The Pariahs

by David Adams

Brea

  The moment Brea’s feet hit the plush red rug and sank in a full inch, she knew she was stepping into another world.

  Every part of the Kozog family manor oozed wealth. The walls were plaster, decorated with thick drapes from distant lands. At least one was elven in styling; the others, she had no clue. The floors were a sturdy hardwood, polished to a mirror shine, with a rug carefully laid out around each window. The walls were dotted with cupboards. Several chairs, the rich leather dyed a royal blue and trimmed with gold, sat around a circular table that was lavishly furnished with a bright red cloth. A huge sword made from obsidian glass hung on the wall.

  Aside from the glass, and a layer of dust that coated everything, the place was immaculate.

  “And I thought it looked fancy from the outside,” she said, her anger forgotten. Her rump stung from Kozog’s fingers digging into it; she stretched, working out the aches, and then helped Kozog ease down from the window. “This room alone must be worth a fortune.”

  “We’re just here for the book,” cautioned Kozog. He ran a finger along the windowsill, scowling darkly at the large amount of dust he gathered.

  “Actually, your mother said I could help myself, within reason, to whatever I wanted. As part of my fee.”

  Kozog narrowed his red eyes. “Is that in the contract?”

  “Verbal agreement.”

  “And therefore not enforceable in any court of—”

  Brea stopped listening at this point, although Kozog droned on in the background, a white noise to her search that was oddly calming. She crept across the room toward the only exit, testing the door. It was unlocked.

  “—section J, paragraph two, line one, with-regard-to marine salvage law. A person who recovers another person’s ship or cargo after peril or loss at sea is entitled to a reward commensurate with the value of the property so saved. The concept has its origins in antiquity, with—”

  “Shh,” said Brea, holding up a finger.

  “What?” asked Kozog. “This is relevant.”

  “It’s not relevant,” hissed Brea. She put her ear up against the door, straining to hear anything. Nothing from the room beyond.

  Kozog ambled to one of the cupboards, opening the wood with a creak that was too loud to her ears. Within were several bottles of golden alcohol.

  “Here,” he said. “Why don’t you take these fire-wine bottles instead of the furniture. Also, because that’s technically a gift, it’s better for tax purposes.”

  “Hmmph,” said Brea, considering the ‘tax write off’ with suspicious eyes. “Last time I got drunk, back at the Freelands, I nearly sold my soul to Tyranus.”

  Kozog laughed good-naturedly, scooping up the clinking bottles and stuffing them into his backpack. “I remember that night. You asked if it was a new job contact and I said no. But then you said you’d sign it anyway. Fortunately my quill was broken after I sat on it. So we used our fingers to write stuff on a parchment until we both passed out.”

  She bristled at the memory. Brea had anticipated that, after Kozog had cuddled up to her on the cold floor of the inn, the particular night would go completely differently. Nestled in under his arm, she had told him things; spilt her heart to him, and the whole time he had not said a single thing…quietly and respectfully listening to her every babbling, stammering word.

  Or so she had thought. He had not been cuddling. He had been asleep.

  “Why do you even carry those things around, anyway?” she said, her tone snippy.

  “Oh, you never know when someone is going to go all-out and pledge their souls to my Holy master, Lord Tyranus, God of Contracts and Bindings.”

  Brea shook her head. “It’s funny for you,” she said, biting down on her lower lip. “After that, my sex life has never really recovered.”

  Kozog chuckled. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”

  “Yours.”

  His expression dropped and he stared. “Mine? What did I do?”

  “I’m spending so much time with you that I can’t exactly go off and have a little fun now, can I?”

  Kozog, his stupid face all scrunched up from trying to understand a basic concept, held out his hands. “I know you have…needs. I’m not stopping you. I’ve never stopped you from doing what you want.”

  Brea sighed, leaning forward to put her forehead on the wood of the door. “No,” she said, “I guess you’re not.”

  “But…you don’t want to for some reason?”

  “Yeah. For some reason.” Brea straightened up. “Look, we should split up. Check the next room. Try not to let you big dumb orcish feet kick over anything too loud. Or too valuable.”

  “My feet aren’t big.” He moved beside her, toes dragging across the rug.

  Brea pointedly stepped on his toes. “Too loud!”

  “I’m doing my best!” Kozog grumbled. “Anyway, why are we looking in those rooms? Isn’t the ledger in the basement?”

  “Because mummy-dearest said that the house was secured. I want to find out in what way, preferably without any of us getting shot by poison darts, or magically shackled, or set on fire.”

  “That would be preferable,” said Kozog.

  Brea turned the door’s handle and pushed him through. “Go,” she said through clenched teeth. “Search. Find the traps and try not to die. If you do die, try to scream a lot so I’ll know to run.”

  They split up, searching first the ground floor of the house, then the upper. All Brea found was wealth upon wealth, gold and silver and precious wood, gemstones, everburning candles, paintings, carvings, busts and artwork of all descriptions and tastes. There seemed to be little consistency in it; apparently orcs had a wide palate for the artistic, stuffing every room with imported fineries.

  It didn’t make sense to her, but as she waited by the hatchway that lead down to the basement, listening to Kozog’s heavy boots thump around upstairs, it slowly dawned.

  The art was not appreciated for anything other than its value. It was a store of wealth, impossible to tax and too large and heavy to pickpocket, protected securely by the house. In normal circumstances Brea could imagine fifty or so staff dwelling here; cooks, cleaners, maids and butlers. There would be no way anyone could steal a ten foot wide painting.

  As a bard, this realisation made her feel vaguely hollow. Kozog’s mother’s words echoed in her ears. Strong but rigid minded.

  What were her songs to him?

  Subconsciously, as though drawn by some urge she could not contain, she began to sing. It was a light, soft, wordless melody that drifted out of her lips completely unguided; just notes, rising and falling, moving with the ebb and flow of a tune she invented.

  She stopped when she saw Kozog out of the edge of her vision.

  “That was beautiful,” he said, smiling a half-moon.

  It normally took a lot to stagger Brea, but at that confession she found her voice caught in her throat.

  “I thought you were in danger,” Kozog said. “I came quickly. I don’t think you even noticed.”

  “It’s an elf thing,” Brea said, fairly sure he would believe that. “Sometimes we just like to sing.”

  “It’s completely okay,” said Kozog. “I enjoyed it, truly, and I wish you would do so more often; not only when we are in peril.”

  “I’ll remember that,” she said, a warm glow spreading across her face.

  “Although,” Kozog said, casting his eyes to the wooden trap door, “if anyone is waiting down there for us, I think we lost the advantage of surprise.”

  How could he do that? Bring her such warmth and happiness, and then take it away. Not deliberately, just…by being him.

  “It’s fine,” said Brea. That was a lesson she had taken from her parents; any time anyone insisted some slight was fine, it was not fine.

  Once again, Sheyra’s words came back to her. The fair folk never forget, but they do forgive. Technically true. Brea added her own caveat. Eventually.

  Maybe.

  Kozog gr
abbed the trap door and hoisted it up. “I’ll go first,” he said, and together the two of them disappeared into the gloom.