by Dale Lucas
“What the bloody shit is this?” Frennis, the former prefect of the Fourth, barked as Ondego and Hirk stepped up to his cell. “Ondego, when Black Mal gets word—”
“He got word,” Ondego said. “He got it from those salty dogs we seized on Masarda’s ship and from Masarda’s hired hands captured at the Moon Under Water. He even got testimony from the Nightjar, who was very happy to finally divest himself of his knowledge of your criminal conspiracy with that pointy-eared scum upstairs.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Frennis said, but Rem could see clearly that he did know what they were on about. And for the first time, Rem thought he saw fear in the onetime prefect’s jowly face.
Ondego nodded to Hirk, who unlocked the cell. Rem and Torval, knowing now why they’d been enlisted, stepped into the cell, each took one of the prefect’s arms, and began the slow, laborious work of dragging him out again.
“Come on, Ondego, you know me,” Frennis pleaded. His fear seemed to have sapped his normal, considerable strength. He struggled, pitching his body from side to side, but it was a weak struggle—a futile one. “This isn’t necessary,” he said. “I can assure you—”
“’Fraid so,” Ondego said. He indicated their destination with a nod. “The chair, lads.”
Rem and Torval obliged. It took some doing, but they finally got Frennis perched on the chair in the torture pit—a chair almost too small for his big frame—and shackled in place.
Ondego descended into the shallow pit. He made his usual rounds: the font, the brazier, the table, with its array of nasty surgical implements and blunt objects.
Rem smelled something. He lowered his eyes. Frennis had pissed himself.
“Ondego, my partnership with Mykaas was lucrative. What say we make a deal—”
“No deals, Frennis,” Ondego said, reciting holy writ. “Not now, not ever.”
“Bollocks,” Frennis spat. “So what’s it gonna be, Ondego? A rusty bone saw? Thorns beneath my fingernails? A red-hot poker in my arse?”
“Nah,” Ondego said, letting his eyes dance from Hirk to Rem to Torval, then finally back to their prisoner. “Bare fists.”
Frennis drew a deep breath, preparing himself.
“Who shall do the honors?” Ondego asked, looking to Rem and Torval.
Rem was eager for the first go at the fat former prefect, but he deferred to Torval’s seniority.
CHAPTER THIRTY–ONE
Ultimately, it played out as Ondego predicted. After the Lady Ynevena held two private meetings with the Council of Patriarchs, Masarda was remanded into her custody. She swore on the spirits of all her ancestors and any progeny to come that any and all of his victims still held in bondage on Aadendrath would be returned to their homes, and that Mykaas Masarda’s crimes, being of the most heinous and terrible sort, demanded swift and terrible justice. But that justice, she assured them, would be dispensed by his own kind, not by any wardwatch, city guard, or executioner of Yenara. If the Council of Patriarchs insisted, Masarda’s head could be returned to them, after his long punishment was done and perdition finally claimed him. But Masarda could not be left in the hands of human authorities. That would simply not do. Elves did not hand over elves for execution by human hands, after all, no matter how terrible their crime.
Ondego assured Rem and Torval that this was the way of things: how it always had been, how it always would be. It chapped his dangly bits, to be sure, but what could one do?
Thus, Torval and Rem watched as a squad of elven guardsmen from the Lady Ynevena’s house came to claim the criminal, the kidnapper, the flesh peddler, the murderer Mykaas Masarda to accompany him to an elven ship waiting in Yenara’s harbor, and from there to spirit him they-knew-not-where to some unknown, unseen justice. Rem assumed their odds of seeing Masarda again were minuscule to none, whether he was punished or not. When he said as much to Torval, the dwarf agreed.
“But,” Torval said, “that’s the job. Sometimes you’re the edge of the sword or the boss of the shield, and sometimes you’re just a cog in a mill.”
That did not sit well with Rem, but he supposed he had little choice but to accept it.
