‘Not at all. We wear them so that dwarves marry for love and not out of lust,’ Briss said. ‘Our spouses cannot see us until our wedding night, and so they must love us for our personalities and not our looks. It is also a mark of modesty and privacy, so that we do not flaunt our beauty for everyone to see. That is a privilege reserved for our husbands—’
‘Speaking of husbands, I must take Fletcher to see Father right away,’ Othello interrupted, flustered by his mother’s forthrightness. ‘Come on, Fletcher. He’s downstairs.’
28
The steps opened up into a chamber, as wide and as tall as the tent above. The pipe in the centre contained a crackling fire resting over a grate, the gush of hot air and smoke from below sending sparks rushing upwards. The walls were made of bare earth, propped up by strong oak beams that held the room in place. Small chandeliers with wax candles hung from the ceiling, giving the room a warm orange glow. Seven doors were built into the walls of the round room, each one made of solid steel.
They continued down into a near-identical chamber, this one containing a stone dining table. Instead of a fireplace, the pipe was connected to what looked like a large oven and kiln. Vases and pots of all sizes were stacked against the walls. Each one was painted with an intricate floral pattern.
‘This is where my mother spends most of her time. She likes baking, both food and porcelain. A man comes to buy her goods in bulk every week so he can sell them in his shop. The housewives of Hominum turn their noses up at dwarf-made pottery, so he pretends he makes them himself. We make a tidy profit,’ Othello boasted. Fletcher was astonished at how quickly the dwarf was recovering. They were a hearty people, of that he was certain.
They continued deeper and deeper into the earth, as the stairwell became more narrow and constricted. Fletcher was glad that Solomon had decided to rest with Thaissa and Briss; his stumpy legs would never have managed the steep steps.
They passed two more chambers on their way down, each one smaller than the last. The first was layered in stone and full of residual steam, with copper tubing that twisted around the central pipe column; baths of some sort.
The next room was too dark to see much, but Fletcher could just make out the outline of pikes and swords. He guessed it was a storage room, full of Othello’s father’s weapons. The stairs became so steep that Fletcher almost had to clamber down, fumbling in the dim light.
‘Sorry about the stairs. They were designed for defence, you know. The stairs go down clockwise so any men fighting their way down would have to fight with their left hand and would only be able to come one at a time. One dwarf could hold this stairway against a thousand foes, if he was warrior enough,’ Othello said, knocking the pillar in the centre that prevented a right-handed fighter from manoeuvring his sword. It rang hollow beneath Othello’s knuckles, and Fletcher reckoned he could hear the sound of hot air rushing within.
‘Have your homes always been this way?’ Fletcher asked, starting to feel claustrophobic as the low ceiling scraped against his head. For someone used to open skies on top of a mountain, this was not a comfortable experience.
‘Yes, as far back as we can remember. We think it was at first to defend against the wild animals and orcs, but in time we preferred to sleep below the earth. It’s so quiet and peaceful down here. I must confess, I have been having trouble sleeping in the top of that tower, with the wind blowing into my room.’
‘Yes . . . me too,’ Fletcher said, thinking back on the figure from the drawbridge last night.
‘Here it is,’ Othello said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. There was a large steel door surrounded by stone, as if it had been embedded into a natural sheet of bedrock underground.
‘Even if they dug around this, they would have to chip their way through the stone to get in. My father takes his privacy very seriously. There are many others just like this, to house the factories that produce the muskets. But this one is special. It is where the first musket was ever created.’
He knocked his fist against the door with a rhythmic booming pattern, a secret code of some sort. A few seconds later, there were a series of bangs as locks were removed. Then a familiar face opened the door.
‘Athol!’ Fletcher exclaimed, smiling at the familiar face. ‘Othello’s father is your boss? I should have guessed, what with those beautiful guns.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Athol’s face filled with surprise and confusion. ‘And with Othello of all people?’
‘He’s my friend from Vocans,’ Othello said, pushing his way into the room. ‘I want to introduce him to my father.’
