Ghalrak Dramz liked to think of himself as a well-traveled Dwarf. As a trader and a sailor, he’d seen more of this world than most of his kin. He’d braved the draugr-infested fjords of the Blighted Marches and the blinding salt storms beyond the Great Southern Desert. He’d sailed closer to the haunted, blighted ruins of Ghorr than any Dwarf had ever dared and fought off every kind of monster you could imagine. Few things fazed him anymore, but as the Dwarfs’ motorcade entered the outskirts of Washington, D.C., he felt a slight chill crawl down his spine.
This, he thought, as he gazed out the window at the spire of the Washington Monument, was the seat of American power. From here, the humans governed an empire that spanned a continent. His hosts didn’t care for the E-word, but Ghalrak wasn’t sure what the hell else you could call it when one realm spanned over so vast a territory. Certainly, the ornate buildings he saw—and they only grew more grandiose and elaborate as his party entered the city proper—seemed befitting of an imperial capital. Ghalrak took careful notes about the Greco-Roman architectural style, which was hitherto unknown to him: the tall, fluted columns, the statuary, the elegant domes, and the intricate friezes of marble and stone.
The route to the White House had been planned to the second, with police barring crowds at every intersection and Secret Service agents positioned with rigid, almost military precision. As the Dwarfs’ convoy of black SUVs neared the city’s center, humans lined the streets beyond the established cordon, and many of them waved little American flags or held up cell phones to take pictures, or else waved as the motorcade passed.
Ghalrak leaned forward a little as the car passed one of the many monuments he’d been told this city possessed. This particular monument, if he recalled correctly, had been erected to commemorate a martyr who, during his reign, had dealt with a brutal civil war and was responsible for the liberation of a large number of enslaved individuals. The humans talked much of that particular conflict, to the point that it sounded almost mythical, and in a way, Ghalrak supposed it was, at least to them. Brother fighting brother, neighbor killing neighbor…there was a tragic drama to it all, he had to admit.
When he’d first heard of the Americans’ Civil War back on the Lexington, he’d spent the entire following day alternately disbelieving and awed by the sheer scale of the slaughter. More than half a million dead, or so his hosts claimed. The senselessness of it shocked him, although he supposed that if people were going to butcher each other over something, freeing slaves and preserving the realm were better causes than gold or glory.
Thankfully, his people valued order and efficiency too much to allow such a thing to happen. Dwarfs weren’t immune to politics and intrigue, but they found better ways to settle arguments than swinging axes at each other. And the slavery question was something his people were not troubled by. The Under-Realm did not hold with such practices, nor had it ever.
The SUVs slowed as they drew up to a broad avenue lined with trees and even more statues. Across the river, Ghalrak caught sight of a huge domed edifice rearing up above the trees. That, no doubt, was where the American governing body held counsel. The Dwarf shook his head and wondered at the paradox of these humans’ disavowing monarchy while erecting palaces worthy of any king, then pushed such thoughts away. He wasn’t here to pass judgment. He was here to fulfill the task King Firebeard charged him with and serve the Under-Realm’s interests.
Still…Ghalrak stroked his beard and made a mental note to get a better look at the inside of that dome when the opportunity presented itself. He wanted to see how the humans built one of such size and compare it to the techniques of his own people.
There were other monuments, too. Monuments to wars, to the fallen, to other great personages of American history. Ghalrak had to give them credit: they certainly showed their forebears the proper respect. He respected that.
“Nervous?” Zarrl asked quietly.
Ghalrak grunted. “Of course I’m krakking nervous. Everythin’ rides on gettin’ this fellow Bannister on our side, Zarrl,” he said in a rumbling undertone. “If I can’t make the case for the Under-Realm today, then I’ll never get another chance at it. We’ve got a lot to gain from good relations with these humans—don’t forget that. I’ve gotten to like ‘em quite a bit, but we’re here on King Firebeard’s business. We’ve got tae convince Bannister we’re worth his while, an’ he’s nae fool if what I’ve heard of him is true.”
