by Dale Lucas
“Not bad for a horse groomer’s son,” Torval said.
Rem shrugged. “I’ve done a lot of hunting in my time. Read a lot of sign. I’ve never seen orc tracks in the wild before, but we were shown casts when we were young—me and the other house brats—so that we would know when to call off a hunt and come home.”
“Good work,” Torval said, then turned and wandered away again.
It was, Rem thought, feeling a dull glow of pride despite the grim circumstances. It was, at that.
It wasn’t long before they heard heavy feet moving on the bridge above them. Rem and Torval looked upward, toward the sound, and someone up there leaned over the railing and peered down through the fog into the cut of the canal.
“Who’s that?” the newcomer called. “Is that Torval down there?”
“Get down here!” Torval barked. “Double-time!”
The newcomer only nodded, then Rem heard the thump of pounding feet again. In a few more moments, the new arrival and a companion were hurrying down the stone stairs that led from the street above to the canal bank below. One of the new arrivals was a tall, well-made fellow with the dark skin of a Maswari native, while his companion was as pale as Rem, shorter than the tall fellow, but still well-muscled. These two hurried to join Torval and Rem where they stood by the great outflow passage from the sewers. Both of them slowed when they were finally close enough to see the body that lay in the mud.
“Sundry hells,” the dark-skinned one muttered.
“Is that—” the other one began.
Torval nodded, turned, and wandered away from the corpse. “Aye,” he said. “It is.”
Torval was clearly going to make no introductions. Rem stepped forward to make his own. He offered his hand to the two watchwardens. “I’m Rem,” he said, “new to the force. Tonight’s my first night.”
“Djubal,” the dark one said. “I remember you. We saw you following Ondego around the keep like a pup earlier. Didn’t we, Klutch?”
The light-skinned fellow, Klutch, nodded and offered his hand to Rem. “We did, indeed. And here we thought you were just some nobleman’s son, posting bail and begging the prefect to keep your arrest quiet.”
Rem smiled. Perhaps that wasn’t too far from the truth—but these two didn’t need to know that. Now, with introductions made, Djubal and Klutch both drifted nearer. Each knelt beside the body and examined it. Rem made them quietly aware of his observations—especially the orc footprints in the mud—then withdrew, content to let them make their own examinations and surmises.
“Well, now,” Djubal muttered as Rem withdrew. “This is a rank state of affairs …”
Rem looked to his partner. Torval now stood beside the lapping waters of the canal, lost in thought, his back to the rest of them. Rem noted that the wind seemed to have been knocked out of the dwarf: this was the first time all evening that he had not been dominating the conversation, barking orders, or laying out combative challenges. A grave silence and air of distraction hung on him like a pall. Finding his partner dead on the canal bank had turned him inward. Rem didn’t know the dwarf well, but what experience he’d had of him in the last twelve hours suggested that this was anything but normal behavior for him. Granted, he understood the why of it—he just didn’t care to be a witness to it. No doubt, somewhere deep inside himself, Torval would resent Rem—a stranger—seeing him so vulnerable.
“You should go,” Klutch offered from his place beside the corpse. “Both of you. Your watch is finished for the night.”
“We can stay,” Torval said halfheartedly.
“No need,” Djubal answered him, getting to his feet and daring an approach. “We’ve got him now, Torval. We’ll see him handed over to the crones, with all due respect.”
Torval turned. He was still arguing, but Rem noted that the dwarf’s heart didn’t seem to be in it. He simply could not tear himself away, perhaps felt that he would somehow betray Freygaf if he left him. “What about—”
The dark-skinned watchwarden, Djubal, did something then that surprised Rem: he laid a hand on Torval’s shoulder. It was a friendly gesture—a brotherly one.
“We’ll take good care of him,” Djubal promised. “On my honor.”
“Mine as well,” Klutch offered.
“You have none,” Djubal said to his pale partner, his neutral expression curling into a wry half smile. His eyes never left Torval’s. “Go,” he said again. “Give Ondego the news, then call it a night.”
