Lord of the North (Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman - Book 2)

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  The rumor about coffee had already proven out. He’d hardly sat down to eat before he overheard the dwarves at the next table grumbling over the drop in prices and how their bonuses would be hurt. It could just be that the southerners have heard of the expanding market in the north, he reflected. Or could it be that even slave-ships didn't like to sail with empty holds?

  They were at least in the right part of town. If there was any slaver activity within the city walls it would be in the northern harbor neighborhoods, among the scattering of disreputable warehouses hugging the waterfront. The trick would be discovering it without tipping his hand….

  * * *

  First light was barely a blush along the eastern horizon when Hannes knocked gently on the rear doors of the warehouse. Soon a small trap opened in the door and eyes peered out at him before he heard the bar being lifted, and the small door for individuals opened to admit him. Hebert, a young afmaeltinn man who'd drawn early morning guard shift, greeted him.

  “There’s coffee on, and me Ma sent along some cheese-biscuits if’n you like.”

  Hannes accepted both with pleasure. The biscuits Hebert’s mother made were legendary among his employees, and she always sent plenty. They settled down at a small table, the tall young man looking a little comical on the short bench. Hannes sipped and nibbled as the guard made his report, which, given a quiet night, was brief.

  The trader set down his mug and regarded the afmaeltinn seriously. “You have relatives in the Breakers, do you not?” he asked, referring to the northernmost and poorest neighborhood of the city.

  “Ayuh, some cousins and the like,” Hebert confirmed.

  Hannes spoke carefully. “Any among them you’d consider… reliable?”

  Hebert frowned at the question, not at the slight it might imply but in consideration. He finally said, “For family? Ayuh, they’ll be reliable enough. I’d not speculate about how they might treat with them as aren’t though. I’d not recommend the hiring of them, sad to say.”

  “Oh, I’m not thinking of hiring them, not as such anyway,” Hannes assured him, “but there might be a thing or two afoot, what with all these extra coffee traders and the like in town. Specifically, a thing or two that I might pay to hear of.”

  Hebert thought about that a moment then grinned. “Well, they have their own business, and business being what it is, I expect they get out and about a fair bit—particularly after dark. Might be they’d see a thing or two at that. Best I ask them rather than yourself, though. Likely keeping it in the family will keep ‘em honest enough.”

  “Just so,” agreed Hannes with a conspiratorial nod. “And if you will act as a conduit for any such information as they might come up with, I’d be obliged.”

  “Any particular thing they should be on the lookout for?”

  Hannes considered briefly. If they didn’t know what they were looking for they couldn’t tell anyone and might avoid raising suspicions about what he was truly interested in. “Best we just take what they find when and as they do. I’ll know what’s important.”

  “Fair enough,” Hebert said. “I’ll speak to them after my shift, then.”

  Hannes waved a hand in negation. “Oh, no worries. You can go now if you’re of a mind too; I’m up, I’m here… take a bit of extra time for yourself.”

  The young afmaeltinn didn’t have to be told twice. He quickly gathered his things, said his grateful good-byes, and left. Hannes sat back and drained the last of the coffee from his mug and thought, that was well done. Now let us see what fruit this harvest yields….

  Chapter Eight

  “People are inclined to say ‘The afmaeltinn are this’ and ‘Goblins are that,’ but the fact of the matter is that folks are just folks, and on a certain level they want the same things. Best to take a person as you find them.”

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Cold steel flashed in the dim light and Kevrenn twisted aside to avoid the blow, cursing himself. Once again, he was apparently in the wrong place at what was very obviously the wrong time. The streets of the northern districts were sparsely lit at night, a circumstance that local businessmen paid well to maintain. Easier to move contraband or perform darker deeds in the absence of light. In such neighborhoods, curiosity was a lethal flaw. Indulging in it had resulted in him now having to fight for his life.

  He was ready for the next strike, moving into his attacker and sweeping the blow aside with his left hand. He continued the motion and wrapped his arm around the assailant's elbow, then he thrust up and forward, feeling the elbow break even as he pivoted to hurl the maimed attacker into a man closing fast from his right. Ruined Arm yelped shock and pain as he stumbled into his cohort and the pair struggled to maintain footing. Kevrenn’s langsaex swept from its sheath in an arc that swept over the injured man’s head and across the eyes of his encumbered companion.

  Dogs attack in packs so ignoring the second felled assailant's anguished shriek, he dropped to a crouch and cut backward, even as the wind of a passing cudgel whistled through the place his head had previously been. Dwarven steel bit flesh. He followed his blade, and spinning round, lunged upward, bulling his attacker into a wall. He rushed on, into the night, leaving the injured pack to lick its wounds. Or not. He was clear.

  Racing through the darkness he wondered, what have I stumbled into? He had heard the muted clinking of chains and looked up to see a line of short, squat figures crossing an unlit intersection. Dwarves? Here? And in chains to boot. That was very bad news. He had followed them to verify, keeping quiet and to the shadows. Apparently, his skulking needed work though; he'd barely made it to within half a block of the procession when he was jumped.

