The Fifth Ward--First Watch

by Dale Lucas

  Torval pocketed the coin, tossed the victuals, and continued his rooting. Just when Rem thought he should end his search—what more was there to find, after all?—Torval suddenly produced a wrapped bundle bound up in cheesecloth from the depths of the orc’s deep purse. Torval sniffed the bundle, then tugged at it to open one twine-bound corner. When the bundle was open, Rem immediately got a whiff of something coarse and pungent, a stench like funereal incense, burnt cloves, and cooling pitch.

  “Is that witchweed?” Rem asked.

  Torval glared up at their sheepish orc prisoner. “It most certainly is, and a rather large parcel of it as well. Where was this headed, mudknuckle? Planned to sell it off, pinch by pinch, to sailors on the waterfront? Or maybe you had a single buyer willing to part with a bag of gold for such a stash?”

  The orc shook its head vehemently. Rem was relieved it didn’t bother to deny any of the charges—it simply didn’t want to offer specifics, either. Finally, Torval handed the bundle to Rem. Rem wasn’t sure what to do with it. If he held it too long, breathed in its strange, mephitic odor too deeply, would he start to see things? Feel strange? Have the vasty deeps of the angels’ planes opened before him?

  Torval addressed their hulking prisoner again. “Stay quiet and don’t give us any trouble. We’re off to Gorn Bonebreaker’s, then we’ll be shut of you. Savvy?”

  The orc didn’t seem to like the sound of that name, either—Gorn Bonebreaker—but nonetheless it nodded and assented. When Torval handed the lead line on its wrist bonds back to Rem, the orc made no further attempt to overpower them.

  “Hold that,” Torval said, then marched away.

  “Where are you going?” Rem asked.

  “The same place you are!” Torval barked. Rem started to follow, but Torval rounded on him again. “Bring the bloody prisoner, you daft knob!”

  Rem supposed that was quite a rookie mistake. He circled back to where the bound orc still stood, beside a horse trough and tie post in front of the Pickled Albatross, and yanked at the lead line on the orc’s bindings. The brute fell into step behind him. Rem hurried to catch up once more with Torval.

  “Aren’t we going the wrong way?” Rem asked, trying to catch his breath. “The watchkeep is back the other way, isn’t it?”

  “We’re not going to the watchkeep,” Torval said.

  Rem waited for an explanation. It felt like a very long time before Torval finally offered one.

  “Any orcs we shackle we’re obliged to offer up to the ethnarch,” the dwarf said, sighing impatiently. “So he can dispense his own justice.”

  Rem quickened his pace to draw up abreast of Torval. He gave the trailing orc’s lead line a yank. “Ethnarch?”

  “Babe in the bloody woods,” Torval muttered. “In bygone days, treaties were made to protect each race from arbitrary justice by the others. In places like Yenara, where we all mingle, you’ll usually find ethnarchs—members of each race whose job it is to dispense justice among their own folk in that city. The orc ethnarch, Gorn Bonebreaker, holds court outside the North Gate, in Orctown. He’s little better than an outlaw baron, and we often catch the orcs we deliver up to him later running his nasty little errands. Still, treaties are treaties: if we don’t want to risk anarchy and war, we keep them.”

  “Are there others?” Rem asked. “Ethnarchs?”

  “Of course,” Torval said. “For us dwarves, there’s Eldgrim and Leffi, a husband-and-wife pair, who first came to the city as trade ambassadors. Elves pay homage to a pointy-eared witch with a pleasure garden over in the Second Ward, Ynevena. And, of course, Yenaran law was written by men, so your sort are covered by it.”

  “How is it,” Rem asked, “that you’re not subject to Yenaran justice, yet you can enforce it?”

  “Ah, but I am,” Torval countered. “When one of the elder races joins the wardwatch, we’re required to swear an oath and renounce our right to the justice of our ethnarchs.”

  “Complicated,” Rem muttered.

  “Not really,” Torval said. “Just an expedient. Now hurry up and keep quiet. I’m tired of answering your questions.”

  Rem shut his mouth and kept pace. At one point, he stole a quick glance over his shoulder to check on their orcish prisoner. The brute shook its head, as though it, too, could not believe how little Rem knew of the ways of the world.