‘Uhtred is busy now, Othello. You’d best be coming back another time,’ Athol warned. ‘Wait out here, Fletcher. I don’t think he would want you in the workshop.’
The dwarves disappeared inside, leaving Fletcher to peer in. The room was filled with tools and piles of metal ingots. In contrast to Berdon’s forge, everything was organised to an almost obsessive degree. The inside of the room radiated heat, as if Fletcher had his face a few inches away from a bonfire. Just out of sight, a murmured conversation went on, but Fletcher could not make out what they were saying over the muffled roar of the forge’s flames. Then rumbling like the bellows of the forge itself, a voice rang out.
‘WHAT?’ the voice thundered. ‘HERE?’
Footsteps thudded through the chamber and Othello’s father stood in front of him. The dwarf’s naked chest was enormously broad, with brawny arms spanning the doorway as he blocked the view into the room. The red beard that hung from his chin was split into a fork that hung in two braids down to his waist, and his long, droopy moustache hung almost to his stomach. His thick pelt of chest hair glistened with sweat in the orange glow of the forge’s fire.
‘Athol tells me you asked to work as my apprentice just a couple of days ago.’ Uhtred’s deep booming voice echoed in the tight confines of the stairwell. ‘Now I find you’re chumming up to my boy, wheedling your way into our forge. I don’t trust you, not even as far as I could throw you, and I warrant I could chuck you a good long distance.’
Ignatius stirred from beneath Fletcher’s hood, sensing the threat. Fletcher took a few steps back. He was horrified by the implication. Yet he understood how suspicious the situation appeared.
‘I swear, I had no agenda in coming here. I worked in the north as an apprentice blacksmith. I had just arrived in Corcillum and was seeking employment! Othello and I only met when I enlisted at Vocans. I need a scabbard for my sword, and your son offered to take me to a trustworthy blacksmith. I did not even know he came from a smithing family until just a few minutes ago, nor that Athol worked here until just now. I will go upstairs. My deepest apologies for disturbing you.’
Fletcher bowed and turned to leave, but had only made it to the first step when Uhtred cleared his throat.
‘I may have . . . been hasty. My son is a good judge of character, as is Athol. But I must test your story first and see if you were really an apprentice. Athol, hide the musket-making tools and fetch one of the smaller hammers for Fletcher. If he is a spy, best to find out now so we can take the proper precautions. In the meantime, show me this sword. I have not seen a khopesh of quality for a while.’
Fletcher removed his sword and handed it to Uhtred. It looked tiny in the dwarf’s meaty hands, more like a sickle for pruning flowers than a deadly weapon. He was almost five feet tall, practically a giant for a dwarf.
‘You need to look after this better. When was the last time you oiled it, or sharpened it?’ Uhtred asked, turning the blade this way and that in the dim light. ‘A sword is a tool, just like any other. I will leave you an oilcloth to wrap it in whilst the scabbard is prepared, should your story check out. Look after your weapons, boy! Would you let your demon starve?’
‘I guess I have been lax of late,’ Fletcher said with embarrassment. He had barely given the khope
sh a second thought since he had received it, other than during his fight with Sir Caulder. Another twinge of guilt ran through him as he thought of how much time and effort Berdon must have put in to make it.
‘All right. Athol should be done by now,’ Uhtred said, stepping out of the way. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
29
Fletcher grimaced as the red hot metal on the anvil slowly turned grey once again. Every time he removed the bar of steel from the roaring fire of the forge, it returned to a cool state after just a few hits with his hammer. He had shaped it into a rough sliver of metal, but it looked nothing like the dagger he wanted to create.
‘That’s dwarven steel for you,’ Othello said with a hint of pity. ‘It’s harder and sharper than any metal known to man, but it cools fast. You need to have a dwarf’s strength to make an impact on it before it hardens again.’
‘It was an unfair trick to play on you, Fletcher,’ Uhtred said, not unkindly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to do it. Athol, fetch some of the pig iron from the back.’