Up ahead, Secret Service in black suits and mirrored glasses guided the Dwarves’ vehicle into a circular drive before a grand, white-walled mansion with soaring columns and a portico that made Ghalrak’s heart jump a bit. This was it, then. The Americans’ lair of power, their “White House.”
The motorcade stopped. Rodriguez, who had been riding shotgun, caught Ghalrak’s eye and gave him a half-nod. “You ready for this?” she asked.
Ghalrak nodded and stood. His armor, polished to a mirror sheen the night before, rattled and clanked. “Aye,” he said. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” He turned to his fellow Dwarfs. “Let’s get this done, lads.”
One of the dark-suited men outside opened the car door, and Rodriguez stepped out first, smoothing the front of her suit, heels clicking on the drive like a metronome. The Dwarves followed, and Ghalrak could feel the weight of a hundred eyes on him—snipers on the roof, security details in the hedges, dignitaries and aides ringing the entryway. Cameras flashed until he saw spots to feed their images to millions across the country, but the dwarves did not let it affect them. They advanced with measured, unhurried strides. Ghalrak carried the banner of the Under-Realm, the crowned mountain on blue, in one armored fist, and it fluttered slightly in the warm breeze.
Every Secret Service agent within sight had his hand very close to a weapon, but they kept all movement subtle—no open aggression, only an edge of readiness. Ghalrak felt a grudging respect. He’d been told, shortly after setting out from San Diego, that these men and women were an elite force, highly trained and utterly lethal. He’d seen nothing to dispute that—the whole way here, the security detail assigned to him had behaved with the consummate professionalism of elite soldiers.
And on the portico, waiting for them at the far end of the ranks of honor guards lining either side of the path, was the man himself.
Ghalrak’s first impression of Thomas Bannister was that of a fellow warrior. The man carried himself with the telltale quiet confidence and rigid awareness only combat veterans possessed. There was a hard, grim edge to the lines on his face and in the set of his jaw and in the piercing gaze of his ice-blue eyes, which were heavy with the weight of responsibility and years of war and worry. The president’s hair was cropped short and streaked heavily with gray. There was no hint of pretense about the man; he wore his authority the same way he wore his black suit and red tie. A few feet behind Bannister stood his inner circle—a small phalanx of staff, security, and what Ghalrak guessed to be the American equivalent of viziers or masters-of-office.
Ghalrak liked the man instantly. In Bannister, he recognized something of a kindred spirit. This was a man who’d risked his life and taken lives on the battlefield, who’d commanded warriors in the heat of combat and made hard decisions.
Bannister didn’t wait for introductions. He strode forward to meet his guests on the first wide step. Ghalrak extended a hand, and Bannister gave it a good, firm shake.
“Captain Dramz,” Bannister said. “Welcome to the White House.”
“President Bannister,” Ghalrak rumbled in reply, inclining his head a little. “Thank ye for hostin’ us with such generosity," he said, aware that the line would be replayed across every news channel in the land. "On behalf o’ my king, Azaghal Firebeard, and in the name of the Under-Realm, I bring ye greetings and goodwill from all my people.”
There was a ripple of flashbulbs, a shimmer of excitement in the air. The handshake lingered for a second, both men silently measuring the strength of the other. The human leader’s eyes flicked to the banner, then to each of the dwarves’ faces in turn, until at last Bannister released him and turned slightly to indicate the doors behind them. “The honor is mine. You’re a long way from home, Captain. Come inside,” he said, low and clipped. “We have much to discuss.”
Direct. No wasted words, and the pleasantries were kept brief. Ghalrak approved.
“Aye, that be true,” he said, nodding.
Bannister led the way into the White House with a steady stride. Ghalrak followed, Zarrl and the other dwarves falling in behind him. Inside, the walls of the White House were a cool, dignified white, hung with paintings of long-dead presidents and scenes of battles past. Everywhere was elaborate woodwork, polished to mirror shine, and carpets in deep blues and reds. Artifacts that he assumed held some cultural or historical significance were carefully displayed in glass cases here and there, and overhead chandeliers of crystalline extravagance blazed with electric light.
