"He does," she replied. "But we need to take both cirgeon and patient in there." She gestured to the smith.
"Whyever for?"
"It would take a long time to explain."
The vagrant nodded, finishing her thought with, "And he doesn’t have time for the telling." He cast his eyes over them all, weighing them, balancing a decision in his eyes. But when his gaze fell on the sword in Tom’s hand, his eyes grew wide and he breathed something in dwarfish.
"Part of our tale," Katharine promised him.
And at that the vagrant sprang to his feet and rushed past them. "This way," he hissed. "Quickly." He dashed into a narrow alley beside the smith that was swathed in shadow and gloom. The dwarf seemed unfazed, stopping halfway down and knocking on a door that was out of sight. His knock was little more than a tap, and the only indication that the door had opened was the whispers, the vagrant’s insistent, the unseen party behind the door incredulous. The dwarf waved them forward, and Tom was too dazed and confused to disobey. A moment later, he found himself staring down at another dwarf blocking the doorway who was dark in both appearance and countenance. Short, overweight, the guardian of the door glowered up at him from under bushy eyebrows that matched the hair on his head, cheeks, and upper lip. "Apologies, master human," he said a swaggering accent that often dropped the harder letters and sounds from words. "Kunnustenn's made you promises that ain’t within my power and authority to grant. Good day."
"We have a wounded man who needs urgent help."
"Then I reckon you should take him to a cirgeon."
"We need to take him inside."
"What you need and what will happen are two very different things."
"Jarnstenn!" Kunnustenn stabbed a finger perilously close to Caledyr’s edge. "Look at it."
"A sword."
"The sword."
Jarnstenn shook his head. "It’s a good replica, no doubt."
"I don’t think so."
"I’m a smith, Kun." He grinned. "I could make you one in an afternoon."
"I’m a historian, Jarn. I’d know the difference." Kunnustenn took an angry breath. "Let them in, or I’ll stay out here tonight."
Jarnstenn glared at the other dwarf for a moment."Suit yourself."
The door closed with a bang that echoed down the narrow alley.
Whatever was happening here, it was clearly done. And they had wasted time that Emyr didn’t have. "We need to find somewhere else, Gravinn," Tom called as he began to walk away.
"A moment," Kunnustenn called.
"Time is not on our side," Tom replied. "Thank you for your efforts."
But Kunnustenn only pointed at the door. And, just a moment later, it opened again. "Get inside," Jarnstenn growled.
Tom didn’t hesitate. "Everyone inside. Emyr first." He stood aside to allow Six and Draig to pass with Emyr between them. "Gravinn, you and I will fetch the cirgeon."
"I’ll go with you," said Katharine.
Tom just shook his head. "Stay close to Ambrose." He wasn’t sure what made him say it. A whisper of a hint of a foresight, perhaps. No time to ponder it now. When she didn’t move, he added, "Go."
She went, but with a scowl. But she went, and that was all that mattered. "We’ll have to hurry," he said to Gravinn.
"It isn’t far," she told him, but she set off at a trot, and Tom ran after her.
The sun was still struggling against the stinking fog. Unable to burn it away, it managing only a scattered, ethereal light as they ran through the city. The streets remained empty, the world still muffled and quiet. Tom wanted to ask Gravinn about the fog, about the homeless gathered in the alleys, but his lungs were already burning and his feet were heavy.
"Sheathe the sword," she told him.
"What?" His mind felt dull. Was it the smoke or fatigue?
"The sword." She was looking over her shoulder at him, frantically waving her hands. "Put it away!"
He obeyed, his bouncing step making it difficult to slide the blade home, and panted, "Why?"
"Coppers."
The road opened out into a cramped square, filled with a few short, skinny trees imprisoned within tiny patches of fenced dirt. Token attempts at greenery, though they looked brown and wilted. Nevertheless, stone benches were arranged to face them as if they were something to look at, and two dwarfs sat on one of those benches, glowering at Tom and Gravinn as they dashed across the square. They weren’t armed, and they seemed to wear no uniform. But they had the unmistakable air of those with authority.
