The Fifth Ward--First Watch

by Dale Lucas

  “What did I just tell you?” Cupp snapped. “No. I ain’t seen her since the night before that. Now take your eager prick somewhere else, Mr. High-and-Mighty Watchwarden, before I tear it off and feed it to the alley mutts.”

  With that, Cupp spat at Rem’s feet and lumbered away. Rem watched him go for a moment, satisfied that he was onto something.

  According to Jhonna, Indilen showed up for her Saturday shift, was sent on an errand by Cupp, then never returned.

  According to Cupp, Indilen never showed up at all.

  Someone was lying. The question was who, and why?

  It was Golden Hour—the sun below the horizon, but light still in the sky—as Rem trudged back to the watchkeep from the Pickled Albatross. The activity in the streets was a strange reversal of all that he’d seen that morning, after he and Torval had gotten off work: vendors closing up their stalls and carts for the night, shopkeepers closing their windows and doors, laborers coming home from work and children playing out the last light of day in the streets before their mothers ordered them home for the night. Rem felt a strange, familiar peace among all these humdrum daily activities. He almost felt as if he were home—or in a place he could call home.

  The walk to the watchkeep in the Fifth Ward took him less than a half hour. When he reached his destination, there was only a narrow band of pale red-gold light in the western sky, beyond the harbor and the great lighthouse, the sun having finally slipped below the horizon. A sliver of moon rose out of the east. Mounted torches burned all around the little square that fronted the watchkeep, and little tin lamps hung on posts, keeping the square alight even though night was now upon them. It felt a little strange when Rem showed his watchman’s signet to the guards at the main entrance and was immediately granted entrance.

  I guess they haven’t changed their minds, he thought. I’m really here, really a part of the city watch.

  In he went, to start his second night on the job.

  All the watchwardens on duty—sixty or seventy, perhaps—were crammed into one corner of the administrative chamber, all jostling for a view into one of the side chambers. As Rem pressed nearer, trying to elbow his way through the crowd to see what had them so fascinated, he heard a man shouting, apparently in pain, swearing and cursing himself and everyone around him. Little by little, Rem crept nearer the front of the crowd, catching only a few sour looks along the way. At last, he could see through the archway that led into the side chamber and had a view of the chaotic scene therein.

  It looked like some sort of little infirmary, hosting a wooden table, a couple chairs, bundles of wadding and bandages, and all sorts of strange probing implements and apothecary jars. Presently, a man lay on the table—bearded, long-haired, voice low and gravelly. It was he that kept cursing himself for a clumsy fool, for having let such a thing happen. Rem saw plainly, even from his imperfect, crowded vantage, that the man’s right ankle was swollen terribly, horrible, livid bruises already blooming beneath the puffed-up flesh. Another man—thick and round as a barrel, bearded and florid of face—stood at the injured watchwarden’s side, trying to get the cursing injured man to lie still.

  “Stop mewling, Sliviwit!” he coaxed. “Just lie still and hold your tongue and—”

  “What in the sundry hells was I thinking?” the injured man, Sliviwit, howled. “That was a bloody, buggered rookie mistake—”

  “It’ll be all right,” the fat one said, trying to get his partner to lie still.

  “Hold him, Demijon,” someone said. “The healer’s coming!”

  Then, off to Rem’s left, the crowd parted. A young woman with silver hair and puzzling, ancient eyes moved through the crowd without hindrance and arrived at Sliviwit’s side. She studied the swelling ankle for only a moment before holding one hand out to Sliviwit’s thick-waisted partner, Demijon. Demijon, without hesitating, laid his hand in the girl’s. She pressed it down on the swollen ankle, her own palm atop, and Sliviwit howled at the pain of their touch. Without anyone having to ask, two more watchwardens stepped forward and held Sliviwit on the table.

  Rem guessed what he was about to see, and had to remind himself to breathe as he awaited it. He had heard of such wonders as he was about to witness, but never seen such a thing firsthand.

