Joining the Varden was much easier than it really should have been. This was approximately three years before they started examining newcomers' minds at the gate (it would be wise to keep that timeframe in mind as I continue).

The planning process was extensive, but the short version goes thusly:

We tracked some deserters who were fleeing south with their families (without apprehending them of course). Then I, with a little help from Katana, situated myself on their path. My disguise was borrowed wholesale from a very real man, a scholar in Kuasta who'd been arrested when he was found in a home full of banned material. I was playing the role of his bastard daughter (doubtful that I could play the "traitor princess" card twice in one lifetime) who had barely escaped his capture. A little bit of magic to really sell the likeness, and it was foolproof. The deserters let me travel with them to Aberon.

Boarder: successfully crossed.

The process of actually getting to Farthen Dur was more tedious. They delayed me in the city for an entire month, not precisely "imprisoned" but neither free. They tried to persuade me to stay in the city indefinitely, with the other non-fighting members who were sheltered in Surda. I gave them a meticulously crafted story about my Uncle (another— very real— man who had already been murdered on his way south). I said we'd gotten separated on the way and that he'd told me to go straight to where the soldiers went; since that is where he would be, and where he'd be looking for me. Finally, in the middle of the fifth week, I was allowed to join a supply caravan making the treacherous journey into the Beor Mountains.

But all of that was nothing next to the monumental task ahead of me; establishing a spy network in the dwarven capital. To do that, I first needed to establish myself.


I crouched on the floor of the modest little cubby-like home, rolling up my sleeping mat for what I hoped would be the last time. The elderly couple who'd offered to shelter me was kind to the point of doting. Any other person in the world would be blessed indeed to receive such charity… but it was extremely inconvenient for someone planning subterfuge. They rarely ever left the house! No, if I was to get down to work, I needed my own space in which to do it. Even if it was just a niche in a tunnel, so long as it was mine. But, to afford even that, I needed employment.

That was easier said than done.

I picked up my pack, smiled blandly while the older man kissed both of my cheeks, and thanked them both. A pity that they're traitors. No matter how nice they were, it was our respective lots to try and destroy one another. Their weapons may have been their support of struggling rebels, but every mouth they fed was another sword arrayed against us; another terrorist burning bridges and pillaging supply trains. If I do my work well, we can halt the violence in its tracks.

Even my dark thoughts couldn't fully distract me from the beauty of Tronjheim. Every doorway, every side tunnel, and every step in every staircase was perfectly etched to enhance the city's glory. It felt more like walking through a single massive art piece than thousands of separate ones. How long must even a dwarf live among such splendor to become numb to it; a century? Two? But even as I walked I saw a dwarf with a grey, thinning beard touch his lips and bow to an intricate frieze. It's practically spiritual, their deference to their home. Surely humans have no such fantasies. Even the most sanctified structures in the Empire were functional first. I brushed off the twist of homesickness and veered my path toward the sectors allocated to businesses.

I met an immutable wall of resistance the moment I tried looking for work. Some places, particularly smithies and mason's lodges, wouldn't acknowledge that I'd spoken at all. Others, like the stands peddling goods from other dwarven cities, laughed politely. "We need no assistance. Or, if we did, we would first offer it to our sons, brothers, nephews, cousins, and a dozen more distant relatives besides! So long as there are clan members in need of work, we will not look for it elsewhere." Place after place was exactly the same; humans came to Farthen Dur to become soldiers, or to care for the families of those who did.

By the time I'd reached the end of the main street, my stomach was tied into knots of anxiety and hunger. I had a small purse of coins buried deep in my pack in case of emergencies, but a little discomfort hardly seemed to qualify. I had resigned myself to returning back to my previous hosts, but not before I tried one more place; a textile shop named Erôthnzdorrim.

The doorway of the shop was one of the few I'd seen hewn high enough for even an elf to pass through comfortably. It was intricately carved along one side to show a dwarf woman with her hands reaching upward, cupping a stream of water. The piece was lovingly enameled in pearlescent blue, with the etched lines left in bare white stone.