  He made several turns, avoiding the infrequent street lights and cutting through an alley. Though it pained him, he sheathed the langsaex without cleaning the blade and slowed to a walk as he exited the narrow passage. There was a conspicuous smear of blood on the skirt of his great cote, and he shed the garment and slung it over his shoulder so the stain would be less apparent. Though certain he had not been followed, he ducked into the Wolf and Horn.

  The place was typical of north-end establishments, with a low ceiling and massive beams supporting the warehouse space above. The air was thick with pipe-smoke and the lighting was dim. The local businessmen weren’t the only ones that liked to keep their dealings in the dark. Kevrenn made his way deeper into the room and found a table where he could keep an eye on the door. He wanted to spot anyone seeking him before they saw him. He obtained a mug of hot mulled wine from a passing server and contemplated what had just occurred.

  That the locals would kill to keep their affairs quiet did not surprise him. The fact that someone might traffic in slaves was no shock either. But dwarves? That was madness. It was said that the dwarven race was born in bondage, and having once cast off their chains, clung ferociously to their freedom. The actions of these slavers could place the safety of the whole city in jeopardy; Durin’s Folk were known to have gone to war over such transgressions.

  No one seemed to be looking for him, but he thought it best stay close to home and be mindful for a few days. He had crippled one of his assailants and likely blinded another. They, and more importantly their friends, were not likely to let that go.

  He finished his drink and slipped out through the stable-court, making his way home through the back streets and alleys. Arriving at his own back door he checked the tell-tales he’d set before leaving. None had entered in his absence; it was not a good neighborhood, but there weren’t many that would brave his wrath. There were easier victims to be had than Kevrenn Mikkelson, sword-master of the Brorsec Krigenblom.

  He unlocked the door and entered. A single candle on the opposite wall guided him across the cavernous space of the training room to his apartment at the rear of the building. He blew out the candle and went inside, closing and bolting the door behind. He hung his great cote on a peg and crossed to the inviting pot of broth left warming by the fire. Gudru
n, his housekeeper had prepared it, and though that was her job, Kevrenn blessed her for it nonetheless.

  There were no candles burning but hearth light was sufficient for the moment. He took down a pot-hook and moved the food back from the fire, then filled a bowl and sat, spooning up the soup while mulling over the night's adventure and organizing his thoughts.

  Stomach satisfied, he moved to his desk and stifled a groan. He was stiffening from the fight already, another reminder that he was no longer the brash youth of former days. Not even fifty years old, but among his people, that was well along through middle-age. He stretched, rubbed his shoulder and lit a candle. Sitting at the desk, he pulled out a sheet of foolscap, sharpened his quill, and began a letter to his patron.

  He wrote a complete accounting of the night’s events, followed by his concerns about the nature of the captives. Folding it neatly into thirds, he dripped wax onto the seam and pressed his signet to it. He’d have his boy-servant, Ullerek, deliver it in the morning.

  There was still enough winter in the air that he stoked the fire before retiring. That done he dressed for bed; tomorrow would start early, and he needed his rest.

  * * *

  “The arm is weak, the body strong. Power comes from the body, and the feet move the body. Master your footwork and the rest will follow!”

  Kevrenn moved among the dozen students stepping and pivoting through the complex patterns of simple movements, making a correction here and there. Footwork drills were boring, but they might well save his young charges' lives. There would be no time for them to think about their footing during a fight; it needed to be so ingrained that doing it right would be automatic.

  After half an hour he allowed them a break to stretch and have a bit of water before running through the plays. Today they worked with the arming sword, a cut-and-thrust weapon used with a single hand. The "plays" were choreographed exchanges, things that might happen in a fight. They were not taught because one expected them to happen just so; things were never so neat in reality. His students learned the plays because the plays taught them how to fight.

  His clientele was varied. Young officers, the sons and even daughters of important men. The students in this particular class were a mixed lot; children of merchants and guildsmen worked side by side with those of the nobility. On the training floor all were equal…as long as they could pay. His school was perched on the edge of the northern districts of the city-state of Taerneal, on the border of the better parts of town and respectability. His position in the city was odd; while he was good enough to train the city’s best and their offspring too, he wasn't not good enough to keep their company or live among them.

  A motion caught his eye; Ullerek, his servant, had just returned from delivering the letter. He caught the boy’s eye and nodded. Directing his assistant to take over, he went to the servant.

  “Well?”

  The boy straightened, a hint of nerves in his expression. “I waited as you directed, sir. His Eminence has asked that you call on him, and at your earliest convenience.”

  Kevrenn swore under his breath. He would need to cancel the afternoon class. But when my master calls, he though wryly, I can only answer.

  He directed the boy to have Gudrun, his housekeeper, draw a bath, and returned to the class to finish the morning’s training. While he might in some circles be the next thing to a pariah, he had his honor, and his duty to the Brorsec. The students had paid for his knowledge and expertise, and he would not short them.

  * * *

  Freshly bathed and dressed in his finest, Kevrenn made his way across town. The council house, a palace in all but name, perched at the southern end of the harbor and the city’s finest gathered around it like a flock around the ram. Included among them was his noble patron. Kevrenn skirted the harbor district, cutting along its edge past the shops of tradesmen, then the great markets and into the wealthier residential neighborhoods. Gradually, the closely-packed town-homes gave way to walled compounds with interior courts for stables and carriages, then to still larger areas that included parks and gardens.

