by Dale Lucas
“Does that hurt?” Eriadus asked.
Rem nodded and managed a smile. The smile pained him, but he wanted both of these men to know that a swollen eye, a split lip, and a missing tooth wouldn’t keep him down for long. “Just bruises,” Rem said. “They’ll heal.”
“That’s the spirit,” Eriadus said.
“Eriadus?” Hirk prodded.
Eriadus went rifling through the drawers nearby, then slowly started to work his way back into the stacks of detritus. Rem allowed his eyes to dance about the room, taking in all the flotsam and jetsam around him, following the tumbling lines of old sabers, blunt polearms, seized cuirasses and leather armor, cartloads of scrolls and fragments of old sculptures that looked long past their prime and strangely incomplete. At last his gaze came to rest on an enormous, three-dimensional bas relief laid out on a vast table in an alcove to his right. His mouth fell open.
It was a map of Yenara, so detailed that it was a work of art. The packed earth looked like real earth, dusted here and there with patches of grass; certain streets were paved with tiny cobbles; and the waters of the harbor and the bay looked like ice, vaguely transparent, but frosted in their immobility. There were even little wooden ships stuck in the cresting waves. Rem reached out to touch it.
“Don’t,” Hirk said quietly. “Eriadus will have your hand. He built that himself, and he keeps it up-to-date. Every time there’s a fire, every time a new tower or manse goes up, he goes out, sketches the altered space, then comes back here and makes changes. Ondego wanted it out in the main chamber, but Eriadus won’t let it out of his sight, so we sometimes have meetings in here, just so we can refer to the map.”
“It’s fine work,” Rem said, honestly amazed. He’d always had a soft spot for quality modeling. His father’s architects, with their scale models of the manses or strongholds they intended to build, always fascinated him.
“Pay attention,” Hirk said, stepping up to the map. “How well do you know this city?”
Rem shrugged. “I’ve been here a few days.”
“Not at all, then,” Hirk said. “This bitch is far too complicated to reveal all her secrets in such a short time. So, look here—”
Rem watched, as he was told. The city was more or less ovoid in shape, longest from northeast to southwest, roughly bisected along its length by the meandering line of the Embrys River. There was a great bite out of the northwestern quadrant of that oval, where twin harbors—one to the north of the river, one to the south—cut into the cityscape.
“Here’s the city,” Hirk said, indicating the whole of the map. “It’s broken up into five wards, and each ward has a prefect. Ondego, he’s ours. This is the Fifth Ward.” He pointed to the fork of land at the northeastern quarter of the city that wrapped around the northern harbor like a loose fist. “Our ward’s got the most land area and the densest population, but we’ve got the same hundred-odd watchmen as the other wards.”
Rem raised an eyebrow. “Not sporting, is it? I’ll bet the city magistrate’s always on you because the other wards have lower crime rates and make more arrests, per capita.”
Hirk stared at Rem like he’d just sung the holy psalms in orcish.
“Am I wrong?” Rem asked.
“No,” Hirk said. “You’re bloody clairvoyant. Now shut up and listen.”
Hirk went on to point out the other wards: the Fourth, just southeast of the Fifth; the First, which incorporated the oldest parts of the city and its municipal center; the Second, where the rich made their homes; and the Third, which covered the waterfront on the south side of the harbor.
“In every ward, the watchmen keep the peace and levy fines on lawbreakers. That’s what you’ll be doing: walking patrol, finding lawbreakers, and levying fines from them. When it’s a serious crime—a violent one—or they can’t pay the fine on the spot, you bring ’em in and lock ’em up.”
“On the spot?” Rem asked.
“Well, where else?” Hirk asked. “D’you think they’re likely to come here to the ward station and hand their coin over once you’ve called them out and convicted them?”
“Don’t they see the judges?”
Hirk shook his head. “The judges only handle cases involving capital punishments. Anyone in danger of hanging, burning, beheading, or gibbeting gets to see a judge. Everyone else pays up when we call them on the cutting floor.”
“And what if they don’t have coin on them?” Rem asked.