Their reward for being the pair that captured Masarda and solved the case: three full days off the rosters. Ondego urged them to get some sleep and enjoy the comfort of their idle holiday, because when they returned, he would once more expect them to jockey for the honor of the best watchmen in his ward. No resting on their laurels. To start their days of rest, Rem and Torval decided to mount a little celebration, just for themselves and their loved ones.
So, on his first morning of respite, Rem went to visit Indilen at the House of Healing, where she now resided, under the physical and spiritual care of the Holy Sisters of the Panoply. He had visited her there on every one of the three days since her liberation, and agreed with the Sisters that she should stay there until she felt equal to striking out on her own again. She confided that she suffered frightful dreams nightly and that when they woke her in the dark, she often suffered a momentary panic, not knowing where she was or how she got there. These feelings were fleeting, she said, but nonetheless harrowing in the moment. Rem, understanding why such an experience might leave such a horrible scar upon Indilen’s heart and mind, did all that he could to put her at ease. He brought her good food from the markets and street stalls that he passed on his way to visit her; flowers once, which the sisters happily arranged in a bronze vase at Indilen’s bedside; and even her secretary set, so that she could see that it had been recovered.
“It’s waiting for you,” he assured her, “as soon as you’re well enough to leave this place.”
She thanked him in myriad small ways, each of which thrilled him: squeezing his hand when she held it; sometimes tousling his forelocks and making fun of his rusty-red hair; and, at the best of times, simply staring at him and smiling and saying, “I’ve never known a kindness like you’ve shown me.”
“I could do no less,” Rem responded whenever she said that to him. “You dropped into my life so unceremoniously and made such a great commotion that I could not let you leave it the same way.”
The day of their impromptu celebration, Rem asked Indilen a hundred times if she really thought herself up to the strain. Should she not stay in bed? Should she not rest and continue her recovery? Indilen assured him, again and again, that not only would she love a brief respite from those restful but dreary chambers and their somber attendants, but that she also would not be stopped by anything—illness, incarceration, not even death—that stood in the way of celebrating Rem’s victory and what it meant for both of them. Satisfied, Rem promised the Sisters he would have Indilen back in her bed by the midnight bells, then led her to the Third Ward and to his favorite taproom: the King’s Ass.
It was early evening, rolling toward night, and the tavern was lively. Joedoc, the brewer, and lovely Aarna were both behind the bar. That curly-haired lute-player and buxom brunette lass harmonized from their little corner stage. Soon enough, Torval arrived with his entire family in tow: sister Osma, daughter Ammi, sons Tavarix and Lokki. They all took a great, round table in an alcove near the bar, and Aarna served them.
The feast was fulsome. Tav and Lokki drank goat’s milk while Osma and Ammi swilled cider, but Rem, Indilen, and Torval all partook of Joedoc’s Old Thumper and Indilen agreed that it was the best ale she’d ever tasted. Rem worried silently about just how well he and Indilen would get along, now that she was no longer in mortal danger and he was no longer haunted by the question of her disappearance, but their conversations were effortless and smiles were frequently exchanged. Indilen had a good appetite, was a fearless drinker, and loved to laugh—qualities that made Rem admire her all the more. But nothing moved him quite so much as when he caught her staring at him over the rim of her ale mug, or smiling in his general direction when she didn’t think he was looking. Rather than play coy and look away, Rem decided he would meet her gaze, stare right back, and hoped that perhaps, just
perhaps, this little infatuation of theirs—rudely interrupted, now luckily reengaged—could lead to something true and long-lasting and wonderful.
Only time would tell.
At one point in the evening, Aarna approached the table with a full pitcher of Thumper to refill their cups. She poured one for herself as well, then raised it toward Rem and his diminutive partner with that familiar, broad smile that Rem had come to love. Before she spoke, Rem stole a glance at Torval, and saw how sweetly and longingly the dwarf gazed at that woman who was two feet taller than he and of a separate race altogether. Rem did not know if a dwarven widower could ever win the heart of a human taverness, but he thought that if any dwarf could manage it, the unstoppable, unflappable Torval—so desperate to make his own way in the world, and not have it made for him—might.