  Everyone grew silent, as if all understood what was about to unfold. The strange girl with the silver hair muttered words in some ancient tongue that Rem could not identify. As she did so, Sliviwit, the injured man, began to gnash his teeth and growl, clearly in a great deal of pain, now using every ounce of strength he could muster to bear it and resist the urge to buck. At the same time, Rem saw that Demijon, his partner, with his thick hand pressed down on Sliviwit’s broken ankle under the silver-haired girl’s own palm, grew pale and sickly. It was like watching someone succumb to seasickness or food poisoning. His eyes lost focus. His skin blanched. Fine beads of sweat broke out on his brow. There was not a sound in the room apart from Sliviwit’s snarling against the pain and the desire to thrash away from it.

  Everyone stared. No one made a sound. After a time, Rem realized he was holding his breath.

  Then it was over. The silver-haired girl removed her hand and Demijon’s. Sliviwit, suddenly free of the pain of whatever healing spell the girl enacted, fell backward onto the table, panting, desperate for breath. Demijon reeled backward, dazed and in danger of toppling. One of the two watchwardens who had rushed forward to brace Sliviwit leapt to Demijon’s side. The fellow helped the heavy watchwarden lean back against the table behind him. Rem looked to Sliviwit’s ankle. Already, the swelling subsided and the bruising faded as though the injury were weeks old and not minutes.

  Just like that, the spell was broken. The crowd around Rem turned from the scene and began to disperse. Rem was surprised to find Torval at his elbow, having apparently watched the whole thing unfold in silence, never once making Rem aware of his presence.

  “Ever seen such a thing?” Torval asked.

  “She’s a healer,” Rem said, indicating the silver-haired girl as she glided away again, silent, swallowed by the milling crowd of watchwardens.

  “Aye,” Torval said, nodding. “One of our Mage Squad.”

  “She drew energy from the healthy man to help her heal the injured man—is that right? That’s why the big fellow ended up so white-faced and woozy?”

  Torval nodded. “When your partner’s in need, you give, be it coin or blood or the very life force that animates you.”

  Rem shook his head in astonishment. “Extraordinary,” he whispered, then joined Torval and the rest of the crowd as they milled away from the little infirmary chamber and spread out through the administrative area.

  Across the room, Ondego and Hirk stood just outside Ondego’s office, conferring with each other apart from the others. Rem also saw what he believed to be more milling bodies, pressed into Ondego’s office—but he could not be sure. Since Ondego and Hirk blocked the doorway, it was hard to see. Outside, the gathering seemed loose and at ease, with watchwardens sitting on desks, chairs, or just standing about. Rem found himself a chair and sat. Torval stood.

  It took only a moment for the watchwardens to come to their comrade, one by one, and offer their condolences about Freygaf. Rem overheard almost all of the muttered offerings, and they generally consisted of, “He was a good man,” “We’ll all miss him,” or “The gods of the mountain are probably wishing they could give him back about now.” Rem supposed Freygaf must have been blustery and a brawler, but, on any given day, a solid man to have on your side.

  Hirk whistled. Everyone quieted down and gave Ondego their attention as he moved to the center of the room.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You’ve all heard about Freygaf,” Ondego said, his voice completely without sentiment. “Offerings and libations can be poured out at the Temple of the Gods of the Mount, just across the way. The crones there will see to Freygaf’s preparation and immolation. The fire should be lit midweek. Details to follow.

&nb
sp; “That being said, we’ve still got jobs to do in the here and now. What happened to Freygaf—be it murder with intent or a simple accident of being in the wrong place at the wrong time—could happen to any one of us. Since it happened to him when he was alone, that’s all the more reason to remind yourselves why you’ve got partners, and why you need them. We can’t afford to lose anyone else off this watch, so believe me when I say you do not—I repeat, do not—have my permission to die.

  “Now, if I may, I’d like to introduce a new member of the crew. Show yourself, lad.”

  He looked to Rem and indicated that he should stand. Rem felt suddenly abashed, but managed to get to his feet anyway. He hated being the center of attention. The watchwardens all turned their hard, world-weary gazes on him. Not a one smiled or offered words or gestures of welcome.

  “This is Rem,” Ondego continued. “Fresh in from the north.”

  One burly northerner screwed up his face. “Didn’t I arrest him the other night?”