  Rem answered the orc’s silent impertinence with a belligerent tug on the rope. It followed where they led, docile as a gelded bull.

  By and by they reached the North Gate and were waved through by the city guards on duty there—a resplendent bunch compared with the wardwatch, fully armored and liveried in crimson, black, and gold, Yenara’s traditional colors. Just outside the North Gate, Rem saw a cluster of dimly lamp-lit buildings huddled in the fog, corralled by a low wall of rough-hewn stones and lorded over at its center by a squat castle keep that he assumed was the home of Gorn Bonebreaker. Torval led Rem and their prisoner down the wide, muddy North Road from the gate, closer by the moment to that haphazard little gathering of hovels and taprooms dubbed Orctown. As they approached, Rem realized that he could hear new sounds emanating from that little enclave—sounds unlike any he’d heard as yet, even on Yenara’s crowded, cacophonous streets.

  In addition to the guttural dialogues, coarse and boisterous laughter, and foreign curses he expected, Rem heard songs sung in the rough, consonant-heavy tongue of their prisoner, barked into the night like the canticles of warmongering bears. A few humans lingered inside and outside the Orctown gates, men on missions, eager to gather coin or spend it. Smiths hawked arms and armor, fur traders haggled for fresh pelts and hides, and, of course, furtive, shifty-eyed street-corner apothecaries held quiet congress in whispers and grunts with orcs selling narcotics. Witchweed, Rem assumed, along with poppy milk, magic mushrooms, and wake-leaves.

  Torval did not seem concerned with the trade going on all around them, so Rem pretended not to care either. Secretly, of course, he was amazed, not so much that the city folk dealt so openly with orcs—considered by most of mankind to be ancient, divinely ordained enemies of the human race—but rather, that the orcs had managed to find for themselves an unassailable business niche in Yenara’s rich economy. Who better than woodland vagabonds and mountain bandits, after all, to gather the psychotropic produce of the Ironwall Mountains and the deep, broad forests in their shadows and transport those eagerly sought goods to places where men could buy them? It was a sharp and bitter lesson in just how willing all the races were to put aside their ancient enmities when there was money to be made or vice to be indulged.

  Beyond the square they entered a series of narrow, winding streets lit only by the dim lamps flickering outside the alehouse doors they passed. Rem didn’t care much for those surroundings, as it was unnervingly dark and impossible to see what cutthroats or marauders might lie in wait for them. Still, Torval seemed to know where he was going, so Rem just tried to keep up, kept a tight hold on the lead line tied to their prisoner’s bonds, and kept sweeping his gaze from side to side, in hopes of catching any would-be thief or assassin before he (or it) was right upon them.

  Finally, they came to the threshold of Gorn Bonebreaker’s squat, foreboding little keep. Two orcs guarded the main door—stout, carven tree trunks bound by thick iron and long-tarnished brass—but Torval’s badge instantly silenced their challenges. The great door opened, the watchwardens and their prisoner were admitted, and a hunched, limping orc runt in what Rem took to be house livery scurried off ahead of them to announce their arrival to his master. The narrow vestibule they waited in was dim and close and smelled of old moth-eaten furs and smoked meat. Rem did not care for it. Their orc prisoner seemed to like it even less, constantly shuffling from foot to foot, furtive eyes darting around the low, shadowy chamber in search of some lurking attacker, some promised ambush. Rem almost asked Torval just what they should expect, but the dwarf seemed to be lost in a reverie of his own—mouth set in a stony frown, eyes narrowed and suspicious. S
eeing the grave seriousness of Torval’s countenance, Rem opted to keep his mouth shut.

  In short order, the door was opened, courtesy of the liveried, limping orc again, and Rem, Torval, and their prisoner were ushered into the great hall beyond. It was not much larger than the vestibule in terms of length or breadth, but at least the ceilings were higher and it didn’t feel so claustrophobic, like a tunnel leading from one subterranean prison to another. Along the length of the great hall, sputtering torches that stank of pitch guttered in rusty iron wall sconces on the chamber’s sentinel pillars.

