The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  Singing voices rose on the night air. She leaned down to Nutmeg. “I don’t quite understand why everyone is so high-strung tonight.”

  “Petitioners’ Night. Actually, I think it goes on for several days, when we get to petition the Vaelinars for aid or redress from the first times.”

  “First time what?”

  Nutmeg looked up at her. “From the first time they came here and everything changed. Sometimes they took land. Sometimes slaves. Sometimes lives.”

  That didn’t quite explain the tipsy celebration which seemed to be growing ever louder as they walked through the lane of taverns and closed shops, the poorer section of the quarter before it opened back up into homes and manors and closer toward their brewery.

  Hosmer said, from somewhere close behind her, “The veiled ones tend to repay in coin, with few questions or proof needed. Many see it as a way to get rich quick.”

  “Ah.”

  “Fools,” remarked Nutmeg. “The Vaelinars never forget, and easy wealth never lasts long. When trade and craftsmanship is needed again, they’re often blacklisted. For generations.”

  “Petitioners had better be certain of what they ask for, then.”

  “A good idea, lass, that they should be,” Hosmer agreed.

  Before any of them could comment further, a group of bakers’ boys and lasses came toward them, singing and knocking their tankards together, their flour-dusted aprons still worn about their necks and waists, their sleeves still rolled up for kneading, their faces flushed with the heat of the night and the drink. The Kernans seemed merry in a determined way, and the Dwellers among them reeled about with impromptu jigs. They spilled over the walkways and most of the narrow street with merry shouts and a spinning dance or two, heedless of anyone else pacing around them. Nutmeg and Rivergrace moved one way, and Hosmer found himself jostled all the way across by the revelers.

  A Kernan stopped, her hands on her hips as she stared at them, her skirt tucked up into her waistband to reveal her petticoats and shapely legs, and cried out, “What are you doin’ with her?”

  Rivergrace stopped so abruptly Meg bumped into her flank. “I ... I ...”

  “Not you. You!” And she jabbed a thumb at Nutmeg. “She’s a disgrace for a Dweller like you. No veil, walkin’ th’ streets like a common tart. Think you’re gonna make yourself look all uppity trailin’ around with an elven castoff, do you?”

  “Now wait here,” Nutmeg shot back. “That’s drink talking, not you. So I’ll forget what you said, and step around.” She began to steer herself and Grace by.

  “Not so fast.” A burly lad stumped up behind, and soon the walkway filled with the entire group, nudging and shoving each other a bit to get closer to see what might be going on. It took a moment to recognize him, face lit up like a harvest apple with redness from his drinking, but it was Vevner from near their brewery. “Watch yer words, lass.”

  The girl tossed her head. “I’ve had it up to here with snotty folk who think they’re better than us because they rub noses with the Strangers.” She leaned forward, her pouting lips curling into a snarl. “I work hard for me money. I don’t sleep wi’ or kiss fancy arses for it.”

  Rivergrace sucked in her breath.

  “I can show you cuts, bruises, needle pokes, and knotted muscles from the work we do,” Nutmeg returned in the baker lass’ face. “Not to mention, I have to think to do my job! No one’s counting what you do the lesser, so I’d appreciate the same respect.”

  “Sewin’ in a shop for fine ladies? You call that work? Hah!”

  Hosmer snorted. “I recognize you, girlie. Always first to belly up for our samplin’s, you are.”

  “At least my father dinna have t’ buy me a job! Or me mother.” She put her face into Nutmeg’s.

  “Oh, that’s only half my job,” Nutmeg added. “The other half is thumping ignorant bumpkins like you!” And she did, knotting up her fist and thumping the other on the head as if she held a hammer. The Kernan lass gave a surprised sigh and dropped as if poleaxed.

  The fight still might not have started, except that someone reached round and groped at Grace while the others stood and stared at their unconscious friend. She jumped back with a squeal, flailing her arms about. “Get your hands off me!”