A shrill voice erupted from deeper within the shop, shattering my focus. "But this isn't the first time that this has happened, is it? And I told you the time before last that I wouldn't tolerate your ineptitude!"

Another voice, this one far meeker, responded, "But it is wasteful to use gold thread for a human client! They cannot possibly tell the difference—"

"I expect only the highest quality from my workers! If you cannot rise to my standards, then you may find a tailor with lower ones! Out!" I barely had enough time to step aside before a red-faced dwarven youth sped past me. I shook my head, heaved in a breath, and stepped inside.

It was a feast of color within. The front of the shop was tastefully arranged to show the latest fashions. They were draped over simple stone body forms, most dwarven but several scaled more to human proportions. A narrow shelf near the ceiling showed off an impressive variety of millinery on stoic stone busts. A low marble counter was lined with adornments; from fine silk ribbons to enameled pins to buttons in every color and shape.

A dwarf woman with thick auburn curls stood behind the counter, examining a crimson gown with a tiny jeweler's glass and muttering to herself. "Barzul! That fool!" Her hand fished around beneath the counter, reemerging with a spool of glimmering thread, "How will I manage to refinish this order in time? And with inventory only half completed for my next shipment… I'll be damned lucky if I can salvage my reputation!"

I innocently moved closer to the counter. "Pardon me?"

She jolted so hard that the brassy jeweler's glass knocked into her temple. "Kilf's temperance, I didn't see you there! My apologies for my rambling, it's a nasty habit." She shuffled the gown surreptitiously beneath the counter and fixed me with the warmest, most welcoming oak-brown gaze. "How might I assist you?"

"I was actually looking for work." She lifted a brow, so I explained, "I came to Tronjheim looking for my uncle, but there's no reason I shouldn't support myself until I find him."

She chewed her lip thoughtfully, glancing me up and down. I wasn't usually a self-conscious person but, under her discerning gaze, I was suddenly all too aware of my travel-beaten, badly-patched clothes. "Have you ever worked as a seamstress before?"

I swallowed and shifted my feet. "No."

She sighed. "A shame. I would give my last coin for an extra pair of hands just now. I can't possibly manage customers, complete inventory, and patch this afternoon's disaster on my own!"

I glanced around the shop. "And what exactly does one need to know to help manage customers?"

She giggled, started straightening ribbons along the counter, and switched over to her native dwarvish. "Well, for one, you'd need to speak both the common tongue of the humans and several dialects of our language. The diversity of my client base is a point of pride for me."

I nodded, and responded in kind, "I understand them better than I can speak them, but I'm confident in dwarvish."

Her hands slowed. "Your accent is pitiful, Dear. But, all the words are in the correct places." She sized me up again. "And how is your figuring?"

"Better than my dwarvish."

"Good, good… literate?"

"In all three."

She hummed. "I'm not sure I'd have use of you long term… but, for today, I would appreciate an extra pair of eyes. If you do a good enough job, I'll consider keeping you on."

I stood straighter and bowed low, "I won't waste the opportunity."

She grimaced, taking up the scarlet gown in both hands. "You'd better not. I've had enough of disappointment for today. You may call me Hrama, though you will likely hear many of our patrons call me Delva. And you?"

"My name is June."


Working for Hrama was a valuable educational experience for me; She was a perfectionist in the purest sense; her workspace, displays, and most especially the product of her genius. She especially had a talent for translating fashions back and forth across racial lines, keeping a broad appeal to Tronjheim's unique population. Coincidentally, I was used to being the paper-jockey and interpersonal liaison to a brilliant perfectionist (and a much more intimidating one besides!). She dubbed me her "offhand quill"; it was my duty to keep the store front clean, keep an accurate record of her stock, and translate for human customers. In truth, it was this that made me want to apply with a tailor in the first place; access to people.

I poked my head through a frilly blue curtain and called, "Ms. Hrama, your noon fitting has arrived!" The back room had two parallel walls going up nearly three stories, each bricked with painstakingly organized fabrics. Between the two walls, low and broad tables housed the projects of the moment. These were attended by Hrama'a two apprentices, Oth and Vi.

