Arbuckle’s eyes sparkled, and Bradok couldn’t help but notice that the mayor was sweating. Something about the unnatural gleam in his eye made Bradok uncomfortable with his plan.
“So,” Arbuckle said. “Can I count on you?”
Bradok thought about it. The task seemed simple enough, just find out what the people wanted done with the street preachers. Yet something about Arbuckle’s overeagerness was unsettling.
“I’ll do it,” he said at last.
Arbuckle’s smile widened, seeming more genuine. He rose and extended his arm to Bradok.
“I knew I could count on you, Bradok,” he said as Bradok clasped his forearm. “Take a week to prepare and conduct your survey; then let me know the results. I’m sure this will be helpful.”
Bradok agreed, thanked the mayor for his confidence, and left the office.
A few minutes later, he had exited the building and was making his way through the cool air of Ironroot. The street was dark and empty. Everything had returned to normal, and that meant the streets were dark and deserted in the predawn.
Bradok should have been happy. No blood had been spilt. Those falsely imprisoned were going to be turned free, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was merely the calm before the storm.
He resolved not think about it.
It was a resolution he wouldn’t keep.
CHAPTER 4
Over the next few days, an endless parade of city guardsmen came and went from Bradok’s house, carrying copies of his carefully worded survey. As per Mayor Arbuckle’s instructions, the guards moved through the city, interviewing every citizen, getting their thoughts on the problem of the street preachers.
Bradok had divided the city into small districts in order to disperse guards throughout the city efficiently. After the near-riot caused by his ordinance, he wanted to make sure the citizenry wouldn’t be alarmed by large groups of guardsmen going door to door. Every couple of hours, one of his teams would return and present Bradok with a written record of their findings.
After sweeping two-thirds of the city, Bradok found that the mayor was right: Well more than half the populace considered the preachers a nuisance. Most of them, however, were not in favor of laws restricting freedom of speech as a solution to the problem.
“It’s about time,” Sapphire remarked as Bradok sat at his desk, preparing one of the daily reports he sent to Arbuckle.
“About time for what, Mother?” Bradok asked idly, without looking up. In the time since his father had died, Sapphire often would seek out her son at odd hours, desiring to speak with him at length about things that Bradok couldn’t care less about.
“It’s about time Arbuckle and those fools on the council learned who their enemies are.”
Bradok sighed. One of Sapphire’s favorite topics of conversation revolved around her hatred of the believers.
“This is just a public survey, Mother,” Bradok said in a strained voice. “It has nothing to do with enemies or fools.”
Sapphire chuckled. Her laugh had a derisive note in it, as if she were directing it at a willfully ignorant child.
“That’s what you think,” she said. “Once they have that list, Arbuckle and Bladehook will know who sides with them and who is against them. Then it will be just as I say: fools versus enemies.”
Bradok looked up from his desk to find his mother filling the doorway. Her face was flushed, and her eyes shone with malice.
“Mark my words,” she said. “We’ll soon be rid of those cursed priests. And the council will have you to thank.”
A cold knot dropped into Bradok’s stomach. He’d worried that Arbuckle had some nefarious purpose in the task he’d given Bradok, and as he thought about it, he realized that Sapphire was right. Those who didn’t object to the presence of the street preachers were likely to be believers or people at least sympathetic to the believers. He was compiling a list of all the believers for Mayor Arbuckle, Jon Bladehook, and all those who lined up with them.
His eyes dropped back down to the daily report he’d been preparing. That very page contained the names of every member of several families who didn’t object to the preachers, where they lived, and how many were in their households.
In the wrong hands, Bradok’s lists could cost lives. The thought made him sick.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Sapphire said, still preening in the doorway. “You look a little green.”
“It’s nothing, Mother,” he said, straightening his papers and making a show of going back to work.
“You didn’t know,” Sapphire guessed. She barked out a raucous laugh. “I should have known you didn’t have the stones for this. Well, I think they will reward you, just the same.”
“That will be quite enough, Mother,” Bradok said, rising.
He blotted the fresh ink on the paper then folded it carefully and put it in the breast pocket of his coat. “I’m going out,” he announced.
“Going to warn your new friends at the temple?” she asked, still smiling like a wolf.
“Of course not,” Bradok said, brushing her out of his way. “I am going to do my duty and deliver the daily report to Mayor Arbuckle.”
Bradok turned down the hallway and passed out into his grand foyer. Behind him his mother’s laughter echoed down the hall, mocking him.
But Bradok did not intend to go to Mayor Arbuckle’s house, as he said. Instead he wandered through Ironroot, down past the Artisans’ Cavern and into the Undercity.
Down one of the many side tunnels stood a decrepit facade built of wood that covered a great hole carved in the rock. A warped, wooden sign outside read
An hour later he had nursed his third ale down to the bottom of the mug, and he still had no answers. He wanted to believe that Arbuckle’s motives were innocent, but at the same time he knew he had been duped. The council was plotting against its own citizens.
Bradok turned on his stool, surveying the tavern, as if answers could be found in the hardened faces of the dwarves around him. The bar stood against the back wall of the room and was stained black and pitted with years of hard use. Oft-repaired stools stood in front of the bar in a ragged row, occupied by a bunch of patrons. In the middle of the great room sat a stone hearth over which a metal shroud and flue hung. A fire crackled cheerily, spreading a dry warmth through the cool, humid air and filling the room with the scent of burning pine.
Bradok had taken the stool at the far end, by the kitchen. A barmaid with a face as haggard as the bar leaned on her arms, attempting to draw the men’s eyes away from her face by exposing ample amounts of cleavage. All of the dwarves at the bar were drinking with abandon, so none of them noticed anyway.
Bradok finished his cup and pounded on the bar. The pitted-faced barmaid brought him another drink efficiently enough, but with a disinterest bordering on disdain. Bradok took a swig, but he had drunk his fill; the liquid soured in his mouth. He pushed the cup aside and stared at the fire.
Next to Bradok sat a mountain of a dwarf. Seated on his stool, the red-bearded dwarf was easily a head taller than Bradok. He’d been pounding back ale and muttering darkly to himself since before Bradok arrived, and still he showed no sign of slowing. The dwarf wore a thick leather apron of the kind smiths wore, but his clothes and boots were far too fine for such a profession. As soon as he noticed Bradok had paused in his drinking, the big dwarf slammed his mug down, sending its contents launching out of the mug and splashing on the bar.
