‘That reminds me,’ Fletcher said, dropping the demon into his lap and rummaging through the satchel. With the constant pursuit, he had almost forgotten the gifts Berdon had given him. He took the larger of the packages out and tore into it, his hands still clumsy from the cold.
It was a bow, lacquered with clear varnish and strung with a fine braid of conditioned rawhide. The wood was intricately carved, the two ends curving in and then outwards at the ends, for extra power when bent back. The wood was yew, an expensive timber that Berdon must have purchased from a trader the year before; it did not grow on the mountains. He had treated and dyed it so that the usually pale bow had become grey, preventing it from catching the eye when the hunter crouched in the shadows. It was a beautiful and valuable weapon, the kind a master huntsman would pay through the nose to own. Fletcher smiled and looked up at the top of Beartooth, giving silent thanks to Berdon. It must have taken him months to make, working on it in secret when Fletcher was out hunting. There was even a slim quiver of fine, goose feather arrows. He might be able to catch a mountain hare in the morning.
With that thought, Fletcher’s stomach rumbled. He put aside the second gift and delved into the bottom of his rucksack, taking out a weighty packet wrapped in brown paper. He opened this one with more care and smiled as he saw the jerky from the elk that Didric tried to blackmail from him. He put a few strips on the fire to heat up, then passed another to the demon.
It gave it a wary sniff, then jerked its head forward and snapped at it, lifting its head upwards and gulping it down whole like a hawk.
‘Almost took my fingers off there,’ Fletcher observed as the smell of cooking venison wafted under his nose.
He reached into the bag again to see what other food was in there. He felt something that jingled and pulled out a heavy purse.
‘Oh, Berdon, you didn’t,’ Fletcher murmured in wonder.
But he had. From what Fletcher could see, it was over a thousand shillings, almost a year’s wage for Berdon. Even knowing that his business would soon be under threat, the man had given Fletcher a good chunk of his savings. Fletcher almost wished he could go back and return it, then remembered the three hundred shillings he had saved up for the jacket, still sitting in his room. Hopefully Berdon would find it, and the rest of Fletcher’s old possessions would likely fetch some money as well.
‘What else have you given me . . . ’ Fletcher whispered. He picked up the second gift and shook it, feeling something soft and light. There was a note pinned to it, which Fletcher tore off and read by the flickering firelight.
Tears dripped on to the letter as Fletcher folded it, his heart full of longing for home. He opened the gift and sobbed as he saw the jacket he had wanted, burying his hands in the soft inner lining.
‘You were a better father to me than my true father could ever have been,’ Fletcher whispered, looking up at the mountains. Somehow, the words he had left unsaid over the years were what he regretted the most.
The demon began to mewl at Fletcher’s misery, licking his fingers in sympathy. Fletcher patted its head and shuffled closer to the fire, allowing himself a few minutes of sadness. Then he wiped tears from his eyes, put on the jacket and pulled the hood over his head. His heart filled with resolve. He was going to make a new life, one that Berdon would be proud of. He was going to make it to Corcillum.
14
The tavern reeked of unwashed men and stale beer, but then Fletcher supposed he didn’t smell too rosy himself. Two weeks of travelling in a wagon full of sheep did that to a body. The only fresh air he had managed the entire time was when he went out to buy cheap bread and thick slices of salted pork from the locals. He had been lucky; the cart driver had asked no questions, only charging five shillings and asking that Fletcher muck out the dung from the back every time they stopped.
Now he sat in the corner of one of Corcillum’s cheap taverns, relishing the taste of warm lamb and potato broth. He had barely seen any of the city yet, instead entering the first tavern he could find. Tonight he would pay for a room and have a hot bath brought up; exploring could wait until tomorrow. He felt like the stink of sheep had become permanently ingrained in his skin. Even the imp was reluctant to venture out from its customary place within the confines of his hood. In the end he had to bribe it with the last of his salt pork, feeding it until it fell asleep.
