by Dale Lucas
“What a colorful metaphor,” the Lady said, without a hint of mirth in her voice.
“We’ll be on our way,” Torval said, and broke off from her. The glum porter who had shown them in was waiting by the path to escort them out again.
Just before they disappeared into the thick growth of Lady Ynevena’s enchanted garden, Rem heard the Lady speak from her divan on the terrace.
“It was a delight making your acquaintance, Watchwarden Remeck. Do call again, even if you have no particular business to transact.”
Rem forced himself not to look back. He kept moving, as though he had not heard her—but of course, he knew that she knew that he had.
He and Torval did not speak again until they were back on the cobbled street outside the compound walls and some distance from the gateway. They rejoined a bustling avenue that cut through the hoity-toity Second Ward, an avenue loosely crowded with foot and litter traffic, sporting flower vendors and hungry solicitors on almost every major corner. Finally, when they had reached this seemingly safe haven—out in the world, away from the Lady Ynevena’s enchanted garden and its temptations—Torval broke their silence with an incredulous snort.
“You’ve never been around them, have you?” he asked.
Rem threw up his hands. “Of course not. Why would a—a—groom’s son from the north have any commerce with elves?”
Torval shook his head. “Bloody witch, skulking around inside your head. Don’t you dare go back there, do you hear me?”
“I would never—” Rem began. “Of course not.”
“Don’t give me that cack,” Torval said. “You were eyeing her like she was your last supper before the gallows, and she knew it at well as I did. I’ve seen it before—those bloody tree fuckers cast strange spells on human hearts. For you, it’s an immortal and everlasting love, for her kind, it’s an afternoon’s tryst. I’m telling you, lad, if you let her into your head and heart, you’ll never be right again. Trust me on this.”
Rem nodded. “You have my word.”
They heard a commotion and turned toward it. A stone’s throw away, a pair of well-dressed Second Ward watchmen were rousting an orc in a threadbare old cloak from the stretch of cobbles where he crouched, no doubt begging alms. There were other beggars on the street—where better to beg than at the doors of the rich and well-appointed, after all?—but these watchmen seemed to have no interest in the others. The orc was their only target.
“We should go,” Torval said quietly. “We’ve got letters from Ondego, so we’re in this ward on business, but that may not stop them from asking questions and dragging us back to their watchkeep for an official report.”
Rem nodded and they set out, heading down a side street away from the main thoroughfare, a more direct shortcut back toward the northeastern quarters of the city.
“I would’ve expected more cooperation between the wardwatches,” Rem said as they walked.
“Maybe once upon a time,” Torval said, shaking his head. “Perhaps at some point far beyond us. But presently, the wards are all fiefdoms, and the lords of the fiefs don’t much care for footsoldiers from the others stomping on their turf. Being forced to pay a toll for unmolested passage through the ward isn’t unusual, and four times of five, that toll comes out of your own purse.”
Rem shook his head. “There’s no authority over the prefects, to settle such disputes?”
Torval nodded. “Of course there is. That’s Black Mal, the chief magistrate, who reports to Essarhadden, the high justice. But Black Mal’s only concern is maintaining the semblance of order, collecting fines, and getting a steady supply of convicts that the Halls of Justice can sell to slavers or lease to mining companies for profit. He’ll only settle disputes between prefects if he thinks doing so will result in greater order or increased coin for the Halls’ coffers. Truth be told, I think he likes the competition between the prefects and their men—it lets him see plainly who’s got real sack and who’s merely a quailing bureaucrat.”
Rem shook his head once again. “Senseless,” he muttered.
“Call it tradition, however foul,” Torval said. “Now let’s get back to our side of town and break fast. I’m starving.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rem kept pace beside the dwarf as they marched out of the Second Ward, across the breadth of the First and back into the Third, into the narrow, winding streets where early morning was already rousting out the carters, the grocers, the merchants, and the shopkeepers for another day of business and toil. In the east, the sun was just above the city walls and lowest rooftops, shining down into the narrow streets obliquely, creating deep pools of shadow in the lee of the temples and tenements. Far from invigorating Rem, the low glare of the morning sun made him even more weary. He thought a few times that he might bow out on Torval’s invitation to break fast, but something in the dwarf’s preoccupied manner and knit brow told him that Torval needed company right now, so he stuck with him.