Torval had no argument left. He simply nodded and trudged away from the corpse. Rem followed. They did not share a word all the way back to the watchkeep.
The brothers of the Great Temple of Aemon were ringing five bells when they arrived back at the watchkeep. It was Torval himself who gave Ondego and Hirk the news. Both men, prefect and master sergeant, were still on the premises, still “in character” even now, so early in the morning. Rem idly wondered if the two slept at all, or if they had chambers in the keep itself. Both seemed genuinely saddened by the news of Freygaf’s demise, but Rem noticed that, strangely, neither seemed surprised.
“Now I guess we know why he didn’t show up last night,” Torval said hollowly. He threw a strange, accusatory look at Rem, then went back to moping.
Rem didn’t care for that look. It told him he was a poor substitute for a good man. It told him he was a thief and a vulture, for taking that man’s place without realizing that the man in question wasn’t just sleeping off a drunk or late for work … he was dead beside a Fifth Ward canal.
“Go home,” Ondego said to Torval. “Take tomorrow night off. We’ll partner Rem here with someone else. Pour out some libations for Freygaf and make offerings, if need be. He prayed to the Gods of the Mount, yes?”
“When he prayed,” Torval said. “Which wasn’t often.”
“Still,” Ondego said, “best to keep with custom. The gods of the dead get prayers for their dead. I know you’ll see to it.”
“I’ll see to it,” Torval said, sounding hollow again.
A long silence fell. Torval lingered there in Ondego’s office. Rem didn’t want to leave until Torval did. Ondego stared at them both, awaiting their departure.
“Go home, Torval,” he said.
Torval nodded, rose, and wandered out of the little office. Rem threw a worried look at the prefect, then followed the dwarf out of the chamber.
Outside the keep, first light was bleeding into the world and the people of the Fifth seemed to be slowly yet surely retaking the streets they’d abandoned a few hours before. Rem called to Torval and struggled to catch up, but the dwarf trudged on, slumped shoulders swinging, as though he didn’t hear. Rem finally drew abreast.
“I’m sorry,” Rem said.
Torval grunted.
“I mean it. I can tell he was a good mate and that he meant a lot to you.”
Torval grunted again.
“I could help you, if you needed assistance.”
Torval glanced at him—glared really. “What assistance?”
“I know you’re thinking you should find his killers. Bring them to justice. I could help—”
“No, you couldn’t!” Torval suddenly exploded. He stopped, swung into Rem’s path, and leveled one thick finger at him. “You couldn’t help even if you wanted to, and I know you don’t want to. You just feel guilty. Obligated. As though we share something. Well, listen to me, you northern ponce: we don’t share anything. The very fact that you’re getting all sentimental about me after one lousy night of walking the ward tells me this isn’t the job for you. There’s no room for sentiment here. There’s only the job, and getting it done. Now get away from me and don’t even flap your gums in my direction again!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
With that, Torval turned and stomped away again. Rem wavered over whether to follow him or not. Thus far, the dwarf had exhibited a tendency to esteem confrontation, not withdrawal. Whether they were partners or not, they’d be walking the same ward, and Rem wanted the dwarf�
��s respect. That answered his quandary for him, and he followed. Once more, he hove up alongside the striding dwarf.
“Look,” Rem said. “You don’t have to like me, but I could be of assistance just the same. People don’t know my face around here. They don’t know I’m part of the watch yet. Maybe I could work undercover for you? Try to roust out some information …”
Torval stopped, turned, and shoved Rem with all the strength his little body could muster—which was considerable. Rem went sprawling in the mud, narrowly avoiding a pile of still-steaming ox turds.
“You’re not my friend or my partner,” Torval snarled. “Freygaf was my partner, and he was twice the man you could ever hope to be. So just take yourself back to your rented rooms, you sot—you tourist—and find yourself something else to do. This is a game for grown-ups, not spoiled stable whelps who’ve run away from home.”
