by Prior, D. P.
“No. No, I don’t. But I believe in you, my friend. I believe in you.”
Thumil wrapped something damp around Carnifex’s shoulders and propped him up in a sitting position. It smelled of must and something worse.
“Your cloak, Carn. I found it in the gutter. I assume you didn’t want to make yourself a target down here. Shog knows what you’ve done with your helm. No doubt there’s a baresark somewhere using it as a piss pot.”
A chorus of gibbers had Carnifex turning his head. The movement slung agony through his skull. He could make out hazy shapes hanging from the base of the ravine wall across the way.
“Gibunas,” Thumil said. “They were just starting to get brave when we showed up. A while longer, and you’d have been breakfast.”
“We?” Carnifex said. His heart started hammering. Had Cordy come, too?
He forced open his other eye and scanned the embankment behind Thumil. Gradually, a score of Black Cloaks came into view, and further back, what looked like an entire platoon of Ravine Guard formed a line looking back toward the streets.
He focused back on Thumil, who was wearing his golden helm and red cloak. Probably, it was the last time he’d don his marshal’s uniform before handing over to Mordin later in the day.
The thought reminded Carnifex of what he’d lost: not just his pa, but his oldest and best friends. He could tell Thumil thought otherwise, but you had to be realistic. He was marrying Cordy, for shog’s sake. And more than that, he was now the Voice of the Council. He wouldn’t have time for friendship, and even if he did, he’d need a better sort than a fallen lieutenant of the Ravine Guard.
He lay back down on the hard ground, pulled his cloak about him. The “something worse” he’d smelled was piss, he was sure of it, but he was beyond caring. “Go, Thumil. Leave me here. There’s nothing for me up top now.”
“Son, there is,” Thumil said. “There always will be.”
Carnifex felt himself fading, but then he saw a stretcher being lowered down from the walkway above.
“I’m not going to have a choice, am I?”
“No, Carn. No, you’re not.”
Carnifex let out a sigh and gave up even thinking about resisting. As the stretcher touched down, and a couple of Black Cloaks rolled him onto it and strapped him in place, he said, “I love her, Thumil. Always have. Just never knew it till now.”
Thumil lay the axe he’d given as a present on Carnifex’s chest as the stretcher began to rise. “I know, son, and I’m all right with that. You are my friend, and I trust you with my life.”
“Cordy must never know,” Carnifex said.
“She won’t. And come the morrow, you and I will never speak of it again.”
THE BIG DAY
During the first few days of Carnifex’s recovery, Lucius might just as well have been absent. He was sequestered in his study, poring over the Annals Rugbeard had given him, comparing and contrasting them with the originals, which he brought home from the Scriptorium one at a time. Aristodeus came and went, obsessing over Yyalla’s helm as much as Lucius obsessed over the passages in the original Annals that mentioned golems and the Axe of the Dwarf Lords, which were conspicuously absent from the copy Rugbeard had made.
Lucius was thoughtful enough to give Carnifex the running summary of his findings each night before he went to bed. He was starting to think Rugbeard had deliberately missed out the passages concerned, though why he would do that, no one had any idea. Aristodeus was apparently less than convinced. If anything, he was trying to steer Lucius in a different direction, claiming, for once, he couldn’t be sure he was reading the patterns correctly. But, whatever the truth about the contentious passages, they formed an academic mystery, and for Lucius, that was like a taunt to a baresark.
Grimark was good enough to drop off a pie every morning. He’d heard about the circle fight and wanted to support the local hero. Carnifex had the feeling he dropped off more than one pie, but by the time Lucius delivered them to his bedside, that’s all that was left.
After three days cooped up in doors, he’d had about all he could take, and staggered down to Bucknard’s for a mead. When he returned home, Thumil was there waiting for him with an entourage of Red Cloaks, and one or two Kryptès lurking about outside.
“I want you to be my best man at the wedding, Carn. I know that might not be possible for you, but I wanted to ask you all the same.”
The request chafed, but what could Carnifex say, other than yes? It wasn’t Thumil’s fault, the way things had turned out. Nor was it Cordy’s. He only had himself to blame.