  Arriving at his patron’s gate, Kevrenn was admitted without comment and wound his way up a drive paved in crushed seashells toward the house. To either side, waist-high, twisted dwarf pines bordered a faultless lawn. The front door opened a moment before he knocked, and upon entering, he was guided to a comfortable sitting room and served coffee while awaiting the Great Man’s presence. Despite the fact that he was losing the income from the afternoon’s class, he waited patiently; without his patron he would never be able to maintain a school within the city. And it was, after all, his own fault for investigating the chained figures the night before. Such is the price of curiosity, he reflected.

  At length, his patron entered. Kevrenn immediately stood and bowed but was waved back to his seat. Lord Councilman Albrekk was even taller than Kevrenn, and a good bit heavier. The sword master knew not to be deceived by the man’s bulk; the pair had crossed blades many a time and his patron was surprisingly strong and lightning-quick.

  Albrekk was dressed casually by the standards of his station, in simple silk trousers and a richly embroidered tunic. His red hair, only beginning to go to gray, was braided in a simple queue. Counter to fashion, he was beardless, but a man of his eminence could set his own standards. He held Kevrenn’s letter and gestured with it as he sat.

  “Quite the hornet’s nest you’ve stumbled across,” he began. He accepted his own coffee and dismissed the servant with a look. “Your concerns are well-founded; you did right to bring it to my attention promptly.” The Lord councilman shook his head in disgust. “It never ceases to amaze me how greed and stupidity can cause one to neglect the lessons of history in the pursuit of profit. As distasteful I find the practice of slavery, I must often turn a blind eye. In this case, however, the welfare of the entire city may be at stake.”

  Kevrenn nodded agreement, but made no comment. His patron would make his point in his own good time.

  “If this constitutes an isolated incident we may yet avoid peril,” Albrekk said after a moment, “but if it is a continuing enterprise, it cannot help but come to the attention of the dwarven nation, and I needn’t tell you how they will respond. I cannot set the City Watch to investigate the matter; if this is not an anomaly there must be one or more of my peers involved, and I dare not tip my hand.”

  Though he gave no outward sign, Kevrenn’s heart fell. He could see where this was going.

  “You will act on my behalf in this matter,” Albrekk said. “Discover the nature and extent of this illicit traffic and whatever you can of those behind it. Report this only to me; I needn’t tell you of the perils of letting what you seek be known.”

  Kevrenn sighed to himself, but he had expected this charge all along, and he kept his outward face impassive. “The seeking itself will be dangerous as well, M’Lord.”

  The Lord snorted. “That’s why I’m sending you and not my bloody kitchen boy. Rest assured, neither will I be betting the fate of my city on you alone. Others will be making inquiries as well, but you alone among my acquaintances have a wide enough circle to encompass all from the poorest to the nobility.”

  Kevrenn had grave reservations about this job. The perpetrators had already proven amply willing to employ lethal means to preserve their secret. He was no more interested in dying than the next person, but he had taken Albrekk’s coin and patronage. This was the price of that. He nodded his acceptance of the task, then hesitated.

  His patron noted this and snorted again, waving a hand. “I am sensible of the fact that your income will suffer while you take the time for this. You may also need a bit extra; gold is a poor lubricant, but for greasing the mechanism of human interaction it has few equals. My man will have a purse for you when he sees you out.”

  Kevrenn stood and bowed. “Best I be about it, then.”

  The lord made a motion of dismissal and the House Carl appeared as if by magic. As Kevrenn was being led away, Albr
ekk spoke a final time. “Kevrenn?”

  He turned and looked back.

  “Do be careful. A good sword-master is hard to find.”

  As he returned to his salle, Kevrenn considered the affair. If it was limited to the one group of dwarves, he was unlikely to discover much of use. They would have been moved from the city, or would be shortly, and that was an end to it. But if it were an ongoing thing, that would be another matter, and if they did not stop it themselves the dwarves would step in and stop it for them. Even if it meant reducing the city to ruins.

  The Windward Coast was a narrow strip of land between the mountainous kingdom of the dwarves and the Western Sea. Taerneal and the other trade cities subsisted largely on commerce with them, trading with the southern nations and overseas with the mysterious Sgraylen. Slavery was technically forbidden in these lands and he had never heard of the Sgraylen trading in them. That meant that they were most likely moving the dwarves to the southern nations. And most likely by water. The coastal lands thereabout were heavily farmed and crowded, so travelers overland were like to be remarked upon. Illicit trade would be by sea.

  Many goods, mostly luxuries, came from the far south. Fine fabrics, gems, coffee, tea, and spices among other things. No vessel that could help it sailed with an empty hold, so whatever ships were engaged in slaving would be bringing goods with them. It would be worth noting whether there was a sudden surplus of southern goods, which vessels were bringing said goods, and what cargos they carried away. Or supposedly carried away. He would have to ask around the harbor, but he had best be discreet; he would solve nothing if all he got for his trouble was a knife in the back. Or worse.