‘At least he didn’t know what dwarf steel looked like, I could tell from the look of surprise on his face,’ Athol replied. ‘A spy from the Hominum military would know that. Now we will find out if he really was an apprentice.’
‘Wait,’ Fletcher said, an idea forming in his mind. ‘I can make this work.’
He pulled Ignatius from around his neck and prodded him awake. The imp yawned and scratched at his cheek with his back leg like a dog. Fletcher smiled and waited until Ignatius’s consciousness went from fuzzy to clear as he roused from his slumber.
‘Time to give you a work-out, you idle thing,’ Fletcher teased. Then he concentrated on the steel, willing it to become red hot once again. Ignatius chirred with excitement. He took a deep breath and blew a blue-tinged fan of flame on to the metal.
Slowly but surely, the metal turned red, then pink.
‘Wow . . . I could do with one of those,’ Uhtred breathed in wonder as the demon gulped in another breath, then intensified the flame. It turned the metal almost white and filled the room with an acrid, sulphuric scent.
Fletcher hammered away, the dagger taking shape with each swing. After what felt like an age, he calmed Ignatius with a thought. Exhausted, the demon crawled back up under his hood, its energy spent. Fletcher also felt drained, his arm aching from the rain of blows he had pounded on to the blade.
Uhtred took some tongs and held the weapon up to the light. The handle was a plain metal pommel with a round end, ready to be wrapped in leather for a firmer grip. The blade itself was a simple stiletto, the long, thin blade preferred by assassins.
‘Where did you learn to make one of these?’ Othello asked, prodding the tip with his thumb. ‘It’s not exactly standard issue.’
‘We sold to traders mostly. They liked an easily concealable weapon, so they could take highwaymen by surprise,’ Fletcher said, admiring his handiwork. It was one of his better pieces.
‘All right, lad, you’re free to go. It’s not like you’ve discovered much anyway. To make amends for my bad manners, we will make you a scabbard free of charge. You will need to leave your blade with us, but it should be back with you in a few days. My wife will organise a new uniform for you too. It won’t be tailored but it’s better than that moth-eaten thing you’re wearing now. We won’t have anyone saying our son’s companions are vagrants. No offence,’ Uhtred asserted with a smile.
‘How much do I owe you?’ Fletcher asked, digging out his purse.
‘Just this dagger and your promise to look out for my boy. You seem like a rare sort, Fletcher. It is people like you that give me hope for reconciliation between dwarves and men,’ Uhtred said.
Rain had begun to pour when they reached the meeting place, but there was no sign of the others. Othello kicked the wall as they shivered in a narrow doorway, planning their next move. There were no carts in sight, and the streets were nearly deserted.
‘Damn this rain,’ Othello grumbled. He was in a foul mood and the rain and lack of transport were not the only causes. In their rush to leave the Pinkertons, Othello’s tomahawk had been left on the ground. It had not been there when they returned the same way.
‘Damn the Pinkertons too. My side is as stiff as a ramrod and I’ve lost one of my father’s finest pieces,’ Othello continued, squinting through the deluge.
‘I’m sorry, Othello. I’m sure your father will make another one for you,’ Fletcher said, grimacing with sympathy.
‘How would you feel if you lost your khopesh?’ Othello sounded bitter, striding out into the street.
Fletcher didn’t know how to answer, so he kept his mouth shut. He followed the dejected dwarf through the rain. They were now chilled to the bone despite their jackets, and Fletcher knew that the journey home was going to be a cold and miserable affair.
‘I think our best bet is Valentius Square,’ Othello shouted as thunder began to rumble in the air. ‘That’s where most of the stables are.’
‘All right, let’s go! I just want to get a move on.’ Fletcher yelled back, eyeing the tumultuous sky.
They ran down the empty streets, splashing in the puddles that gathered on the road. Every few seconds the street would freeze with a flash of lightning, followed by a loud crash of thunder.