  The room itself was adorned in haphazard fashion with all manner of weapons, fragments of armor, and trinkets of every odd sort: here a hilt attached to a broken sword, there a hammer-dented breastplate that looked, to Rem, like something from the Scrolls of Bygone Ages, a pile of ratty, matted old rodent furs, an old moss-stained forest stone, once carved in the countenance of an eldritch god, now so worn and smooth that it was basically just a rock again. The great hall looked less like a proud nobleman’s seat of power and more like a long-unused stable filled with junk that its owners should part with, but just could not seem to.

  And there, slouching in what seemed to be an undersized throne at the far end of the chamber, was the orc that Rem took to be Gorn Bonebreaker, the ethnarch of his people in Yenara. As the three of them approached, passing in and out of shimmering pools of torchlight and gloomy shadow, Rem tried to study the brute without being seen to study him. Gorn had the same broad, flat face, pronounced underbite, forward-thrust head, and wide shoulders of his race; he seemed big to Rem, for orcs always gave that impression, but perhaps not so big, his wide shoulders and long, muscled arms giving more of an impression of size than any actual height or mass.

  But what Rem noted most keenly—and disliked, almost instantly—was not any sense of physical intimidation or threat. It was, rather, a sense of being in the presence of a cunning, deceptive, and proudly disingenuous adversary. For all his muscles and grimness and malevolent little eyes, Gorn’s most striking feature was what a deep sense of untrustworthiness he radiated. Rem had known men in his time to possess that same quality, and he almost always hated them, instantly, even without cause for feeling so. Here, now, he hated Gorn Bonebreaker, and suddenly realized he wanted to be out of the orc’s court as soon as possible.

  “Rather late for gifts, neh?” Gorn rumbled. His voice was deep and sonorous—the sound of a great man-sized war drum or rolling thunder. Rem found himself surprised by Gorn’s exacting use of the common tongue, though—how carefully the orc sought to form each syllable and sound, despite the fact that his underbite-heavy jaws were not formed by the gods to speak such words.

  “Business as usual,” Torval replied. “We serve the law in this city, we honor our treaties.”

  Gorn’s inhuman mouth formed something like a smile, apparent only by a slight curling at the edges of his mouth. “You forget yourself, Watchwarden. Make your obsequies.”

  Torval actually growled, like a street cur cornered by a suspect stranger. He exhaled, a long, weary sound, then finally said, “Hail, thee, great Gorn, called Bonebreaker, Bane of the Minefolk, Scourge of Men, and Chosen Harbinger of His People’s Destiny. I present to thee this prisoner, for his mercy or his wrath, however His Majesty the Bonebreaker sees fit to use him.”

  Rem caught himself staring. Really? All that? For this second-rate diplomat holding court over this shabby little enclave in this great city? Rem wagered speaking those words made Torval’s hackles rise and stomach churn, yet there must be some established ceremony in it. A rote tribute paid to an officious, self-serving monster made of smug arrogance and delusions of grandeur.

  Gorn, for his part, seemed very satisfied indeed with Torval’s words. He waved his great, shovel-like hand. Torval, in answer, grabbed the lead line from Rem’s hand, yanked the orc prisoner forward, then shoved him toward his ethnarch with no attempt at subtlety. The orc landed on its knees. He stole one glance at Gorn, but otherwise kept his head down.

  “I salute you, master dwarf,” Gorn said. “There is so little to you, yet any of my folk in your care are always so … tractable. So cowed.”

  Rem saw Torval smile venomously. “You are a breaker of bones, Gorn. I am a breaker of orcs.”

  That nasty little almost-smile curled the corners of Gorn’s lips again. Clearly, there was no love lost between Gorn and Torval—and yet, Rem wagered there might be some sneaking admiration.

  “What is his crime?” Gorn finally asked, indicating the prisoner.

  “Failure to follow the lawful commands of a watchwarden, resisting arrest, disturbing the peace, and carrying on his person a very hefty cache of unlicensed witchweed.”

  Torval brandished the bundle they had seized from the orc’s purse. If Rem wasn’t mistaken, he was almost certain that he saw Gorn’s face—his beady little eyes—register something like shock and worry at the sight of all that witchweed in Torval’s hands and not his own. A moment later, the ethnarch glared down at his arrested subject, and Rem knew that he’d been right: somehow, Gorn knew exactly where that parcel had been bound, and that whoever expected it would not be happy when it failed to reach them.