“Your journey was a smooth one, I hope?” Bannister inquired.
“It was…illuminating,” Ghalrak said after a moment.
“I can well imagine,” replied the human, and something in his tone told Ghalrak he wasn’t surprised. Realization dawned, and he almost laughed at the subtle cunning of it. Of course, it wasn’t a surprise to the human leader. Doubtless, he’d orchestrated the entire road trip precisely to impress upon the Dwarfs the scale and might of American civilization. It was a test and a lesson, disguised as hospitality. Bannister was showing, not telling, what his realm could do—and Ghalrak respected the move.
He eyed the man with newfound wariness. No, this human was no fool at all.
Bannister stopped at the entrance to a windowed conference room, and Ghalrak’s boots made a pleasant thunk on the marble as he followed the American president inside. The Dwarves were shown to seats at a long, lacquered table. Ghalrak nodded to Zarrl and the others, who settled into the chairs as best they could—grand, overstuffed affairs, designed for taller folk, but solidly built and therefore unlikely to collapse under their armored weight.
Aides moved in almost silently as the Dwarfs took their seats. Ghalrak suspected—correctly—that every word in this meeting would be recorded, analyzed, and meticulously dissected.
“We may speak in confidence here,” Bannister said. “Normally, a meeting like this would be taken in the Cabinet Room or the Oval Office, but I wasn’t sure there would be room for everyone in your party. Would you care for coffee or something else before we begin?”
“Coffee’d suit me fine. Ye Americans have given me a taste for it,” Ghalrak said.
Instantly, one of the aides placed a hot cup of black coffee in front of him. Ghalrak sipped and resisted the urge to smack his lips approvingly.
“Good stuff,” he grunted. “But we dinnae go to all this fuss to sit here chattin’. Let’s get down to business, aye?”
“Gladly.” Bannister’s tone flickered with approval, and at his nod, the door to the room was closed. He waited until it was shut completely.
Normally, the U.S. President didn’t lead trade negotiations personally. Normally, such things were handled by the State Department, by his Cabinet, by the small army of diplomats, aides, and career bureaucrats who made it their life's work to argue and haggle over every single detail. But Bannister wasn’t a normal President, and these were not normal circumstances. The stakes were so high that he’d insisted on handling them himself, at least for the first round. He leaned forward, hands steepled, and fixed Ghalrak with a look that, by the standards of diplomacy, might be called a full broadside.
“Mr. Dramz, I am very eager to begin trade with your people as soon as possible. Normally, this sort of thing would be a delicate diplomatic dance, but it is my understanding Dwarfs have no patience for such niceties. You like to get straight to the point, and it is a quality I share. I will not waste your time or mine with haggling over scraps, nor bore you with drawn-out ceremonies.”
Ghalrak grinned. “Works for me.” He’d been prepared for the vanity and ceremonial bluster humans usually insisted on. It was a breath of fresh air to dispense with the folderol and actually do business for once. Dwarves never left the most vital matters to subordinates, either.
Bannister nodded, then went on. “I have prepared a list of industrial and consumer goods that we would like to purchase. We’re particularly interested in bulk metals, rare earths, and anything unique to your realm—things we can’t get from our own geology—as well as antibiotics and other medicines. In exchange, we are prepared to offer hard currency, manufactured goods, agricultural products, and a technological exchange—excepting, of course, our military and other vital secrets. I presume you will do the same.” Bannister glanced to his right and gestured at the other humans sitting next to him. “My team has prepared a more detailed breakdown. We can walk through specifics once we’ve agreed on general principles.”