With that, the angry dwarf turned and strode away. Rem couldn’t even pull himself up off the ground, he was so shocked, so humbled. The dwarf had him dead to rights … at least, the running-away-from-home part. Rem thought he was being sold short in the matters of his dedication and capabilities, but what did he really have to show the dwarf to claim otherwise? How could he convince the squat bastard that he really did want to help, and that he really did want to bring Freygaf’s killers to justice?
At the end of the street, just before he should have turned a corner and been lost to sight, Torval stopped. He stood for a long time, as if contemplating something. Rem still sat in the mud. He hadn’t made any attempt to rise. When Torval turned and marched back toward him, Rem finally did so, and did his best to scrape the mud off his kecks and jerkin.
Torval’s face was softer now—as soft as that hard, broad countenance could be, anyway. He looked lost and sword-shocked again. For a moment, his mouth worked, but no words came. Rem didn’t rush him.
“I’m sorry,” the dwarf finally said. “That wasn’t fair of me.”
“Understandable,” Rem said. “You’ve had a shock.”
“I don’t know you,” Torval said. “I shouldn’t judge you. But judging is what we watchwardens do. Every night, again and again and again, we walk into situations we know little of and we have to read those involved. We have to guess if they’re dangerous or not, if there’ll be trouble we can handle or trouble we need help with. Judging wrong gets us killed. So, it becomes habit.”
Rem shrugged. He wasn’t angry. “It makes sense,” he said.
Torval was silent for a time. Finally, he nodded, the apology given and accepted. “Come break fast with me,” he said. “We can talk a bit. Maybe … well, maybe if you want to help me, I could use your help.”
Rem nodded. “I’d be honored. Lead the way.”
Torval led Rem into the Third Ward. Rem didn’t ask where they were going and Torval never said, but Rem trusted the little fellow now and knew that Torval was probably still sword-shocked from the revelation of Freygaf’s murder. If he was quiet, it was because he needed quiet. Rem decided to let that contemplative silence persist.
The Third Ward—where Rem kept his rooms—was nowhere near as crowded or as hoary as the Fifth. While its streets seemed just as labyrinthine and its quarters as close, there was an underlying orderliness to it all that made Rem feel far more at ease than he did while walking the Fifth the night before. At this early hour—just after sunrise—the streets were starting to show signs of activity, with food stalls and grocers’ carts nabbing prime real estate at the edges of the cobbled or muddied streets, while blacksmiths, carters, wheelwrights, stevedores, and day laborers all slumped off into the morning mists toward their labors, or in search of paying work. Generally, Rem got the impression that the Third Ward was more middle-class, an impression that hadn’t fully taken hold when he simply rented his rooms there, before knowing how the city’s wards were divided, or what another of those wards looked like.
At last they came to a nicely sized tavern near the East Gate of the city. Its shingle named it the King’s Ass, and it sported a rather charming caricature of a loutish, happily knackered monarch swaying atop a grim-faced, put-upon donkey. Even at this early hour, the doors were wide open and the buzz of conversation spilled out into the still, quiet morning air.
“My place,” Torval said by way of introduction.
“Charming,” Rem answered.
The inside was as warm and inviting as the humorous sign suggested. The rushes and sawdust on the floor were fresh, the tables and chairs lacquered and in good repair, and the clientele a fine mix—neither hoity-toity nor drawn from the dregs, but mostly made up of laborers, shopkeeps, and artisans on their way to or from work. Torval sauntered through the thin crowd like he owned the place. He led Rem up to the bar and they took stools there.
There was no one behind the bar when they hove to, but in moments, a handsome woman just shy of or into her forties appeared from the door to what Rem presumed were the kitchens. Her face brightened when she saw Torval and she made a beeline toward the pair, wiping grease from her hands on the apron that hung around her waist.
“Bless me and keep me,” she muttered, “it’s my very best customer. Just off duty, Torval?”
Torval nodded. Rem saw something strange on the dwarf’s broad face now: a sort of discord where the smile that the woman brought to Torval’s mouth clashed with the still-ruminative sadness in his hazel eyes. “Aarna, my love, you’re a sight for tired eyes.”
The sight of her really did seem to light him up from within, silly as that sounded. But still, the fresh reality of Freygaf lay upon him like a sodden mantle.