Tom waited until they’d left the square to ask, "Were they guards?"
"Of a sort," Gravinn replied. "The constabulary certainly guard the pockets of the wealthy."
Hired swords, perhaps, without the swords? He opened his mouth to ask, but Gravinn had stopped. She leant on her knees and pointed at a shop window. "Here," she said.
Tom couldn’t read the sign, but he could understand the display in the window, saws and a skeleton and a diagram of the dwarf body. Panting, he lifted a hand to hammer on the door.
"The bell." Gravinn pointed at a length of rope hanging by the door. "This is a civilised part of town."
Tom tugged the rope. The streets were so quiet he could just hear the sound of a bell ringing inside.
But that was the only sound. No-one came to the door. No-one even stirred.
He rang again. And again. It was only when he’d rung a fourth time that a window opened above them and a dwarf leant out, red-faced and cursing at them. When he saw Tom, he swore again and growled, "What the blazes do you want at this hour?"
"One of our party is wounded." Gravinn’s call was weak and gasping. Why was she pushing herself so hard? What ties did she have to Emyr, or any of them? "Only a dwarf of your skill can save his life," she added.
But the dwarf at the window seemed unimpressed. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked. There wasn’t a hair anywhere on his head, but he rubbed his chin as if he expected to find some. "Cirgeons need their breakfast too. A civilised dwarf would wait until a more civilised time."
Why were they talking about the time and breaking fast? "He’s dying," Tom said.
"They’re all dying," the dwarf replied.
"We have coin," Gravinn added.
"They don’t all have that." The dwarf eyed them, and Tom waited for him to leap into action, to fetch his tools and herbs and come dashing back with them through the city. But he just nodded. "Very well. Come back in one half of an hour. If he still lives, I will practise my craft on him."
The window was closed before Tom could finish saying, "He needs you now!" and there was no answer save the silence of the street. There was no rough sleeper to show them a secret entrance. No alley hiding a side door. Just an indifference that made Tom’s chest tight with rage.
Fight.
Yes, he thought. I think I will.
"I’m sorry," Gravinn said. "Dwarfs of medicine are like any other. Their shops open and close at appointed times."
"And the dwarfs that get hurt outside of those hours?" he asked as he examined the shop window. The panes of glass were small, held in a grid by black iron. Gravinn said nothing, and spoke volumes with her silence.
Caledyr slid through the iron like it wasn’t even there.
"What are you doing?" she asked. But he didn’t want to hear her objections. She’d find out soon enough. The glass creaked as he cut through more iron, some panes cracked and splintered. Finally he’d cut through enough iron to kick once, twice, three times and a section of glass and iron crashed into the shop beyond.
The sound was deafening in the early morning quiet. There was no doubt it had been heard. But there was no time for subtlety. He clambered through the gap he’d cut, avoiding sharp metal and broken glass until he stood in the cirgeon’s shop.
This room had been all about display. Shelves on the walls bore skulls and bones and tools and jars with pieces of entrail floating in them. A table near the wall was covered with papers. The ceiling was low,
forcing him to bend his back, and even then his head brushed the wooden beams above. This was not where the cirgeon did his work. Perhaps that was in a back room. He didn’t have time to explore; running footsteps announced company before it arrived.
The dwarf wore a white apron over her cheap clothes, both stained by bloody work. Her mouth gaped and a cheap, slender cigar fell from her lips to the floor. She lifted her hands to cover her mouth as she shook her head and moaned something in dwarfish.
"Don’t be afraid," Tom told her. "But a man is dying. I won’t be turned from your door while he needs your help."
She lowered her hands, but her gaze never left the sword.
"You have nothing to fear," he told her, but thumping footsteps and bellowing anger drowned out Tom’s voice.
"What is the meaning of this?" the cirgeon roared, but his fury died as soon as he saw Tom’s drawn sword.
"My friend is dying." Tom kept his tone calm, even, and unthreatening. "You will come with me, right now, and you will do your best to heal him. You will be paid well, and compensated for the damage I have caused." He couldn’t help but add, "And perhaps you will think twice about ignoring a dying man in favour of your breakfast."