"One moment!" Hrama called back.

I fixed my best-serving smile and returned to the customer. She was tall and finely dressed but exhibited no particular grace. Behind her, a lanky page struggled under the weight of the boxes piled in his arms. "She'll be right with you. In the meantime, please feel free to relax. Or, if you prefer, you're welcome to examine our new shipment of jade broaches. They just arrived from Delfni this morning."

The woman drifted over to the case I indicated, admiring the fine pieces with a hungry eye. Once Hrama emerged from the back room, she beckoned the woman into a private dressing area. The moment her coifed hair was out of my sight, I beckoned the page closer and whispered. "Please, take a rest. You can set your load here for the moment."

Gratefully, the youth shifted his burden onto the counter. "My shoulder and I thank you. It's murder it is, carrying this around all damn day." He flicked a hate-filled glare at the tower of boxes.

I laughed politely. "Believe me, I understand. What's the excuse this time?"

He scoffed. "Apparently, most of these are gifts for her friends. But I know that's got to be a lie; she hasn't this many friends to speak of."

I stifled a snort. "That doesn't surprise me. What is surprising is how the Captain never notices his wife's ever-growing supply of trinkets."

"She keeps him plenty busy with her waggling tongue; no time to focus on her spending when he's busy with all the gossip she stirs up."

"Speaking of gossip, I haven't seen you in nearly a week. What's the latest?" I leaned in conspiratorially. My position rarely, if ever, gave me access to the upper rings of Tronjheim; human or dwarf. But it did give me the perfect excuse to meet their servants. This young man, a page named Flick, was the very first of my assets within the city (though he scarcely understood his importance). He was the personal assistant and student of one of the Varden's captains after all; idle gossip to him was potent intelligence to me.

"I know that the Captain has found himself a mistress! Even worse, she's a widowed matron of the Ingeitum!"

"No!" I draped a hand over my chest in scandal. "No doubt, Hrothgar himself would be outraged if he hears of such treatment."

"And there's more! I think that she," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "has some idea about it, but she's got her eye on a paramour of her own! I think she's going to use this meeting that the Captain's attending to go see him."

"A meeting? Where is it held?"

"Hard to say. At Captain Lirn's place, I think?"

I grinned, and coyly teased, "Well, I'll toast to her good fortune. Thank you for the chat; you know it's dreadfully dull without your company." His stormy blue eyes were so very expressive, particularly when he was excited, embarrassed, and frightened all at once. I dimly recalled a warning from Galbatorix decades ago, One day, you'll be an old woman, and everyone will be young enough to be your great-grandson. I fluttered my lashes playfully if only to banish a sudden flare of irritation. I have no interest in him specifically! It's just the solitude getting to my head.

The boy's cherry-bright face called me back to the present. He cleared his throat and smiled down at his shoes. I was spared from further awkwardness when Hrama and the woman returned, the former supporting a large, flat package. "This might be my finest work, if I may say so."

"I will be simply radiant!" the woman stuck her neck up high like a trumpeting rooster. She handed over the expected number of coins and floated back out of the shop, poor Flick struggling to keep up with her.

Hrama's jovial mask melted once the woman was gone. "That one ages me every time she places an order."

I giggled. "You could stop serving her?"

She tapped the tip of her nose. "Ah, but then she would spend all that gold at a rival boutique. I dislike her attitude, but I would like my competitor's success even less." She said nothing I hadn't already learned; dwarven entrepreneurship was every bit as vicious as capital politics. No business could truly thrive without a good rival. More often than not, such rivalries went on for centuries; passed down from parent to child and never faltering in their bloodlust. Hrama in particular had two rivals to speak of and, for the past ten years or so, they'd both been nipping at her heels. "What else is on the books for this afternoon?"

I scanned the page. "That's odd… there's a gentleman coming in an hour, but then nothing else for the rest of the day? That can't be right; we're usually crammed full until we close."