“What’s Cordy have to say on the matter?”
Thumil cocked his head and chuckled. “Told me the wedding was off, if you refused.”
Tempting as it was, Carnifex couldn’t do that to his friend. “Then I must accept, Thumil. It would be my honor.”
And he meant that. Decisions had already been made. The die had been cast. There was no point regretting what was past, what might have been. It could grate and irk him till the Unweaving of all the worlds, but loyalty to friends overrode personal suffering. That’s how his mother had been, according to the stories, and that’s how he remembered his pa.
Thumil left the ring with him—the ring destined for Cordy’s finger—and then he was off, his personal guard trailing after him.
The day of the wedding, a Red Cloak arrived at the house to escort Carnifex. He was vaguely familiar—he had an enormous shield and a mace—but it was only when Carnifex asked the fellow’s name and got the answer, “Grimwart”, that he remembered him as the dwarf from the mines, the one who’d volunteered to go below and check for any more golems.
“But everyone calls me Duck,” Grimwart said. “On account of this.” He hefted his mace and made a playful swipe. “When I start swinging, the lads shout ‘Duck!’ Overtime, it grew into a nickname. Guess I got used to it, and it stuck.”
“Good of Thumil to send you, Duck, but I can look after myself.”
Carnifex had on his chainmail and his freshly-washed Ravine Guard cloak, but he hadn’t bothered replacing his helm. What was the point? Once the wedding ceremony was over, there’d be no more need for it. He was done with the Guard. Shog knew what he was going to do instead, but anything had to be better than working under Mordin. Not only that, but he felt a door had closed on that part of his life since Thumil had been made Voice.
“Thumil didn’t send me,” Duck said.
“Then who?”
“Come on, you’ll see.”
Cordy’s house was on the seventeenth, a stone’s drop from Carnifex’s. It was surrounded by Red Cloaks, but Duck got them through the cordon. He led Carnifex to the hearth room and waited outside.
Cordy was seated on a stool, the hoops of her underskirt falling away from her hips toward the ground in widening circles. An unlaced corset covered her torso, but gave her breasts room to breathe. A team of local lassies fussed about her, curling her hair into ringlets, plaiting her beard and tying the slender braids with golden thread. A dress more pristine than Thumil’s white robe hung from a stand in front of the hearth. It had to be made of pure silk, and was embroidered with subtle traces of silver. Her exposed skin had a radiant, pinkish glow, her nails were lacquered with ivory, and her cheeks bones and eyes had been accentuated with delicate highlights and daubs of color.
Carnifex was too breathless to announce himself. He simply stood there, drinking her in, until one of the lassies doing her hair noticed him and gasped.
Cordy looked round, and her austere beauty was transcended by a smile of genuine warmth that made her unbearable to look upon. She dismissed her helpers, and once they had gone outside, she gestured for Carnifex to approach.
He closed the door behind him and, instead of making a beeline for her, made a slow circuit of the room, pretending to study the framed pictures on the walls showing her ma and pa, the original design of the family beer label, and Cordy herself as a baby. The last was an early work of a pupil
of Durgish Duffin, the artist who had painted Yyalla for Droom.
“So, you’ve met Duck,” Cordy said, tracking his progress round the room and lacing up her corset at the same time.
“He was at the mines, when the golem attacked.”
He glanced her way, and Cordy bobbed her head, as if she hadn’t known.
“He’s my appointed bodyguard.” She chuckled, a bright, tinkling sound. “Thumil insisted.”
“He never asked me.”
“Would you have done it?” Cordy asked. “Protected me?”
Of course he would have. Without question. And he knew, in his heart of hearts, he still would. But she didn’t need to know that. He left her question hanging and turned to face her, resting his hands on his axe haft as he twirled the head on the floor.
“What’s this about, Cordy?”
She dipped her eyes briefly, then stood, gathered the hoops of her underskirt, and stepped toward him. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned in close, nestled her cheek against his. The scent of her was strong in his nostrils—sweet musk that inflamed his senses. Gently, he took her arms and pressed them to her sides.