“And where’s Freygaf this morning?” Aarna asked, clearly familiar with the dwarf’s former partner. “Did he leave you for the brothels again, or were there prisoners in need of tenderizing?”
The mention of Freygaf’s name brought the trace of tears to Torval’s eyes. He was still struggling to smile, still putting on a show for the woman, but the show was fading, and the truth of his grief pressing through.
“Alas,” Torval said, “our dear Freygaf’s no more.”
His voice broke when he spoke. Rem didn’t know the dwarf very well, but he wagered it took a great deal to make him show emotion so baldly, so publicly, to anyone that wasn’t a blood relation.
Aarna, for her part, seemed to understand this. Immediately, her face was a mask of worry and concern and she rounded the bar. Without a single word—with all the simple, honest sincerity of a true and longtime friend—she threw her arms around Torval and held him. To the dwarf’s credit, he didn’t try to throw off the embrace or shun it—as many a dwarf might—but put his own long, thick arms around Aarna and held her, too. It was a good thing he was sitting on his stool, otherwise, his head would’ve been buried in her ample bosom. Then again, maybe that would’ve assuaged his grief further.
Rem didn’t say a word while Torval sought his solace in the arms of the bar matron. When their embrace finally broke, Torval gave a single, punctuating sniffle, wiped his eyes with his wrist, then slapped the bar.
“Enough,” he said. “I’m famished, and so’s the lad.”
Rem noted that Aarna beamed with something like pride at this subtle display of self-control from Torval. Clearly, she knew the little fellow well and understood that he would let no more of his grief color the morning. When more tears came, they’d come in solitude, without anyone—friend or family member—bearing witness.
She turned her bright eyes and broad smile upon Rem. “And who is the handsome lad, Torval?”
Rem found himself touched. The woman was neither flashy nor what one would call beautiful, but her large brown eyes and broad grin and comfortable curves suggested she was a woman of singular charms and distinctions. Perhaps not highborn or polished, but lovely in her own way nonetheless. To be called handsome by her, to be smiled at by her, made a man feel all the more manly.
“This is Rem,” Torval said gruffly, “a poncey whelp who was arrested the night before last for disturbing
the peace but whose good looks and quick tongue got him a place on the watch. I’ve been forced to deal with his easy incompetence all night long, and now I need a tankard of ale just to wash his taste from my mouth. Can you help me?”
“I can always help,” Aarna assured him, and gave Rem her hand. “Delighted, young sir.”
Rem took her hand and kissed it. “My pleasure, madame.”
“Sundry hells,” Torval chuffed. “Bonny Prince Remeck, kissing hands and collecting favors …”
Aarna slapped Torval’s broad shoulder playfully. “You’re just jealous. Shall you be breaking fast, as well?”
“Aye.”
“Ale and repast, then, on the way.” She left them with a flourish, and Rem delighted in the silly, self-indulgent grin that bloomed on Torval’s face as he watched Aarna disappear into the kitchen.
Rem heard something off to his left, a sound that drew his gaze and begged his attention. It was laughter—high, musical, completely unselfconscious. That laughter belonged to a young barmaid on the far side of the room with flaxen ringlets and bright-blue eyes. She, too, had Aarna’s natural brightness and charm—evident from a distance—although there was no way the two could be related, so different were they. Nonetheless, Rem suddenly found himself staring, watching the young lady as she smiled and flirted and freely laughed with a group of stonemasons as they placed their orders.
For a moment, he smiled. The girl’s laugh reminded him of Indilen, and their brief afternoon together. She had a laugh like that, as well—a laugh as bright as sunlight on a rippling pond. In an instant, his smile had fallen.
“Oh ho, see here,” Torval said beside him. “Some bull’s had his lead yanked.”
Rem threw a glance at Torval, tried to force a smile and sound nonchalant. “Just admiring the scenery.”
“What you see doesn’t seem to be pleasing you,” Torval said.
Rem shrugged. He thought he might speak, as well, but no words came. Thankfully, Torval did not press him for any.