"You can’t do this," the cirgeon protested.
"We’ll find out." Tom nodded to the rooms out of sight. "Fetch your things. He has a serious gut wound. He’s lost a lot of blood."
"I won’t." His protests were weak. "You can’t make me."
Tom didn’t want to injure or wound the dwarf. But there was no possibility of letting him be; he had to heal Emyr. So Tom said, "Are you sure you want to test an armed man who has broken into your shop?"
The cirgeon quailed. But it was the other dwarf who broke the silence. She took a deep breath, straightened and said to the cirgeon, "I will fetch your things, Master Dorstenn." She left the room with a quiet dignity that was beyond her master.
"You work for him, now, do you?" he called after her, trying to muster outrage. But it came out weak and feeble. "Dorstenn won’t be bullied by brigands and barbarians."
"As I said," Tom reminded him, "You will be paid well."
"Humans think everything can be bought. But there is more to this world than money."
"Such as saving a good man’s life?"
Dorstenn sagged. But he was still unconvinced. Would he save Emyr’s life under duress? Or would he waste time by resisting, and lose Emyr’s life in the process?
So Tom tried a different tack. "Save his life," he said. "Take enough to repair your window and fill your pockets. Tell the tale of how you were cool and calm in the face of an armed madman who dared you to save a king’s life."
A light flashed in the cirgeon’s eyes, quickly replaced with scepticism. "A king?" he asked. "Surely not King Idris?"
"He isn’t the only king in Tir."
Dorstenn snorted. "Name another."
"You’ll meet him soon enough." Would that intrigue the dwarf? Or would he dismiss Tom as a madman? But the dwarf’s gaze was already growing distant, and Tom guessed he was imagining how he would tell his story, how other dwarfs would crowd around him in a tavern and gaze up at him as he told his heroic tale of adventure. Dorstenn’s lips quirked in a smile, quickly stifled as he drew himself up and painted an expression of stern authority on his face. "You will pay for the damage you have caused," he commanded. "And I will expect a kingly fee."
Already promised, but Tom knew this was part of the tale Dorstenn was telling himself. "Anything you ask. Only help my friend."
"Coppers," Gravinn hissed. She hadn’t climbed into the shop, but stood outside, looking as casual as possible.
"Don’t call to them," Tom warned Dorstenn. "It would be a dull end to your tale."
He wanted to call out, Tom could tell. But he also wanted the adulation and praise that would come of bearing this adventure alone. So he nodded, lips thin. "They would only delay us," he said. "I will not risk a monarch's life by incurring the delay of the authorities."
"A noble deed," Tom said, and saw Dorstenn adding to his own story in his mind.
The other dwarf came back with two heavy leather bags, so full they could barely be closed. "I am ready," she said.
"Then let us go, Mennvinn" Dorstenn said. "Lead the way, madman."
"Tom," he replied, sliding Caledyr into its sheathe. "I can take those," he said to Mennvinn, who only bobbed her head, wide-eyed. She dashed ahead and opened the door just in time for the two coppers to walk past, staring goggle-eyed at the smashed window.
"What occurred here?" asked one of them in a serious voice.
Dorstenn glanced up at Tom, and for a moment he seemed ready to blurt it all out. But his gaze dropped to the sword and he straightened. "No time, Inspector. I have a life to save." And he invited Tom to lead on with a gesture.
The coppers called after them but made no effort to pursue. Tom led them at a gentle jog, well aware that the length of his stride was twice theirs. Nevertheless, Gravinn caught up with him, and soon took the lead, taking them back to the smith. Tom tried not to imagine the worst, that Emyr would be still and cold, his life bled away onto the smith’s floor and all their hopes leeched away with it. He had to live. All of Tir needed him to live. Tom needed him to live.
Raised voices could be heard within the smith. A sudden wave of dizziness struck Tom as they reached the door and his hammering was weak and feeble. It was Six who answered the door. "Thank Oen you’re here," he murmured. "We’re one word away from murder in here."