  Hosmer put his head down and charged into the revelers with a snort like a maddened bull, sending them under his boots and flying out of his path. Anyone still on their feet clenched their hands, and the fray was on.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  RIVERGRACE THREW OUT the family rule of no kicking the second time she felt a boot swung into her shin. Stinging from ankle to knee, she kicked back. The resounding thud filled her with satisfaction. No knuckle- duster like her brothers or even her sister, she elbowed the body on her right as she dodged another free-swinging boot, grabbed it under the ankle shank, and pulled the owner off her feet and onto her rump. Nutmeg promptly ducked down and gave the girl a right to the jaw which would have done any of their brothers proud.

  A tide of brawlers muscled her away from the others, driving her off the street and into the mouth of an alleyway. The rule about hair pulling promptly went the way of kicking as her ribbons were torn from her hair with a smarting yank on her scalp. A blow to the back of her knee brought her down, rolling, dust flying. Hard hands on her arms lifted her and set her back on her feet, with a low growl and a stink overwhelming her that sent her whirling about to see her rescuer, and no hope of finding him as the revelers surged around her. Dazed, with the stink of Bolger in her nostrils yet none seen, she shouldered her way back toward Nutmeg who stood with her arms curled and her hair wild about her face, knuckles bared.

  Hosmer ducked a roundhouse swing with an irritated growl, sized up the fighter, and dropped him with one clip to his chin, then Rivergrace lost sight of him again as the crowd swelled around them. Vevner from their neighborhood bakery held him back, the two swinging fists with grunts of satisfaction as she lost them.

  Grace backed up a step, doubling up her slender hand, and swinging away with her wiry strength, not decking anyone but still able to set them back on their heels with a whoof and a shocked look in their eyes. Her current target’s head whipped back, and he fell into the arms of a chunky lad who promptly hauled both of them out of the milling crowd. He flashed a grin at her and she recognized Keldan’s friend Curly, always first in line for apple culls in the morning. He put a thumb up as he dragged his pal away from the tide of fighters. Looking around, she ducked a fist swinging at her, came underneath, and kicked the swinger in the shin as hard as she could. An indignant howl followed. Nutmeg cheered her on, before the revelers turned rioters enveloped her, and muffled squeals, thumps, and yells filled the air. Grace waded in after, shoving and swinging a path to Nutmeg’s side. She turned back to back and said, “I’m ready if you are!”

  A bucket of water came out of nowhere, raining upon the brawlers, soaking them. Neither had a chance to celebrate as a strong arm wrapped around Nutmeg’s and Grace’s waists and pulled them about. “What, by Tree’s blood, do you think you’re doing?”

  “Fighting!” Nutmeg struggled against Hosmer’s hold, swimming through the air in an attempt to free herself.

  “Not on my watch, you aren’t! Da will have my scalp.” Hosmer grunted as he held Nutmeg aloft and kept a firm grip on Rivergrace who found her hair being yanked from behind and let out an indignant squeal.

  “We don’t need a riot among our neighbors.”

  “You swung, too!”

  “Tha’s beside the point. I know when to stop swingin’, as well.” He hauled them both out of the streets and put their backs to a shop wall, and eyed the mass of brawling bodies in front of them who no longer seemed to know or care who they were whaling the tar out of. “Lads!” he bellowed. “Nothing finer than to watch a lass down in the mud wrestlin’. My money’s on the redhead!”

  Almost as primitive as the instinct to fight, the instinct to gamble boiled up. Another bucket of water appeared from
nowhere, slung through the air and over the brawlers, with a cry, “A silver crown bit on the brunette in braids!” Curly bounced on his feet, bucket swinging in his hand, a wide grin splitting his face.

  Hosmer released Grace but kept Nutmeg hefted in his arm, her feet flailing to reach ground, and waded through the crowd, sorting them into a motley sort of order by the sheer strength of his voice and presence. By the time the Town Guards trotted in with sharp whistles to announce their arrival, he had everything quieted down but two girls in the mud, with interested gamblers passing coin bits back and forth. The guard officer posted his two men who began to disperse the onlookers while he assessed Hosmer.

  “You look a likely lad. Start this or finish this?”

  Hosmer gave him an innocent grin. “I, sir, am merely observing.”