The words “technological exchange” sent a thrill through Ghalrak. That was exactly what King Firebeard wanted. He read over the list Bannister slid across the table. English letters, but the humans had taught him to read their script well enough, and he matched the words to his memory of Dwarven equivalents as he scanned. Copper, gold, platinum, lithium, uranium. Cobalt, tungsten, rare earths, magically-enhanced metal alloys…
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
“Ye dinnae ask for much, do ye?” Ghalrak asked dryly. “Though I be curious…why medicine? I’ve been in one of yer hospitals, seen yer crafts o’ the healin’ arts. Why ask us fer somethin’ like that?”
Bannister grimaced. “Before we arrived here, our medical science relied on supply chains that extended beyond our borders. We know how to make such things, but we do not have all the raw materials necessary to do so. If that does not change, and quickly, it will mean many deaths that might otherwise have been prevented.”
Ghalrak’s bushy brows rose. Coming from him, that was quite the admission, and he respected both the man’s honesty and the courage it must’ve taken to lay such a vulnerability bare. Clearly, Bannister cared deeply about this issue—and the Under-Realm had nothing to lose, and everything to gain, from addressing it.
“I think we’ve got just what ye need,” Ghalrak said. “There be a type of mushroom—we call them glow-rooms on account of the glowy light they give off in the deeps. The Under-Realm’s alchemists refine it into black elixir—what we call naran-nae—and it’s good for fightin’ off infections. Powerful stuff, and we know it works on humans ‘cause we trade it off to other human realms. We’ve done it for centuries and produce it in good quantity. Say the word, Bannister, and we’ll send ye some. Aye, and ye can have the first shipment—a substantial one—free o’ charge, as a gift of goodwill from my folk to yours. I’m empowered by my King tae make such decisions.”
He didn’t offer to show the humans how to make naran-nae. That was a piece of leverage the Under-Realm didn’t want to give up just yet, and he assumed the Americans would start trying to figure out how to make the stuff as soon as they got their hands on it. He knew that, and Bannister knew that, and they both knew each other knew that. Neither of them said as much, however.
Even so, Bannister hid his elation well. Yet Ghalrak caught the glimmer at the edges of his mouth, the subtle tension of his jaw, the faintest shift in the cadence of his breathing. Bannister was satisfied—more than satisfied. It was as close to an outright grin as a man in his position was likely to allow.
Zarrl, seated to Ghalrak’s right and scrupulously attending to every word, gave the faintest “hah” of amusement. The Americans hadn’t expected generosity, and the table’s atmosphere brightened fractionally, every aide and staffer picking up on the president’s approval.
“Our people will need to test and certify it, but if it performs as you say, that would save a lot of lives, Captain Dramz. You have my sincere gratitude, and that of my country.” Granted, Bannister knew that the FDA would have to approve it first, and it would probably require clinical trials and a few other hurdles, but that was not Ghalrak’s worry. More, he said it not as a leader mortgaging his dignity but as a man willing to acknowledge, with grave honesty, what he owed and what he’d just been given. Ghalrak respected that. Very few rulers ever admitted to owing anything, least of all another sovereign.
“Ain’t nothin’,” Ghalrak said, waving it away graciously. He returned to Bannister’s list.
Bannister pressed his advantage. “We are also prepared to negotiate mutual port access, reciprocal consular presence, and a framework for resolving trade disputes and legal issues. In plain English, I want to avoid any misunderstandings down the line.”
“Ye mean, so neither side gets fleeced,” Ghalrak said with a half-smile. “Aye. My King is of the same mind, ye ken.”
“We’re also fascinated by your arcane technologies—your so-called Hearthstones in particular,” the president went on. “Our own scientists have made zero headway in understanding them. None at all. If you’re willing to sell us even small quantities, or instruct our people in their operation, the United States would repay you in kind.”
Now it was Ghalrak’s turn to stiffen. He weighed the offer, careful not to show any reaction other than a slow, thoughtful bob of his head. Bannister was asking for a lot, but that was fair. The Americans had already shown their hand; their scientists could not decipher the secret of Hearthstones. The Under-Realm could play that to its advantage for decades if it kept the Americans reliant on Dwarven know-how.
