The Fifth Ward--First Watch

by Dale Lucas

  Despite their rough appearance, Torval led Rem right up to the bar and there greeted the burly, smiling fellow who was in the midst of serving and hosting the patrons. He seemed quite happy to see Torval—albeit puzzled at the great amount of mud and blood that the dwarf tracked in with him. Rem couldn’t hear their conversation—the room was too loud, too boisterous—but he noted that the smiling barman and Torval only exchanged a few pleasantries before the barman finally cocked his head, indicating that Torval should follow him into the back. Torval tugged at Rem’s sleeve. The two of them trailed behind their host.

  He led them to a room off a corridor behind the bar. Once ensconced in the cozy little space—the desk, balance, ledgers, and many barrels and casks around them suggested it was part office, part storeroom—Rem and Torval were left alone with their wounded pride and bruised bodies, the noise of the main room reduced to a dull roar once the door was closed.

  “Where’s Aarna?” Rem asked.

  “He’s fetching her,” Torval said, not looking at him.

  Rem felt like he could sleep for a week if he could only lie down. “Who was he? The fellow behind the bar?”

  “That’s Joedoc,” Torval said. “The brewmaster. As I told you, he works nights. Gives Aarna a break, since she handles the day shift most of the time.”

  The door to the little room opened then. Aarna swept into the room, studying the two scrappy watchwardens and giving them a look somewhere between concern and incredulity. A serving girl was at her elbow, lingering in the doorway, trying to get a good look at the two mud-encrusted ruffians in the office.

  “What on earth happened to the two of you?” Aarna demanded.

  Torval opened his mouth to answer. Aarna stopped him and turned to the serving girl. “A bowl of hot water, some rags, and two mugs of Joedoc’s Old Thumper.” The girl disappeared to do as she was told. Aarna sat down. Before either of them said a word, she told Torval that his sister and children had made it to the King’s Ass safely, and that they were presently in a room upstairs, probably fast asleep.

  Torval smiled warmly at the news. He stared at Aarna with eyes full of want and wonder. “You’ve done me a great service,” he said.

  Aarna shrugged and smiled that bright, broad smile of hers. “Anything for my closest friends, which you’re counted among. Now tell me—what the hell happened to the two of you?”

  Torval told their story.

  To Rem’s surprise, Torval told Aarna almost everything: their investigation, Joss in Freygaf’s chambers, the little medallion, the trips to the Creeper’s and the Nightjar’s, and finally, their foray to Mage’s Alley. It was as he regaled her with a reconstruction of their fight with the albino orc that the serving girl returned with the hot water and rags. As Torval’s tale unfolded, Aarna bade both of them strip their shirts.

  “You’re both a mess,” she said. “I’ll clean you up.”

  And so she did. They stripped their cuirasses and shirts, and Aarna wiped away the dried mud and blood. She tended their wounds with tinctures and herb pastes that she kept handy for just such emergencies, then disappeared once more to try to find the two of them some clean shirts, for she had a seamstress and laundress who used the King’s Ass as her office and who usually kept some spare bits of clothing around to sell to the needy or the roughhoused.

  While Aarna was gone, Rem decided he would broach a question that had been on his mind ever since their run-in with the orc.

  “That wasn’t just self-defense or the prosecution of duty,” Rem said. “You hate them, don’t you? You really, truly, deeply hate them. Orcs.”

  Torval threw Rem a sour glance and shrugged. “What of it?”

  Rem drew a deep breath. Let it out. “They’re not all bad, you know. They’re rough and belligerent and sometimes quarrelsome, but there are some who come down out of the mountains—just like you did—wanting nothing more than to find some work and pocket some coin. They get tired of fighting, too.”

  “Save it,” Torval said. “I don’t really know who you are or where you come from, boy, but I’ll wager you haven’t spent as much time around those slag-skinned brutes as I have. And I’m here to tell you, they’re no good. Not a one of them. The world would be a better place if we could wipe them all from the face of it.”

  Rem decided not to argue any further. Best let things lie.

