“Yes, for the stone that is our family’s legacy,” Garren replied, shaking his head. “For the stone that is all we have left of our ancestors, of the good fortune that made us a family house in the first place.”
“I can see why you won’t make the deal,” the son said. “I wouldn’t either, not ever.”
Garren smiled somewhat wistfully. “I can’t say I won’t make the deal-not ever. But the deal isn’t right, not yet. Plus, there’s something…” His voice trailed away.
“What? What is it?” pressed Brandon.
“Something about Harn himself. I like him well enough; he’s good company, generous, helpful.”
“He likes his dwarf spirits,” the younger Bluestone suggested.
“If fondness for strong drink was a fatal flaw, I daresay none of us would survive to old age,” Garren said mildly. “But you’re right, he does seem to have a bit more of a weakness for the stuff than you’d like to see in a mature person.”
The elder dwarf shook his head, his gray hair cascading around the ursine fur fringing his cloak. “Anyway, this discovery of yours and Nailer’s might have made the whole issue irrelevant. Let’s get to the top so we can file your claim, and then we’ll see.”
They started but after a few steps, Garren stopped again. “But remember: Regar Smashfingers calls himself a king. So we call him a king. Understand?”
“Yes, I do,” Brandon replied, taking his father’s point.
The king/governor’s palace was fully a thousand feet above the midlevel city quarter inhabited by the Bluestones, but neither of the dwarves was the slightest bit out of breath when at last they arrived at the regal caverns that formed Garnet Thax’s uppermost level. Immediately to the side of the stairwell was the pit known as the Governor’s Atrium. Only recently, Regar Smashfingers had rechristened the shaft as the King’s Atrium, signaling to his subjects his intent to claim the high title that had so long been limited to the ruler of Thorbardin.
The atrium was a deep shaft that connected with all of the city’s levels. Illuminated by a glow of magma far below, it was the source of a constant updraft of warm air that seeped through the city, providing its passages, levels, homes, and shops with a more comfortable temperature than could typically be expected underground. Rings of balconies, many of them containing the tables and chairs of popular inns, surrounded the pit, and throughout the ages skilled carvers had worked images of dwarf heroes into the very bedrock of the mountain. Legend had it that the statues of those heroes watched over Kayolin and that-if the nation found itself in perilous need-those graven images would spring to life and fight in the land’s defense.
Brandon wasted scarcely a glance at the hero images. All his attention was directed to the wide-open doors, flanked by pillars as thick around as a giant’s torso, that marked the entrance to the governor’s palace.
As they approached, a female voice cried out. “Brandon Bluestone!”
It was Rona Darkwater, a Hylar dwarf maid from one of the city’s elite families. She had been in the audience watching Brandon win a wrestling tournament a year or so ago, and they’d enjoyed a casual, but passionate, romance in the time since.
“Hi, Rona,” he said, somewhat sheepishly as his father raised an eyebrow.
She was a stunningly beautiful female with golden hair extending in a sweep as far as her knees, a trim waist, and a swelling bodice that she flattered at that moment with a filmy, low-cut top of red silk.
“What brings you to the nosebleed levels?” she asked mischievously before taking note of his stern, solemn manner. “Is something wrong?”
“My brother was murdered a short time ago. Our family is grieving. Now I have come with my father to see the gov-the king,” he amended.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she said with obvious sincerity. “Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, following his father toward the palace.
“Rona Darkwater?” Garren said quietly. “Maybe you’re already starting to move your way up the levels?”
Glowering, Brandon didn’t reply. Instead, he strode determinedly beside his father toward the royal entrance. A score of armored dwarves, elite members of the King’s Guard, stood to attention at either side of the entry. Each was a brawny Daergar with long, black hair and beards all combed and oiled to slick perfection. They wore shiny black boots and plate mail breastplates of the same color. On each of their chests was emblazoned the sigil of House Smashfingers: a golden fist atop a black anvil. The guards held spears with tips upraised but merely watched the flow of interested citizenry who entered and exited the palace without interference.