‘The lightning is close, Othello! There must be a real storm brewing,’ Fletcher cried, his voice almost snatched away by the wind.
‘Nearly there!’ Othello yelled back.
Finally they turned into a small square with an enormous awning, which kept the worst of the rain at bay. It was filled with a crowd of people, taking shelter from the storm and listening to a man on a raised platform. He was shouting, but Fletcher was too tired to listen.
‘They auction the horses off from that stage, if you ever feel the need to buy me one,’ Othello joked, wringing out his beard.
‘Hah, maybe a potbellied pony, that’s all you could manage,’ Fletcher joked back, glad that the dwarf had perked up again.
As they looked around for a cart, Fletcher caught the last words of the irate man’s speech.
‘. . . yet the elves drag the war on, costing both nations many times over what the tax would have been! But instead of taking the war to them, our King talks of peace, never realising the elves’ true intentions! They want us to lose the war, don’t you see? When Hominum falls, they will be free to take our lands from us! The orcs don’t want it, they just want us dead. When blood runs in the streets of Corcillum, the elves will rejoice in our deaths!’
The crowd roared back in approval, waving their fists in the air. Fletcher looked on, distracted from the task at hand. He had never seen a man talk so openly against the King, nor with such hatred for the elves. Not even Rotherham had been as vehement.
‘So what do we do about this? How do we force the King’s hand? I’ll tell you! We march on their embassy and kill every one of those pointy-eared bastards!’ the man howled, his passion so fervent that it verged on a scream.
This time the audience was less incensed. This suggestion was so audacious that a shocked hush fell on the crowd, accompanied by perturbed muttering. The man raised his hand as if he needed silence.
‘Oh, I know, the first step is always the hardest. But let us take it together. Let us seize this moment!’ he roared, accompanied by a smattering of cheers from the crowd, warming to his rhetoric. ‘But first, let me show you how it is done. Grindle, bring out the prisoner!’
A fat, baldheaded man with arms as big as Uhtred’s emerged from a door behind the stage and dragged a screaming elf on to the front of the platform. Even from his position, all the way at the back, Fletcher recognised the struggling figure.
‘Sylva!’ he cried.
30
The crowd pulsed with excitement, both outraged and thrilled at the same time. The fa
t man on stage flourished a club in the air, drawing fresh cries from the mob. Fletcher began to shove his way to the front, but was held back by Othello.
‘Let go!’ Fletcher shouted at him, struggling in the iron grip of the dwarf.
‘We don’t have any weapons, Fletcher. We need to go and get help!’ Othello yelled back as the mob around them heaved.
‘Who are we going to call, the Pinkertons? If we don’t do something right now, Sylva is going to die,’ Fletcher retorted, wrenching his arm away and barging forward.
He pushed and elbowed, but the crowd began to thicken as he got closer to the stage. Soon he was crushed in the mass of surging bodies, barely able to see above the heads of those in front of him.
‘The elves are so bold that they walk our streets, like the war means nothing to them!’ the man on stage shouted. ‘Grindle, bring her here so we can show everyone what we do with elves who don’t know their proper place.’
The crowd roared, some in favour, others in disagreement. The mood was as electric as the lightning that lit up the awning above them, freezing their screaming faces in place with every flash. The sun was almost set, with the sky the dark blue of winter dusk.
‘What’s going on?’ Othello shouted from behind him, jumping up and down to try and see what was happening. Solomon was crouched between his legs, growling at the feet that stamped in the wet mud around him.
‘I don’t know. We need to find a way of getting through this crowd!’ Fletcher yelled. The air was filled with the sound of thunder, angry shouts and rain drumming on the stretched cloth above. Sylva’s scream cut through it all, a long screech of mindless fear that cut straight through Fletcher’s core.
He gritted his teeth with frustration and tried to push forward once again, but all he managed was a few inches.
‘Othello, get Solomon to make some noise! If we can’t get past, we’ll have to disperse them,’ Fletcher hollered over his shoulder.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 15