  The officer grunted as his men pulled up the wet-and-muddied wrestlers and packed them on their way, with the last of the others. “I’d be grateful for the one and fairly vexed for the other.”

  “Then, sir, it’s clear I finished this.”

  His grin seemed to be infectious, for the officer responded with his own. “You’ve mettle to you. If you’re interested in being a Town Guard, look me up. First Guard Gregan Fist, aye?”

  “If I’m interested, you’ll be the one I’ll look for. Hosmer Farbranch.” He set Nutmeg down, finally, where she gave an exasperated snort, and both men looked at her. Her cheeks took on the full red blush of a ripe, crisp apple and she decided to spend some time putting her apron and skirts into order. The two men shook forearms and Hosmer nudged his sisters down the walkway, saying, “If there’s no dinner left, I’ll have your hides for it.”

  Nutmeg tossed her head and said not a word, striding in front of him as fast as she could, and Grace had to stretch her own legs out to stay apace. From behind them, she identified the sound of Hosmer laughing to himself.

  At the second rousing rendition of the traders singing “Free Roads,” Sevryn made his apologies for an early evening and slipped out of the Petitioners’ Reception, his head slightly buzzing despite his attempt to inhibit the free flow of wine and other, heavier spirits being poured his way. Azel’s words buzzed in his head, far stronger than the liquor he’d had. Few heads turned as he left, and he slipped into the outer courtyard, feeling the hot, close summer air on him, speaking of weather moving in, clouds dappling the sky overhead. He leaned on a balustrade for a moment, accustoming his eyes to the dark, and then saw a man-sized shape move quietly out of view of the corner of his vision. Without turning his head, he narrowed his attention in that direction and saw nothing further, no branch waving in the courtyard garden he might have mistaken, no night bird winging low.

  He took a few casual steps toward the far side of the courtyard, yawning as he did as if to clear a muddled head, never looking directly toward the corner but angling his way to a better view. As he walked, he unfastened his dress shirt to loosen his wrist daggers knowing that if the Kobrir were to strike, he’d likely not have a second chance. Anticipate the worst, accept the best.

  He found a statue to lean upon, paved stones of the courtyard encircling it. The moments of waiting stretched out while he listened, stilled his own breathing, searching the night for what lay hidden within it.

  A hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped, nerves unstrung. Jeredon laughed low. “Catch you sleeping on your feet, did I?”

  “Too much wine,” he muttered. “I think the Petitioners intend to float their pleas into the Conference.”

  “Better come with me, then. It all starts bright and early again tomorrow.”

  Away from the courtyard and inside the massive inn which housed Lariel, Jeredon quirked an eyebrow at him and said, “I interrupted your hunting. Any idea who or what?”

  “No. And how did you know?”

  “I heard you stalking. You may have our blood in you, but your feet seem to be all Kernan, loud and clumsy.”

  “I intended to be both seen and heard, and thought drunkenly harmless.”

  “You nearly succeeded, then.”

  “Ummmm. Would that I had. I have news for Lariel, and she’s not likely to want any of it. The Kobrir was spotted below the balconies late this afternoon.”

  “And perhaps this evening, too, then?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “That might actually cheer her up. At least that one fights with blades and not words.” With a wry twist to his smile, Jeredon opened the doors to the apartments, and the two passed between guards who were not likely to be able to withstand any real threat, despite their vigilance.

  Lariel put aside her reading and stood as they entered. She’d pushed her hair back from her face and knotted it at the back of her slender neck in a bun of spun gold and silver, and her expression seemed both tired and guarded. “I trust you’ve been seeding the fields I asked you to?”

  “Yes, m’lady.” He bowed to her, kedant-laced scars rippling in fiery protest as he did so. “I wish I could gauge reactions for you, but everyone seems to be perfecting their masks for this Conference. I do have news, which I need to pass on, though I haven’t confirmed it yet.”

  “Rumors, then?”

  He shook his head. “Doubtful.” He waited to sit until she reclined once more, her shapely legs tucked under her, and he found himself thinking of the other, wondering how she’d look sitting before him. Sevryn inhaled. “First, the Kobrir is staking out the Petitioners. A clear sighting at least once, and perhaps later this evening. We’re all on notice, then, that his being in the city is no coincidence.”

