The Redemption of Desmeres

by Joseph R. Lallo

  He raised his eyes as a much larger hound lumbered forward, the mother of the pups and a glimpse into what he had to look forward to. The mother, full grown, had much the same body shape, but at a size that made the length of its fur seem a bit less comical. It stood at waist height—far larger than seemed natural for a scent-hound to him—and had a broader stance than he would have expected. Powerful legs supported its thick body and the wide paws barely sunk into the snow. He knew better than to reach out to give the mother a pat, but the breeder stepped over the fence and did so for him. He slapped a mitt on the mother’s side, sending a plume of snow up from its fur and rewarding him with a meaty thump of rock-hard muscle lurking beneath that fluff.

  “This is Meskie here’s third litter. By now I’d say half the royal hounds can trace their way back to her,” the breeder said proudly, giving her good hard rub. “Like I said. They just cleaned us out. All we’ve got left are these three. The big one’s Grusk. He’d be the best of what’s left and the one that’d cost you six. This one here is Beal. And… The one that suits your budget is that one there. Dowser.”

  Beal was at the fence, pawing at it and sniffing at the air, trying to get a good whiff of Desmeres. Grusk was at the breeder’s feet, nipping at his cuffs. Dowser had somehow managed to end up on his back and clearly lacked the coordination to right himself. The inverted puppy bayed squeakily and flapped his stubby legs, then gave up on regaining his feet and tried desperately to sniff at Desmeres from his current position.

  “So what will it be?” the breeder asked.

  Desmeres watched Dowser struggle periodically, waiting for the pup to figure out how to stand. When nearly a minute passed without any success, he sighed.

  “You run a hard bargain,” Desmeres said.

  He jingled the coins in his hand and watched Dowser finally haul himself to his feet, step on his own ear, and tumble to his back again.

  “One silver coin is a small price to pay for a dog that knows which way is up,” said the breeder.

  Desmeres sighed and held out the five coins. “Like I said, I’ve got more patience than silver.”

  “Nothing to apologize for. The worse of our pups is still better than any others you’ll find in these parts.”

  He accepted the silver. Once it was safely in his pocket he reached down and rolled Dowser over, then grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and handed him over. Desmeres tried to hold onto the puppy, but the loose skin slipped easily through his grip and the pup landed, predictably, on his back.

  “Grab by the scruff or these wiggle worms will get away from you every time. You’ll want a harness to keep him from wandering off. I can throw one in for cheap.”

  Dowser wiggled his legs uselessly in the air.

  “I’m not convinced that will be necessary with this one.”

  “You may be right at that,” the breeder said. “Come on then. I’ll show you out.”

  Desmeres pulled Dowser from the ground. After a few moments of wiggling, the pup simply hung under his arm like a fuzzy sack of potatoes.

  “You shouldn’t have trouble feeding him. The nice thing about a Vulbaka is they’ll eat just about anything. But make sure to keep him fed. You skimp on the food when he’s a puppy, you get a lousy adult.”

  They paced back through the breedery and out the front door, where the breeder gave Desmeres a hearty handshake and shut the door behind him. As Desmeres continued back to the horse, he held the pup up before him.

  “Dowser… We’ll see about that name,” Desmeres said.

  The pup stretched his neck out in a dedicated attempt to lick Desmeres’s face. That he wasn’t nearly close enough to do so didn’t discourage him in the slightest.

  “If you live as long as I have, Dowser, it pays to keep your eyes and ears open. You should always be learning. Everyone has an area of expertise, and thus everyone has something to teach. This is a tremendous gift, because it means there is always something to learn. Some have more to teach than others. A woman by the name of Trigorah had more to teach than anyone I’ve met before or since. If you knew where I came from, you’d know just how high that praise is.

  “She had an interest in tracking. That’s what caused our paths to cross, in fact. Tracking through the field, she taught me, was simple. Tracking through a city, that was difficult.”