  “That you did, Hildebran,” Ondego said. “But the lad and I had a talk while he was in the stir, and I decided he might make a fine addition to our iniquitous little band here. So, extend him every courtesy, make him feel like a brother, and try not to leave bruises or lacerations where they can be seen.”

  They all smiled and chuckled at that. Rem didn’t like the way they were looking at him, like sailors who’d been at sea for months looking on the first maiden to cross their path—even the few females among them, whose gazes were just as vicious and predatory as the men’s.

  “Now, then,” Ondego continued. “We have a special visitor, and I should like you all to extend him every grace as he treats with us.”

  There were, indeed, people waiting in Ondego’s office. A small retinue emerged, led by a slender, sad-eyed, richly appointed elf. Accompanying the woodlander was a swarthy but handsome sort in much more modest apparel—probably a bodyguard, Estavari by the look of him—and a doughy, powdered eunuch that was, in all likelihood, the steward of this affluent elf’s household.

  The elf’s expensive and showy attire struck Rem as rather bizarre. He imagined that city elves would, on occasion, enrobe themselves in fine silks and damasks, because they appreciated craftsmanship and comfort—but there was something in the elf’s ensemble that suggested to Rem something more than understated appreciation. It seemed actively showy: slightly crass, even. His robes were silk, of a bright, colorful crimson weave that might have been more at home on the body of a rich merchant or high-priced courtesan. Enriching the fine, well-spun silk garments were a deep purple sash hanging across his thin body from his right shoulder, a shiny ornamental leather belt cinched around his narrow waist and chased with both silver and gold filigree, and a heavy, glittering neck torque around his slender throat, offset by a gaggle of bejeweled rings on his long, elegant fingers. Had Rem not seen the high cheekbones, pointed ears, and vaguely enlarged eyes that marked all elves as elves, he would have assumed this was just the spoiled son of some first-generation merchant’s family enjoying a recent inheritance. Perhaps the sight was not such a strange one in a vibrant cosmopolitan city like Yenara, but it was utterly alien to Rem’s admittedly limited prior observations and assumptions about elves and how they might appear or behave in person.

  “This,” Ondego said, introducing the grim and slender sylvan in his well-embroidered robes, “is Mykaas Masarda, an emissary of one of this city’s most prominent citizens, Kethren Dall, of the most ancient House of Dall. Citizen Dall has asked that his honorable emissary be given the privilege of addressing us directly, and I’ve granted it, so keep your ears open and your gobs shut. Citizen Masarda?”

  The elf stepped forward. Rem was amazed at how familiar his bearing and countenance were: growing up in a noble court, he had seen a thousand men with that same stiff back, that same proud profile, the same grim set of mouth. It was as if all the rich and powerful folk of the world were, in some sense, the same—even if they were elves.

  “Citizen Dall is my friend,” Mykaas Masarda began, his voice melodious and calm. “So long as I have made my home in this city, I have been welcome in his household, enjoyed the company of his wives and children, and supped at his table. Now, in his hour of need, my good friend has asked that I bring a message to you. His daughter, Telura Dall, just seventeen years old, seems to have disappeared, and Citizen Dall fears for her safety. She was last seen yestermorn, in their own home in the Second Ward, by her mother, her tutor, and a brace of family servants. She went out in the afternoon, and she has not been seen since. Because she is child of privilege and not well versed in the cruel and deceitful ways of the world, her father fears, to say the least, that something terrible has happened to her.”

  Mykaas Masarda paused. Rem saw the vague glint of tears in his eyes, a barely perceptible trembling in his lower jaw. Clearly, he was a close family friend, for the girl’s disappearance seemed to trouble him as deeply as it might a blood relative. The men in the administrative chamber, if they noticed this subtle but clear display of emotion, all seemed to listen without judgment. So far as Rem could see, there was not a single sneer, nor any unkind whispered word in answer to the elf’s clear if covert grief.

  “My good friend has asked this,” Masarda said, pressing on, “that I, and all of his business associates, visit all the watchkeeps of the city tonight to make it known that a great reward awaits the one among you who uncovers some news of our Telura’s whereabouts. Your reward will be greater still if she can be found and returned to her family alive and unharmed.”