Still, the little creature had made the long, dark journey bearable, curling up in his lap to sleep in the cold of night. Fletcher could share in its feelings of warmth and contentment, even while he shivered in the soiled straw of the cart.
‘One shilling,’ said a woman’s voice from above him. A waitress held out a grimy hand, pointing at his food with the other. Fletcher dug into his bag and pulled out the heavy purse, then dropped a shilling into her waiting fingers.
‘No tip? With all that silver?’ she screeched, then strode off, drawing looks from other patrons in the tavern. Three hard-looking men paid particular attention. Their clothes were dirty, and their hair hung in greasy locks around their heads. Fletcher grimaced and stowed his purse.
They had never needed pennies up in the mountains. Everything was priced in shillings; pennies complicated things. It was one hundred copper pence to a silver shilling and five shillings to a gold sovereign in the big cities of Hominum, but Fletcher’s purse contained only silver. He would ask for change when he paid for his room, so that this didn’t happen again. It was frustrating to make such an obvious mistake, but he couldn’t exactly tip her with the same cost as his meal now, could he?
Another man seated behind the three vagrants was still staring at Fletcher. He was handsome but fearsome looking, his chiselled face marred by a scar that extended from the centre of his right eyebrow down to the corner of his mouth, leaving a blind, milky eye in its wake. He had a pencil-thin moustache and curling black hair that was tied in a knot at the nape of his neck. The uniform he wore marked him as an officer of some kind; a long blue coat bordered with red lapels and gold buttons. Fletcher could see a black tricorn hat laid on the bar in front of him.
Fletcher sunk into the shadows and pulled his hood further over his head. The demon shifted and grumbled in his ear, unhappy at being kept in the dark for so long. The hood did a good job of hiding it, especially when he raised the collar of his shirt, but the way the officer stared at him was disconcerting.
He gulped down the last of his broth and stuffed the bread that came with it into his pocket to give to his demon later. Perhaps another tavern would be a better place to stay, away from everyone who had seen the weight of his purse.
He ducked into the cobbled street and hurried away, looking over his shoulder. Nobody seemed to be following him. After a few more paces, he turned his jog into a stroll, but kept in mind the need to find another inn. It would be dusk soon and he didn’t like the idea of sleeping in a doorway that night.
Already he was marvelling at the tall buildings, some over four storeys high. Almost every one had a shop on the ground floor, selling a multitude of goods that had Fletcher itching to get his purse out once more.
There were red-faced butchers with strings of sausages decorating their store, bloodied to the elbows as they portioned heavy haunches of meat. A carpenter put the finishing touches to a chair leg with magnificent carvings, like a tree entwined with ivy. The alluring scent of cologne wafted from a perfumery, the glass shelves on display filled with delicate, coloured bottles.
He stumbled to the side as a horse-drawn carriage pulled up, exited by a pair of girls, their hair ringleted in pretty curls and their lips painted like red rose petals. They were gone into the perfumery with a swish of their petticoats, leaving Fletcher open mouthed. He grinned and shook his head.
‘Not for the likes of you, Fletcher,’ he murmured, continuing on his way.
His eye was caught by the shine of metal. A weapon store bristled with pikes
, swords and axes, but that was not what drew him. It was the firearms, gleaming in velvet-lined cases on a stall in front of the shop. The stocks were carved and dyed red, with each of the barrels engraved with stampeding horses.
‘How much?’ he asked the vendor, his eyes fixed on a gorgeous pair of duelling pistols.
‘Too much for you, laddie; these weapons are for officers. Beautiful, aren’t they, though?’ said a deep voice above him.
He looked up and blinked in surprise. It was a dwarf, of that Fletcher was certain. He stood on a long bench so that his head was level with Fletcher’s, but without it he would have only reached Fletcher’s midriff.
‘Of course, I should have known. I’ve never seen finer. Did you make them?’ Fletcher asked, trying not to stare. Dwarves were not common outside of Corcillum, and Fletcher had never seen one.