  He pulled a blanket from one of the packs strapped to his horse and folded it in front of the saddle. An awkward bit of hefting delivered Dowser onto the makeshift bed, and a steady hand kept him there while Desmeres mounted.

  “It isn’t that a good, sensitive nose like yours can’t follow a trail through a crowd of others. The problem is keeping focused through the hustle and bustle of a city. All that talk. All that activity. There’s nothing like that in a forest.”

  Dowser dislodged himself, but Desmeres caught him and pulled him back into place as he coaxed back along the road that brought him here.

  “There’s no easy way to get them used to it without immersing them in such a place. That, of course, isn’t an option for you. But you can go a long way by getting the dog used to the human voice. And since between us, the nearest thing we’ve got to a human is me, I’m afraid I’ll have to talk those floppy ears of yours off for at least the first few weeks.”

  The puppy buried his nose in the horse’s mane and sampled the scent, then threw his head back in a lackluster attempt at a howl.

  “Of late I’ve found prolonged companionship to be rather rare, so dredging up sufficient subject matter may become something of an issue in short order. Trigorah’s personal policy was to sing to her dogs.” He shut his eyes for a moment. “Those animals didn’t know the gift they had in that. Trigorah had the voice of an angel… I, on the other hand, shall not be singing. As I say, we all have matters of expertise, and that is not among mine. Instead, let discuss what just transpired here, which happens to be a fine example of my expertise.”

  Dowser nearly slipped off his blanket again.

  “To an untrained eye, it might seem that I purchased a sub-standard dog, and haggled rather stiffly to do so. To one more familiar with my tactics, it was another matter entirely. As we speak, a man called Anrack and a combination of our kingdom’s finest soldiers and a few slovenly former-rebels are attempting to find the traitorous and deceitful Desmeres Lumineblade. What they know of this Desmeres character is that he is rather wealthy, rather savvy, and running for his freedom. That conjures to mind a certain sort of man. If they were to follow my trail as far as this breeder, what would they hear? A tale of a shabby man looking to buy a scent-hound. That man was hardly in a hurry, and he barely had the silver to scrape together for the worst of his wares.

  “Not much of a ruse, I realize. The actual Elite is familiar enough with my tactics to know that could very well be the man they were after, but there aren’t very many true Elites left, and the Undermine men they filled the gaps with? They lack similar insight.

  “A question you might ask, were this a two-sided conversation, would if it was worth it to come away with the least of his litter. And to that I say, the least of his litter is more than I need. Your purpose, Dowser, is to replace the sense of smell of my former partner. I cannot say for certain if it was his nose alone or the mind that paired with it, but he could manage a feat I’ve never known a hound of any sort, even a Vulbaka, to duplicate. He could pick up a weeks-old scent in the center of a well-trafficked road. More impressively than that, he could tell by scent alone not just identity, but lineage. You give him a drop of a man’s blood, he could sniff that man’s grandson out from a field away. I very much doubt even the cream of the cream, hand-picked for the Queen’s kennel, could duplicate that. So what good is there spending the money for a hound trained to use an inadequate sense of smell, mmm?”

  He tousled the pup’s hair.

  “Better instead to give a dog the tools I need, then train the pup how to use them. And those, Dowser, are skills firmly within my expertise. One doesn’t spend as much
time as I have with trackers at my heels without taking a moment learn how they got there, and thus how to get them there. Always be learning, Dowser. Always be learning.”

  #

  A dingy carriage rattled to a stop just beyond the gates of Verril, the city wrapped about the queen’s castle. Here and there, scars of the battle that raged there in the closing days of the war were still visible. The very stones of the street were fractured as the driver hopped down atop them, crunching over to the carriage door. He opened the door and offered a hand to his sole passenger. A smartly and warmly dressed woman accepted his hand and stepped free. She offered a friendly smile and dropped a half-silver in the driver’s other hand.