But there was another layer to this game. The humans had technologies the Dwarfs wanted, too. Ghalrak thought of cell phones and computers and the little marvels he'd encountered on his trip east. He’d watched a documentary about American infrastructure on one of the hotel televisions, and it left him blinking, slack-jawed, at the sheer complexity of it all. The humans had roads that spanned continents, towers that pierced the clouds, and communications that allowed anyone to talk to anyone else, anywhere, without so much as a scrap of wire connecting them. That kind of network—those instant, invisible lines of connection—would revolutionize everything. The Under-Realm coveted those secrets as nothing else before, and no ruler worth his crown ever gave something away for nothing.
"We have considered such," Ghalrak said at last, voice gravelly but precise, "I cannae give ye our deepest secrets, but we can arrange an exchange of your best and brightest. Let them come to Thafar-Gathol, see the forges and the workshops for themselves. So long as your people show respect for our customs and our secrets, we shall show them a few—enough, say, to use small Hearthstones for myriad tasks. That, for a beginning. Of course," he added, and here he let a hint of slyness creep into his tone, "in return, we'd like to place a few of our own into your own places of craft and learning. Fair?”
Bannister nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but otherwise betrayed little. "Perfectly fair," he said. "I accept the proposal in principle, subject to details yet to be hammered out. I would, in addition, like to inquire about the possibility of procuring Dwarf craftsmanship for construction projects. We have many industrial facilities that would benefit from restoration and repair, and I doubt we could match your workers for artistry or craftsmanship. If you're agreeable, I propose we hire out contracts to licensed craftsmen of the Under-Realm, paid in gold or whatever currency you prefer. All above board, of course."
Ghalrak snorted with amusement. “Ye want us to fix yer bridges and tunnels, do ye?”
“They’re not broken,” Bannister deadpanned, “but I’d like them to last another three centuries. And if I’m being honest, some of our infrastructure is due for a serious upgrade. Your skills with stone and steel are, by all accounts, peerless. If we can reach an agreement, I see no reason not to see that for ourselves here on American soil.”
Ghalrak took it as a compliment, but also as a veiled test. Bannister wanted to see whether Dwarven craftsmanship really lived up to the hype. Smart. Ghalrak would’ve done the same in his boots.
“Aye, that can be arranged,” he said simply. “We’d be right pleased at the chance tae show ye what we’re capable of. Just tell us what ye want done, and ye’ll have as many of my King’s best people as he can spare. Where do ye want us to start?”
Bannister snorted. “How to pick just one? Bridges, shipyards, foundries, highways, tunnels, anything built by the lowest bidder in the last seventy years. I’ll have my people send over a priority list.”
“Aye,” Ghalrak said. Such a move would build goodwill and foster familiarity, and the Dwarfs, in the process of making such repairs, would learn much of the American way of building. Then he reached into a pouch on his belt. “Ye’ve given me yer list of what ye want, now I must give ye mine. My King desires the following from trade with your people, Bannister.”
He slid it across to the human, and Bannister snatched it up. The human’s eyes scanned the page. Much of it was exactly what he anticipated. The Dwarfs wanted American machines—trucks, digging rigs, electrical turbines, the sort of advanced industrial hardware the Under-Realm lacked. They wanted firearms of every kind, digital computers, semiconductors, medical devices, and high-tech equipment for mapping and surveying. But there were other items too. Foods and luxuries that could not be raised or made in the vast caverns of the Under-Realm: chocolate, tobacco, wine, whiskey, cotton and wool, exotic textiles, and spices. Agricultural products, such as beef, pork, chicken, wheat, honey, corn, cheese, vegetables, and fruit of every kind. Coffee too—that one had three lines underneath it. But above all, the Dwarfs wanted access to the internet and the limitless knowledge and instant communication it offered.
