Ричард Бейкер - Condemnation

The weapons master quickened his step and drew alongside Valas.

“Where are we going?” he asked as quietly as possible over the ringing hammers.

“I thought we needed to obtain some sort of official license or pass. Shouldn’t we be heading for a courthouse, or something?”

“If ye wanted a royal license, ye would,” Coalhewer answered, “but that would take ye months and cost ye a fortune in bribes. No, I’m takin’ ye to call on the household of the clan laird Muzgardt. He’ll give ye a writ o’ passage that should get ye where ye want to go.”

Ryld nodded. It was not so different from Menzoberranzan, after all.

“How far will Muzgardt’s writ run?” Valas asked. “Will it get us out of Gracklstugh’s dominions?”

“Muzgardt’s clan be merchants. They deal in ale and liquors throughout the Deepkingdom, and sometimes bring outside brews into the city—drow wine, svirfneblin brandy, even some vintages from the surface, or so I hear. Ye’ll find his folk all over the realm.” Coalhewer laughed a nasty laugh and added, “’Course, Muzgardt sells passage to those as want it, too. He likes his gold.”

Ryld smiled. Coalhewer was a grasping, avaricious fellow by anyone’s standards. Muzgardt’s greed must be something noteworthy indeed for a dwarf like Coalhewer to comment on it.

They came to the end of the street of swordsmiths and found themselves back in the vicinity of the Darklake, though farther north along the shore. Before them stood a huge, ramshackle brewery made from loose stone stacked to make walls between the petrified stems of a small forest of gigantic mushrooms. Big copper vats steamed within, filling the air with a heavy, yeasty stink. Dozens of copper kegs stood nearby, and burly gray dwarves swarmed over the place, mashing fungus, mixing fermenting masses, and filling casks with freshly brewed ale.

“A dwarf’s second love after gold,” Coalhewer said with a crooked smile. “Ah, Muzgardt’s lads do good work, I tell ye.”

The dwarf led Ryld and Valas into the brewhouse and past the huge vats to a small shack or shelter in the back of the place. A pair of gray dwarves stood in heavy mail armor, wicked-looking axes resting close at hand. The guards glared angrily at the dark elves, and picked up their weapons.

“What d’ye want?” one growled.

“Thummud,” Coalhewer replied. “Got a business proposition for him.”

“Stay here,” the first guard said.

He ducked through a ragged curtain in the doorway, and returned a moment later.

“Thummud’ll see ye, but the drow’ll have t’leave their weapons at the door. Don’t trust ’em.”

Ryld looked at Valas and signed, Are we worried about an ambush?

The scout replied, Coalhewer knows there are five more in our party, including a capable wizard and a draegloth. I don’t think he’d lead us into a trap—but watch your back anyway.

“Enough finger-talk,” the guard snarled. “Talk so’s we can understand ye, if ye’ve got anything to say.”

“Always,” Ryld said aloud to Valas.

He gave the duergar a hard look, but shrugged Splitter from his shoulder and set the greatsword against one wall. He unbuckled his short sword from its sheath at his hip and set it nearby.

“There’s a curse on the big blade,” he said. “You won’t like what happens if you try to handle it.”

Valas set down his shortbow and arrows, then dropped his kukris to the ground. The duergar guards checked the two dark elves for concealed weapons, then ushered them into the gloomy shelter. The place was an office of sorts, with ledgers and records scattered about. By a large standing clerks desk stood one of the fattest gray dwarfs Ryld had ever seen, a round-bodied fellow with thick arms and heavy shoulders. Duergar tended to run toward a gaunt, broad-shouldered build despite their short, powerful stature, but the brewmaster Thummud was as round as one of his kegs.

“Coalhewer,” he said by way of a greeting. “What can you do for me?”

“I’ve got a party of dark elves as need a writ o’ business from Muzgardt,”

Coalhewer said. “They’d prefer not to wait on a royal permit.”

“What sort of business?”

“We deal in gemstones, mostly,” Valas said. “We’re looking into setting up transport through the Deepkingdom. We need to be able to move around and talk to a lot of people, and as Coalhewer said, we don’t want to wait for months to get a royal license.”

“Ye’re stupid or ye’re lying, then. Ye’ll pay ten times the cost of a royal license to get a writ from our clan laird. Most merchants I know wouldn’t do such a thing.”

Valas glanced up at Ryld, then looked back to Thummud and said, “All right, then. We’ve got some rivals from back home that are doing a fine business here, and we want to sound out their suppliers to see if they can’t be encouraged to sell to us instead of the others. A royal license wouldn’t really extend that far, would it?”

Thummud snorted, “No, I suppose not.”

“Can ye help me clients, or not?” Coalhewer asked. “Or do I have to go see Ironhead, or maybe Anvilthew?”

“Clan Muzgardt might be able to help ye,” Thummud said after a long moment.

“We’ll want two hundred pieces of gold for each body on the writ, and ye can’t have it today.”

Coalhewer glanced up at the dark elves. Ryld nodded to him.

“They’ll pay the laird’s fee,” the duergar sailor said, “but they want to get started right quick.”

“Doesn’t matter what yer clients want,” Thummud replied with a shrug. “I’ll have to take up the matter with the clan laird before I write you a pass.”

“Ye never had to before!”

The fat dwarf folded his arms and set his jaw stubbornly. He glared at Coalhewer and the dark elves.

“Be that as it may, the crown prince’s soldiers have been checking our writs and passes too closely of late. Horgar’s let it be known that he wants to know who’s in the Deepkingdom and why, and he’s leaning on the clan lairds to withhold their writs. We’ll be able to get yer clients theirs, I think, but I’ll have to gain Muzgardt’s blessing first. Come back tomorrow, or the day after.”

Coalhewer muttered into his beard, but he didn’t bother to argue the point any further. He jerked his head toward the curtain, and led Ryld and Valas outside. The dark elves picked up their arms, and in a few minutes they’d left the brewery behind them.

“Now, what should we make of that?” Valas wondered aloud. “Do you know another clan that might help out, Coalhewer?”

“Maybe, but if Horgar’s cracking down on informal passes and such things, ye’ll have trouble anywhere ye go.” The dwarf scratched at his beard. “I’ll have to ask some questions, and I don’t think ye’d best be with me.”

Ryld looked to Valas, who thought carefully before agreeing, and even then the weapons master didn’t think his fellow Menzoberranyr looked sufficiently confident in their guide’s loyalty.

When Halisstra and Danifae returned to the Cold Foundry, they found that Quenthel had rented one of the inn’s larger wings, a freestanding structure with its own small common room and eight private chambers on two floors. The whole wing seemed to be built and decorated to a duergar’s conception of drow comfort. Its furnishings were proportioned for drow-sized guests, not dwarves, it was richly appointed with tapestries and lavish rugs, and all the doors had locks. Dark elves didn’t require endless hours of sleep in the same manner as lesser races, but few drow felt safe or comfortable in a deep, dreaming Reverie unless they were taking their ease behind a locked door.

The rest of the company, with the exception of Pharaun, reclined on the rugs or sat at the common room’s table, partaking of a bountiful meal accompanied by silver ewers of wine. Armor and packs lay stacked against the walls, but weapons remained within easy reach.