  Aarna returned. She bore with her a pair of shirts: one large, for Rem, the other smaller, for Torval. Each of them took the offered frock and slipped into it. Rem found his shirt a little baggy, but it fit more or less. He wasn’t terribly pleased by the ruffled sleeves and collar, but what could he do? Go shirtless?

  Torval’s shirt was clearly made for a child, and his broad shoulders almost split it open. But, assuming he moved very little in it, it seemed to meet his needs. Rem thought the roses and vines embroidered around the collar and shoulders a nice touch and couldn’t help but laugh when he saw it on his bellicose little partner.

  “You’ve got to be joking?” Torval said to Aarna.

  “You’re welcome to wear nothing at all,” Aarna said, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “These were all she had that would fit the two of you.”

  “But … roses?” Torval whined.

  “How do you think I feel?” Rem asked. “Just look at these bloody ruffles?”

  “They make you look dashing, young sir,” Aarna said, and she only appeared to be half joking. “Honestly, the two of you look better now than you did when you came in. Stop complaining or I’ll make you pay for those frocks.”

  Torval harrumphed. Rem threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Each of them took long swigs from the mugs Aarna had provided. Joedoc’s Old Thumper—a special, signature brew of the brewmaster’s—rolled down their throats, filled their bellies, and settled their nerves. It was good, strong stuff, and Rem fancied he could probably swill a barrel of it if only one was provided.

  “So,” Aarna began, “what next for you two miscreants? Ready to raid one of the patriarchs’ palaces? Maybe a sweep through the whorehouses quayside? Or perhaps you’d just prefer to wade into Orctown calling ‘huffer’ and ‘mudknuckles,’ marauding as you go?”

  “None of the above,” Torval said. “We’ve a lead and we have to follow it. Sheba told us of a gaming house or tavern of some sort—the Moon Under Water. Have you heard of it?”

  Aarna nodded. “Certainly. It’s quayside, Fourth Ward.”

  “Fourth Ward,” Torval muttered.

  Rem immediately understood. “Frennis.”

  Torval nodded grimly.

  “Another journey into our favorite prefect’s jurisdiction,” Rem muttered. “Ondego will be pleased.”

  “To hell with him,” Torval shot back. “If we break this case and find Freygaf’s killers, Ondego won’t give a damn that we stepped on some other prefect’s toes—least of all a puffed-out twat like Frennis.”

  “May I remind you,” Aarna interjected, “that if this Moon Under Water place is in the Fourth Ward and hides some terrible secret, it’s probably under Frennis’s protection. And if the two of you could prove that—”

  Rem and Torval both stared at Aarna for a moment. She stared back, hands on her hips. “But I’m sure the two of you already thought of that—pair of brilliant sages like yourselves.”

  Rem smiled a little and raised his mug to her. “I like the way you think, milady.”

  “As do I,” Torval said, following suit and raising his own mug. As Rem sipped, he stole a glance at Torval. Even as he upended his mug and gulped, the dwarf never took his eyes off Aarna. Rem fought an urge to smile.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Aarna said, “the place is on Pike Street. But I could be wrong.”

  “That’ll do,” Torval said, rising and stretching. His face and shoulders were still covered with bruises and scratches, but at least he was no longer crusted in mud and old blood. Rem felt fresher as well, although simple weariness was starting to catch up with him. It had been a hard night
, and he had a feeling it was far from over.

  “One last thing,” Torval said to Aarna. “Did you get a package today? Something I asked to be delivered here?”

  Aarna nodded. “I did, in fact.”

  “Fetch it, lass. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  Aarna lingered, staring at Torval as though he were a child. “The magic words, Old Stump?”

  Torval looked genuinely baffled. “Now?”

  Aarna raised an eyebrow.

  Torval seemed to hit upon the right words. “If you please?”

  Aarna smiled. “No trouble at all.” She bustled off.

  “So, what now?” Rem asked.

  “We go to the Moon Under Water,” Torval said. “As soon as Aarna returns with my parcel.”

  “What’s the plan?” Rem asked.

  Torval shrugged. “We beat the bouncers senseless, get inside, and take a look around. Someone will tell us something.”

