by D. P. Prior
And, as if he didn’t need to say more, he carried Weasel inside to the bar.
THE FATE OF THE DWARVES
By the third beer, Weasel was right as rain, save for a score of weeping cuts, and bruises that made him look like a piebald heifer. The wonder was, Nameless had only given him Ironbelly’s. Cordana’s brew was too good to waste on scum like Weasel, who made a living from taking bets on circle fights, and had a hand in every scam and petty crime you’d care to mention.
Which begged the question, why was he here? Why had a lowlife like Weasel trekked halfway across Qlippoth and over the Farfall Mountains? Couldn’t they have sent anyone else?
“Good beer,” was the first thing Weasel said as he sat back on his stool and waved his tankard about for a fourth.
Nameless shook his head. That about said it all. You could tell a lot about a dwarf’s character from the kind of grog he drank. He took Weasel’s tankard, refilled it, and slid it across the counter.
Now there was an odd thing: the Ironbelly’s never seemed to run out, but the good stuff seemed to evaporate like dew in the desert.
“So,” Sheriff Orton said. He was leaning against the bar, sipping on a white wine. Nameless kept it on hand for when the whores dropped by. The acrid smoke of a weedstick formed a corona of filth around the sheriff. “You ready to tell us what’s going on?”
“Who the shog are you?” Weasel said. He took a swig of beer and gave Orton an impudent cock of his head.
“I’m the law round here.”
“Not my law.”
“Is while you’re in my town,” Orton said.
“You’ll get no disagreement from me on that point,” Weasel conceded, suddenly changing his tune. “And I apologize for my surliness. It came out wrong. I have nothing but the greatest respect for the law. What I meant to say was, that I’m not from round here, so I may have a different view of the law. I just ask that you give me a gentle nudge if I do anything wrong, and put it down to ignorance.”
Weasel was a silver-tongued shogger when he wanted to be, and Orton was buying it, judging by the nod and the wink he gave. Well, buying it might have been too strong. He was giving Weasel the benefit of the doubt, but he recognized the type. The only thing that marked off dwarves from humans was their height, save perhaps for the ability to hold drink, and a constitution that would make an ox seem an invalid by comparison.
Shadrak was opening each of his belt pouches, removing glass globes, caltrops, cartridges that slipped into the butts of his Ancient-tech flintlocks. He pulled out a pair of goggles and fiddled with the pliant band that went round the back of the head. Nameless had seen him use the things in Verusia. They let him see over long distances, like with a spyglass, but they also enabled him to see in the dark. Fussy as he ever was, the assassin began a careful inspection of each item laid out before him on the bar, cleaning, shaking, scrutinizing, and then packing it away again.
As he worked, Shadrak said, “So, you gonna tell us what this is about, or are we just gonna stand here watching you drink that piss?”
Weasel examined the contents of his tankard, sniffed around the rim. “This ain’t piss. It’s good shit, is what it is.”
“Yeah? So why don’t he touch it, then?” Shadrak indicated Nameless with a nod.
Say one thing for the little runt: say he was perceptive.
Nameless caught the husk girl watching him from her stool away from the bar. She immediately lowered her eyes, but he could have sworn she’d been smiling at him. Not a grin, and certainly nothing sardonic. The merest hint of bashfulness, perhaps. He stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged.
Weasel must have taken the shrug for a noncommittal answer to Shadrak’s question. He pushed his tankard away, as if it contained the pus from a pox-ridden podex, and said, “Well?”
“It’s Ironbelly’s, laddie.”
Weasel’s eyes were aghast. He shoved the tankard further along the bar. “Shog off!”
“No,” Nameless said. “It is.”
Weasel screwed his face up and shook the froth from his beard. “That ain’t nice, Nameless. Ain’t nice at all. And I thought we was mates.”
“You did?”
“Comrades, then.”
Nameless pursed his lips and frowned.
“Fellow dwarves?”
“Close enough, laddie.”
Sheriff Orton let out a double cough. “You two finished? Because I got places I need to be.”
“You ain’t the only one,” Shadrak said. The midget’s eyes strayed to the husk girl.