  Masarda then handed a hand-sized portrait to Ondego, who took a quick look at the portrait and passed it around. It was painted on a thin sheet of wood, no bigger than a quarto volume. When the picture arrived for Rem to study, he saw that it was a fine and realistic likeness of a young lady with dark hair, brown eyes, and a proud, aquiline profile. She was clearly a nobleman’s daughter—he saw patrician blood and manners in the extension of her long, graceful neck, the slight lift in her chin, and the challenging, even playful fire in her deep brown eyes. After committing the image to memory, Rem offered the portrait to Torval. The dwarf only gave it a summary glance, frowning as he did so, then passed it along.

  The watchwardens rumbled, whether in answer to Telura’s plight or the promise of a reward, Rem could not tell. When the portrait had made the rounds, Hirk finally reclaimed it. He walked it to the wall of portraits that Rem had assumed to be a rogues’ gallery of fugitives and used an iron nail to affix it there.

  Rem stared at Telura’s picture, one among hundreds—not part of a rogues’ gallery at all, but a portrait gallery for the missing and displaced. Staring at the wall now, he could finally see clearly what he had failed to notice before: how many of the most recently hung pictures and sketches were of beautiful youngsters, male and female.

  Beautiful youngsters … just like Telura Dall.

  “Find her,” Mykaas Masarda was saying when Rem finally returned his attentions to the elf’s address. “Return her to her family. Do so and you shall have the eternal gratitude of the House of Dall and all their compatriots, in addition to a fortune of your own.”

  No one spoke. Not a sound came from the gathered watchwardens, nor from Mykaas Masarda’s embassy. After a long, pregnant silence, Ondego finally stepped forward, shook Citizen Masarda’s hand, and indicated that he could now be on his way. Masarda and his richly appointed companions nodded, whispered thanks, and took their leave. Ondego did not speak until they had left the administrative chamber.

  “And with that,” Ondego said, “our evening’s business is complete. Carry on, gentlemen. Keep your eyes open, your fists clenched, and your back to the wall. Dismissed.”

  The gathering broke. Men separated into small knots, all discussing Telura Dall and the possible reward for her safe return. Torval did not join any of the conversations, though. He broke from the group instead and went stalking off toward the armory at the back of the keep. Halfway there, he stopped
and looked back at Rem.

  “You coming?” he barked.

  Rem leapt out of his seat and followed.

  When Rem arrived at the armory, Torval was already conferring with Eriadus, ticking off requests on his fingers. Rem did not hear what Torval had asked for clearly, but he saw Eriadus nod agreeably, then bustle away to go rooting through a series of cells stuffed tight with scraps and scrolls.

  Rem studied the many weapons on display. Torval stood silently, staring into the middle distance, a scowl on his broad little face.

  “Is the maul always your weapon of choice?” Rem asked, by way of making conversation.

  Torval glanced at him, seemingly annoyed that he’d broken his reverie. He grunted. Shrugged. “Mostly. Sometimes the ax. Handy with a short sword when necessary.”

  “I’m best with the sword myself,” Rem said. “Used to practice all the time. Hours upon hours—”

  “Sparring with the horses?” Torval asked.

  Rem didn’t know what to say to that. Truth be told, he probably shouldn’t let on to Torval just how good he actually was with a blade. He was supposed to be just a groom’s son, after all. Never mind that he had won any number of planting and harvest festival tourneys since turning fifteen, the youngest age of competition. He would just have to keep his skill with a blade—just like his aristocratic origins—quiet until such time as they were called for.

  Eriadus returned. He had an armload of scrolls and he offered them to Torval. Torval indicated that Eriadus should hand them to Rem, and Rem dutifully took them, nearly losing the whole load in the transfer. There were quite a few, and none seemed of uniform size.

  “What’s all this?” Rem asked.

  “Arrest records,” Torval said. “Six months’ worth.”

  Rem raised an eyebrow.

  “You can read, can’t you?” Torval asked.

  “I can,” Rem confirmed.

  “Then come on. You can read them to me.” Torval turned and led the way back out of the armory.