  Rem drew a deep breath. He ached all over. “Might I suggest, Torval, that we try something a little less … direct?”

  “Like what?” Torval asked.

  Rem shrugged. “I don’t know … maybe, being polite? Perhaps a little subterfuge? Not announcing ourselves as watchwardens right at the outset?”

  “I don’t understand,” Torval said, and he looked like he truly didn’t.

  “Have you ever heard the adage ‘You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar’?”

  Torval shrugged. “Heard it. Never cared for it. You don’t catch flies, you swat them.”

  Rem shook his head. If he was going to convince Torval, he needed a plan. With the two of them running all over the city, chasing leads and getting into fights, there was a good chance that the guards at such a shady establishment might already be expecting them. If they could just find a different angle of approach …

  Aarna returned then. She carried something long, slender, and heavy, wrapped in a cotton shroud. “Who gets this?” she asked.

  Torval pointed to Rem. “It’s his,” he said.

  Rem was puzzled. His? What was Torval talking about?

  Aarna handed him the parcel. Rem knew what it was the moment she placed it in his hands—the heft and weight of it made it clear. He felt a smile creeping onto his face as he unwrapped the shroud and found himself staring at a well-made but unostentatious Estavari short sword, complete with a scabbard and baldric. It was the sort of weapon a mercenary might invest in—not so finely tooled or gussied-up as a knight’s or a lord’s weapon, but made of better steel and with better balance than the sword of a farmer or man-at-arms. Rem held the blade out and peered down its length. Straight and true. He thumbed the edges. It was sharpened and well oiled.

  He looked to Torval. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s yours,” Torval said. “You said you were good with a sword. I expect you to prove it.”

  “A gift?” Rem asked, truly floored.

  “Not precisely,” Torval said. “You can pay me back for it if you wish, at your leisure. I just wagered it would be easier if I bought it for you from the Ward stores, rather than letting you try to run a gauntlet of teases and naysayers if you picked one out for yourself. And if this day has proven anything, it’s that you need a good sword at your side. Does it suit you?”

  Rem nodded. He wanted to be out in the street with the blade, so that he could truly test its balance and grace. “You chose well, Torval. You’re a good matchmaker between warrior and weapon.”

  Torval shrugged. “Always fancied so. Shall we be on our way?”

  Rem turned to Aarna, having a sudden inspiration. “Aarna,” he asked, “should we be on our way?”

  Aarna stared at Rem for a moment, not sure what he was suggesting. Rem studied the bar matron and his partner, then leaned on his new sword.

  “I don’t understand,” Aarna said.

  “Neither do I,” Torval added.

  “We need a new strategy,” Rem said. “If the two of us approach the Moon Under Water, Torval, we’ll probably be recognized and turned away. Then, our only way in is by force.”

  “So?” Torval asked.

  “There are other ways,” Rem said. “So, listen … let me lay this out before you dismiss it.”

  He told them.

  Aarna was delighted.

  Torval, not so much.

  CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

  They left their watchwarden cuirasses behind and wore their badges inside their shirts. They might need to make their warden status clear at some point, but to start with, they would approach as normal patrons, out for games, some drinks, maybe a roll in the hay. To complete their subterfuge, Aarna found a fresh jerkin for Rem—borrowed from one of her taproom patrons—and Torval got a leather vest for himself from the clothing that Osma and the children had brought with them to their rooms at the King’s Ass.

  Thus, somewhat refreshed, their wounds tended, Rem, Torval, and Aarna set out from the King’s Ass and headed toward the Moon Under Water. It was, according to Aarna, over in the Fourth Ward, on a ridge of bluffs above the merchant docks. Climbing the gentle slopes into that bawdy and boisterous quarter, it took them almost no time to locate the Moon Under Water, backed up against the bluff’s edge and overlooking the moon-drenched harbor beyond. There, they ensconced themselves in a dark alleyway adjacent to the tavern’s front entrance. They watched for a time as patrons came and went, debating their options. Despite a few more objections from Torval, Rem insisted that they stick to his plan.