The shop itself was deserted, the voices rising up from a set of stairs leading down into a cellar that was filled with iron in various states, piles of unworked bars stacked alongside finished articles. Emyr was stretched out on a wooden pallet balanced on two anvils, lying still and whiter than Mab. Was he dead? Tom didn’t dare move or breathe until he saw Emyr’s chest rise and fall in the most shallow of breaths.
"Dorstenn," he said. "Your patient. Do whatever you must."
"No," bellowed a dwarf. This one was older than the others, bald and wrinkled, his dirty grey beard so long it almost touched his knees. It seemed somewhat impractical for a smith. "No-one else is to come in here. Get out," he roared, flailing a hammer in each hand as he stalked towards them. "Get out!"
Caledyr was enough to halt his charge, the point perilously close to his chest, the edge slicing hairs from his beard that fluttered to the stone floor. He stepped back, and back again as Tom advanced, clearing the way for Dorstenn and Mennvinn. "Enough," Tom told the older dwarf. "I have had enough of people telling me what I can and cannot do to save my king."
The older dwarf’s eyes were wide, his anger blunted, and he nodded, the action brushing more hairs against Caledyr’s edge.
Another wave of dizziness struck Tom, and the effort to remain standing was almost too much. He blinked, slowly, and took a deep, shaky breath. "You own this place?" he asked. The dwarf nodded. "You are angry that we have forced our way in, taken over and turned it into a healing house?" The dwarf nodded again. "I understand. I apologise for the disruption. We will pay you well. But I will not let you do anything that puts my friend’s life in danger. Do you understand that?"
The dwarf nodded. Slowly. "Are we prisoners?" His question was both surly and edged with fear.
"No." Tom lowered the sword. The dwarf didn’t move. "You may go, if you wish."
"I’ll stay." As the fear of immediate danger faded, the smith’s anger grew more confident. "But not down here. Too crowded."
He was right. Emyr’s temporary bier took up most of the cellar. The others had tried to squeeze themselves into what spaces they could find, but there was little room for Dorstenn and Mennvinn to work. "Perhaps some of us should move upstairs."
"Not all of you," Dorstenn said. "You stay, and you too." He nodded at Tom and Katharine.
"Why?"
"We need some of your blood. He’s lost a lot."
"You can take what you need from me," Tom replied. "But not her."
; "Tom," Katharine began. There was reprimand in her voice, but she knew he was right and said no more.
So he turned to the old smith and said, "Master dwarf, please place my friends where it would be convenient."
"Out of my establishment would be convenient," the dwarf growled, but he waved them forward. "Upstairs with you."
"Gravinn, you know the city," Tom said. "Take Draig and find us some food."
"I know the city," Katharine said.
"I need you to stay here."
"Maybe I need to do something."
He was too tired to argue. Whatever reserves he’d been burning had left him, and now he felt tired and cold and weak. "Talk to the owner. Perhaps we can buy some iron blades from him," he suggested. "And get some rest."
It wasn’t the task she wanted. But she nodded and followed the others up the stairs.
Ambrose’s voice made Tom jump. "What will you do in three days?" The old sorcerer stood in a corner of the cellar, unmoved by the request to leave, wreathed in shadow and as still as the metal and stone around him. But he looked stronger down here. More human.
"We’ll run." Tom sheathed the sword and found a space where he could sit. The stone was warm and the relief in his limbs was instant. "The fay know we’re here. We can’t hide from them, but we can make it harder for them to find us."
"What kind of foe is defeated by running from it?"
He was falling asleep. He should get up, make sure the others were settled, that Katharine was okay, that Dorstenn didn’t need him to fetch anything that would help save Emyr’s life. But he just said, "The slow kind."
Ambrose’s laugh was wrong, like it hadn’t been used in many years and rust had stiffened the joints and dulled the edge. "You won’t win this war by running."
War. No, Tom wouldn’t win any wars. But, "Emyr won a war."
"This isn’t his story."
He’d open his eyes in a moment. Just a moment. "He’ll know what to do."
"He won’t." Ambrose’s voice was soft, like a father speaking to their child as he slept. "But you will."
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 73