“To Rem and Torval,” Aarna offered, “and their well-earned days of rest. May your mutton be hot, your ale cold, and your beds always warm—though, hopefully, not with each other.”
Laughter all around. They drank, even the little boys with their goat’s milk. Rem saw Torval upending his mug, determined to down its contents in a single draught. Rem kept gulping from his own mug, intent on doing the same.
They finished together and slammed down their mugs, then clasped hands and roared at one another like a couple of drunken Kostermen.
There was a sudden clamor from a far corner of the tavern. Chairs scraped across floorboards, then pitched over backward with a series of wooden thumps. Steel blades slid from their scabbards and oaths were exchanged—the sort that Torval probably did not want his children hearing. There was the brief ring of blade on blade—a swift, short exchange of blows and parries. Someone swore. A woman screamed.
Then the violence began to spread. Two men at adjacent tables urged on the duelists. Three more set to arguing about who started it. Four others were doused with flying ale when one of the fighters upended the table that stood between him and his opponent.
More blades were loosed. More curses tossed. Those unwilling to join the fray scattered.
“Bloody hell,” Aarna muttered. “It’s to be one of those nights …”
Rem caught Torval staring at him. The dwarf was probably half-crocked, or close to it. So was Rem. But he knew what that look meant.
“After you,” Rem said, and rose on watery legs.
Torval slid down off his chair and went swaggering toward the escalating brawl. His iron maul swung in his hand at his side. Rem followed, hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword.
When Rem reached Torval’s side, the dwarf gave a long, shrill whistle. The dozen brawlers all froze where they stood and turned toward the terrible sound. Rem wondered what they were thinking, staring at the two of them: some red-haired, freckled youngster with a sword, a bald and whiskered dwarf with a maul. Two lousy challengers against a dozen or more, one only four feet tall.
They probably think we’re mad, Rem thought.
In fact, they probably were.
“Right,” Torval barked. “Let’s stop this before it even starts, shall we?”
A muscled Hasturman in the midst of the would-be brawlers sneered. “And just who in the sundry hells are you, little man?”
Torval spat on the floor. “Tell ’em, lad.”
“We’re the wardwatch,” Rem said.
It wasn’t their ward.
Nor was it their watch.
But this lot didn’t know that, did they?
The story continues in the next Fifth Ward adventure,
THE FIFTH WARD: FRIENDLY FIRE
Keep reading for a sneak peek!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Long is the way and hard that out of hell leads from Chapter One to The End (I think Homer said that … or maybe Lester Dent). But that climb is never, ever undertaken alone—not entirely anyway. I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone who offered their personal support and assistance while First Watch grew from an amorphous daydream into a published novel.
First, my sincere thanks to my beta readers, Keith Gouveia and Doug Cherry, whose enthusiasm and pointed critiques kept me afloat and pushed the book toward its last, best form.
My deepest appreciation to Matt Peters of Beating Windward Press, whose unwavering friendship, faith in my work, and first-rate editorial skills kept me going through some dark times, unleashing my first published novels upon an unsuspecting world and proving that an audience was indeed out there.
I cannot say thank you enough to my loyal and tenacious agent at Fuse Literary, Emily Keyes, who’s stuck with me through more near-wins and disappointments over the years than I can count.
Unending gratitude to my editor at Orbit, Lindsey Hall, for her rigor, her kindness, and her steadfast support. I couldn’t have asked for a more engaged and supportive guide for my journey through the process of making First Watch the best book it could be, and on toward the next chapters in the adventures of Rem and Torval.
And finally, mountains of love to my son, Gabriel, my parents, Jim and Carol, and my beautiful partner in this world, Liliana. Their faith and acceptance remind me, constantly, that I have something to offer the world, above and beyond the words I write and the stories I tell.