After stopping by a cheesemaker’s to buy a flagon of goat’s milk, they came at last to their apparent destination—not a tavern at all, but an apartment house in the heart of the Third Ward, with an arkwright’s shop on the ground floor and a narrow stairway leading to the rooms above.
“Is this your home, Torval?” Rem asked.
Torval nodded. “Such as it is. You’ve no objections?”
Rem was about to shake his head—indeed, he was more than a little curious to see what kind of home the little ball of muscle and obstreperousness made for himself—when a commotion in the street at their backs interrupted him.
A costermonger leading the way for a heavily laden two-wheeled cart dragged by what appeared to be his overlarge teenage son had encountered a hindrance to their progress in the form of a tall, huddled beggar blocking a rather narrow corner where the street bent sharply. Now that same costermonger stood shouting into the face of the beggar in question, but surprisingly, the beggar was neither begging pardon nor backing down.
Rem studied the big vagabond in the tattered, stained old cloak that stood his ground against the foul-mouthed costermonger and realized suddenly why the panhandler wasn’t backing down or begging pardon. It was an orc—his bare, corded arms and the jut of his lower jaw beneath the cowl of his cloak made that clear enough. But more puzzling to Rem was the orc’s complexion. It wasn’t the typical olive green or slate gray of most of its kin, but of a pale sort: bone white, with a tinge of blue green, an albino of some sort.
And that realization sent a strange, uneasy tremor down the length of Rem’s spine, because he had seen that pale-skinned orc before. Just an hour or so ago, the same beast had been rousted out by the Second Ward watchmen for begging at some inappropriate crossroads near the homes of the rich. And just two hours ago, Rem would be willing to lay coin on the fact that the very same orc had been part of the milling crowd that swirled around the scene of his and Torval’s deadly street duel with Joss’s sellswords.
“Torval,” Rem began, ready to offer his observations.
“I know,” Torval said, clearly having suffered the same realization. “Let me handle it.”
These last words were spoken with a terrible undercurrent of malice and acrimony—growled almost, like an animal’s snarl when it realizes it’s being trailed by a predator. Torval then shoved the flagon of goat’s milk into Rem’s hands and headed toward the bend in the street where the orc and the peddler traded their heated words. As he approached, Torval reached over his shoulder and drew his iron maul out of its sheath.
Rem took a few steps forward, trying to figure out just how, if it came to pass, he could join the coming fray. And what should he do with the milk?
Torval was almost upon the orc and the peddler. He shouted, “You!” and both of them turned toward his booming voice. The peddler looked annoyed, as if he had asked for no assistance and would now refuse any offered, but the orc was a different matter. When it turned and saw Torval, Rem got a clearer look at its shadowed face. He saw t
he glint of small red eyes deep in the shade of its cowl, and he had the fleetest, barest impression that those eyes glinted with something like surprise, even fear, when the orc saw Torval approaching.
No, neither surprise nor fear exactly—recognition.
Torval shook his maul at the orc. “Get your huffing, humpbacked arse out of my dooryard, you filthy, scurvy, begging beast, you!”
“Carry on, Old Stump,” the peddler said. “I can handle my own altercations, thank you—”
Torval didn’t relent. He never even acknowledged the costermonger. “Yeah, I’m talking to you!” the dwarf snarled. He was in a state unlike any Rem had seen him in thus far: more angry than he had been at Creeper’s, more fearsome than he had been when questioning Ginger Joss. His whole body shook with rage and the veins on his neck stood out like guylines on an oak mast. Before the costermonger could utter another protest, Torval shot forward, poked the orc with the blunt end of his maul, then kicked the begging brute repeatedly, his stumpy little feet driving the towering beast into retreat.
“Move! Move! Move!” Torval shouted as he kicked at the orc and swung his maul. “Get your milk-white carcass back to Orctown and keep it there, you mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging piece of dried-up old pigshit!”
