Broca was a tinkerer, Falf explained to Skarn, as the dwarf returned to fiddle with the device on his desk. He rose to power after he discovered how to make guendo stay bright for weeks, instead of days. Broca's discovery had made it possible to light the Cavern day and night. His monopoly of the process dangled the keys to power, which he had "seized with his cunning hands," Falf said.
If Falf had been looking for a rise out of Broca, he was disappointed. The dwarf remained absorbed in his task, using a small file to pry open the case of the device.
Falf continued his narration, adding that Broca was now head of the Gaad, one of the strongest gangs in the Dungeon. The Gaad controlled brothels, gaming houses, and several water-selling operations.
Their biggest business, though, was the long-lasting guendo. And its more refined cousin, the explosive guendum.
"Very interesting," Skarn said. "But what does this have to do with escape? Falf said you could help us."
"I'm afraid you have it backwards," said Broca. "You're the one who can help us."
"How?"
"As Falf may have told you, the only way out of the Dungeon is through the Iron Door. On the other side of that door waits a platoon of Royal Guards—armed with dimsian weapons, I might add—every hour of the day."
Dimsian weapons. To prevent an escape by a Talented prisoner, no doubt.
"I don't see how I can be much help, then," said Skarn.
"There is another way out of the Dungeon," said Broca. "It just happens to be blocked by hundreds of feet of solid rock."
"And?"
"You're a stoneweaver, man!" barked Falf. "A Talented one. A few hundred feet of rock shouldn't stop you."
"It would take years, with crews of hundreds, to dig our way to the top," said Broca. "With your gifts, however, the time will be less considerable, and we'll need fewer men. That is, if you're Talent is strong enough."
"You ... want me to move hundreds of feet of solid rock with my Talent? Tunnel straight up to the surface?"
"If you want to escape," said Broca mildly.
He had never tried anything like that before. A hundred feet of rock? They had no idea what they were asking him.
Skarn's Talent first appeared when he was a boy of six. One day, his mother saw him build a rock tower from thirty small stones, impossibly balanced on one another. He had made them stand with his Talent, though he had not known it at the time. Building with stone was simply fun; he would lose himself for hours at a time.
So he was sent to learn at the Temple. And his first lesson was this: The work done by the Talent is paid by an equal work done by the mind. Moving a hundred feet of rock would place a greater strain on him than he had ever born.
"What you're proposing ..." faltered Skarn.
"Oh, we don't expect you to do it all at once," said Broca. "A little bit at a time. With plenty of time for you to rest."
Spacing it out. That might work.
"If it takes a year, it'll be worth it," said Falf. "I can wait that long."
"And you?" Skarn asked Broca.
"Him?" sneered Falf. "He's a king down here. Why would he want to leave?"
"I have my uses down here," said Broca. "But there are many prisoners—like our friend Falf here—who will pay handsomely to get to the surface again. Of course, I don't plan to let everyone leave," said Broca. "Just a few, here and there. Enough to make a tidy profit. Not enough to earn the attention of my trading partners on the surface."
"You're forgetting one small thing, oh clever one," said Falf. "The dimsian. Skarn can't use his Talent to move even a pebble with the hellrock clinging to him."
Broca waved Skarn over. "A closer look, if you please."
Cautiously, Skarn approached the desk. Broca retrieved a pair of long metal shims from a compartment under his desk and attempted to wedge them under the sheathes. They wouldn't fit.
"Remarkably close fit," the dwarf murmured. "How did they get them on?"
"I wasn't awake at the time," said Skarn dryly.
"Hmm." The dwarf peered at the one of the sheathes through a magnifying lens. He traced one stubby finger down its length. "Yes, here's the seam. And the other, one on each side. They must have heated the two halves and pushed them together."
He pushed his chair back and looked up at Skarn. "As you may know, when dimsian cools, it recrystallizes and becomes just as strong as it was before."
Skarn nodded. It was one of the properties of dimsian that made it so valuable.
