There's an amphitheater, a place where a hundred of the stone walkways twine around to create space for a hundred thousand people to sit in close proximity, and someone is giving a lecture or a demonstration at the base of it, the seats closest to him filled with eager, tiny, bearded Dwarf-children.
And they spiral down, and down, and down, past waterfalls and egg-sized gemstones left half in the rock and halls of crystal. Everything grows gradually more ornate and more perfectly maintained and the clang of hammers fades behind them. "People say," her guide says, "that we only have a council instead of a single King because there were nine winners of the competition to design the throne so we couldn't just select one person to sit it." And they push open the doors to reveal, indeed, nine thrones so elaborate it would be hard to choose between them, and nine squat bearded people sitting them.
To Irissë: Why did you ask me if I can fight a Maia?
Well, damn. Do they at least have the courtesy to see out of their eyes and hear out of their ears?
"I think she's probably sewn up via oath or just a truly impenetrable web of lies to the point where she's not a viable source of information. She wasn't meant to get away clean to begin with."
"I commented 'suicide mission', Tyelcormo said 'it would have been' - but she didn't tell them anything besides her stupid, rehearsed story even when they took her alive, didn't tell me anything other than that, repeated it with a straight face all through today, I don't think she can tell you anything else."
"Maybe the infiltrator wasn't pretending to be working for you. Maybe they drew on a personal connection of some kind, would she be an easy target that way?"
"I spoke to her the first night," Nolofinwë says, "and she swore that to her knowledge they hadn't spoken in the last several months. Which settled it. Obviously. But -"