  “The smoothest ride yet, Henry,” she said. “Though perhaps you could see clear to replacing the cushions?”

  “Surely, Genara,” he said, oozing the sort of manners and charm that only an elegant woman who tipped well could ever hope to experience. “If it will make for a more pleasant ride, I shall do so at once.”

  “Would you help me with my bags?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t think of allowing you to carry them, ma’am.”

  Genara and the driver walked a short distance along the street that ran just inside the wall. The city was designed as a series of concentric rings with the palace at the center. As one traveled toward the queen, the scope and grandeur of the lodgings grew. Here at the outskirts one could find the simplest and cheapest of the homes, but even they were mansions by the standards of most of the kingdom.

  They stopped at the steps of a two-story home. It was fully intact, far enough from the main streets to have been spared during the battle that liberated the city. A warm glow peeked from behind thick drapes drawn against the cold and the setting sun.

  Genara dropped a few more coppers into the driver’s hand and sent him on his way, then rapped at the door. After a few moments, it opened to reveal a man of middle age who, at a single glance, had more than a passing resemblance to Genara. His hair was a shade darker brown, and hadn’t yet earned its first gray, but his eyes and smile had the same piercing life to them. At the sight of her, his face lit up and he threw his arms around her.

  “Sister!” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Come in, come in. I wasn’t expecting you until next month!”

  He picked up her bag and held the door for her.

  “Wonderful to see you, Lem. I didn’t think I would be here until then. But something unseemly happened down at the Den.”

  He shut the door.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but ‘unseemly’ is the bread and butter of the Den, isn’t it?”

  “Not this sort of unseemly. Soldiers, blood.” She shook her head. “This was something I thought I was done with once I moved up to the Den. Anyway, long story short, Klye told me I ought to spend a few days in Verril until things cool down.”

  “I thought you were through with that sort of door-to-door service,” he said.

  She slapped him on the back of the head.

  “Don’t think I’m not the same sister who gave you a fat lip for that sort of talk twenty years ago. Now how’s Father?”

  He shrugged. “Father is Father. Sometimes he knows it’s today, some days he thinks it is thirty years ago and Mother is still alive. But he’s healthy enough. I was just about to give him his dinner.”

  The house was well-furnished and cozy, a wealthy home by no means but not wanting for anything. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the air had the rich scent of bubbling stew.

  Lem set down her and continued to the fireplace, where a pot simmered merrily in front of the flame. He tipped back the lid and dipped a wooden spoon inside for a sample.

  “Not quite ready,” he said, “A few more boils.”

  He returned the lid and settled down into a horsehair chair to one side of the hearth. Genara sat in a matching one to the other side. For a time they were silent.

  “Nothing particularly interesting on the job?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “More of the same. Always more of the same.”

  She sighed. “Does that ever disturb you? That each day is a copy of the last?”

  “I’ll take drudgery over tragedy.”

  “Well certainly, but… heavens, Lem. When did I visit last? And what did we talk about? Cutting slabs and entertaining guests… Nothing between then and now is worthy of note but my brush with this idiot in the Den? Say what you will about him, at least he’s leading an interesting life.”

  “I haven’t got the energy for an interesting life.”

  “You feel that way now, but wait until you’re looking back on as much as you’re looking forward to…”

  “You suppose I’ll have more energy then.”

  “I suppose you’ll have more regrets then. Don’t tell me you’d never thought about what you’d be remembered for when you were gone… Or if you’d even be remembered.”

  “If you wanted to be remembered, you should have had a child or two. That’s what Father did.”

  She gave him a withering look.

  “Just a suggestion.”

  “At least you’re leaving behind something of a legacy. In the future, people will look upon the streets and buildings you’ve rebuilt and even if they don’t know it, they’ll be looking upon the good you did. What can I look back on? A few girls who know how to handle themselves and a Den keeper who’s had a smoother go of it than he might have?”

  Genara glanced in his direction. His eyes were sagging and his head had the telltale angle of someone on the verge of dosing off.