This time, when she raised her head, she glared. Shadrak missed it. He was already looking expectantly at Weasel. But Nameless saw it, right enough. And there was a glint in her eyes. Not a twinkle. A fierce sparkle. Gone was the vacant, glazed-over stare. Her pupils were star-spangled sapphires.
Nameless looked away when Weasel placed a hand on his shoulder.
For once, the rogue looked serious, and the four tankards of ale had done nothing to impede his sobriety.
“Ain’t no easy way to say this,” Weasel said, “so I’ll just come right out with it. Arnoch’s gone.” He angled his thumb down. “Beneath the waves. Sunk to the bottom.”
“Sunk?” Nameless said.
Arnoch had sunk before, when the Destroyer had come, and the Dwarf Lords had been powerless against it. King Arios had given the order, and the citadel had descended to its watery grave. On that occasion, the king had lowered the shields and flooded Arnoch in an attempt to drown the monster slaughtering his people. But there were no Dwarf Lords now. Hadn’t been for hundreds of years. And there was no King Arios to give the order.
“Cordana did it,” Weasel said. “When the beast came, she sent three of us to find you, then sank the city.”
The dwarves within would be safe, Nameless knew. The shields would keep out the water, and the air replenished itself perpetually, though how it did that was anyone’s guess. The Dwarf Lords who’d built Arnoch had lore his people, refugees from Arx Gravis, could only dream about.
“Cordana gave the order?” Nameless shook his head in bewilderment. An order of such magnitude should have been the prerogative of the regent, or in days gone by, the Voice, the one who spoke for the Council of Twelve.
“Old Moary’s dead,” Weasel said. “Before he croaked it, he chose Cordana to replace him. She straight away stood down as regent and re-formed the Council.” Weasel rolled his eyes and turned his palms up. “And then they went and elected her Voice.”
“Moary, dead?” The idea was like a mine shaft collapsing. Everyone thought he would live forever.
“What beast?” Shadrak said.
Nameless couldn’t believe he hadn’t asked that. Couldn’t believe Old Moary was dead, and Cordana was leading the Council. And he couldn’t shake the dread that, after all he’d done to keep them safe, his people were still in peril. Because if Arnoch had been sent to the bottom of the sea again, the threat must have been unimaginable.
“Look, you don’t need me for this,” Sheriff Orton said. “This is dwarf business.” He was halfway across the gym floor when Nameless snapped out of his befuddlement.
“No, wait.”
Orton took a step back toward him, raised a hand in exasperation. “I got things to attend to. You were going to deputize, remember?”
“No, Sheriff. Not this time. Sit down. Shut up. This is too important.”
Orton opened his mouth to protest, but he must have seen something in Nameless’s eyes, as he said, “All right, have it your own way,” and came back to sit at the bar.
“The Cynocephalus’s dreams just got bad again,” Weasel said. “Someone ought to tell him to lay off the cheese.”
The husk girl was watching Weasel intently now, hanging on his every word.
“It was a dragon, Nameless. A shogging five-headed dragon, smack bang in the middle of Old Moary’s funeral. It started flaming from one mouth, spewing acid from another. Shogging corroded the outer shields. That’s why Co
rdana sunk the city: if she’d delayed a moment longer, the water shields would have been next, and then there’d have been nowhere to run.”
“And she sent three of you, you say?” Nameless said. “To fetch me.”
Though what Cordana thought he could do about it was anyone’s guess. A dragon big enough to imperil a city might be too much, even for him. Even for Paxy. But more than that, if Arnoch was beneath the waves, there was shog all he could do to reach the dwarves. He couldn’t swim.
Weasel hesitated before he replied. He studied his knees for a moment, drew in a breath and puffed it out through his nose.
“Other two were taken by stygians before we reached Malfen. Eaten alive.” Weasel shivered. “Only reason they didn’t get me, too, was because I’d fallen behind.” He raised his leg and pulled his boot off. “Bunions, see? Slowed me down, and the other two wouldn’t wait for me. Kind of gave me a hint to take a detour when I heard them screaming.”