Hirk smiled a little. “You didn’t have sufficient coin on you,” Hirk said. “Where did you end up?”
Rem nodded. “Dungeons. Right. Do I get a sword?”
As though prepared for his question, Hirk turned, snatched a wooden stave up off a nearby table, and laid it right in Rem’s hands.
“You get that,” Hirk said.
“A stick,” Rem said. “But wouldn’t a sword—”
“Can you use a sword?” Hirk asked.
“I can,” Rem said proudly, because, in fact, he could. Not to brag, but he thought himself quite good with a blade, based on what he’d seen of the men running around in the world.
“Do you have a sword?” Hirk asked.
“Not presently,” Rem said. In truth, he’d sold it to pay for his journey south, almost four hundred miles and forty days ago.
“Then you’re welcome to buy one after you save your coin. As you can see, we’ve got many here in the armory, and they’re available at very reasonable prices. But, at present, we don’t provide swords to neophytes.”
Rem looked around the armory. “There are enough swords in here for an army. If you’ve only got a single company of watchwardens, why can’t you spare a few?”
Hirk took him by the tunic and shook him. “You sassing me, boy?”
Rem shook his head. “No, sir. Just puzzled.”
Hirk thrust him away and gestured toward all the swords on display in the armory. “Those swords are property of the ward. We keep them handy for emergencies and we issue them to the watchmen as needed. Sometimes we bring in duffers off the streets and sell surplus. Get a pretty penny, too.”
“Well,” Rem asked, “when might I need one?”
“Live through your first ninety days,” the sergeant said. “Then we can talk about it. I’m sure we can work out a payment plan—take some coin right out of your wages, until the pigsticker’s paid for.”
That’s when Eriadus returned, bearing with him a bundle of equipment. He laid down the bundle and unrolled it. Before Rem could even take stock of the items laid before him, Eriadus named each.
“Cuirass,” he said, displaying a roughened old boiled-leather breastplate that was probably already old when Rem’s grandfather had been a lad. “Flint and steel, brass whistle, torches in shoulder scabbard, stave, and badge of office.”
Rem studied the badge. It was made of lead, shaped roughly like the city itself, and had a bas relief of the number five in old imperial numerals on it. Although the badge was compact—small enough to be held in one palm—it was still heavy.
“Why lead?” he asked, honestly puzzled.
Eriadus snorted and chuckled to himself. He threw a mirthful glance at Hirk and Hirk just shook his head. He laughed as well, although even his laugh sounded like something grumbly and dangerous. Rem’s eyes darted back and forth between the laughing pair.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“‘Why lead?’” Eriadus muttered, as though he couldn’t believe he’d been asked such a silly question.
“Because it’s of no value whatsoever,” Hirk spat, “so you’ll be in no danger of having it stolen.”
Rem was about to ask how many golden or silver badges had to be stolen from the city watch before the watchwardens made the switch to lead, when Eriadus interrupted.
“And,” he said, “lead deflects black magic.”
“Does it?” Rem asked.
Eriadus shrugged. “So I’ve heard. Can’t hurt, surely?”
Rem shrugged. “Suppose not,” he sai
d, and slid into the cuirass. It was stiff as lumber and smelled like a wet aurochs. Once the cuirass was on and the signet chain latched around his throat, he shoved the flint and steel into his pocket, then slung the scabbard with the three torches over his shoulder. He looked to Sergeant Hirk for approval.
The big man nodded. “Look at that,” he said. “Almost a watchman.”
“And what makes me a watchman at last?” Rem asked good-naturedly.
Hirk scowled as though that were the dumbest question he’d ever heard. “Watching,” he said, and marched out of the room.
Rem turned to Eriadus. “Should I follow him?” he asked.
Eriadus threw out his arms. “How should I know?” With that, the old man and his muttonchops went back to their ledgers, and Rem scurried to follow the sergeant back out to the administration chamber.
CHAPTER THREE
Hirk next took Rem to Ondego’s office. There, Rem was told to sit on a very hard and uncomfortable wooden chair and submit himself to a line of questions that Ondego asked with a strange mix of boredom and intensity. Clearly, they were questions he had asked before.
