by Dale Lucas
“Don’t forget,” Torval said, “I didn’t just start my life underground—I also work nights. Daylight hours are not, and never have been, terribly agreeable to me.”
Rem nodded. He could definitely see where that might be true. They harnessed their horses, secured their saddlebags, and made sure the animals were fed and watered. Concurrently, the rest of the campers made their own preparations to once more take to the road. It was on the tip of Rem’s tongue to tell Torval about what he’d seen the night before—the Lady Tzimena secretly visiting their prisoner when she thought no one would notice—but in the end he decided to keep it to himself. For the present, at any rate.
They were underway again in no time, the rising sun climbing over the jagged horizon far to the east and nearly blinding them as they rode on, more or less right into its brilliant golden light. Soon the morning mist dissipated and the world was a riot of empty blue skies bearing only long, ruined streamers of white cloud, green grass, and the roiling, rumbling rush of the Embrys River on their right. Off to their left, to the north and northeast, the high hills that lay between them and the Kaarten River valley rose, ridgelines swathed in mist or obscured by swaying ranks of sentinel pines. On the gently rolling land between the river and the hills, they saw farmland and pocket forests, the tiny figures of tenants and yeomen tending their just-rising crops or clearing fallow fields for late-spring planting visible as the party passed. The company was quiet that day—unusually so—but Rem was glad of it. For some vague and inexpressible reason, he suddenly longed to know just whom he could trust among their traveling companions—who could be truly relied on if the need arose. Elvaris and Sandiva had seemed a good pair—friendly enough, and clearly dedicated to their duties as protectors of the Lady Tzimena. If the rest of their group was of the same mettle, it seemed they might prove the ones to look to—the ones to stand beside—in a moment of crisis. The lot of them seemed to have an almost familial bond, the soldiers serving the Lady Tzimena and Tzimena serving them in turn, after a fashion. The lord marshal’s men were more tight-lipped, even among themselves. Rem had barely heard words shared between them, except in the form of furtive whispers and simple orders. Though they all wore the same livery and served the same hard taskmaster, it was as if they were strangers.
All through the day, whether they were riding or taking a short respite by the roadside, their safety rituals remained. Galen, the outrider for the Estavari company, watched the company’s rear rank, disappearing for intervals on the road behind them or into the woods they passed through. At the vanguard the lord marshal’s own scout—the big, broad-shouldered one called Croften—repeatedly rode ahead, crossbow strapped to his back, disappearing over the horizon or into passing copses for unmeasured intervals before eventually reappearing to give the lord marshal a report.
Rem also noted that the lord marshal’s son, young Brekkon, tried on numerous occasions to urge his horse up alongside one or another of the Lady Tzimena’s female bodyguards. The boy would try to strike up a conversation—too far away for Rem to hear, but easy enough to embellish given the lad’s forced smiles and visible attempts at affability. Always he was met with cool detachment—short answers or none at all—and sooner or later, he’d get the picture and fall back into line again.
Rem almost felt sorry for the boy and wondered what it was in him and Torval that had moved Elvaris and Sandiva to speak with them, when the rest of their company seemed determined not to offer any similarly friendly gestures to the lord marshal’s own soldiers.
When the persistent silence vexed him, Rem and Torval talked at intervals, usually of the familiar things they were already starting to miss. Torval spoke warmly of his children—how Tavarix had graduated from the first form of his dwarven stonemason’s apprenticeship to the second; how Ammi had started earning coin watching the children of working parents in their bankside neighborhood; how little Lokki was passing through a rather troublesome phase of mischief making and open defiance, constantly causing trouble and all but laughing when challenged over it. It was true, Rem and Indilen spent a great deal of time in the company of Torval and his family, but these finer points of everyday life—the children’s growth and triumphs and setbacks, and Torval’s feelings about them—were seldom witnessed or discussed between them. It was only here, now, on the road and bored with the monotony of their journey, that Torval managed to talk of more domestic matters, and how they moved him.