Bannister’s lips pressed into a hard, thoughtful line as he read on. When he looked up, there was a current of sharp satisfaction in his gaze. “We can meet most of these requests,” he said, passing the page to his nearest aide. “Though I must warn you that some of what you want—firearms, military-grade machinery, semiconductors—may not be as easy to share. I’m sure you understand that such things must be shared carefully, in strictly controlled and monitored phases, if they are shared at all. You’ll have to forgive me if I want to keep some of our secrets, Mr. Dramz, just as you wish to keep some of yours. Let’s refer those issues to our respective advisors and see what they can work out. But most of what your King wants, he’ll get. We can provide controlled access to civilian communications networks, subject, of course, to oversight and security restrictions and a clause prohibiting sharing such technology with any third party. For the rest, let’s discuss on a case-by-case basis. That includes, but is not limited to, developing joint mechanisms for licensure, oversight, and joint training for any sensitive hardware.”
Ghalrak’s inner trader sang at the opportunity. He nodded, careful not to let too much eagerness leak through. “Nothing less than I’d expect from ye,” he said, and meant it. The human’s wariness didn’t offend him. Any Dwarf with half a brain would be similarly circumspect about handing over weapons or secrets to such power. “We’ve nae intention of violating yer security. We’ll abide by whatever terms you set, so long as they be equal for both sides. A fair deal can be had, I think.”
He paused, then went on. “My king also wishes to open the discussions to a military alliance, and to arrange a state visit to our own capital. The Under-Realm possesses some of the finest weapons and most well-trained armies in the known world. He wishes to convey to you his wish that your enemies be our enemies, and our enemies yours.”
Bannister hadn’t expected that, but he could see the benefits. Even without the benefit of modern weaponry, the Dwarfs could be a powerful ally, particularly with the advantage of magic and enchanted metallurgy. At a minimum, their offer would make any hostile party think twice. Back on Earth, America’s network of alliances had been a force multiplier for which her enemies had no real answer. There was no reason to think the same would not be true in this new and dangerous world.
“I cannot make such a decision on my own,” he answered finally. “Nor is it something I can commit to today. It would require Congressional approval and a broader assessment of our strategic posture. But if relations proceed well, and if trade proves as fruitful as I believe it will, then I am confident they can be persuaded to pass the necessary legislation. Tell your King that the United States will extend every courtesy and consideration to the Under-Realm as a partner and an equal.” His blue eyes found Ghalrak’s, and the dwarf could tell there was more yet unsaid. “If there are dangers in this world that threaten us both, I would rather face them together than apart. As for visiting Thafar-Gathol, I have already made the decision to do so. I am curious to see it for myself, and I’m as keen to speak to your King face-to-face as he is to talk to me. The only question is the timing, security, and all the other concerns that accompany a state visit.”
“Excellent,” Ghalrak said, his accent thickening as his excitement grew. “It will please my King greatly to hear it.” He shifted in his seat, warming now to the rhythm and give-and-take of the negotiation. “Ye’ll have nae need to fear for yer safety in the Under-Realm, that I promise ye. My King promises safe passage and all the benefits of Dwarf hospitality, Bannister, though o’ course we’ll work with yer people to allay any concerns ye have.”
“I’m sure,” Bannister said neutrally. “And I have one more favor to ask of you, Captain.”
Ghalrak bit back the instinct to bristle. Requests from humans usually meant trouble, but Bannister’s voice was so flat and businesslike that it felt more like a tactic than a plea. “Ask, and I’ll answer if I can,” Ghalrak replied.
Bannister set both hands flat on the lacquered surface, like a man intent on steadying an entire room with his palms. “We have recently come into contact with a second foreign power. What can you tell me about the Dominion of Sarnath?”
Ghalrak was surprised by that and instantly chided himself for it. Of course, the krakking Dark Elves wouldn’t just sit back and let the Under-Realm try to muscle them out. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, and if Bannister caught the brief flash of irritation in his eyes, the President gave no sign.
“The Sarnathi are known to my people. We’ve had dealings with ‘em, now and again. I’ve been to their realm a few times. They’re a slippery lot, they are. They never say anythin’ without thinkin’ it over a hundred times, and their tongues are so subtle that their every word conceals a depth of meaning, which can change completely depending on inflection or tone.”