“What’s your name?”
“Rem.”
“Short for?”
“Remeck.”
“And you’re from?”
“Up north. Hasturland, near Great Lake.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Lykos Vale, on the north shore.”
Rem wondered if perhaps he should have lied about that part, but it was too late now.
“Hirk tells me your pappy was a horse groom for a lord.”
“True.”
“What brings you to Yenara?”
Rem shrugged. “I wanted a change of scenery.”
Ondego sighed at that. “Are you now, or have you ever been, engaged in a criminal enterprise that would interfere with the prosecution of your duties as a watchman of the Fifth Ward in this city?”
“No, sir. None whatsoever.”
“So you ran away from home,” Ondego said, “but you stole nothing in the process?”
Rem started to answer, then paused. “Pardon me, sir?”
“Well?” Ondego pressed. “That’s it, isn’t it? You ran away from home?”
“Children run away from home,” Rem said. “I’m twenty-five years old and bound by no obligations.” Not entirely true, but true enough so far as he was concerned. “I didn’t run away. I left.”
“You wanted a change of scenery,” Ondego finished. “Certainly. What horseboy from the north wouldn’t want to just leave all that wide-open space and fresh air for a shit-hole like Yenara?”
Ondego was baiting him. Rem kept from arguing. “On the contrary,” he said, “I think your city’s one of the fairest and most impressive I’ve ever seen. If there are any to rival it in the world, I’ve yet to see them.”
“Traveled much?” Hirk asked.
“Admittedly, no,” Rem said, though he had always wanted to, despite his father’s admonitions that there were more pressing matters at home. “But she’s a gem, Yenara is.”
“A dirty gem,” Ondego said. “A crowded, festering, unpolished gem rife with dens of iniquity and overcome by her own blind lust for power and gold and the indulgences of vice. She’s a crossroads where Koster reavers from the north, Isolian merchants from the south, orcs and dwarves from the mountains, and elves from Aadendrath in the west all come to trade. And while they’re here, they have a knack for drinking too much, whoring too much, gambling too much, or digging a little too deep for their vice of choice. Many end up drawing steel or coming to blows. Some end up dead. That’s your gem, boy. She likes to make promises she’ll never keep, drive men toward collision, and sit by laughing as her victims bawl and bleed. That’s Yenara, and don’t you forget it.”
“As you say, sir,” Rem answered. And he meant this part down to his bones: “Right here, right now, there’s no place I’d rather be.”
Ondego stared at him for a long time, appraising him. At last, that appraisal seemed to conclude. The older man smiled and nodded, the weariness never leaving his dark eyes. “She is a splendid, foggy old wench, isn’t she?”
Rem smiled broadly. “I’ve never seen her like,” he said, “and wager I never will again.”
“Any objection to catchpole work?”
Rem blinked. “Catchpole …?”
“Chicken chasing,” Ondego said. “Nabbing debtors. In addition to bracing burglars, busting brawls, catching cutpurses, fettering footpads, and stirring stewmaids, we sometimes roust out debtors for the more up-and-up moneylenders of the city. I trust jackbooting for coinmongers doesn’t offend your delicate sensibilities?”
Rem shook his head. “I suppose not. Every man should pay his debts.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ondego said. “That’s why we’ll be withholding your brawling fine from your first pay purse.”
Rem’s mouth worked, but no words came out. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
Ondego looked to Hirk. “I like him,” he said. Then he looked back to Rem and leveled a finger. “That’s provisional, you understand. I can revoke my admiration at any time, given the right circumstances.”
“Entirely understood,” Rem said. “When do I start?”
Ondego looked to Hirk again. “Who should we hand him to? Djubal? Klutch?”
Hirk shook his head. “Those two are attached at the hip,” he said. “They won’t want a third, and they won’t separate. Bad idea.”
Ondego seemed to prickle slightly. “Well, fine, then. Varenus?”
“Too stiff.”
“Sliviwit?”
“Not stiff enough.”
“Hildebran?”
“For this one? Hildebran’ll tear him apart.”
“Queydon?”
“Too elvish.”