Hrama leaned over and peeked at the page. She let out a deep groan as her hands scrubbed her face. "No, that is precisely correct. That old, curmudgeonly, persnickety—"

"It says it's just a patch on a coat? That shouldn't even be an appointment, let alone a whole evening."

"You haven't met him," Hrama said, grimacing. "Brace yourself June, this will be your real test."

-:- -:- -:-

He came less like a whirlwind and more like a creeping frost. Sparse white hairs were braided back; even those in his split beard. Heavy brows concealed rheumy black eyes. His massive nose resembled more an avant-garde idea of a nose than a real feature. He walked with a thick, gnarled cane, and each tap it made against the stone floor brought a shadow of sullen displeasure along with it. Every other step clunked as if the left leg were not truly his own.

I carefully thought out every word, mindful of Hrama's advice on proper pronunciation. "Welcome, Honored Customer. How may we serve you today?"

Nothing. Not even a blink.

I opened my mouth to begin again, but he only wrapped his cane against the floor. "For all the gods girl, just speak your own tongue."

I choked down the embarrassment. "How can I help you?"

"The old girl is expecting me."

Hrama burst out of the back room in a huff. "And who exactly are you, of all people, calling old!"

"You, wench!" He sniffed, a thundering sound given the instrument involved, and lifted his chin. "You shouldn't leave this pup out here all alone; she's like a slimy feldûnost kid."

I blinked, once and very hard.

Hrama frowned and waved her worn hand."Leave her be. You came here to bicker with me, so let's get on with it. Show me this "patch" job."

The old dwarf handed over a folded piece of faded red fabric. It tumbled open in Hrama's hands, showing an old military uniform. It was thread-bare, bloodstained, battle-worn, and slightly burned on the left hem. Hrama exploded in exasperation, "This isn't a patch; it needs a replacement!"

"For once we agree on something. Unfortunately, they aren't in the habit of issuing new uniforms to veterans."

Hrama's lip tightened. "Which spot irks you this time, Makhek?" I examined the shirt more carefully and picked out the tell-tale signs of Hrama's work, neat and tidy little mendings on an otherwise ruined garment. How many times has he had this one garment tended?

The dwarf she'd named Makhek leaned in and pointed at a specific area of weakened cloth on the elbow of the left sleeve. "I'd never let it get to such a state when my eyes were still good. I need cleverer fingers than mine own to salvage it now."

The seamstress's eyes closed in defeat. "Let us see what we might do. Wait here, and I'll bring the thread I think would work best to darn the area."

"Bring the second and third best too. I know how sneaky you can be." Makhek clomped back towards me. "She thinks I won't notice the difference between crimson and cranberry just because the sun has passed over me more than her. Well, I'd like to see her functioning half this well after a few more centuries of squinting at silk!"

I sized up the dwarf painstakingly. His clothing was plain and old but also rich and tidy. He moved impatiently and yet methodically, like every step was planned far in advance and caused him great pain. His fingers were so knarled that they blended straight into the top of his cane. But, even in that state, his nails were trimmed neatly and cleaned. I asked, "You served a long time, didn't you?"

He turned a beetley eye on me. "I was marching patrols in the mountains before your family tree even put down roots. And I'd still be out there, if not for that damned menknurlan Galbatorix and his lackeys."

Memories of war stories told around the hearth came back to me in flashes, mostly about how those narrow valleys so easily turned to death traps when a threat came from on high. I saw images of survivors from Ellessar's assault on the Surdan camp; flames swallowing everything in their path. Against those I weighed the charred edge of that precious and cherished uniform… the gaps filled in all on their own. "You don't seem like the type to retire willingly."

He squinted at me, trying to pick out any trace of sarcasm. "Retire?" he coughed out a bark of laughter, "Hardly! I was "commended for my bravery" and packed off to a hole to spend my last centuries. As if this makes me any less of a dwarf!" He tapped his cane against his left pant leg, and a clear ring echoed from it. His shoulders dropped as all the fight and pride withered out of him.

I hastily changed the subject. "You speak my language much better than I speak yours. Where did you learn?"

