A dwarf thief and a kteknik gnome—and not a dwarf from Vérella, because he knew every dwarf thief in the Vérella chapter of the Thieves’ Guild—would not be here in Fin Panir for anything less than business. Drawn by rumor or on assignment? Arvid considered what he knew of Fin Panir from both previous visits and Thieves’ Guild intelligence. Only one prize seemed worth the risk: that necklace—the one the Marshal-General thought might be part of a set of royal regalia.

After a few minutes, the sounds of eating behind him—dwarves were notoriously noisy eaters—slowed and the two began to talk. Arvid missed the first, as the merchants finally stood to leave, scraping chairs on the floor and paying loud, slightly drunken compliments to the serving maid, the landlord, and the room at large. He watched the maid sashay to the bar, grinning over her shoulder before she dropped her tip into the box.

At last he could hear the two behind him. They spoke low, in the language of rockbrothers.

“I tell you, we did not make it.” That was the gnome, Arvid was sure by the timbre of his voice.

“Nor we.” The dwarf cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “But the elves say—”

“The elves care nothing for truth.” The gnome, though wearing blue and green instead of sober gray, had not lost the gnomish accent. “Perhaps they made it, perhaps not. The question is, what should be done?”

The buxom serving maid came by with a full pitcher of summerwine and Arvid’s herbal drink; she set it on the table, and he winked at her. Behind him, he heard the pitcher being set on the table, a resonant thunk. The girl went back to the bar; Arvid sipped his drink.

“We take it,” the dwarf said. Arvid smiled to himself. What had promised to be a boring, hot midsummer journey now offered a delightful complication, perhaps even adventure. “And I still want to know where the stones came from,” the dwarf went on. “Not from our mines, but where? Where are such mines, with such stones? Do we have brethren there, and if so, why do we not know it?”

“Take it where?” the gnome asked. “To whom? To whom does it belong now? That paladin?” Arvid could almost see the lift of the shoulder a gnome would give to the dwarf’s other questions.

“It matters not whose it was,” the dwarf said. “But the stones—”

“Not from your mountains, not from our hills; beyond that does not matter.”

Arvid risked a casual glance all around the common room, including the table where the rockfolk talked; they were ignoring him, leaning across the table to talk to each other.

“Nor the Westmounts,” the dwarf said, counting out the ranges on his thick fingers. “Nor the red rocks of far Kolobia, nor the gray rocks within sight of there.”

“So far it does not matter,” the gnome said again, impatient now. “But there is something … the rock sings trouble.”