‘No, I’m just a vendor. Still doing my apprenticeship. Perhaps someday, though,’ the dwarf said.
Fletcher wondered at how the dwarf could still be an apprentice. He looked much older than him, with his heavy beard and whiskers. His beard reminded Fletcher of Berdon’s in colour, but the bristles were much thicker and longer, plaited and braided with beads throughout. The dwarf’s tresses were just as long, hanging halfway down his back in a ponytail kept by a leather thong.
‘Are your masters looking for any new apprentices? I have plenty of experience in the forge, and I could use the work,’ Fletcher said, his voice hopeful. After all, what else was he going to do to find money in this expensive city? The dwarf looked at Fletcher as if he were stupid, then his face softened.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ the dwarf asked with a sad smile. Fletcher shook his head.
‘We won’t hire any men, not while we don’t have the same rights and not while we still hold the secrets to gun making. It’s nothing against you personally. You seem like a nice enough fellow,’ the dwarf sympathised. ‘You’d best go to one of Corcillum’s human blacksmiths, though there are only a few. They do well enough; plenty of soldiers refuse to buy from the dwarves. But I hear they aren’t hiring these days; too many applicants.’
Fletcher’s heart dropped. Blacksmithing was the only profession he knew, and he was too old now to become an apprentice in another trade. There were no forests near the city to hunt in either, unless the jungles over the southern frontier counted.
‘What rights are you denied?’ he asked, suppressing his disappointment. ‘I know the King granted you the right to join the military last year.’
‘Oh, there’s plenty. The law dictating the number of children we can have each year is the most galling. We can only have as many children as the number of dwarves who died the previous year. Given that we can live almost twice as long as you humans, that’s just a handful. As for the right to join the military, aye, that’s a step in the right direction. The King is a good sort, but he knows his people don’t trust us, especially the army, thanks to the dwarven uprisings eighty-odd years ago. The thinking goes, once we’ve proven our loyalty by shedding blood beside his soldiers, well, then the King will revisit giving us equal citizenship. But until that time, this is how it has to be.’ The dwarf’s voice was tinged with a hint of anger, and he turned away as if overcome with emotion, rummaging in a box behind him.
Fletcher remembered the scorn from the other villagers in Pelt when it was announced that dwarves would be fighting in the Hominum army. Jakov had been joking that they could barely brush his balls if they walked between his legs. The stout dwarf’s arms were thicker than most men’s thighs, and his barrel-like chest reflected his deep booming voice. If Jakov took this dwarf on, Fletcher knew who he’d put his money on. The dwarves would make formidable allies indeed.
‘Do you know anywhere cheap and safe to stay around here?’ Fletcher asked, trying to change the subject.
The dwarf turned back and handed him something, closing Fletcher’s hand over it before anyone saw.
‘There’s a place not far from here. It’s a dwarf-friendly tavern, called the Anvil. Maybe somebody can find work for you there. Say Athol sent you. Take the third right down the street, you can’t miss it.’
The dwarf gave him an encouraging smile and turned to another customer, leaving Fletcher holding a square of paper with an anvil printed on the centre. Fletcher smiled and headed in the direction the dwarf had pointed, then remembered he had forgotten to thank him.
As he turned, he locked eyes with the scruffy men from the tavern, their faces lighting up in recognition. They careened towards him and Fletcher began to run. People stared as he jostled through the street, earning himself a clip round the ear as he brushed past a well-dressed man accompanying a young lady.
Just as he was about to reach the turning for the tavern, the street was blocked ahead by two carriages, the horses wheeling and neighing as their drivers yelled at each other. Cursing his luck, Fletcher was forced to turn down a side street. He sprinted into it, glad to at least be away from the thronging crowds. The street was empty, the shops on either side already closed for the night. Then he stopped short, his heart hammering in his chest. It was a dead end.
15
Fletcher used the time he had before the thieves arrived to coax the demon on to his shoulder. It dug its claws into the leather of his jacket, sensing his agitation.
