I raised a puzzled eyebrow.

"I'll go and ask," the dwarf hurried to add. "He might make an exception... exclusively for you."

He disappeared, leaving me wondering who it was I was about to see. I needed a goldsmith, not some patriarch mascot figure.

I couldn't have been more wrong. The reclusive House founder turned out to be a brow-knitted giant—as far as dwarves went, of course. His bulging muscles could have belonged to a blacksmith not a jeweler, his eyes squinting at you as if through a helmet visor. An enormous pole-axe on the wall hinted at his fine military past.

If he'd read my appearance better than his apprentice, it didn't show. Not a muscle twitched on his poker face. "What can I do for you, young Elf?"

"I'm not going to waste your time, Sir. Let's move straight to the point. I've managed to lay my hands on a few items allowing me to build a Travel Altar. My limited skills don't allow me to embark on a project of this scale which is why I've come to your shop as it's the best in town. Think you could help me?"

Now his eyebrows did twitch. "Do you mean you have in your possession an item that used to belong to a God of Light, boy? So now you want to make a Small Altar? Or," he added just a hint of sarcasm to his voice, "you just happen to have some sacred relics to build a Big Raid Altar?"

"Not quite," I reached into my bag and produced two dark fragments.

The dwarf swung round, grabbed some paperwork from the desk and covered the stones with it. Then he raised his hand and made a complex signal with his fingers. I barely heard the hidden gunslots closing. He definitely wasn't your cute and cuddly grandfather type.

Thror froze, listening intently, then nodded, satisfied. He removed the paper and lovingly ran his hand over the stones.

"My apologies are in order, Sir Laith," he mumbled. "Technically, our clan belongs to the branch of Light. Not that we really know who we're supposed to worship there. Their clerics have no problem accepting our gold, but when it comes to our requests to create a temple dedicated to the God of goldsmiths and jewelers, they keep saying they don't have sufficiently powerful artifacts! And they've just used the recently acquired God's Heart to summon Asclepius—the God of physicians—and add him to their Pantheon. Asclepius, for God's sake! What were his parents thinking about, giving him a name like that!"

I nodded, soaking up the precious snippets of information. Seeing as I'd already been up to my ears in Gods' dealings, I had to keep my eye on the ball and learn all I could on the subject. I needed to know every detail, from their Gods' names and jobs to Venus' bra size if only she existed in our world.

The dwarf was already rolling the stones in his hand, studying them and analyzing their stats. Was he performing a spectral analysis of the reflected light? Or just admiring them? Neither would have surprised me.

"This is a complex and challenging task," he finally said. "It requires the level of a Famed Master in Goldsmithy. There're only three of them in town."

He was talking up his prices, the bastard. "I do hope you're one of them," I returned. "And if not, nothing prevents me from going to the birthplace of all true masters, the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Plenty of portals around."

The dwarf flinched, poker-faced no more. "They'll take them off you—and they just might allow you to keep your head. Or they could distract you with prayers and rituals while their masters fight for the order behind the scenes. It's not every day that a Famed Master lands a job that can level up his goldsmith skill."

I smiled: it hadn't taken much for this pick-wielding operator to give himself away. "So you see, Sir, it's in our interests you get the job, isn't it? Having said that, laying my hands on these fragments has drained my finances. Then again, knowing the advantages it could bring you, I'm quite prepared to give the job to you for the very modest kickback of a hundred thousand grand."

The dwarf fell silent, dumbfounded. Why not? I had better break the proverbial mold before he charged me full whack. Finally, he regained his composure and roared with laughter, slapping the desk.

"You're a joker, you really are! I very nearly believed you! I almost showed you to the door," he said with a hint of irony in his voice.

I smiled against my will, confirming my status as a joker. Thror opened a massive writing cabinet which contained, instead of office supplies, a small barrel of something definitely alcoholic. The dwarf tapped the barrel's fat slats, listening to the resonant echo, then poured two mugs and banged them onto the desk.

"Let's share a small cup of Dwarven Extra Dry. No good discussing a two-hundred-grand order dying of thirst!"

I choked. "Pardon me! I don't need an altar of solid gold. It has to be as light and inconspicuous as possible. Ideally it should look marginally better than a campfire tripod. Otherwise every Tom, Dick and Harry will come running wondering what I have here. So I suggest we share the expense: the altars for me, the experience for you."

It was his turn to choke. "I don't make kitchen utensils! I'm a goldsmith! And of all things, I don't work for free! Having said that," his glare clouded over, then glistened again, "you, Sir Laith, bear the Mark of the Fallen One. It stands to reason you have met. And the fact that you have the stones tells a lot to somebody with my experience. Very well. I'll make you the altars you want free of charge, provided you bring me a small vial of the Fallen One's blood."

I jumped. "You don't mess around, do you? I don't think the Fallen One will like it when he finds out that his blood has become a mail-order trade tool to save some miserable ten grand."

We dedicated the next couple hours to this friendly banter. Finally, both of us suitably hammered, we struck a deal agreeing on sixty grand. Too much, dammit. I signed the contract and gave him his fifty percent advance, after which the dwarf reached into the cabinet for a bottle bleached with age.

"Dragon's Tears, forty years old," he explained proudly, pulling out the tight cork, as a Dwarven maiden carried in a trayful of food.

We downed a shot glass each. It did bring tears to your eyes. Had to be at least 120%. Pleased with the effect, the dwarf decided to show the clueless youngster how to chase it down properly. Taking a sausage off the tray, he grabbed the tongs and pulled a glowing ember out of the fire. Bringing it to his mouth, he exhaled, his alcohol-filled breath enveloping the sausage in a green flame, filling the room with all the smells of a German beerhouse.

"Dragon Breath," the dwarf commented, proud. "With a bit of practice, it can burn a hole through a piece of wood half an inch thick."

He was a piece of work, was this gray-bearded master. He asked me for a week to complete the order, explaining it away by the necessity of having to fly to the Kingdom Under the Mountain to pick up some rare ingredients.

We parted almost as friends. Swaying, I walked out of the building. My head could have done with a bit of clearing after his exercise in hospitality. I needed to find a café that served some really strong coffee and study a map of the city. My next port of call had to be the mercenaries' guild. No way I was going to venture into the Dead Lands alone. I needed a good backup. The next day, if luck had it, I would see the walls of the legendary First Temple.

Chapter Eight

F rom the online newspaper The Daily AlterWorld: