Wanting to make a good impression, he dressed in his finest tunic, a rich blue wool-silk blend lavishly embellished with colorful embroidery at the yoke and cuffs. To this he added dark green raw silk trousers and a short, light cloak. He belted on his finest seax, its sheath heavily tooled in knot work patterns and framed with silver. The final touch was his longsword, a light two-handed weapon with a three-foot blade of razor-sharp dwarven steel. It had become the fashion to carry such swords sheathed in the left hand. It identified one as a person of quality, or at least discouraged others from disputing that quality.
He strode out briskly. The walk did him some good, loosening up the final kinks left over from the night’s efforts. Following the directions he had been given, he was quickly able to locate the business. Unlike the warehouses along the water this was an expansive single-story structure in a decent part of town. A short line of wagons was entering the front through a large door of timbers that would not have looked out of place in a fortress. The aroma that greeted him from the nearest wagon betrayed the contents of the bags stacked neatly inside: coffee beans.
Kevrenn edged past the wagon and saw more wagons inside being unloaded, and thought it clever that the set-up allowed them to pass straight through. In his own neighborhood, if there were no room in a warehouse the wains would simply block the street until unloaded. The arrangement the dwarven merchant used made more sense and, not incidentally, probably explained why such a business was tolerated in the neighborhood. He paused inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness, and waited to be noticed. It did not take long for one of the workers to note his presence and hurry over.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the younger man said. “How may I be of service?”
Kevrenn looked the worker over, noting that he appeared well-fed and cleaner than one might expect of a man in his position. “Is it possible for me to speak to Hannes Gutman?”
The man shook his head with evident regret. “Master Hannes is unavailable. His son Aegir is here. You can speak to him if that might serve?”
He nodded. “I’m sure that will do nicely.”
“Please, wait here while I fetch him.”
The man turned and walked down the line of wagons and out the door on the other side of the warehouse. The workers spared him an occasional curious glance but that was all; they were a well-disciplined crew. The young man returned, followed by a short, thick person. The man pointed to Kevrenn, then returned to his work as the dwarf came forward.
Kevrenn looked at the dwarf curiously; he had seldom seen any of Durin’s Folk up close. At about four feet tall, he was so thickly built that he gave the impression of being nearly square—and not a bit of it appeared to be fat, either. When they shook hands, Kevrenn noted that the dwarf’s hand was nearly the size of his own. The dwarf was dressed in a style that city folk might call “conservative” or perhaps less charitably, “old fashioned”. But maybe a lifespan stretching to centuries imparts immunity to the whims of fashion, Kevrenn reflected.
“Aegir Hannesson,” the dwarf introduced himself. “I represent my father’s interests here in Taerneal.”
“Kevrenn Oleffsson,” he replied. “Jarrod Engrilson recommended you to me.”
The dwarf accepted that with a nod. “How may I be of service?”
“A matter of business,” Kevrenn said. “Is there perhaps somewhere we might speak privately?”
“Of course.” Aegir gestured an invitation. “If you’d be so kind as to accompany me?”
He followed the dwarf through the warehouse and across the street on the other side to what was apparently the dwarf’s home. He had to duck to pass through the doorframe, but inside the ceiling, while low by human standards, allowed him to stand comfortably. His host gestured for him to sit, and said, “I’m afraid we don’t entertain guests of your folk often enough to have furniture fitting your frame. I hope you’ll not be uncomfortable.”
Kevrenn settled into a heavily upholstered chair. While low to the ground, it was comfortable enough. “I’ll be fine, thanks.”
“Can I get you anything? Coffee perhaps?”
Kevrenn replied, “Please! Your folk always seem to have the best of that.”
Aegir nodded to a dwarven woman standing just inside the door, a servant Kevrenn presumed, and she departed. She returned moments later with a pot and two mugs. The two waited quietly while it was served. The servant left and after a sip or two, Kevrenn began.
“I am at a time of my life to be planning for my old age,” he said. “The surplus of goods brought in by these new southern traders has me thinking on an investment in commodities for the overland trade. Jarrod, as I have said, recommended that I speak with your father.”
The dwarf started to shake his head, then visibly changed his mind and instead said, “Jarrod has occasionally contracted my father to carry goods inland. The markets are unusually well-supplied for this time of year, and with my people at war it seems a sensible thought. We have shifted operations to the Makepeace Valley ourselves to supply the troops heading north. But how were you thinking we might be of use to you?”
Kevrenn shrugged. “I was thinking of sending coffee and textiles that might be wanted by your army, but as I gather you’re are already in that market I am not sure it would work; we would be in competition with one another.”
The dwarf nodded thoughtfully. “Unless of course we worked together; even with prices low, capital is required to purchase of commodities. And though we fare well in our negotiations, it might be that doors to some merchants goods are wider open to one of your height than to ourselves. I’m just supposing and speculating at this point, but perhaps a buy-in on your part, along with a share in the acquisition work would earn you a commensurate share of the profits upon our return.”
Kevrenn nodded, swallowing another sip of coffee before continuing. “Much what I was thinking in principle; that’s more direct involvement than I’d had in mind, but I could see it working—provided, of course, that we could negotiate a figure representing fair value both.”
“Naturally. And all such negotiations would require my father’s final approval,” the dwarf replied. “I know him well, but this would be something new, and even if we were merely to transport goods on your behalf, given the climate of war and the potential you mentioned for competition, I’m not sure he’d be willing to take on consignments.”
“Still, it seems that our interests may well align,” Kevrenn said. “Shall we hash out some working agreements and possible terms? All pending your father’s return and approval, of course.” They discussed what might constitute suitable percentages, lading fees, and transaction shares, and were soon able to agree on a set of mutually beneficial figures.
After that, Kevrenn sat back and sipped his coffee while considering his companion. Aegir and his father represented one of the few permanent dwarven presences in the city, and as such he had to wonder if they were yet aware of the slave trade, and if there were any way that he might find out. The dwarf resolved the issue for him, in a roundabout way.
“Of course, you might want to move quickly on those purchases,” he advised. “I have suspect they might not be available for long. I’m not sure what you know about these new ‘traders’ coming up from the south or what they are about, but their strategy is fraught and seems unlikely to succeed for long.”
Kevrenn raised an eyebrow and took a sip of coffee to give him time to collect his thoughts. This might be the opening that he sought.
“Indeed? They seem to be making all the right moves at the moment,” he observed. “Except for the lack of goods to fill their holds on their return south. One wonders if they have not found a new business to make up their losses.”
Now it was the dwarf’s turn to raise an eyebrow and choose his words carefully. “It would seem that they have. Friends along the harbor report that their ships are riding deeper in the water when they depart than might be accounted for by half-full holds.”
Kevrenn thought for a moment, considering how to respond. He said, “That suggests that they have indeed found a way, but it couldn’t be any sort of, how can I say this, legitimate cargo. Certainly, there would be no reason to conceal their activities if it were.”
Aegir looked at him searchingly. He was certain now that the dwarf was aware of the slavers. He understood the dwarf’s dilemma; the human before him could be an agent sent to determine what and how much he knew. He, on the other hand, had the advantage of being relatively certain where the other stood on the issue. Given the dwarves’ near-religious fervor about maintaining their freedom, Aegir and his father were unlikely to be in league with the slavers. It was remotely possible, he supposed; even dwarves were not immune to corruption.
“There are rumors,” Kevrenn continued, “and I am given to understand that they are receiving scrutiny by people at the highest levels. Such inquiries must be made cautiously, of course; for an operation of this scale, one would imagine that they might have support from rogue elements within the city. It might be difficult to launch an official investigation through normal channels, but if there is something nefarious going on you can rest assured that events are in motion to put a stop to it.”
The sword-master kept his expression as neutral as he could and took another sip of coffee while he waited for the dwarf to respond. After a moment’s consideration Aegir did.
“I personally find it reassuring that our trade partners are concerned,” the dwarf said, “I am sure that my people would agree; it is good to know that one’s neighbors are trying to keep their own house in order. It is well-known among my people that slag can occur in even the finest steel. As long as such occurrences are rare and dealt with promptly, they need not damage a mill’s reputation too greatly. Or require outside actors to intervene directly.”
Kevrenn smiled at the dwarf. “I can see we have a right understanding, you and I. It will be a pleasure doing business with you.”
Aegir grinned back. “I am counting on it, my friend. Now I must be about my own business; I look forward to hearing from you soon. I hope that until then you will prosper… in all of your endeavors.”
“And you as well.” Kevrenn rose and bowed to the dwarf before taking his leave. Once in the street he paused. He had classes to teach this afternoon, but he felt the need to contact his Patron with this new information, and he was not sure another letter was sufficiently urgent. Swearing internally, he turned his steps towards the richer parts of the city. His afternoon class would just have to make do without him.
Chapter Thirteen
“People trying to kill you is generally a clue that you are on to something. “
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
When Taarven and Ageyra had started traveling with Hannes’ caravan he’d been impressed with the soldierly efficiency they exhibited in every act, from loading the wagons to setting up camp. They would laager the wagons, removing the ox-teams and corralling them in the middle of the circle, as was customary. But in dangerous territory they’d go so far as to fill the gaps between wagons with cut brush, and conceal sharpened stakes and caltrops, all of which would be meticulously recovered in the morning.
Their first night out of Taerneal he had cause to be grateful for such professionalism.
They had been moving ahead of the news, so they were not certain that it was their inn that had been burned the night before but Taarven suspected that it was. Anyone could have seen them prowling about North Harbor and, particularly after their fight with the local gang, word would have spread. It would not have been very hard to figure out who they were and where they were staying. So, when they stopped for the night Hannes had ordered that the full range of “hostile territory” precautions be taken.
Civilization around the city did not extend deep into the foothills; by midday they had passed the last of the farms to the east, so there were none to witness the attack.
Steel-tipped bolts rained from the dark. One bolt struck a drover in the throat and he rolled backward off the wagon. Others were hit as well. War cries split the night as their attackers charged in from the darkness.
Taarven and Ageyra snatched up their carbines and Hannes grabbed his rifle. Most of the drovers and all of the guards carried crossbows and put them to use. Taarven saw several afmaeltinn mounting the cart of the drover that had been shot; he aimed carefully and put a ball into the chest of the first up. Ageyra shot the second and the others jumped back into the dark, swearing. Taarven’s shoulder was still hurt, but he was able to recharge the carbine. Holding back from the fight, he searched for a shot, but their assailants had come over in several places and everywhere he looked, the fighting was hand-to-hand.
There was a scream and a crash nearby as one of the attackers ran afoul of the obstacles between the wagons. A drover leaped forward and struck the struggling man with a maul, and took a spear in the thigh for his trouble. He staggered back, swearing, and the spear-wielding afmaeltinn leaped over the piled brush in pursuit. Taarven fired at him, but in the dark, his aim was off; the ball pierced the hurtling figure’s upper arm instead of the chest; he dropped the spear, and the drover brought the maul around in a finishing blow.
The normally placid Mountain Oxen had formed a defensive circle of their own out of ancient herd instinct, and one of the afmaeltinn strayed close enough to be hooked on a broad horn. Taarven turned just in time to see him tossed bonelessly through the air. Shouts and screams mingled with the occasional sounds of gunfire or the bang of a crossbow.
The group of a dozen caravan guards fought in good order, with shields to the front and spears in the second rank, striking down any that came near. When a group of the attackers organized against them, they charged, with those in the rear hurling their spears and then unslinging their own shields to follow their comrades.