  But, experienced dissembler that he was, the orc managed, in the next instant, to hide his true designs. Once more, his face was a mask of mock courtesy and haughty composure. He harrumphed and shifted in his cramped seat.

  “Leave this pile of ambulating offal with me, good watchwarden, and I’ll see to his punishment forthwith.”

  Torval hawked phlegm and spat it unceremoniously onto Gorn Bonebreaker’s flagstones. “As is your wont, great Bonebreaker. We bid you good night.”

  Torval turned and headed back toward the door. Rem bowed a little to dismiss himself, received a magnanimous wave of the great orc’s hand, then hurried after his partner. They did not speak again until they were outside, tromping swiftly away from the ethnarch’s palace.

  “You don’t care much for him, do you?” Rem asked.

  “Had I my wish,” Torval muttered, almost not to Rem at all, “we’d toss the lot of the knuckle-dragging sods into the Fires of the Forge Eternal and swill mead as they slowly burned.”

  A knot of orcs stumbled from the doorway of what Rem took to be a tavern. They were all reeling, imbalanced, clearly drunk, and as loud as a stampeding herd of aurochs. They loped right into Rem and Torval’s path. Just as Rem was about to snag Torval’s tunic and steer him sideward, the dwarf suddenly shouted at them.

  “Away!” Torval roared, his voice splitting the otherwise quiet night and actually freezing the orcs in their tipsy tracks. For just an instant, they all sought the source of the sound, their faces masks of gathering fury and indignation.

  Then when they saw that compact four-foot-tall engine of flesh and muscle moving toward them, recognized him, and realized that he’d given them an order, they moved away without a word. All the resistance drained from them, and their party split, retreating to either side of the narrow street. Torval and Rem marched right through them.

  Breaker of orcs, indeed.

  Torval wasn’t very talkative the rest of the night. Rem couldn’t decide if it was because the dwarf’s mind was elsewhere, Rem had offended him, or the Stump simply didn’t like him. The dwarf performed his duties, guiding Rem along his normal beat, showing him where the artisans clustered (all together, like four-leaf clovers) and which shops were likelier to draw thieves than others (tinkers, for their valuable metals; tailors, for their precious silks and fabrics; greengrocers, for their rare, imported spices). They broke up three brawls and collected a smattering of coin and cheap jewelry for fines, chased two would-be burglars without catching them, told at least half a dozen whores and jacks to find more suitable environs for their coupling, and foiled one purse snatcher, returning the coin-filled pouch in question to an old bakerwoman who had left her shop late after a very good business day. Torval not only returned the coin purse to its owner, he also dug whatever coin he could
find from the snatcher’s pockets. Derisively, he told the thief that his fine was paid and sent him running. Through it all, Torval only spoke when necessary, and seemed evermore distracted.

  When the distant bells of the Great Temple of Aemon sounded the fourth hour of the morn, Rem finally offered his apologies.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “for the orc.”

  They were sitting on a stone horse trough just a block or two from the bridge that crossed the North Canal. The smell of low tide was strong, the air chill, the fog thick, the boisterous city finally dark and still.

  Torval didn’t look at him. “I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

  The silence that fell between them was inscrutable, almost painful.

  “You don’t think much of me as a partner, do you?” Rem asked.

  Torval turned a penetrating, burning gaze upon him. “You seem a good sort, lad—honestly, you do. But maybe this isn’t a job for good sorts. Maybe it isn’t a job for you.”

  Rem felt a rage rising in him. “If you start with that Bonny Prince rubbish again—”

  “Forget that!” Torval said, leaping to his feet. He was still a foot and a half shorter than Rem, but his presence and his conviction were absolutely overwhelming, as though he were a full head taller than Rem, looking down his nose at him.

  As though he were Rem’s own self-righteous father.

  “There are two hundred thousand people in this city,” Torval said, “and our sort are the only thing standing between the bad intentions of those hundreds of thousands and total, bloody chaos. The Council of Patriarchs can fill a hundred Halls of Justice with laws and good intentions—in the streets, on the ground, we are the only bastion against savagery. We impose order where there is no law. If you’re not up for that challenge—if you’re not willing to give yourself the authority to call out anyone, anywhere, at any time and put them down when they challenge you, then you cannot do this job, boy. Not now, not ever.”