“Would you say, then, that they are dangerous?”
Ghalrak stroked his beard. “I’d say…potentially dangerous, aye. Though they’re not conquest-crazy like some other folk. They keep tae themselves, mostly, but gods help anyone who tries to poke ‘em with a stick. They’re a sorcerous lot—very powerful mages, many of ‘em. I’ve seen a Sarnathi sorcerer call down blizzards and storms of lightning, Bannister. Gods only know what the krak else they can do with their wizardry if they’ve a mind tae.”
Bannister’s expression didn’t change, but Ghalrak caught the glint of something decidedly menacing in the man’s eyes. “Are they deceptive, then? Should we not trust them?”
“It’s more complicated than that. They’re not evil. Just cold. Ye can trust them tae put themselves first in every situation. They’ll never betray you outright, nor tell you a lie you could catch ‘em at, because they’re too subtle tae get caught. If they make a deal with you, they’ll keep to the letter of it, but they’ll do it with an eye first tae their own personal interests, then to their people’s interests, and then yours…maybe. And don’t you expect ‘em to do any ye favors or do anything beyond what’s explicitly agreed, or let sentiment sway ‘em from what’s best for their own lot.” Ghalrak continued, saying, “Best advice I can give ye, Bannister, is keep yer wits sharp and don’t take nothin’ for granted. Never forget that there’s always more goin’ on than what’s said what’s shown. Whatever ye see an’ hear from them is nae more than the tip of the iceberg. They’ve always got a plan cookin’, and a backup plan, and a contingency too. To the Sarnathi, everythin’ is one big game—an’ everyone else is just another piece on the board.”
Bannister regarded the Dwarf for a moment, then appeared to file the information somewhere deep behind those glacier-blue eyes. “I have no intention of being anyone’s pawn,” he finally said. “And your assessment concurs with that of my own analysts. I appreciate your corroboration, because I have a feeling that very soon, the Sarnathi are going to make us an overture.”
“Probably,” grunted the Dwarf.
“Is there any history of Sarnath and the Under-Realm coming to blows?”
“No.” Ghalrak’s tone turned brittle. “In fact, we’ve worked with ‘em a few times, on matters of…mutual interest. We have a history.”
Bannister was tempted to ask what that history entailed, but the flinty look in the Dwarf’s eyes and the way his knuckles tightened on the edge of the table hinted it wasn’t a good idea.
“Duly noted. Then, if there are no other points of contention, I will have my people meet with yours later this afternoon to draw up an agreed-upon Memorandum of Understanding. A formal treaty will be drawn up once the various and sundry details have been hammered out. For now, I would like to invite you and your friends to join me for a formal meal, Captain Dramz, to celebrate the opening of friendly ties between our people.”
Ghalrak knew better than to decline. Even if he didn’t like the man—which he did—there were some rules of diplomatic etiquette even Dwarfs abided by. “Sounds good to me. What about you, lads?”
Zarrl and the others growled their assent. Their experience with American food during their journey so far had been mostly positive, and they hadn’t eaten since early that morning. No diplomat ever tried to do business on an empty stomach. “Aye, we’re famished,” the Chief Gunner said.
“Very good,” said Bannister, and with a clipped gesture, he signaled to one of the aides posted by the door. “We’ll reconvene this meeting at seven this evening. That will give both our staff enough time to compare notes and set up a framework for a follow-up session. Until then, you and your men are guests in this house and can make use of the Blue Room. My chief of staff will see to your comfort, and I’ve arranged for a tour of our facilities after we’ve eaten, if it interests you.”
Ghalrak didn’t miss the calculation behind this courtesy—a chance for his party to get a good look at the White House, to observe the inner sanctum and its guardians, but under careful American supervision. A subtle move. He approved.
“It does,” he said, inclining his head a little. “Thank ye, Bannister. But food first. Negotiatin’ gives me a powerful appetite.”
The human barely suppressed a snort of amusement. “I think,” he said, “that you and I are going to get along just fine, Captain Dramz.”
