Irolt and the Unwelcome Patron

There was no sign of Belthor when Irolt returned to the forge, and their newest recruits were equally absent. The blacksmith would have preferred to work on arming his cohorts, but was itching to forge and unwilling to await their arrival. Unpacking the shipment had taken virtually no time in his excitement, and so he began to work on his own weapon. His mind was swimming with all the improvements he could make now that he was properly outfitted to do so.

No sooner had he reached his anvil, however, than his work was interrupted. “Are you Irolt Ironshaper?”

He nearly lost his grip on his hammer, but was able to regain his composure. He shot a quick glance toward the woman who had spoken. She was a dwarf, dressed in a floor-length velvet cloak that seemed too warm for the weather and too fashionable for the area. He gave her a curt nod and turned his attention back to the sword. He checked to see that the heat was even enough not to warp his blade before quenching it. Only once the piece had been plunged into the oil barrel did he step away from his station to greet his potential customer. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here on behalf of Jrrrald,” she replied. “I’d like you to answer a few questions.”

He could feel his expression beginning to sour, as he cared not at all for the direction this conversation was already taking. “Well I don’t know any Jrrrald, so unless you’d like to buy some armor or a new weapon, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.”

The woman had the most disconcerting smile on her face as she stepped further into his establishment. Irolt thought he caught a glint of gold underneath her cloak as it shifted. Warning bells began ringing in his head.

“I’m afraid maybe you’ve come to the wrong place, actually. I’m here on behalf of The Parliamentary.”

Weak, dude.

Of course his first real trial as a base leader would happen when his only trusted ally was nowhere to be found and his weapon was compromised. He was not a man likely to win an encounter with words, but at the moment it was all that was available to him. He briefly entertained the idea of trying to charm his way out of the situation, but the plan was barely formed before it was rejected. Knowing full well he was guilty, the last thing he wanted was to attempt something that would make him look more suspicious.

“I don’t know what The Parliamentary could want from me,” he lied.

“Answers. To questions.” She withdrew a piece of parchment from her cloak. Irolt was able to confirm that the gold he’d seen was none other than the gold-plated armor given to the members of The Parliamentary’s Elite Guard.

Where’s stealth-boy when you need him?

Irolt was a fair fighter, but out of practice and under-equipped. A sneak attack could, at that particular moment, be lifesaving. It didn’t come. So he was left to struggle along the diplomatic route as best he could. “Ask away.”

As she looked over her list, Irolt used his tongs to pick up a fresh ingot of iron for heating. There was nothing in particular he aimed to craft, but it was immensely satisfying to see the irritation on the guard’s face as she realized he would not be giving her his full attention. It served a more practical purpose as well, giving him a place to channel the rage he knew would soon come.

“This blacksmithy is new,” she started.

“That’s not a question.”

The irritated expression deepened, and Irolt was unable to hide how happy it made him. Even if he did know better.

I really shouldn’t push my luck with this woman. Parliamentary employees aren’t known for their patience.

“How long has it been here?” She inquired, flatly.

“Not long.” He pretended to think about it as he pulled the metal free and began to hammer. “About ten days.”

“You said you’re the owner of this establishment?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But are you?”

“Yes. I’m assuming that’s why you want to talk to me?” He hoped that in asking that he might encourage her to move her accusations along. Then he could deny everything, and their unpleasant meeting could come to an end. He was in no mood to entertain enemy questioning.

“Sounds like a lot of work for one man.”

“So is any business, in a small town like this.”

“Are you the only employee?”

“I opened with a partner.”

She looked him over skeptically. “Define partner.”

He rolled his eyes. “Business partner. An old friend of mine.”

“And where is your friend now?”

Probably off stealing shit he doesn’t need.

“Hopefully he’s off drumming up some business. We just got our first shipment of materials today.”

She marked something down on her parchment. “And what were you doing before you came here?”

The iron was beginning to flatten out. He moved it to the heat once more to keep it malleable.

“I was working as a blacksmith in another town.”

“What town?”

Fuck. I have to be more careful.

He shrugged. “Lumen? Eeeee? I’ve been on the road, mostly, taking work where I could find it until I had enough to settle down and open up shop. Which I did. Here. About two weeks ago.”

His answer felt too long. Too defensive. The guard kept right along with the trap she was laying, and Irolt almost found himself snared at the next question. “Did you happen to pass through Evermore?”