Brandon had been there many times before, but in the past he had been merely a curious onlooker. This was the first time he had come into the palace with a goal to set before the governor (no, the king, he reminded himself), and the memory of his brother’s death-he could still feel Nailer’s blood spattering against his skin-fueled his resolve. As if sensing his passion, his father reached out a hand, laying a touch that appeared to be gentle but was in fact a steely grip, on his youngest son’s arm.
“Remember: patience,” Garren whispered. “We are here to stake a claim, not to gain vengeance.”
The court was meeting in a large, circular chamber, a dozen feet below the level of the gallery where the Bluestones and other onlookers were ushered. The gallery formed a ring around the entire court, an expanse some two hundred feet in diameter. The crowd was sparse, so Brandon and his father had no difficulty pushing their way to the front of the gallery, where they could look down directly on the governor and his court.
Regar Smashfingers sat in a grand chair, raised on a dais so, even when he was seated, his head rose a foot or two higher than the tallest dwarf standing before him. Courtiers and dwarf maids, dressed in the silken finery that had recently become the style of Kayolin’s wealthy, stood attentively to either side, leaving the space directly before the throne open to the petitioner.
That petitioner, Brandon recognized with a flash of anger, was none other than Lord Alakar Heelspur, head of the wealthiest clan in all Kayolin and long a toadying adherent of the king/governor’s policies.
Heelspur was a tall, brawny dwarf. His hair and beard had gone to gray, but his posture presented a picture of robust health and aggressive manner. He was gesturing with his hands outspread, speaking in a formal, polite tone.
“This new delving, Your Majesty, promises to expand the worth of the royal treasury by a virtually unprecedented amount. My assessors have not yet completed the formal survey, but they confirm there is enough gold in this vein to keep a thousand miners busy for a dozen years, and that is only to excavate the ore that is already patently visible. As Your Majesty well knows, past experience indicates that the total value of the claim will likely exceed this estimate by a figure tenfold or even a hundredfold greater.”
“It sounds impressive, very impressive indeed,” declared Regar, who was sitting up straight and paying very close attention to his subject and loyal lord. The king stroked his fingers through his beard. “And your men discovered it only recently?”
“Yes, majesty. It is an adjunct of our old Zhaban Delving, long thought to be haunted. But we Heelspurs are nothing if not intrepid, and it was my own son who led the expedition force that discovered the vein.”
Brandon stared in amazement. He couldn’t believe his ears. He immediately understood who had attacked him and slain his brother. “That’s our claim!” he whispered to his father, more loudly than he had intended, provoking looks and muttered reactions from some of the other onlookers. Garren’s eyes flared, but he laid a restraining hand on his son’s shoulder.
“In fact,” Heelspur continued, puffing out his chest, preening for the crowd. “My son single-handedly slew the cave troll that was guarding the new delving.”
The gathered courtiers oohed and aahed at his impressive claim, which was too much for Brandon.
“Fiend! Liar!” the young Bluestone shouted impulsively, his words booming from the balcony. “That vein was discovered by Nailer Bluestone and myself-and my brother was murdered by your dark servants and I was left for dead as we returned to Garnet Thax to file our claim!”
That declaration was met by gasps and grumbles from the gallery and, at first, stony silence on the floor. Still, the king and Lord Heelspur both looked up to see who voiced the angry challenge.
“Silence!” hissed Garren, squeezing his son’s arm again, but the words were already spoken, and they had been clearly heard.
“Who speaks?” demanded Regar Smashfingers after a long pause.
“I am Brandon Bluestone, Sire. And I speak the truth!” he declared defiantly.
“You interrupt this lord to make a Bluestone claim?” Regar Smashfingers growled. “This is an unacceptable, even intolerable violation of decorum!”
“Not only is it a false claim, my liege!” cried Lord Heelspur, his voice choking with wounded pride. “He levies