The Axe of the Dwarf Lords propped against a stool seemed to shimmer, and her voice whispered in Nameless’s head. We must go to them, before it’s too late.
“Paxy’s right,” Nameless said, wrapping his fingers around her haft and hefting the axe to his shoulder.
“Eh?” Weasel said.
Shadrak rolled his eyes. “The axe.” He circled his finger beside his head. “It speaks to him.”
“What? You ain’t going there?” Weasel said.
Nameless frowned. “What else do you expect me to do?”
“Nothing. That’s what Cordana said. There’s nothing you can do. She just wanted us to get word to you. Tell you what had happened. Tell you goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” Nameless slammed a fist into the bar. Not Cordana. He wasn’t going to lose her as well. And not the survivors of Arx Gravis. They were all that was left of his people. The people he’d nearly wiped out under the influence of the black axe. They were his responsibility. No matter the cost. No matter what. “That why she sent you? Because there was no danger of you persuading me to go to their aid?”
Weasel looked genuinely hurt, and Nameless felt a pang of guilt about it.
“I’ve changed, Nameless. That’s why she sent me. I’ve gone straight; put my skills to good use: stuff that benefits the Council and the city.”
Nameless snorted. He didn’t believe a word of it. Like he’d said, Cordana must have sent Weasel because he wasn’t likely to want to go back and put himself in danger. It told Nameless the situation was hopeless, and Cordana was looking out for him, even now. She didn’t want him to die trying to help them. But she must have known he’d come anyway, so why bother trying to put him off?
“Gotta face facts, Nameless,” Sheriff Orton said, already off his stool and looking like he was back on with his plan to leave town. “I’m sorry, and all, but life, as they say—”
“No,” Nameless said. He stalked toward Orton like he was going to cut the head from his shoulders. He didn’t even need to raise the axe to convey his meaning.
Orton staggered away into the gym, tripped over a dumbbell someone hadn’t bothered to put away. He scooted back on his arse, then scrambled to his feet.
“I’ll be right here, Nameless, don’t you worry. Anything you need. Anything at all.”
Nameless growled, and the sheriff backed all the way to the swing-doors and stumbled out into the street.
Turning to Shadrak, Nameless said, “You still have that plane ship, laddie?”
Shadrak nodded. “Beneath New Londdyr, but that’s a hell of a long walk.”
“Then we’ll take a carriage.”
Shadrak snorted. “Yeah, well I can’t help you there. Mine’s firewood.”
“I saw,” Nameless said. “But I know of another.”
Sendal Slythe’s was parked around the corner from The Prancing Peacock. It had hardly been used since he and Dame Consilia had arrived from Portis together, and only got an airing when the dame sent her girls for the monthly tour of the provinces, just to remind folk where to find them whenever the need arose.
“You’re driving,” Shadrak said.
Drive a carriage? Nameless wasn’t even sure he could. He turned to Weasel.
“Forget it. I’ve done my bit. I’ll wait for you here.”
“I don’t think so, laddie.” Chances are, he’d come back and find his gym equipment auctioned off and his beer all gone. “You’re coming with us.”
“Look, Nameless,” Shadrak said. “I ain’t so sure about this.”
“Laddie,” Nameless said, catching his eye and letting him see just how desperate he was. How scared. “I need you.”
Shadrak nodded. He might not have liked it, but he’d not let Nameless down yet. Had done just about everyone else, though.
“Fine,” Shadrak said. “But we still got the problem of no driver.”
The swing-doors crashed open, and a man lurched through, a blood-stained bandage wrapped about the shaft of an arrow protruding from his neck.
“I stand corrected,” Shadrak said. “Pyler, you up for a quick trip?”
Pyler gingerly touched the end of the arrow shaft, coughed, and winced.
“Better in than out, Doc says. Reckon I’ve had worse.” His voice came out grated, like he’d gargled a bucketful of glass shards. “Stand me a drink first. If the beer don’t leak through my neck, I reckon I’m good to go.”