The orc looked surprised, hurt, a little angry, but mostly just shocked. It shrank from Torval’s blows, tried to mutter some apology or curse, but managed only to growl and howl, then drew its tattered cloak about it and went loping up the street. Torval stood his ground until the orc was well out of sight. Only when he knew it was gone and not returning did he turn and acknowledge the peddler.
“I could have handled it,” the peddler said.
“Da,” the strapping lad carrying the peddler’s cart whined. “This is heavy.”
“Shut your sauce-box,” the peddler snapped. “And you, Old Stump—I see that badge. You’re of the Fifth. This isn’t even your ward—”
Torval leaned into the costermonger’s fat face. “Move this cart now, or I’ll have you in stocks by sundown.”
The peddler was clearly shocked. “Why, you can’t talk to me that way!”
Torval lunged at the boy dragging the cart. “Now!”
The boy lurched forward, dragging the laden cart and all its second-rate bric-a-brac with him. He almost ran down his father as he made the effort to move along and clear the narrow bend in the street.
Torval withdrew from them, scowling bitterly. The peddler called after him.
“I’ll report this!”
“By sundown!” Torval shot back, and continued on to where Rem waited. When he reached Rem, he neither acknowledged him nor stopped, just snatched the flagon of goat’s milk from him and kept on marching, right toward a little door next to the entrance to the arkwright’s shop. Beyond the door, he mounted some steps.
“Come on,” he spat back at Rem. “Bleeding mudknuckles …”
Rem, thoroughly amazed by the level of Torval’s ferocity for a single, begging orc on the street—even if that orc had been familiar and suspicious—followed without a word.
Torval led Rem up a flight of steps, down a short corridor, and came at last to a door that he knocked upon. The knocks came in code—four, then two, then three. From within, Rem heard an explosion of laughter and childish voices.
“Papa!” they all exclaimed.
“Auntie Osma!” he heard. “Papa’s home!”
Papa?
Rem studied Torval in the gloomy little corridor. The dwarf had a strange look on his face, part eager excitement, part mild embarrassment. Rem tried to smile in such a way as to put Torval at ease, but before any words could pass between them, a bolt was thrown back on the door, the door swung inward, and three small figures poured out into the corridor to latch onto Torval like lampreys on a shark. Their laughter was infectious. Rem heard himself joining in after only a moment. A matronly dwarf woman stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
In the tangle of limbs and laughter, Rem thought he counted three children: one, a girl, probably in her teens, a boy slightly younger, and a little one that barely came up to Torval’s thigh, leaping again and again with arms in the air, begging for his father to scoop him up and hold him. Torval, assaulted by these little miscreants and clearly happy to be so, handed the flagon of goat’s milk to the woman (Aunt Osma, Rem supposed), then did as he was bade. He scooped his little boy into one arm and threw the other long arm around his daughter and older son.
“All night walking the ward,” Torval growled, “and I come home to an ambush. Poor, dear, unlucky me! Remeck, lad, have you ever seen such a gathering of rowdy, rambunctious ragamuffins in all your life?”
Rem shook his head. He felt an unbidden smile on his lips. “Surely, Torval, I haven’t.”
The little one in Torval’s arms pointed at Rem. “Who’s this?”
“He’s tall,” the girl said, and Rem could tell by the way she studied him and said that it was meant as a compliment. He turned red and hoped the shadows of the corridor hid the fact.
“Inside,” Osma said. “Inside, inside. We’ve got to be off to school and the market soon!”
Torval and his little ones tromped back into the little apartment. Rem followed.
The ceiling was low, but not so low that Rem couldn’t stand up straight. It didn’t seem like an apartment made specifically for dwarves—just a small one made for humans. From where he stood in the forward room, Rem saw there were three chambers: the forward room, adjoining the hall, an aft room, facing the street, and a long side room off to the right. In the aft room lay a brick oven and chimney full of white, ashy coals from the previous night’s fire. Osma bent over these, raked them to bring some life back into them, then threw another piece of cordwood on the ash pile to rekindle a fire. She then drew out a pot that had been hanging on an iron hook just outside the fire and carried it to the family table in the forward room, where Torval and his miscreants were all a tangle of arms and legs and chattering mouths and bright eyes and ruddy young faces. Clearly, the children didn’t always get to see their father before they were taken to their lessons or went with their aunt for the day, to do whatever it was they did in the market.
