‘Well, it isn’t. This war council could be about anything. They have just joined the military after all.’ Fletcher’s voice was low and sullen. He was disappointed in Othello. The dwarf knew all of his secrets, down to the last detail. How could his best friend keep this from him?
‘The dwarves could be plotting a rebellion,’ Sylva argued back. ‘Think about it. Old King Alfric created the harshest laws against the dwarves there have ever been, even if his son Harold has started to repeal them. They have revolted against Hominum for less in the past, not to mention the fact that they now have a monopoly on musket production.’
‘I can’t believe that. Othello is so set on peace between our races; he would never jeopardise that!’ Fletcher hissed, furious at the suggestion.
‘Are you willing to risk a civil war on that?’ Sylva asked. Fletcher paused, then thumped his fist into the wet earth.
‘Fine. But there’s no way we can follow him. He’s under armed guard. Warning the Pinkertons isn’t a good idea, they would burst in and start the civil war tonight,’ Fletcher pondered, exploring the options. ‘What would you suggest?’
‘We’re summoners, Fletcher. Let’s send Ignatius in to sneak past the guards and scry what’s happening. You’ll have to tell me what they are saying. I won’t be able to hear it.’
‘Why not send Sariel?’ Fletcher argued.
‘Because Sariel will barely fit in that cave, let alone be able to get by the guards. Besides, we need someone to protect us out here.’ Sylva sounded exasperated.
‘You’re doing this so you can find out if there is a plot and use that information to curry favour with the King,’ Fletcher accused.
‘It’s not the only reason, Fletcher. If a civil war were to break out in the middle of our current war against the orcs . . . who knows how the cards would fall then. You and I both know that we need to see what’s happening at that war council. Now stop wasting time, and use my scrying stone on Ignatius. If we used your tiny one we would barely be able to see a thing.’
Sylva removed a shard of crystal from the pocket of her uniform. It was oval shaped and at least four times larger than the coin-sized scrying stone that Fletcher had been given.
‘Hurry, we’ve probably already missed the start of their meeting,’ she urged.
Fletcher tapped the scrying stone against Ignatius’s head, waking the little imp from slumber.
‘Come on, buddy. Time to put all that practice to use. At least some good will come of Rook not allowing us to do anything but scry.’
Ignatius yawned in complaint but immediately woke up when he sensed Fletcher’s mood. The demon leaped from his shoulder and ran to the edge of the cliff. Digging his claws into the earth, Ignatius crawled vertically down the lip of the cave mouth. Then, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, he scampered upside down along the roof of the cave and ventured deep into the earth.
‘Wow. I didn’t know Ignatius could do that,’ Sylva whispered, flipping the scrying stone in Fletcher’s hands so that the inverted image made more sense.
‘Me neither. Ignatius still manages to surprise me,’ Fletcher replied, his chest swelling with pride.
Controlling Ignatius was easy. Their mental connection had been honed by the many hours of practice in Rook’s lessons and it required barely a thought to adjust the roving demon’s path this way and that. The cave was dark, but Ignatius’s night vision was far better than a human’s. It was possible to make out the long, winding passage easily enough.
In just a few minutes, the tunnel widened and the flickering glow of torches could be seen ahead. Fletcher urged Ignatius to slow down, for he could hear the click of the demon’s claws through their connection. It would be best not to give the guards a reason to look up.
The two mounted dwarves who escorted Othello were waiting by the torches with over two dozen others. They stood in a row, watching the tunnel ahead like hawks. Fortunately for Ignatius, their torchlight did not extend as far as the cavern’s ceiling. He crawled on in the gloom, unnoticed by the vigilant guards.
The tunnel’s roof became higher and higher. Now Ignatius was almost eighty feet above the floor. One misstep and he could fall to his death, but the demon clambered onwards, making his way through the stalactites that hung from the ceiling like icicles. Finally, the tunnel opened up into a dome-shaped cavern, lit by hundreds of torches.
The cave was the central nexus of a network of similar tunnels, like the hub and spokes of a wheel. The glimmer of torchlight at the end of each entrance indicated that they too were guarded by mounted dwarves.
‘Whatever this meeting is about, they aren’t leaving anything to chance, are they?’ Sylva whispered.