"So the only way to melt those sheathes down would be to stick your legs into the hottest forge on earth."
"Not my first choice," said Skarn.
"I thought not." Broca rubbed his chin.
"Can you remove them?" asked Falf.
Broca ignored the question. He instructed Skarn to lift his right leg onto the stout stone desk. Skarn wobbled, and Falf gave him an arm to balance.
Broca opened a trunk in the corner of the room and brought out an odd-looking hammer; it was studded with shards that glittered in the light like diamonds. The hammer was big, especially in the hands of the dwarf: it was half his length.
"Hold steady. Don't move a hair," Broca said softly.
The dwarf raised the hammer high above his head with surprising ease. Grasping with both hands, he swung it down in a swift arc. Sparks flew, and a harsh clang! echoed in the room. But Skarn felt only the tiniest vibration from the blow.
Broca laid aside the hammer and scrutinized the sheathe.
"I'll be gods-struck," he said softly. "Not a scratch."
"Can you get them off?" Falf barked again. Skarn removed his leg from the desk.
"That hammer is covered with the broken shards of gwyrm fangs," said Broca, replacing the hammer carefully in its chest. "It's the hardest substance on earth. Yes, even harder than dimsian. It has to be, otherwise the gwyrm wouldn't be able to chew through the black rock."
"The gwyrm eat dimsian?" asked Skarn.
"Of course. What do you think they tunnel for? They'll eat any kind of stone if they have to. But they're made for dimsian. It's a good thing you were covered with guendo, wearing all that dimsian. Though I doubt the smell of guendo would be enough if a gwyrm got close enough. Dimsian draws them like moth to a flame."
Skarn looked over at Falf. "You neglected to tell me that on our march," he said.
Falf ignored the remark. "So what you're saying, Broca, is that you can't do it."
"My strength, unlike my stature, is no small thing. Yet even I couldn't make a single scratch. No. I can't remove them. But if our stoneweaver friend really wants to get them off, I know a way."
Skarn felt ice in his spine. His feet. He would have to lose them. A steep price. But to get home. To see the sun again. And his family. He swallowed thickly.
"As long ... as long as you're sure you can stop the bleeding," said Skarn.
"Bleeding?" Asked the dwarf, puzzled.
"When you ... cut off my feet."
The dwarf continued to look puzzled for a moment, but then his eyes grew wide and he barked out a laugh. "By the nose of Oru, man, I'm not going to hack off your feet! No. Though if necessary I likely could stop the bleeding. One of the properties of guendo not commonly known is its ability to staunch wounds. In fact—"
"Broca!" said Falf. "Save the lecture for another time."
Broca blinked at Falf. "Yes, you're quite right. No, Skarn, we will not need to cut off your feet. You see, there is a device that can remove the sheathes, dimsian or no."
"Something you've been tinkering with?" asked Falf. "One of your latest machines?"
"Not mine, no. But it is a kind of machine. A living one. The only thing capable of crushing dimsian into powder. The jaws of a gwyrm."
Skarn looked for a grin or a wink. But the dwarf was serious. Skarn rubbed his jaw.
"So instead of just my feet, I lose my legs, arms, and head to boot," observed Skarn.
"Can't say I disagree with him," said Falf. "Kind of defeats our purpose, doesn't it?"
"You're just not thinking it through," said Broca slyly. "There is more than one kind of gwyrm."
"Not that I've ever heard of," retorted Falf. "You got some kind of domesticated variety I don't know about?"
Broca shook his head. "There is only one species, that's true. But it changes with time. All we need do is find a gwyrm that is strong enough to chew through dimsian, but not so strong we can't restrain it. We simply need a juvenile."
Falf stared blankly at Broca. "You want us to find a gwyrm nest," he said flatly.
"Is that hard?" asked Skarn.
"Oh, no, not at all," sneered Falf. "Other than the fact that no one's seen a gwyrm nest. Ever."
"I have," said Broca simply.
"No you haven't," shot back Falf.
