The stone-paved passageways of Carrowhelm were filled with mischief as Tio and his band of kids darted about like shadows. Their cheeks crudely smeared with dirt and their faces charred by the sun were invisible to any noble class—and that was when they became useful.
Tio nudged Dion, "Distractin' that guard now. Better make haste when I do."
Dion only nodded and lowered his hood. Tio let out a sharp whistle. Two children, looking no older than ten, blasted past the gatehouse with a wailing scream. One of them tripped and had a loud fake cry, while his accomplice threw a small satchel full of rotten herbs at the guards.
The distraction was a success.
With all of the gatekeepers chasing the children, Dion slipped through and disappeared behind a hedge. He stuck to the shadows until he made it to the outer wall of the estate. Just when he was going to climb over the side, he caught sight of a maid stepping outside to dump a bucket. Timing his movement, Dion charged in just as the door swung shut behind her.
In the servants' quarters, an odorous mix of sweat, boiled turnips, and soap permeated the room. Dion yanked a spare uniform off a hook, slipped it over the clothing he was already wearing, and grabbed a feather duster. He wore his disguise poorly, but just enough to avoid suspicion.
The fat butler took a measured look at Dion, disgust evident in his eyes, and said, "You. Yes, you—lazy git. Go polish the gold-leaf framed portraits in the lord's study. Third floor."
Dion nodded silently, stifling a sigh of relief. He had not been found out. At least not yet.
As he approached the corridor toward the office, a small group of dipped armored knights wearing blue sashes over their steel plate entered the hallway. The insignias on the sashes matched those of the city knights.
Two guards were posted at the office door. "No servants are allowed near the study," one the guards yelled.
Dion clenched his teeth and stood close by, pretending to dust a window and straining to listen.
Inside, Bobby Venhart, Head of City Knights, was sitting across from Robert Maynard, who was deathly pale. Bobby slapped a metal insignia down on Robert's desk—an insignia with the same sigil as Maynard's own house crest.
"I lost good knights," Bobby grunted. "You had men attack a convoy hauling a prisoner. That's treason."
Maynard's face contorted. "I didn't even know Dallast was in confinement!"
"Explain it away to the Marquess," Bobby interrupted, his tone frigid. "Bind him."
Robert yelled in dissent, but he did not fight back as the knighs made effective work of holding him tightly. Dion watched the whole Ishmael company leave, a throbbing heart. He turned to sneak his way out when he ran into a frowning servant. "No one leaves. The Lord's orders."
Dion clenched his fists.
_____
Far beyond Carrowhelm, far into the woods under the moonlight, Dallast sat tied and bloodied. Luenor was standing in front of him. His expression was hard to read. "Last chance. Where does Maynard deliver the mana stones?" Dallast's mouth quivered. "I just buy from you. I give to Maynard. He.... he gives it to Mellon--"
Luenor interrupted him. "How?"
"I don't know!" Dallast shrieked. "He has guards--he's backed by the Duke! I'm just a middleman!"
Luenor slapped him, a hard slap. "Faren."
Faren blinked. "Yes?"
"Cut off one of his nipples."
The elf froze. "...My lord?"
Luenor's scowl was enough for an answer. Faren stepped up slowly, drawing his knife.
As the cold steel touched skin, Dallast panicked. "The foothills!" he screamed. "There's a delivery camp in the foothills of the Veilspire Mountains! It's hidden under a collapsed quarry! Please--I told you everything!"
Luenor sighed and patted Dallast's head in a mocking manner before knocking him out cold.
Hunter was outside the camp, leaning against the tree with Chote, the sickly dwarf, next to him.
"Why am I even here?" Chote said, sweat pooling on his broad forehead.
"Because," Luenor chimed in as he made his entrance, "A dwarf knows about forges better than we do."
Chote was about to voice his arguments, but Hunter's sheer physical presence made him think better of it.
So, in the end, the three of them — Luenor, Hunter and Chote — started their trek through the forest during the hours of low knight patrols. Faren was staying behind with his elves to keep an eye on the unconscious Dallast and clean up after themselves.
They climbed higher into the mountain, the air was thin and the trees weren't as dense. Luenor stopped at an overlook on ridge, squinting into the shadows, down in the foothills. It took a moment, but his eyes began to narrow, as he spotted what he was looking for.
Smoke billowed in lazy curls from the depths of a quarried sunken pit, safely protected from sight in obscuring rock walls. What appeared to be wooden supports aisled an entryway tunnel and a line of mana'd carriages, parked outside.
"This is it," Luenor said.
Chote shivered at what he saw. "That is not a forge. That is a goddamn fortress."
Hunter stepped forward and watched the sentry movements by the tunnel. "We're going to have to time it well. Maybe we can slip in the next time a supply wagon comes through."
Luenor's eyes glimmered faintly. "We'll do more than we just discussed. We will learn how they make those blades... and then we'll make them."
As night grew profound, the three of them studied the base and memorized every detail.