  “I don’t like that plan,” Torval countered. “That plan entails you taking Aarna into that place, and we don’t know what we’ll find in there. It may not be safe.”

  “Pishposh,” Aarna answered. “I’m a big girl, Torval, and I’m here of my own free will. The boy’s plan is a good one, and it certainly carries fewer risks than would the two of you approaching the door and trying to bluff your way in. If someone involved in this conspiracy really is connected to that place, they may have already warned those two guards out front to be on the lookout for a red-maned youngster and a dwarf.”

  Torval grunted.

  “Are we in agreement?” Aarna asked.

  Rem was taken aback. The lady certainly knew her own mind. Here she was doing the two of them a favor by tagging along, and she’d already taken charge of the expedition.

  “She’s right,” Rem said to Torval. “We’ll be more conspicuous together, less so apart.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” Torval asked. “If you use Joss’s bauble to get through the door, I won’t have it to get myself in.”

  “You just act like a customer,” Aarna said. “Reel a bit. Act drunk and randy. See if they’ll let you in if they think you’ve got coin to spend.”

  Torval spat. “I still don’t like it.”

  Aarna bent over, threw her arms around the dwarf, and kissed his bald head. “Ooooh,” she said agreeably, “you’ll see. It’ll work well. It’ll be fun.”

  Rem saw that Torval smiled when Aarna embraced and kissed him, no matter that the gesture was meant as an encouragement between friends. Then the dwarf was all seriousness again. He looked to Rem and scowled, brows lowering above his blue eyes.

  “You keep her safe,” Torval said with all seriousness. “You’re the watchwarden. She’s just a civilian. If anything happens to her—”

  Rem patted his sword. “Safe as houses, Torval. You have my word.”

  “Are we going or aren’t we?” Aarna asked, then threw her arms around Rem, planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek, and laughed long and loud, the laugh of a drunken moll answering a joke from her well-paying jack.

  “What the bloody hell …?” Torval breathed.

  Aarna shrugged. “Just getting into character. Come on, dear boy”—she yanked at Rem’s arm—“let’s carry on into this den of iniquity.”

  Rem looked to Torval and raised his eyebrows. Once more, he understood well Torval’s attraction to the bar matron. Torval, for his part, did not look amused.


  Rem and Aarna stumbled out of the alley. Rem did his best to seem good and soused, well into his cups, and Aarna did a spectacular job beside him. Clearly, spending most of her adult life serving drunks had taught her how to impersonate one. Rem, for his part, was reminded of the very few times he’d joined troupes of traveling mummers on stage for performances at his father’s court. His father had never cared for his literary or theatrical proclivities and chided him often for ‘making a fool of himself,’ as he put it, whenever the mummers were passing through. That memory—the joy of performance, the weight of his father’s shame, Rem’s eventual decision to simply watch the performances and not try to insert himself—almost drew him right out of the performance he should have been putting on at that moment. Then Aarna laughed again beside him and Rem yanked himself back into the moment, laughing as well. The two of them kept up their act all the way across the muddy street, the Moon Under Water looming closer and closer in their vision as they lumbered and lurched this way and that, told each other silly jokes, and laughed too loudly in answer to them.

  The Moon Under Water itself hardly seemed sinister. It was two-storied, with porches below and above, shuttered windows, and wooden shingles on the peaked roof. It was one of a number of warehouses, inns, and taverns that lined this particular quayside avenue, and it seemed wholly unremarkable in every way. It didn’t even have the customary red lantern out front to indicate that it doubled as a sporting house. As they approached, the front door opened and a fresh bouncer appeared to relieve one of the two burly sentries who flanked the door. When the door opened, Rem caught a glimpse of the smoky, crowded interior of the common room downstairs. Whatever dark secrets the place possessed, they were buried beneath the jostle and energy of what seemed to be a pretty normal—if large and crowded—tavern.

  Aarna loosed another loud, cackling laugh, threw her arms sloppily around Rem, and gave him another kiss. Her open mouth fell on his and pressed firmly. Rem, not sure what he should do, muttered through pursed lips.