Seeing them—a family, each beloved of the other, each happy to see the other—gave Rem a slight pang of homesickness. He thought he even felt the sting of tears in his eyes. But he couldn’t allow such maudlin sentimentality—surely!—so he pinched the bridge of his nose, drew a deep breath, and concentrated on just enjoying the moment. If he missed being missed—being loved—he would just have to bask in the glow from these four.
“I’m sorry to offer so little,” Osma said, placing half a loaf of barley bread on the table beside the iron pot and the goat’s milk. “Since my brother failed to tell me he was bringing company home to break fast.”
“And how could I have warned you?” Torval asked, snarling as his littlest one yanked on his fox-tailed mustaches.
“Is he a watchman like you, Papa?” the middle boy asked.
“He’d like to think so, Tav,” Torval said, throwing Rem a wink. Rem appreciated the good-natured joshing and decided to play it further.
“In point of fact,” Rem said, “I was a criminal before your father reformed me. Spent a night in the dungeons and everything.”
The middle boy’s eyes grew wide and shone like jewels in the gloomy little apartment. “Untrue!”
Rem laid his hand on his heart. “I swear. Your father found me in the dungeons and beat some sense into me.”
“More like,” Torval broke in, “Longshanks here was handed to me. ‘Make something of him,’ the prefect said, ‘or it’s your hide, Torval!’”
“And how’s he shaping up so far?” the middle boy asked.
“Tavarix!” the elder girl hissed. “Don’t be rude!” She threw Rem a solicitous look, suggesting that she understood his plight and respected his privacy, even if no one else did.
“Well, all’s well, Ammi!” the boy shot back. “He’s
here eating with us, so he can’t be all bad!”
“Strictly amateur,” Torval grumbled with a grin, then drew a bowl near and poured some of the goat’s milk into it. “He’s harmless.” He snagged the barley bread next, tore off a piece, dipped it in the milk, and ate.
Osma set a bowl in front of Rem, along with a wooden spoon. “Help yourself, sir. We don’t stand on ceremony here.”
“Many thanks,” Rem said, bending forward to look into the pot. It was a stew of some sort, still steaming a bit and smelling delicious. “Lamb?” he asked her.
“Mutton,” she said with a shrug.
Rem scooped out two portions—plenty would be left for Torval—spiked his stew with some of the goat’s milk—just as he would’ve done back home—and dug in. It was simple, but hearty and good, even this early in the morning. He instantly liked Torval’s sister, this Osma. Anyone who could take a few chunks of tough mutton, a turnip and an onion and turn it into some homey, enjoyable fare was to be celebrated.
Torval drew the pot to himself and spooned out the rest of the stew. Together, the watchmen ate as the children swarmed and laughed and cavorted around them. Ammi kept doting on Rem in a most motherly fashion, despite her youth, offering him some wild strawberries to go with the goat’s milk and even using the hem of her own dress to wipe some stray stew off Rem’s chin. The middle boy, Tavarix, wanted to know all about Rem and what villains he and their father had been busy thumping the night before. He might be small of stature, but Tavarix was as full of boundless energy and enthusiasm as any human child Rem had ever known. Then there was the young one—little Lokki—who looked to be about five, but who was probably more like ten—dwarven children growing at a much slower rate than their human counterparts. Lokki was a delight, all smiles and laughter and body-rocking giggle fits, clearly adoring his father and being the apple of his family’s collective eye. He climbed on Torval, monkeylike, as the dwarf ate his breakfast.
To Rem’s great delight, Osma laid a pitcher before them along with small mugs. “That’s the last of it,” she said to Torval. “I expect you’ll bring more home with you on the morrow?”