Orum was also relieved to be done with the tour, though he very much hoped when it was time to leave again that he’d be able to exit via an alternative route. Only keeping his gaze directly forward prevented him from piling into the next room behind Mister Cleaves the second the man knocked twice and then opened the door. The acrid stench of smoke wafted out.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” came a gruff voice from inside the room. It was the bark of a battlefield commander, the charging cry of a warrior, the demand of one who held the ultimate power in this place, and maybe a lot of other places too. It made Orum want to back away slowly before turning and bolting almost as fast as he had when faced with the dragon’s wrath. Instead, he just stood there, waiting.

“Your third cousin thrice removed has sent someone to us,” Cleaves droned, as though anything having to do with his master’s distant relation was the most boring subject he could possibly be forced to discuss.

“Lawton? A good boy. Doesn’t mind getting a little blood on his hands, does he? Send in our guest and be quick about it!”

“As you wish,” Cleaves said with a bow, backing out and gesturing for Orum to move forward into his place.

Which he did, peeking around the door, which was quickly muscled past him by Cleaves and closed with a sound just shy of a slam. Through the haze of purplish pipe smoke, Orum could make out a form that was lower to the ground than he expected, presumably because he currently occupied a chair. He waved at the smoke with his hand, trying to hold back the coughs that had already formed in his throat. He held them back because he had the uncanny feeling that once he started coughing he wouldn’t be able to stop.

He staggered forward a step, feeling something soft beneath his feet—some sort of rug perhaps—and then stopped himself before running into a large table that had been hidden beneath the layer of smoke. Finally, the smoke cleared enough for him to gain a clear view of his host, who wasn’t sitting as he’d surmised, but standing at his full height, which was a good head shorter than Orum, who wasn’t a tall man to begin with. The top of his head was a shiny, hairless dome, and he wore a pair of round spectacles that gave him the appearance of a bug. His lips were clamped around an ivory pipe, that purplish smoke curling from the bowl. He stood before a large rectangular table set between them that was covered by an enormous map held firmly down by a series of daggers stabbed into its surface.