To all of you who walked Yenara’s streets with me and enjoyed the visit: my heartfelt thanks and best wishes. ’Til next we meet to roll the bones or quaff a pint, keep your eyes open, your firsts clenched, and your backs to the wall.
Dale Lucas
December 2016
extras
meet the author
J. P. Wright
DALE LUCAS is a novelist, screenwriter, and film critic from Saint Petersburg, Florida.
if you enjoyed
THE FIFTH WARD: FIRST WATCH
look out for
THE FIFTH WARD: FRIENDLY FIRE
by
Dale Lucas
Pity, Rem thought, such a fine night ’til now.
And so it had been: deep into the month of Haniss, creeping on toward the longest night of the year upon the solstice, the nights in Yenara clear and cold, utterly devoid of the ever-prevalent fog that so perpetually shrouded the city in a choking, diaphanous haze. That night had been like many of late: keen and crisp, clear as glass, the Heavens strewn with a million tiny pinpricks of firelight, winking like diamonds strewn carelessly upon a jeweler’s black velvet counting cloth, the moon gibbous as a silver pie, not a cloud to mar the majestic, vertiginous view.
Then came a hue and cry—voice and kitchen pots, if Rem were not mistaken—and the night’s peace was shattered; its ease fled like a flock of scattering doves. A peace only presaging a storm.
Rem and Torval, his dwarven partner, had been on patrol along the Fifth Ward’s Fishmonger’s Row—the long, wide boulevard that bisected the little thumb of land known as Gaunt’s Point—when the alarm came. With no small amount of grumbling, Rem and Torval set their present conversation—an in-depth debate on which bird tasted best from a brazier of coals, pigeon or gull—aside and broke into a dead run toward the disturbance.
They were drawn from the main thoroughfare into a maze of side streets nearer the waterfront but not precisely upon it. In their mad dash, they were passed by two or three men charging in the opposite direction. Before they could wonder just where those fellows were off to in such a hurry, they had arrived at their destination. It seemed to be a union hall of some sort, of moderate size, tucked away between a tavern and a seaman’s hostel. Smoke poured out of the opened lower windows, indicating a recently doused fire. A few dozen people milled about in the courtyard, some nursing simple wounds, many coughing the last of the smoke from their lungs. A pair of badly wounded men, each bleeding from an ugly wound in his stomach or chest, were being attended to by parties of desperate companions. Both men clung to consciousness, but watching them bleed out while their completely untrained friends tried to staunch said bleeding, Rem wondered just how much longer they would last.
Rem and his short, stocky partner strode up to a tall, thi
n man with lank hair banging two iron pots together and shouting repeatedly for the watch.
“Here we are,” Torval spat. “Hang that racket.”
The man stopped beating the pots together, dropped both heavy implements, and stepped forward. To Rem’s great surprise, the tall man laid hands on Torval, a move that under normal circumstances would probably have earned him broken fingers or a sprained wrist, but his aspect was so panicked, so desperate, that even the normally belligerent Torval was caught off guard and made no move to slip the man’s grip.
“They’ve taken him! Do you hear? There’s no time to lose!”
“Taken who?” Rem asked, trying to make sense of the man’s babble. He scanned the people milling about the yard. They were a forlorn bunch, looking like they’d just lost their life savings or a newborn babe.
“Thasspar, do you hear?” the tall man said, shaking Torval again. “They’ve breached the sanctum and hied with Thasspar! Recover him, good watchman. We beg you! No reward shall be too great if you can return him!”
“Return who?” Rem asked, trying to get the man’s attention. “Was the kidnapped a child? A grown man?”
Torval shrugged off the man’s grip and sighed. “Neither,” he said, rolling his eyes toward Rem. “He’s a god.”
“Save him!” the tall man begged, eyes wide, mouth trembling.
“I should think,” Rem said, “that a god could save himself …”
Torval leveled his gaze at the man. Rem knew the look on the dwarf’s face: it was a perturbed impatience—the same expression he always wore when he was trying to take a citizen’s overwrought demands at least somewhat seriously.