‘Be ready, little fellow; I think this is going to get messy,’ Fletcher murmured, nocking an arrow to his bow and kneeling for better aim. The men rounded the corner and stopped, staring at him.
‘Back off or I’ll put this through your eye. I’ve no qualms about putting down a cutpurse,’ Fletcher shouted, squinting down the arrow at the largest of them. The man smiled, showing a mouth full of yellowed teeth.
‘Aye, I’ve no doubt. But you see, we’re not so much cutpurses as cutthroats, if ye catch my meaning.’ The man sneered and held up a curved blade. ‘All we wants is yer purse and we’ll be on our way, no harm done.’
He took a few steps forward, putting himself within ten feet of Fletcher. The demon hissed and huffed twin plumes of flame from its nostrils that flared just a few inches from the man’s face, sending him stumbling back into the others.
‘I’m not messing around here. Leave now or you’ll regret it!’ Fletcher shouted again, though his voice trembled. He glanced at the silent houses around him. Why hadn’t anyone heard? Someone needed to call the Pinkertons. How wretched it would be to have made it this far, then to die in a dank alleyway on his very first night.
‘Ah, a summoner. You’re one of them adepts from Vocans Academy, aren’t ye? Little past yer bedtime now, isn’t it?’ the man said, brushing himself off.
‘Leave!’ Fletcher said, realising the demon could probably only breathe fire a certain distance. He didn’t want to test that tonight.
‘Well now, ye’ve shown me yours. Let me show ye mine,’ the man said, then whipped out a pistol and pointed it at Fletcher’s chest. Fletcher almost loosed the arrow then and there, but the muzzle jerked as the man walked forward once again.
‘Now which one do ye think will hit faster, the gun or that there bow?’ the man asked with easy confidence. Fletcher eyed the pistol. It was an ugly thing, the metal rusted and the barrel cracked and worn.
‘It doesn’t look too accurate,’ Fletcher said, backing away.
‘Aye, yer right there. But say it missed, and you put that arrow through my eye? My two friends here will come at you sharp like, and slit you from ear to ear. We could both die here, or ye could make it easy and give us what we want. There’s nowt spellcraft or a demon can do against a bullet, summoner,’ the man said, his voice steady and confident. Something told Fletcher the thief had played this game before.
‘I’ll take my chances,’ Fletcher said, loosing his arrow. The pistol belched smoke with a clap and Fletcher heard the crack of an impact near his chest. Light flared across his
vision, yet he could feel no pain – perhaps that would come later. The demon’s squeals rung in his ears as he crumpled to the ground, smiling grimly as he saw the thief fall with an arrow in his skull. The two men behind stood frozen; they had not been expecting Fletcher to go through with it.
‘Wrong, actually,’ came a well-spoken voice from the shadows at the end of the street. ‘There’s plenty spellcraft can do. Like throwing up a shield, for example.’
The scarred officer Fletcher had seen in the tavern emerged, striding in between the two men left standing. A growl came from the gloom behind him, so loud that Fletcher could almost hear it, rumbling in his chest.
‘I would run if I was you,’ advised the officer. Without a second look, the men turned tail and sprinted around the corner. From what Fletcher could hear, they did not make it very far. A loud snarl echoed from out of sight, followed by screams that swiftly descended into a horrid gurgling sound.
Fletcher covered his face with his hands and took deep, sobbing breaths. That had been a close call.
‘Here,’ said the officer, holding out his hand. ‘You’re not injured. My shield saw to that.’
Fletcher took it and was pulled to his feet. He patted his chest, finding no damage. Instead, a glowing crack seemed to hang in the air in front of him, like broken ice on an opaque lake. It was embedded in a large, translucent oval, floating in front of him, which was barely discernible to the naked eye. Even as he reached out to touch it, the shield faded into nothingness. He noticed the bullet had fallen to the ground, its round shape flattened by the impact.
‘Follow me,’ said the officer, striding off without looking at him. Fletcher paused for a moment, then shrugged. The man had saved his life; he wasn’t going to question his intentions.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 7