She sighed mournfully and turned her head away. “I do love him, you know. More than anything.”
Carnifex nodded to himself. He knew she loved Thumil. They both did.
“Really love him, Carn.” She spun back and fixed him with an unfaltering stare that begged him to contradict her. “In every way.”
He let his eyelids fall shut, and nodded again, this time for her benefit.
“I felt the same about you, Carn, for a long time. Ever since the Ephebe. Thumil saw it, back then, and always wondered why you never seemed to notice. I thought you were just playing hard to get, but then I started to wonder, too. I always thought we’d be together someday, like my ma and pa. Like Droom said he and Yyalla were. You were my hero, Carn. Funny thing is, I think you still are, and maybe always will be. But a woman can only take being unnoticed for so long. And Thumil… Thumil noticed me.”
Carnifex’s eyes bled tears, no matter how hard he tried to fight them back. A single silvery streak tracked down Cordy’s cheek in sympathy.
“I was blind, lassie. Still am in some ways. By the time I realized you were a woman…” He winced, expecting her to hit him, but when she smiled, letting him know she understood, he realized just how surely that boat had sailed.
“I love you, Carnifex Thane,” Cordy said, reaching out to touch his cheek. “And Thumil does, too. We’re all orphans now, the three of us, and we’re all so bound up with each other, we’re family. I sometimes think not having you in my life would be like losing a lung.”
He knew the truth of those words, only in his case, it was his heart he stood to lose.
“Thumil thinks we can get through this,” Cordy said. “That one day, we can all be friends, the way it was before.”
“I’d like that,” Carnifex said. “But now he’s the Voice…”
“That won’t be forever. He’s made it clear he doesn’t intend to die in office like Dythin Rala. He just wants to fix things a little, make Arx Gravis a better place, and then, who knows, maybe we’ll grow our own hops and start our very own line of beer. And you could go into business with us. Just think how perfect it could be.”
Did she know? Had she read his mind and seen that he planned to leave the Ravine Guard? He didn’t want to ask her. He preferred to believe that’s what she’d done.
“Cordy,” he started, then cleared his throat so he could go on. “Cordana Kilderkin—is Thumil taking your name, by the way?”
“He shogging well better,” Cordy said, “or I’ll rip his fruits off and feed them to him for breakfast.”
Carnifex shook his head and laughed. It was good to know she hadn’t changed, even if she was someone else’s now.
“Cordana Kilderkin,” he said again, “I can’t imagine a time when you and I will not be friends. I’ve been an arse and a shogwit, but the other night, Kallos the Crusher knocked a spark of sense back into my noddle. I love you and Thumil both, and I will defend your marriage with my life. You have my word on that.”
Cordana backed away to her stool, sank into it, and began to weep. She was relieved—he could see that from the slump of her shoulders, the rhythm of her breaths; but not half as relieved as he was to be able to slink out of the room and make his way to the nearest ale house before the ceremony began.
He met Lucius and Aristodeus on the fourteenth level, and together they made their way along the main walkway to the ridge skirting the ravine wall. It was a a sprawling platform of granite that extended out from the rock face enough to hold a small village. The only building it boasted, though, was the oast house that formed the backdrop for the wedding ceremony. It was a circular, two-storied structure with a conical roof. Beyond it, fringing the ravine wall, were the hops that would be brought to the oast house for kilning. Row upon row of bines wound their way up strings suspended from overhead trellises.
It was as good a place for a wedding as any, but Carnifex suspected Thumil had chosen the location as a concession to him. Rumor had it the Council had wanted the ceremony to take place at a vineyard on the seventh. Mind, it could also have had something to do with the fact Thumil had grown up on the fourteenth, and still made his home there.
Lucius wore a crumpled jacket atop a black scholar’s robe. He’d run a comb through his hair and beard, but the blustery breeze had already undone the good work.