It was a bloody, chaotic few minutes, but suddenly the attackers broke and fled into the darkness. Gert, the older guard who served as the caravan’s de-facto physician, moved among the survivors, bandaging wounds and sending the worst-injured to collect near Hannes’s wagon. The butcher’s bill totaled three dead and a half-dozen seriously wounded. The Guards, with their armor, had earned their pay and gotten off lightly, with only minor injuries. They treated their own wounds and took up watch lest the attackers return.
Taarven stayed near Hannes as he spoke encouraging words to the wounded and took reports from various members of the caravan. The bodies of their attackers, eight in number, were brought in to be searched.
The Ranger noticed Ageyra examining them closely, looking at their hands, at the bodies under their rag-tag clothing and bits of armor. “What are you looking at, Ageyra?”
She stood, dusted her hands and looked at him. “Our friends here. Not what they look like, are they?”
Taarven moved forward to examine them more closely and Hannes asked, “What do you mean? They look like bandits.”
“Ayuh, they’re meant to, anyway,” she said. “Look closer, though. These men and their gear are too clean to have been living rough in the hills. Them as have beards have them neatly trimmed, and they’re all well fed.”
Taarven could see what she meant and nodded. “If I don’t miss my guess,” he said, “these are soldiers. Proper soldiers.”
Hannes shook his head. “But that would-be madness tantamount to a declaration of war!”
“Which is why they are dressed as bandits,” Ageyra said. “Someone high in the city is up to their ears in this thing. Someone with the clout to send a platoon of guards to attack us in disguise. If they’d succeeded there’d be none the wiser, but we were a mouthful they couldn’t chew.”
“Proof indeed that a city official—at least—has a hand in this slave-trade,” Taarven said. “And no, I cannot imagine Engvyr receiving these tidings with joy.”
*
The caravan arrived without further incident and stopped at Eastgrove. Taarven and Ageyra stayed to report to Engvyr, while the rest moved on t
o Hannes’ new warehouse in Makepeace, the town that was growing like a weed around the jarl’s former stead hold.
The two former Rangers closeted themselves with Engvyr and Deandra by the great hearth in their apartments.
As predicted, Engvyr did not take the news gladly. “The slaving, even the involvement of some of the council makes sense of a sort,” he said, his brow furrowed in baffled anger. “But this business with the lake full of dead baasgarta? And them willingly turning the braell over to slavers? Half the time they’d rather slaughter slaves than surrender them to us, yet they just give them to these southerners after shepherding them halfway across the country? And then drown themselves? It makes no sense.”
“It sounds like some sort of enchantment out of legend,” Taarven admitted. “I hate to think it, let alone ask, but…could that be what it is? Some sort of evil magic?”
They looked to Ageyra, who shrugged. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard of. While I suppose anything is possible, there isn’t a mage in all the known world with the power to affect so many, and over such a large region.”
Deandra looked thoughtful. “I’m no scholar, but the only being I ever heard of that wielded that kind of power has been dead these last thirty centuries.”
“The Maker?” Ageyra snorted. “There’s a notion. Might just as well blame it on Tommyknockers or Brownies.”
Taarven chuckled, but Engvyr was lost in thought. Men come from the far southeast, having ships built and sailing north to take the braell? Twisted, unnatural creatures like the one Ageyra sensed? He had to wonder if the idea of the Maker—or something like him—returning was quite so absurd as the others thought. He shuddered slightly. It was the worst of nightmares for a dwarf.
The Maker is dead, killed ages ago by my ancestors, he reminded himself firmly. But a dead god had risen at Skapansgrippe, another part of his mind insisted. Who was to say what was or wasn’t possible for such beings?
“Well, whoever is behind it, it shall end!” Taarven said, slamming his fist on the arm of his chair. “The braell are our folk, and we do not suffer ourselves to be enslaved. Nip this trade in the bud here, and it will wither in the south.”
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