“Oh, now get this!” Torval suddenly spat, interrupting his own train of thought as some new revelation burst upon him. “My sister has a suitor!”
Rem turned to stare at his partner. “Osma?”
“Well, not a suitor, precisely,” Torval said, “but a most persistent burr that won’t see fit to remove itself from her skirt-tails.”
“Do tell,” Rem said.
Torval obliged. “You know she often sells secondhand wares and baked goods in the market, yes? Well, apparently, more afternoons than not, there’s a dwarf comes sniffing around, showering her with compliments and always buying one of her mutton pies—if there are any left. They often sell out by midday.”
“So who is he?” Rem asked.
“She says his name’s Whurin,” Torval continued, now starting to look a little sour about it all. “Blond, braided, and short bearded. Younger than her, too! Imagine . . .”
“Well,” Rem pointed out, “your sister’s been a widow for some time now, yes? Going on twenty years or something?”
Torval grunted and nodded.
“And she’s a lovely woman with a lot to offer any man—or dwarf, as the case may be. Why shouldn’t she remarry if a worthy suitor presents himself? Is there anything in dwarven culture preventing it?”
Torval shook his head. “Far from it. In fact, among my people, remaining indefinitely unmarried after being widowed is seen as rather selfish . . . or self-indulgent, at the very least. We are made, we are told, to marry and procreate. If we can do any of those things and we choose not to, we are not fulfilling our purpose.”
“Do you think she’d want to marry again?” Rem asked.
Torval shrugged and grunted again.
“And how would you feel about it if she did?”
Torval’s head whipped toward Rem, as if the question itself shocked him. The dwarf’s broad face screwed up, an unmistakable indication that he had been posed a question he had no ready answer to. Now, under duress, he was rooting around in the corners of his mind and heart for an answer. Finally the dwarf shrugged again and blew out a heavy sigh.
“She’s a grown woman. I could not stop her if that’s what she wanted.”
“I didn’t ask that,” Rem said. “I asked how you’d feel about it.”
Torval wriggled in his saddle. “I would wonder what it might mean. For the children. For myself.”
“It’d mean you’d have to hire a maid,” Rem countered. “Osma keeps your home in order. If she skipped off to start her own—”
“And why shouldn’t he live among us?” Torval said suddenly. “Are we not worthy of this ragamuffin? He’s a blacksmith, apparently. That’s not so grand, is it? Is a blacksmith any better than a humble watchwarden and his children?”
“It might have nothing to do with that,” Rem said patiently. “If Osma likes this fellow and if—if—something grew between them, don’t you think they’d want their own home, like any husband and wife?”
“That’s how it works among your folk,” Torval said. “Not ours. Dwarves see safety in numbers, and comfort in closeness. If this man married Osma, he could move in with us—”
“Or you all would move in with him,” Rem offered. “If he’s a blacksmith and well-to-do, he might have a very large house, indeed. Could have three, even four rooms!”
Torval looked as if he was growing impatient with this line of questioning. Rem thought he might shrug off his questions or tell him to shut his gob, but instead the dwarf suddenly changed the subject.
“Well, what of you, then?” Torval demanded.
“You and Indilen took rooms together months ago. Will you marry her, or won’t you?”
“A fine tactic,” Rem said, putting his eyes back on the river road. “Changing the subject.”
“Well?” the dwarf pressed.
“I suggested it, when we moved in together,” Rem said. “She was the one who wanted to wait.”
“Bah,” Torval said. “She’s testing your resolve. Have you asked her again?”
Rem shook his head.
“You fool!” Torval shouted, his voice scaring a flock of sparrows from a nearby tree. “Don’t take her silence for indifference, lad, I warn you! Even if she keeps rebuffing you, you must keep digging it up.”
“And why is that?” Rem asked. “I should think I know my ladylove better than you, old stump.”
“You may,” Torval said, “in most ways. But I see the way she looks at you when we’re all together. The way she stares at you when you’re prattling on about one thing or another that no one else gives two shits about. Hells—the way she looked at you yesterday, when we rode out. She loves you, lad—truly, deeply. If you love her, and you’re under the same roof in any case, there’s no reason not to make her an honest woman.”