  “Not that we ever thought it was,” Jeredon provided. He sat on the floor, his back against his sister’s footstool.

  “Secondly. A traders’ herald came to Bregan and gave him an urgent message at the gathering. I followed him to see if I could coerce him to repeat it.” Sevryn paused, a dry, unpalatable taste in his mouth. “I failed, but the Kobrir did not. The message was coded, although I think we’ll all agree as to its meaning.” He repeated the lad’s dying words and waited.

  “Diort.” Jeredon shifted his lean body. “Finally making his move.”

  Lariel lifted a finger. “This is what you haven’t confirmed yet?”

  Sevryn nodded to her. She considered it. “Still, it seems likely. Word will come to us. And Kobrir again. Perhaps this was his assignment.”

  “Again, I saw him later, so it’s doubtful. Assassination, not information is his true calling.” Sevryn watched as Jeredon kicked his boots off. He yearned to be in his rooms, garments off, scars bared without the ache of cloth touching them, no matter how fine, how sheer, it brought agony. Wine had dulled him for a while, but now as he sobered, kedant coursed through his body freely again.

  “Agreed. What else?”

  “Azel was mingling with the Petitioners.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “I’d say he has brought something to the table this time. No idea what it is, but he is working the Petitioners, listening, weighing them.”

  “Our historian is notoriously neutral.”

  “Things change,” Jeredon told her.

  “It’s true that he rarely attends a Conference. He sends others in his stead. Tomorrow,” she instructed Sevryn, “see what’s on his mind.”

  He inclined his head.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing I can give credence to—yet.”

  “All right, then.” She reached forward, gathering up the papers on her desk. A seldom seen weariness blurred her delicate features. “Perhaps the morning will bring us better tidings.”

  Sevryn left, grateful for the dismissal. Stepping into his room, he heard both his footfall and a crinkle of paper. Looking down, he found a folded note that had been slipped under his door.

  By early light, at the Plaza of Traders, for breakfast. Azel d’Stanthe of Ferstanthe

  Sevryn smiled. He would have fresh tender bread and hot brewed defer for breakfast, the drink a Calcort delicacy, along with intriguing conver
sation. What more could he wish?

  Chapter Forty-Five

  THEY DISCOVERED DINNER had been held for them, although not because of their lateness. The house smelled promisingly of dinner, but everyone occupied the receiving room instead of sitting in the kitchen, eating. A visitor sat in Tolby and Lily’s parlor, hands on his thick thighs, his vest buttoned tightly over his girth, but not an ounce of him was fat. A Dweller, obviously, who probably deserved the name of Barrel more than any of the Barrels Rivergrace had ever met, and a trader, too, by the mantle he wore and the richness of his appearance. She hesitated as she entered the parlor, for an air of menace lay about him just as the impending storm lay over Calcort. Nutmeg glanced at her in dismay and Hosmer shook his head. No, they couldn’t possibly know about the street brawl already, although the three of them stood in dusty and muddy disarray, Tolby had barely looked at them and Lily’s attention seemed equally distracted. She waved at them, saying, “Dinner is late.”

  Their visitor responded, “And my apologies for that, young ’uns. I have business which seemed important.” He turned his thick neck and head back to Tolby. “I realize that this is not good news to be bringing you now, but my colleagues and I hope to work out reparation with you. Although, as you contend, the second papers are likely forgeries, we face going through two courts. Ours, for the payment of the loan on those second papers, would go through civil court. A speedier process in the case of debt repayment. The forgery cases would go through criminal court and by the time it reached a verdict, you could lose this brewery and vineyard through default on the civil judgment, even if you won. It would be like bringing buckets to the fire after the house has already burned down.”

  The words whirled about as Rivergrace grasped to comprehend why this man sat like a thundercloud deposited in their home. Her knees bent and she sat down, almost missing the chair.

  Tolby tamped a pipe evidently long gone cold, and studied it. “Your advice, then, is to pay the debt and hope for reparation later when the forgery is proven?”