They were getting to the heart of it, he could tell. He checked the iron before answering as casually as he could muster. “Might be I did. Is Nevermore west of here?”

“Evermore,” she corrected, unconvinced. “And yes, it is.”

“Then it’s likely I went through. But I don’t remember the name of every place I stop in. I’ve been on the road a long time, been to a lot of towns.” The metal was hot enough to resume its post on the anvil.

“But nowhere to call home?”

He glanced down at her face just long enough to see her expression. It was clear to him that she knew the answer full well, and anticipated hitting a nerve. His first blow left a crater in his work, even as he reigned in his voice. “Allia is my home.”

“Before that, I mean.”

Another blow, another deformation in the slowly cooling metal. It was all he could do not to charge at the woman, but to instead answer her question through his gritted teeth. “My home was destroyed many years ago.”

She smiled obscenely at this verbal victory. It was a smug, self-satisfied expression. “The Parliamentary grieves your loss, I’m sure.”

His hammer crashed through the material, the thin iron cracking apart on either side of the large hole he had left in it. He would have much rather dented that damnable gold armor, certain as he was that she must be onto him anyway.

“Is there anything else?” The rage bubbling inside him threatened to boil over with each breath he drew.

“No,” she said, tucking her scroll once more into the folds of her cloak. “You’re clearly a very busy man, Mr. Ironshaper. Long live.”

“Live long,” Irolt spat. The words left a bitter taste on his tongue. He watched her leave before tossing aside the misshapen metal lump he had created.

“What was that all about?” Came a soft voice from over his shoulder.

Irolt nearly jumped out of his skin as he whirled around. “Weak, dude! You can’t sneak up on me like that, Belthor!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, well I hope so. How much of that did you see?”

“I came in right after the guard.”

Irolt hadn’t seen him come in, but then again, Belthor was very good at not being seen. “I don’t suppose you got anything off of her?”

“Nothing useful.” He held up a soft pink handkerchief with the word ‘Poindexter’ embroidered on it in gold thread. “Just this and a bunch of lists.”

“Lists?”

Belthor tucked the handkerchief back into his cloak and pulled out some already crumpled scrolls. He began to read the titles aloud. “A list of words that rhyme with ‘deter’, a list of churches organized by color, a list of phrases that can evoke powerful -”

“Nevermind. You know, I really could have used your help in getting rid of her sooner.”

“I thought it might be better to remain stealthed in case…” he trailed off diplomatically.

In case I started a fight I couldn’t win.

“You always think it’s better to stay stealthed,” the half-dwarf grumbled.

“It usually is. Do you think she was trouble?”

“All Parliamentary is trouble.”

“Alright.”

Irolt did his best to sell this false sense of normality, for his own sake as much as for his friend’s. “She was probably just doing the rounds. They know Evermore has more Resistance forces than they want to openly engage with, and will want to stop it from spilling over.”

“A bit late for that,” Belthor grinned.

Not late enough.

He could, on occasion, act calm. The truth was that he was deeply shaken by how quickly they seemed to have scouted him out. He had never been caught in association with The Resistance, never been arrested or tried. On paper, he should be safe. But in practice he had been in open dislike of a government that had eyes everywhere for the better part of a decade. They had to be aware he was no friend.

And it only took two weeks of me being stationary before someone was out to question me.

The guard had certainly seemed to be onto him, although it was hard to tell. All Parliamentary people struck him as perpetually smug and needlessly cruel. He thought there was a small chance he had passed their little test by simply not physically engaging or saying anything treasonous. He feared it may be more serious, and made a mental note to send word to Zazeezy.

Belthor was watching him carefully, perhaps trying to gauge his conviction. So Irolt summarized. “I can’t imagine they’d waste resources investigating me. I haven’t broken any laws that they can prove, and settling down in a place like Allia after so many years must look like a sign of good faith on my part.”

“You don’t think you acted a little suspiciously in how you answered?”

“No, I don’t.”

And honestly, he didn’t. It had gone better than about half the conversations he seemed to be having these days.

“Well good. Because we also have a situation.”

Great. Of course we do.

It was still hours until noon, and already the day seemed too long. “What happened? Did one of the new guys get into something?”

“No. There was a sort of, er, security breach.”

“Sort of?”

“A dog broke into one of our holding cells.”

Irolt was certain he’d misheard. “A what?”