Rem supposed that was true. She knew the truth of things now, anyway, and that was a relief. But still, Rem felt a deep, abiding fear of something—he could not articulate or even give a face to it. And that subtle, creeping, unnamable fear within him often stood between him and Indilen and a High Council–sealed marriage license.
What was it, then? What could it be?
Late in the day, as the sun was at their backs and threw their shadows, garish and elongated, upon the uneven ground before them, it started to rain. Though it was early summer, the clouds had blown down from the mountains. The rain from those clouds was cold, sharp, and unfriendly, driven by hard, insistent winds. Riding along in the sudden downpour, the falling water turned honey gold by the sun’s declining light, shining out upon the world from beneath the lowering clouds, was most surreal. Rem drew up his forester’s hood to keep the rain off and yanked out his traveling cloak to try to stay dry, but he knew that if they remained out in this weather for too long, they’d be waterlogged before they reached their destination.
Luckily it appeared on a rise before them within an hour of the rain’s advent: the little coach-stop village of Kribb. By the time they reached the hamlet and all hurried into the common room of the inn—named, in rather aspirational fashion, the Crossroads Palace—the whole party was soaked, good riding cloaks or no. The Red Raven was left in the rain, his cage parked near a window, where they could easily see him, hunkering in his moveable prison beneath the single rough cowhide blanket afforded him. The innkeeper, a short, round fellow of rosy cheeks and agreeable aspect, instantly set about directing everyone to bath chambers where they could strip their wet clothes, wash themselves, and slip into something comfortable while their raiment and armor dried through the night.
There were two bath chambers. The Lady Tzimena, her nurse, and her soldiers had one of those chambers all to themselves, while Rem and Torval crowded into the men’s chamber with their Eraldic traveling companions. It was a large room, built for multiple users at once and sporting at least four copper and two wooden tubs for bathing, but it struck Rem as considerably less spacious with six men and one dwarf crammed inside. As the lord marshal’s men began to strip off their gear, Rem realized they had unfinished business outside.
“That cage is wide open,” he suggested to Torval. “Perhaps we should wheel it into the barn?”
“He’s bound for the gallows, good watchwarden,” the lord marshal broke in—rather testily, Rem thought. “What difference does it make if he catches cold while in transit?”
“It’s not right, sir, with respect,” someone else said. It was old, whiskered Wallenbrand. “Prisoner or no, he’s still a man. He deserves some courtesy until such time as the duke’s justice is carried out.”
Sitting there, now half-stripped and barefoot, the lord marshal regarded Wallenbrand with more than a little irritation. Wallenbrand’s level stare made it clear that, despite any differences in rank, he expected to be treated as a peer, not a subordinate. Just as evidently, the lord marshal didn’t care to be publicly contradicted—certainly not by one of his own soldiers. Rem could read the ongoing argument in the silent looks the two men gave one another. He could not decide, though, if this was a disagreement between two old comrades or two complete strangers.
“So honorable,” Kroenen said with a sneer. “So gallant.”
“Perhaps,” Wallenbrand said, unmoved by the lord marshal’s apparent dismissal. “Or maybe I’m just practical. What happens if our prisoner catches his death and expires before we make it back to Erald, eh?”
“Then he will save us the use of the gallows,” the lord marshal answered. “And he’s not our prisoner”—he looked to Rem and Torval—“he’s their prisoner.”
“What of our reward, then?” Torval broke in. He was already naked save for his undergarments, which consisted solely of a breech-clout wound about his broad middle.
“I pledged on my honor that you’d be paid,” the lord marshal said. “You’ve already impugned that honor once, by insisting on riding along with us instead of accepting a sealed promissory note. Do you now dare to impugn my honor further, master dwarf?”