Aristodeus didn’t have to worry about the wind, and he’d made even less effort with his clothing than Lucius. He still had on the same white toga he always wore. The odd thing was, it never picked up a stain, never stank of sweat. Which told Carnifex he either had spares, or he was a stickler for washing them whenever he was out of the way. He certainly had to do something, the amount of times he’d come and gone since showing up on Carnifex’s birthday. Where he went, how he got there, were as big a mysteries as the never-fading whiteness of his toga. Carnifex wouldn’t have given a flying shog about it, had it not involved his ma’s scarolite helm somehow.
More Red Cloaks than he’d ever seen assembled in one place were lined up in phalanxes across the length of the ledge, both front and back. Guests had to pass through them to get in, and endure their watchful eyes once the service began. Black Cloaks moved among them like rats through grain. Councilor Grago himself was directing their movements.
“How many would you say that is?” Aristodeus said. “Three thousand? Four?”
“Red Cloaks?” Lucius shrugged. “I’m not going to count them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Closer to five,” Carnifex said. “Virtually the whole Guard.” In a crisis, the dwarves could muster ten times that number. Everyone was required to train at the Ephebe from their youngest days. “There’ll be a few on patrol at the top of the ravine, but for events like this, it’s a full turnout. Same with the Black Scuts, by the looks of things. Bound to be a few on skulk duty elsewhere, but for now, it’s pretty much all eyes on the wedding.”
“Is it now?” Lucius said.
Aristodeus flashed him a look.
“Let’s just hope the baresarks don’t get emboldened,” Lucius said. “Last thing we need is to come away from the wedding and find they’ve raped and pillaged their way through the lower levels.”
Carnifex shook his head, but he didn’t miss the furtive glances that passed between his brother and the philosopher. Aristodeus started to mouth something to Lucius, but stopped when he saw Carnifex noticing.
“Seats at the front?” Lucius asked.
Recognizing Carnifex, the Red Cloak on duty waved them through.
“Just me,” Carnifex said. “Best man’s prerogative. You’ll have to find your own spots. Meet me after, at the banquet.”
He left them talking and made his way between the ranks of Ravine Guard and through the press of guests inside the cordon.
The site marked out for the ceremony was a simple enough af
fair, which suited both Cordy and Thumil. A granite dais had been set before the oast house, around which were stone benches for the guests of honor: the Council of Twelve, missing only Grago, who was still directing the Krypteia, and obviously Thumil himself; Marshal Mordin, who Carnifex acknowledged by thumping his chest in salute; the chamberlain, and the motley-clad dwarf, Stupid, who looked as out of place as Carnifex felt. Stupid watched as Carnifex seated himself next to Mordin, madness or unfathomable sadness in his eyes.
Why Stupid was there at all was anyone’s guess. Why he should be numbered among the guests of honor was beyond comprehension. Maybe Thumil was obligated to show him the same deference Dythin Rala had. Likely, it was a mystery passed on from Voice to Voice.
Thumil arrived soon after Carnifex had settled himself on his bench. He wore a simple white robe, all trace of the dwarf who’d been marshal as gone as the tufts of hair that he’d been losing lately. The back of his head was riddled with patches of baldness that would have given Aristodeus a run for his tokens.
Thumil had a brief exchange with the chamberlain and proffered his Liber Via. The chamberlain winced and frowned, then gave a reluctant and world-weary nod. When he stood and moved with Thumil to the center of the gathering, he glanced at the page marked with a white ribbon.
“Carnifex Thane,” someone hissed in his ear.
Carnifex craned his neck to see Grago leaning over his shoulder.
“I never forget a name, same as I never forget my Black Cloaks. They are like family to me. Kloon was like family to me. You, of all people, should know how it feels to lose family.”
A hush fell over the crowds pressed up against the cordon of Ravine Guard.
Grago broke off from whatever else he was about to say and seated himself among the rest of the Council.
All around the ledge, red cloaks fluttered as the wind picked up. Clouds scudded across the sky seen through the gaps in the overhead walkways. For an instant, the shine of the twin suns was occluded. Thumil gave a worried look above, but visibly relaxed when the clouds moved on and the proceedings were once more bathed in golden light.