"From humans, of course. I served my clan guarding supply trains, and those interacted with humans often enough. And, sometimes, we'd even travel in mixed company. A few centuries of that work and it can't be helped. Stay here for a few years, you'll shape up just fine."

I nodded in thanks. "Are you a part of the Ingeitum?"

He winked. "By a technicality. And that's all I'll be saying to you."

Hrama returned then, carrying a few spools of thread in different hues of red. The two fell into a heated debate in dwarvish that I could barely follow. After nearly an hour, Hrama finally threw up her hands and yelled, "I'll do whatever you like! But don't blame me when the finished product looks like a child's play clothes!"

Makhek sniffed again and crossed both hands over his staff. Difficult as it was to see beneath his beard, the old dwarf was smiling! "I can always trust you to put the art first," she almost thanked him but he was too quick with a muttered, "old girl."

"Not this again!" She slid a handkerchief from her belt and whipped him on the shoulder with it.

"You two must be very good friends." I leaned against a wall and grinned knowingly.

"The best," Makhek said in a soulless deadpan. "And you can see why; Hrama is as welcoming, generous, and patient as she is talented."

My boss stopped mid-protest and scowled through a rosy blush.

"She really is," I said. "With what she pays, I may even have a place of my own soon."

Makhek leaned his head up to look at me squarely. One of his dark eyes was glassy and unfocused. "I have extra room if you need it. It's an apartment across the hall from my main complex. It used to be a steward's roost, but it's been vacant for over a century now."

"You own the house next to your house?"

He chuckled. "It's not that uncommon for families to spread out, especially with how empty the city mountain is these days."

"You would rent it to me?"

He blinked slowly. "Hrama likes you. And why not? The worst has already been done to me, girly; I'm not scared of much anymore." He bowed his head. "Hrama can show you the way when it's time to deliver my coat."

"Actually," I stepped around the counter. "Would you like company on the walk back?"

He shrugged. "So long as you can keep up." Makehek tapped his left leg again. "I'm known for my speed and agility."


The rooms I rented were smaller than my closet back in Uru'baen. But they were cozy, snug, and most wonderfully of all they were private. Aside from Makhek's occasional invitations for strong mead and riddle games, I was left to my own devices. I crammed it full of reading material. Even if someone were to go through my home, they would never be able to determine which books deciphered codes, and which were the fixations of a second-rate academic (cover stories are most convincing when they contain dregs of truth, after all).

Makhek was irascible, irritating, loud, and judgemental… and he was one of the best friends I ever had in my life. He was old enough to remember a king before Hrothgar, (though he said that he much preferred the current regime). He was a recluse by habit, but not for lack of desire to socialize. It only took that one walk with him to see why he preferred solitude. Humans gave him a generous birth and odd looks, but many dwarves went much farther than that. Many of them, particularly the elders of their race, mumbled thanks and blessings as he passed. Some even went so far as to bow low, like they would to royalty. It drove him absolutely batty! As he once explained to me, "It's the same knurlan who stick their heads up your arse to praise your strength and bravery that will coddle you to death if you let them." To Makhek, a dwarf who was no longer depended upon, useful, or even welcome in regular society was among the walking dead. He longed for an ease and acceptance that was long lost to him; ripped away by the very people I was in his homeland to serve.

And my service was only just beginning. I reported back to Galbatorix with every new update, sometimes multiple times a week (It was risky, but I needed the constant injection of motivation as much as he did; to know that the rewards were actually worth the loneliness). My position with Hrama gave me easy access to potential assets. My recruitment process was shockingly simple; locate a disgruntled person that would like an opportunity to change their life (get rich, assist family, seek revenge, return home with a pardon, etc.) then enlist them, obtain oaths, rinse, and repeat. Unfortunately, this proved to be a quantity-over-quality approach. Many of the Varden's notable members were die-hard fanatics for their cause. The next best thing was to place eyes on their staff; someone who could have access to letters, conversations, personnel movements… that sort of thing. This proved rather successful and, by the end of my second year, I was beginning to make proper headway. Alas, if one lesson could summarize the experience for me it is this: Don't trust an amateur to do a professional's work.