbuckle had been elected mayor of Ironroot a dozen years earlier and had stayed in the job, like all good politicians, through the appropriate application of schmoozing and graft.
Mayor Arbuckle wore perfectly tailored clothes over the fit frame of a dwarf just past his prime, but still well