Nameless gave him Ironbelly’s, and Pyler was most appreciative. If anything, it revived him, added a splash of color to his cheeks. Nameless told him where to find Slythe’s carriage, and had no doubt Pyler wouldn’t have any qualms about borrowing it without asking.
“You can use the horses from mine,” Shadrak said.
The poor nags were still coupled to what little was left of the carriage after the Maresman had trashed it.
Pyler responded with a wave and a grunt, then left to do as he’d been told.
Nameless went through the back of the gym to his office, which was also his bedroom, living room, and general dumping ground. He rummaged under the bed and pulled out his chainmail hauberk and his pa’s horned helm.
When the clatter of wheels announced the carriage’s arrival, he went back through to the gym and led the others outside.
The whores had done a good job of cleaning the mess off the street. A couple of them sat on the verandah outside the bawdy house in blood-stained dresses, smoking weedsticks and drinking whiskey. They raised their glasses in acknowledgment and didn’t comment on the appropriation of Slythe’s carriage. Word was, they hated him as much as the dame reputedly did. Probably, they were looking forward to his reaction, if ever he bothered to check it was still parked where he’d left it.
Weasel sat up front with Pyler, and Nameless and Shadrak sat inside with the girl, where it stank of stale weedstick smoke and cheap perfume. She was back to being a stiff, staring blankly ahead, hands clasped in her lap. A pretty little lass. Lithe and doll-like, with the look of a yearling lamb about her.
Across the street, a scream came from The Panting Peacock. It could have been blood-curdling, only Nameless knew better.
Shadrak’s hand flew to one of his guns. “That Big Jake?”
“That’s Jake, right enough, laddie.”
Say one thing for Dame Consilia: she might not have been much of an actress, but she was a virtuoso in the bedroom. Not at all bad for a human; and she certainly knew how to tug a dwarf’s beard.
“But there’s no need to worry, Shadrak. Don’t you know the difference between pleasure and pain?”
The frown that crossed the assassin’s face told Nameless he didn’t. The midget had probably never set foot in a bawdy house. Probably never would, if he didn’t lighten up. If there hadn’t been more urgent matters to attend to, Nameless might have seen it as a challenge. He would at least find a way to get Shadrak to join him in a drink. Gods of Arnoch, what he wouldn’t give to see the little shogger singing tavern songs and dancing a jig on a tabletop.
Gods of Arnoch…
&
nbsp; He only hoped there really were gods the dwarves could call upon. Because, if not, Nameless was their only hope, and he was far from sure he could deliver.
THE ACADEMY
It had been years since Nameless first set foot in New Jerusalem’s Academy. Back then, he’d been trapped in the scarolite great helm that insulated him from the malice of the black axe, and he’d needed the philosopher Aristodeus to feed him through tubes.
Pyler dropped them off in the alley outside the gardens, and agreed to wait for them with the carriage.
Nameless’s arse was numb from sitting down for so long. The trip from Brink had been interminable, but then that’s how everything felt to him right now. He supposed it was only natural, given his urgent need to reach his people before it was too late.
Nameless, Shadrak, Weasel, and the girl made their way along the weed-choked pathway to the colonnaded portico. Skirting the broad steps leading to the front door were desiccated flowerbeds and weed-strangled rockeries.
Above it all loomed the seven-story Academy building, a monotonous gray edifice with cracked brickwork, patched with damp. The stained-glass windows that were still intact were opaque with dust and grime. Others were boarded up, and a few had broken panes, where even the effort of covering them with panels seemed to have proven too much.
The flying buttresses that arched away to the sides of the building were crumbling and ready to fall. A couple of them had been crudely propped up by wooden joists.
Shadrak seemed all too familiar with the dilapidation. He flowed up the steps to the scuffed oak doors and let himself inside.
“What a shithole,” Weasel said, wrinkling his nose. “No profit in education, that’s what this is about. Waste of shogging time.”
“Wasn’t always that way,” Nameless said. “When I was here before, the whole place was sparkling, and the gardens were well cared for.”
The husk girl pressed in close to his side. Her expression remained blank, but a stiffness had crept into her movements. Her hand brushed against Nameless’s, so softly he almost didn’t notice.