“So I wasn’t seeing things,” Rem interjected. “You actually have an elf among your watchwardens?”
“Indeed we do,” Ondego said. “Gone to the roads, that one. Their own kind don’t take to them much once they’ve turned their backs on their dainty little treehouses and made their homes among us.”
“Quite the pain in my backside,” Hirk answered. “She’s a great watchwarden, but poor company. You know elves. Aloof. Prone to skulking.”
“They say they don’t do it on purpose,” Rem said. “Skulking, that is. It just comes naturally.”
“We’ve got two dwarves as well,” Ondego said. “Say, what about—”
And that was when the door to Ondego’s office burst open on its hinges. It swung into the little room with such a racket that all three men—Rem, Hirk, and Ondego—were taken aback and expelled gasps from their gaping mouths. A small broad figure stomped into the room, swept right past Rem, and hove up to Ondego’s desk.
The newcomer was a dwarf—and not the jocular fellow that Rem had seen earlier. He was four feet tall and almost as wide at the shoulders, but in the manner of dwarves, not fat—just stout, like a stunted oak tree. This one had shaved his pate bald, but had long mustaches and muttonchops that arced over his ears and ended in foxtails at the base of his round, bald head. His drooping mustaches were tied into tails as well.
The dwarf threw up his long, thick arms and roared, “Where the bloody hell is he?”
“Who would that be?” Ondego asked, nonplussed.
“That no-good, wayward, wine-besotted partner of mine, that’s who!” the dwarf roared. His voice was deep and raspy, like a rusty old hinge or a dull saw working on dense lumber.
Ondego looked to Hirk. Hirk just shrugged. “Been busy with the Bonny Prince,” he said, nodding toward Rem. “I haven’t seen Freygaf this evening.”
The dwarf suddenly turned and looked at Rem, as though just realizing that a stranger was in their midst. His face twisted up in seeming disgust. “Who’s he?” he asked.
Rem offered his hand. “Call me Rem,” he said. “I’m new to the watch.”
The dwarf’s right hand struck. Rem thought he w
as about to strike Rem’s offered hand aside, but he did something else: he grabbed his hand and turned it palm upward, eager for a good look at Rem’s flesh. After a long examination, the dwarf tossed his hand away.
“Scrivener’s hands,” he said. “Bonny Prince, indeed. This whelp’s been counting money and writing letters all his life.”
“Nonetheless, we’re two men down,” Ondego said. “And he volunteered.”
“Where’d you find him?” the dwarf snarled. “Looks like you scooped him out of the gutter.”
“Close,” Hirk said. “We locked him up last night. He beat the cack out of a couple of stevedores, both a lot rougher and meaner than the prince here.”
“Is that right?” the dwarf asked. He still seemed incredulous, but that incredulity was tempered now.
“So, you can’t find Freygaf?” Ondego asked.
The dwarf grunted and shook his head.
“Well, then, that works out just perfectly.”
Rem realized what was about to happen. He looked to Hirk. Hirk was fighting the bloom of a broad grin on his stubbly face.
“Rem,” Ondego said, “this is Torval. Torval, this is Rem—your partner for the evening.”
The dwarf, Torval, looked like he’d just been handed a leper and told to wipe its backside with his bare hands. “The hell you say,” Torval growled.
“Thank that no-good partner of yours,” Ondego said, his tone announcing that there would be no discussion. “Maybe if he’d shown up for work instead of sleeping one off, I’d have handed the Bonny Prince here to someone else.”
Torval glared at Rem for a good, long while. Finally, scowling, he turned and marched out of the office. Rem looked to Hirk, then to Ondego. “Are you sure about this?”
“Better get going,” Ondego said, smiling a little.
“He hates to get a late start,” Hirk added.
Rem hurried after his partner.
Before leaving the watchkeep, Torval snagged a sentry’s lantern made of wrought iron and tin and made sure its wick was lit. This was, he told Rem, one of the most basic requirements of being a watchwarden: each patrol pair carried such a lantern, so that they could easily find their way, even down the darkest of side streets, and likewise, be easily recognized.
