Most knew him by his deep anger and stubborn silence. Neither the slave masters in these mines nor the other slaves knew more about him than that he was a sturdy, level-eyed young dwarf with a dark, backswept beard, that his name was Derkin, and that he would make trouble if he could.

Three times in two years, his back had been striped until it bled, twice for trying to escape from his bondage, and once-the most recent time-after one of the human guards fell to his death in a refuse pit near the mine's entrance. He had not been the only one whipped that time. The human slavers had whipped every slave within sound of the refuse pit, just on general principle. There was the suspicion that the dead man's fall might not have been an accident, and the slave masters knew that a smartly applied whip sometimes loosens tongues. But they had learned nothing. Most of the slaves were dwarves, and bore their punishment stoically. The few human slaves in the area had nothing to tell their tormentors, because none of them had been nearby when the fall occurred.

Like the other dwarves, all of whom he had ignored since his arrival as a captive of slave hunters, Derkin bore the torment in stony silence. The angry shouts of the humans, the crack and sting of their whips, he simply endured, and never made a sound.

But later, when the mine slaves on that shift had been secured in their dungeon for a few hours' rest, there was cautious movement in the shadows, and another dwarf crept close, to hunker down beside him. In the murky cell, Derkin could barely see the newcomer, but he recognized him. It was the one they called Tap, a young Neidar from one of the hill settlements. Tap had the broad shoulders and long arms of Theiwar ancestry, and his back, like Derkin's own, was striped with bleeding cuts.

For a moment, the hill dwarf simply sat beside him, gazing around furtively. Then he whispered, "I saw what you did."

Derkin ignored the whisper, pretending he had not heard.

"I understand," Tap whispered. "I'm not asking you about it. I just wanted you to know that I saw you kill that guard. You used your chain on him. I only wish I'd had the chance to kill one, too."

Still he made no response, ignoring the other dwarf.

After a moment, Tap shrugged. "You're Hylar, aren't you," he whispered, "from Thorbardin?"

"I am," Derkin admitted, still not looking around.

"I thought so. You look like a Hylar. And I've heard you called Derkin. That sounds like a Hylar name. What's the rest of it?"

The Hylar sat in stony silence, ignoring him.

"No other name?" Tap prodded. "Just Derkin?"

"I'm called Derkin," the silent one muttered. "It's name enough."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Derkin." The other nodded. "I'm Tap. I've heard them talk about you. They say you've tried twice to escape."

"Obviously, I didn't make it," Derkin growled.

"You never will, alone. You'll need friends."

"I need no friends, and I have no friends."

"You could, though," the Neidar said. "I wasn't the only one who saw what happened to that human guard. Think about it."

When the Neidar had gone, back into a far corner of the big, low cell, Derkin sat motionless for a time. It disturbed him that anyone had seen how the human guard died. He had thought the incident went unobserved. He had waited and planned for a long time before the right moment came along-a time when the shift was late and the guards were sleepy, and more importantly, when one guard stood alone on the ledge above the pit as a line of hod-carriers plodded past, carrying tools to the lower shafts. It seemed that ages had passed while he waited, but finally the moment came. One guard, alone on the ledge, and a line of hod-carriers.

In the shadows, Derkin had stepped aside and dropped back to the end of the line. Ahead of him were a half-dozen laden dwarves, their shoulder packs and hods filled with tools.

As always on the ledges, the guard stepped back, away from the edge, forcing the slaves to pass precariously around him. Derkin stooped carefully, picked up a large rock, and went on, toward the guard.

With little interest, the man watched the dwarves passing him. Derkin was almost to him when he saw the human's face turn away, distracted momentarily. And in that instant, the Hylar heaved his stone-not at the guard, but in a high arc toward one of the hods ahead. The stone hit the laden hod, and tools rattled from it as it tipped. The guard stepped away from the wall, peering ahead to see what had happened, and Derkin set his own hod aside, flung his ankle chain against the man's ankles, and jerked.

It was very sudden. The man toppled over the ledge, screamed, and disappeared. Derkin retrieved his hod, skipped past several dwarves who had turned toward the scream, and eased past the spilled hod where a dwarf was crouched, trying to retrieve his load.

Only seconds had passed. By the time other humans reacted to the guard's fall, Derkin was far along the line, just one of many dwarven slaves looking back at the commotion behind.

Still, he had been seen by Tap. The Neidar had witnessed everything, and so, apparently, had others. Would they tell? So far, it seemed, they had not.

"Friends?" he muttered to himself now, shaking his head. "I need no friends."

When all was quiet in the big cell, he retrieved the chisel hidden in a fold of his kilt and went to work on his shackles. It was the reason for it all-for the death of the human guard, for the fresh welts on his back and the backs of others. And it was worth it. Once before he had tried to steal a chisel, but it had been tricky. All tools were counted and accounted for.

But not this time. It was unlikely that anyone would ever know that a chisel had disappeared, among all the commotion of a spilled hod and a dead guard.

Far back in the shadows of the cell, other slaves squinted in the murk, and one-a young dwarf with the large, contemplative eyes and foxlike features of Daergar ancestry-grinned. "So that's what it was all about," he muttered.

Beside him, Tap squinted. "What is?" he whispered. "What do you see, Vin?"

"A chisel," Vin said. "The Hylar has a chisel. He's working on his shackles."

"Ah," Tap mused. "From the spilled hod. He's a lucky one, isn't he?"

"You think that was luck?" The Daergar face creased in a sly, sideways glance of reproach. "Luck had nothing to do with that. He planned that out and executed the maneuver as skillfully as a captain in the field. I think we should get to know this Hylar, Tap. I like the way he thinks."

Tap glanced around as a shadow moved nearby. "Hush," he whispered, then squinted and shrugged. It was only the old one-arm who carried the slops.

Tap returned his attention to the Daergar. "It won't be easy, getting close to that Hylar," he said. "He's a cold one. No one has ever gotten close to him that I know of. Just now, I as much as invited him to join us. I'd have gotten as much response from a wall."

"Join us? In what? We have no plan."

"But maybe he has one. He's Hylar. From Thorbardin. As I hear it, those people have no shortage of plans."

Vin scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. "Then maybe we should join him, whether he likes it or not. He has a chisel, but he has no hammer."

"Neither do we," Tap reminded him.

The Daergar gazed at him with ironic eyes. "No, but if that Hylar can get a chisel, I can get a hammer. Or a pry-bar or maul. Let's spread the word, Tap. Tell those with us that we wait for a signal from the Hylar. He is readying an escape."

"How do we know he's planning an escape?" Tap frowned. "Maybe he's just easing his cuffs."

The Daergar gazed at him thoughtfully, his large eyes seeming-as Daergar eyes usually did-to see right through him. "Call it a hunch," he muttered. "I know, half the dwarves here have tried to escape at one time or another. But that Hylar is the only one of us who may yet succeed. It's why he wears that heavy chain."