  “You look exhausted, Lem.”

  “Rebuilding a city is good work, Genny, but it doesn’t leave much left of a man late in the day. Been cutting and lugging stone. I’d still be at it if we didn’t run short of raw slabs.”

  “I tell you what. You go take a nap. Close your eyes for a while. I’ll finish up the stew and see to Father. I’ll keep the rest warm for you.”

  He smirked and crossed his arms. “Since when did you know how to make a decent stew?”

  She looked at him sternly. “I may not know how to start a pot, but I can tell you when one is finished. Now get.”

  “You are the eldest. I suppose I ought to mind your wishes.” He yawned. “Don’t burn the house down.”

  Lem stood wearily and shuffled out of the room. The stairs creaked as he climbed to one of two bedrooms clinging to either side of the chimney on the second floor. The thumping of heavy footsteps came to an end and very shortly after they were replaced by loud snoring. Genara shook her head.

  “I do not miss sharing a room with that…” she muttered.

  She stood and checked the pot, tipping back the lid to breathe in the complex aroma. It was a crime that Lem was a laborer, even if the pay met his needs and the work was steady. His true calling was in the kitchen. Even in their earliest days, when he was too young to do any real work and the family was barely able to feed itself, he found a way to make the barrel-scrapings that served as dinner into something to look forward to. Now that he had two coins to rub together and the lack of war had loosened up restrictions on the scarcer ingredients, he was churning out dishes worthy of a royal banquet.

  “Maybe I can get him a job in the kitchen down at the Den…” she mused.

  When the tip of a knife sunk easily into one of the floating bits of potato, Genara declared the pot finished and swung it aside from the fire. She ladled out a bowl, fetched a small loaf of bread from a cloth-covered basket near the fire, and set them on a tray with two glasses of wine. As she carried the food up the steps, she glanced at the wine and smiled. Even as she climbed the steps, barely a ripple disturbed the surface.

  “If I can’t cook, at least I can serve,” she muttered to herself.

  It was a product of her elevation to service within Clennock’s Den. Other such places catered to rather low clientele who had similarly low expectations and requirements of the staff. Clennock’s fancied itself as something more, and selected an
d trained its staff accordingly. Each girl was trained for poise, and time each day was spent attempting to expand their minds and build their sophistication. Though it was true that even the most wealthy and cultured of clients might have a few of the baser expectations from the girls at Clennock’s, a great many were just as eager to have the chance to have a deep and nuanced discussion on their topic of choice, and a girl who could provide it could earn a very high fee for a much less distasteful evening that might otherwise be possible. Very few of the younger girls took advantage of the library Clennock’s Den maintained, but even the least intellectual of them seemed to dedicate at least some time to brushing up on their posture and balance, Genara included.

  She turned and pushed open the door to her father’s room to find him awake and reclined in a large, well-worn chair beside his bed. A plank, as always, rested on the arms of the chair to form a work surface. Two large wooden clamps held it in place, and a third attached a small anvil near the center. Assorted jewelers tools sat in holes drilled in the plank. He held a copper ring with a pair of tongs and a small hammer in the other hand, tapping at the ring gently and holding it up to an oil lamp on the top of a dresser beside him.

  Genara’s father appeared truly ancient. His hair was sparse and downy white. The fingers that clutched the tools were gnarled and twisted. His face, cut deep with wrinkles and checked with scars, had been shaped by the years into a jowly frown. He was very thin, and though heaped with blankets and clothing to keep him warm, his legs were plainly thinner still than they ought to be. Despite his frail appearance, there was something about his hunched stature and saggy skin that suggested he’d once been a much stouter man. Time had merely worn him down, and done so far more thoroughly than it had for many. Though he’d had Genara and Lem late in life, and thus was well into his eighties, one could be excused for suggesting he’d seen his hundredth birthday come and go. A difficult life had aged him far beyond his years.