"It was years ago. During one of my early grubbing expeditions. I stumbled upon a juvenile gwyrm. Almost ate me. Took three of my men to kill it, and it was a small thing, no bigger than you, Falf.
"After slaying the creature, we explored the nearby tunnels. And I found the nest. Covered myself in guendo and watched the young. Quite fascinating creatures, really." The lamplight from Broca's desk flickered in his eyes as he remembered.
"And you remember where it is?" asked Falf.
The dwarf nodded, tapping his bulging forehead. "It's all here. All we have to do is bring enough men to restrain the gwyrm so that it merely bites through the dimsian, and not flesh."
Falf paced across the room. "Well, it's a terrible plan," said Falf. "But I can't think of another way."
"There is none," said Broca.
Falf returned to Skarn's side. "It's a risk. Question is, is it worth it to you for the chance to escape?" He asked Skarn.
But Skarn didn't answer right away.
He was willing to chance it. If he remained trapped below, he'd be as good as dead to his family. Any chance to keep his wife and children from the gutters of the city was worth any risk.
Besides, he was used to danger. As a stoneweaver, Skarn had worked under the threat of being crushed under tons of rock and metal. Most other 'weavers he knew were missing at least a finger or two—like Falf—if not a hand or an entire leg. One of his close friends had got his skull crushed by a flagstone that slipped from its harness, just a few years back. His friend's brains had splattered over the stones already laid, leaving a permanent stain.
Skarn couldn't see how the jaws of a gwyrm would be any worse.
So it wasn't the thought of facing a living gwyrm that made him pause right now. It was the way this scene was playing out.
Back at the Cavern, when Skarn had refused to move outside the whore's den, Falf had seemed frantic for him to get moving. But when he heard Broca say he couldn't cut through the dimsian, Falf seemed only vaguely concerned. More like impatient, as though he wanted to hurry things along.
It felt too much like a scene in a play.
Skarn had followed Falf so far. In the darkness of the tunnels, it had been hard to do anything else. But now, after the bustle of the Cavern, he felt bolstered by the presence of other people. It was time he probed the situation a little deeper. After all, he wouldn't want to break out of the Dungeon just to be murdered by a pair of double-crossers.
"I'm not sure," Skarn finally said. "The Dungeon isn't quite as bad as I'd feared. A lot of the stonework is nearly falling down. Even without my Talent, I could find a living for myself here."
Falf and Broca shared a quick glance. "What about your family?" asked Broca.
Skarn had said nothing to either of them about his family. "I don't have one," he said.
"No children?" Broca asked. "No wife? Not even a brother or a cousin stamping about on the surface who would like to see you again?"
"My parents died in the Kerrian pox." That part was true. Fifteen years earlier his parents had been swept away by the virulent plague. "They were all I had."
"I can understand why you might want to stay, then." said Falf. "We've heard about the new labor rules. Life can't be easy for a stoneweaver on the surface."
"You could say that," Skarn said shortly.
"In that case, you may indeed find more opportunities to ply your trade in these environs," said Broca. "I could use the expertise of a master stoneweaver myself, and I know others who would hire you right away. I'd be willing to make a few introductions."
"You'll let me go?" Skarn asked bluntly. "And lose your 'tidy profit'?"
Broca shrugged his shoulders. "I can't exactly force you to use your Talent, can I?"
"What about you?" Skarn asked Falf. "You going to let me leave?"
"Like the dwarf said, we can't make you take your one chance at freedom." Falf chuckled. "Go ahead and walk out, stoneweaver. Enjoy life here in the Dungeon for a few years. Make friends with a few more Neeks."
Skarn moved to the door and took hold of its handle. No one tried to stop him. Either they meant what they said, or they were calling his bluff.
Skarn wasn't about to leave. But he didn't think it would be wise to admit he'd just been testing them. "What are our chances? Of actually escaping?" he asked, his hand still poised on the door.
"You might die," said Falf, scratching his beard. "But then again, you might not."
"Very reassuring," Skarn said. "I guess I'd liketo see the sun again. I'm in."