“No one’s impugning anyone’s honor,” Rem said. “We just want to remind you we’re not on this trek for thrills and wonders. We’ve come along to collect a reward you promised us, so anything that undermines our whole purpose for being here—”
“Why are you even asking me?” the lord marshal said abruptly. “He’s your prisoner. If you want to go back out there and move him into the barn, do so. I would also expect you to spend the night in that barn, watching him . . . since he remains your charge until we arrive in Erald. Make yourselves useful, in some fashion?”
“Useful?” Torval snarled and stepped forward. “Have you forgotten that we did what you and your men couldn’t? How we caught him while you and your pretty little companions here were still marching into the city because the Raven’s men had stolen your horses? If anyone’s making good on the work of others and reaping rewards they haven’t earned, it’s you, you bristling, ramrodded son of a—”
“Torval,” Rem broke in. “I’ll take care of it.” He made for the door.
“What are you doing?” Torval asked.
“I’m going out into that blasted rain and I’m going to roll the Red Raven’s cage into the bloody barn. Then I’m coming back here for a bath and some supper. And when it’s time to retire, we—that is, you and I—will go keep watch over the prisoner through the night and let the good lord marshal and his men enjoy the beds and braziers of the Crossroads Palace.” He stared at the lord marshal as he unpacked that plan, eager to make sure the bastard knew he was serious.
“There now,” the lord marshal said, standing and starting to unlace his breeks. Though the hair on his chest was largely gray and there was clearly some of the fat of age on him, his shape and muscular frame remained impressive. “There’s a good lad. I’m sure your horse-groom father would be proud.”
“He was always proud,” Rem muttered, heading for the door, “just not of me.”
Torval still stood by, with only his loins still covered. “Lad, do you need help?”
“No worries, Torval,” Rem said as he left the bath chamber. He had redonned his tunic, but it hung on him loosely, unlaced and with nothing beneath, like a stolen garment. Its sogginess was unpleasant. “I’ll use my horse.”
Rem worried over his careless words all through supper.
He was always proud . . . just not of me.
Why had he said that? What had made him so eager to prod and provoke the lord marshal, even if it was just with muttered asides and snide retorts?
Because he reminds you of him, he thought. He may look nothing like your father, he may sound nothing like your father, he may not be of
noble birth like your father . . . but in every meaningful way, he is your father. The smug self-satisfaction, constantly looking down his nose at everyone and everything, the impossibility of argument or disobedience. They are two swords forged of the same stubborn pig iron, and dealing with a man like that when you’ve so long been out from under his thumb . . .
It unbalances you.
You must control yourself, Remeck. Provoking that man will profit you nothing.
It was easier to accept that idea having bathed and swaddled himself in dry clothes. They all looked remarkably refreshed postbath, gathered in small groups at their various tables, dominating the common room for their nightly meal as the handful of guests not of their company were pressed to the far corners. The innkeeper and his wife served them generously, though they explained, time and again, that they would have offered more if they’d known such a big party was coming. They had no roasted meat, but several loaves of bread had been thrown into the ovens when they’d all stomped into the common room earlier. Now that fresh, hot bread was served with a good, nutty cheese, rashers of bacon, savory country sausages, and eggs fried in grease. Porridge and soup were offered, as well, but most of them were satisfied with the heartier fare that came from the oven and the frying pan. Unknown to Rem, Torval quietly paid the innkeeper for an entire barrel of locally pressed cider and bade the brew be served liberally until it was gone. Concurrently, Captain Tuvera sprang for a dozen bottles of wine from the innkeeper’s cellars, and that made the rounds, as well. Even the strangers in the common room benefited from the largesse of the Estavari captain and the humble dwarf. When Rem caught Torval and Tuvera toasting one another across the common room—he with cider, she with wine—he knew they had at least one ally among their traveling company.
Rem and Torval occupied a small table in a cozy corner of the common room, hunched over their meals and wolfing them down with great haste and relish. Rem barely even raised his eyes as he ate, and when he finally did, he saw that Torval was a mirror image of himself, sopping up the last golden remnants of the runny egg yolks and droplets of fry grease with a still-soft hunk of warm bread. To wash it all down, they gulped the tart cider that Torval had sprung for, then immediately refilled their cups and gulped again.