The Fifth Ward--First Watch

by Dale Lucas

  They were challenged at the door, but a servant standing within earshot vouched for them, assuring the overearnest porter who asked the names of all the incoming mourners that the master of the house had, indeed, summoned these two scruffy-looking, clearly low-class watchmen. Rem and Torval were apologized to, then shown into the main hall of the villa, where the young Telura Dall lay in state on a silk-draped bier surrounded by mounds of flowers, bundled herbs, and funerary offerings. Rem and Torval joined the line of mourners waiting to move past the corpse so that they, too, could pay their respects. It took almost a full half hour for that line to inch forward, snaking around the great room to finally place them before the young lady.

  Rem thought that young Telura looked as beautiful as any maiden he’d ever seen, either back home or in the city. Even her pallor seemed healthy and alive, her skin gilded gold by the many candles burning all around her, her cheeks rouged red to give some semblance of life. There were no signs of the wounds on her scalp, or on her wrists. Rem knew nothing of the funerary arts, but he thought the widows at the House of Waiting sorceresses indeed to have taken this poor girl—whose body had been found beneath a pile of rubbish in a bad part of town—and turn her once more into something resembling a peacefully-napping princess.

  Beside him, Rem saw that Torval seemed deeply moved by the sight of the young lady. Perhaps he was thinking of his own daughter—or even his wife. Rem had spent enough time with Torval to know now when the dwarf was struggling to keep his deep and powerful emotions bottled. Though his countenance remained stony, the glint in his eyes and the trembling at the downturned corners of his mouth were unmistakable. Torval might play at being inured to all the terrible things he was privy to as a wardwatchman, but Rem could tell that all those myriad sins, whether blasphemous or banal, still had a profound effect upon him.

  Once their time before the corpse was done, they moved into the gardens, where the guests all gathered to quietly mingle, drink, and eat of the buffet set out for them, and (presumably) to discuss their own fond memories of the dear departed. True, Rem overheard conversations of all sorts around him—gossip, business deals, plans for illicit meetings, and demands for restitution of debts—but he knew what the funeral of a high-born young lady was supposed to consist of in theory, if not in practice. He tried to screen out all the venality around him and simply enjoy the fine wine and free repast. He hadn’t eaten since he and Torval had breakfasted that morning, and he was quite hungry.

  Torval did not mingle. He simply stood aside, waiting as though on guard, a stalwart little figure with squared shoulders and feet set apart. More than once, the guests turned and remarked upon Torval and Rem and their apparent crashing of the party, but Torval never seemed to hear them, and Rem never thought to make their conversations a topic of his own. He decided, instead, that it was best to wait. If Kethren Dall wanted to find them and thank them, he would do so. If he did not, then they could leave after a time.

  Rem caught sight of a strange figure across the torchlit yard. He studied the figure for a moment, then bent to whisper to Torval.

  “That one looks familiar,” he said.

  Torval raised himself up on his toes, to get a better view, then nodded in agreement. “Aye. That’s the elf that delivered our watchkeep news of the missing girl.”

  Rem snapped his fingers. “That’s it. The one who offered the reward. Strange company to find an elf among, isn’t it?”

  “And why is that?” Torval asked.

  Rem shrugged. “I suppose I never thought of the wood folk as … well, mercantile.”

  Torval shot him a sideward glance, then let loose a heavy, exasperated sigh. “Just as not all dwarves live under mountains mining and polishing jewels, not all elves spend their lives smoking witchweed and snuggling trees. Look at this one’s forehead—that should tell you all you need to know.”

  Rem did as he was told. It was hard to see clearly from a distance, but when the light hit the elf’s high, pale forehead just right, he thought he saw a strange scar there—a sort of star, right in the center of his brow.

  “Thorned,” Torval said.

  Rem waited for an explanation and got none. “What does that mean?” he finally asked.

  Torval sighed. “In the old days, slavers sometimes snatched elven children for trade. The slavers didn’t want the children using their mind magic against them, or communicating secretly with their fellows, so they would drive a cold-iron spike through their foreheads. Not deep enough to kill them—just enough to kill the part of their mind that allows them to speak without words and read thoughts.”

  Rem felt a chill run through him. It seemed a rather barbarous thing to do, considering elves were born mind readers—the terrible, irrevocable theft of a gods-given birthright. “Is it common?” Rem asked.

  Torval shook his head. “Not so common anymore, as slavers rarely get their hands on elven children these days. But when they do, that’s how they make them compliant. Worse, even if the thorned children ever get free, they can never get the gift back. It means that their own sort want nothing more to do with them.”

  “So they’re outcasts among men because they’re elves and former slaves,” Rem said, “and they’re outcasts among elves because they no longer have the gift that all their fellows share?”

  “That’s it,” Torval said.

  Rem sighed grimly. “That’s fantastically cruel,” he said. “I can’t imagine what that could do to a person.”

  “I don’t know his story,” Torval said, referring again to the elf that had drawn Rem’s attention, “but I’m willing to bet he’s made a life among men because his own kind wouldn’t have him back. Probably a merchant of some sort. A man—or elf—can yank himself out of any pit of despair if he can find the right merchandise to trade.”

  Rem studied the elf as he moved among the guests, speaking to some, being avoided and whispered about by others. “He dresses well enough. Those are Quaimish silks. And all those jewels …”

  Torval shrugged. “Rare, to be sure. But there’s all sorts under the sun, in’t there?”

  “I say,” a fellow exclaimed, suddenly approaching them. He looked well-to-do in a dark tunic and toga, a cup of wine in hand and more of his stripe following on his heels. “I say, may I ask who the two of you might be?”

  Torval started to open his mouth. Rem saw from the way his eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted that it was bound to be something gruff and uncharitable. Rem intervened.

  “Watchwardens, milord,” Rem said, bowing the slightest. “Humble and out of place in these environs, I can assure you.”

  The rich man and his equally rich companions all looked puzzled. “Well,” the fellow said, looking more embarrassed than indignant, “if I may ask, what brings you to the wake this evening?”

  Rem smiled, trying to alleviate the tension in the air. “We were the men who found the young lady, sir. Apparently, his lordship Citizen Dall wanted to thank us personally for doing our duty and seeing the young lady returned to her family.”

  The rich man and his companions all seemed strangely amazed by this, as though thanking a civil servant were the most bizarre and wondrous thing they’d ever heard of. They grumbled and muttered among themselves for a few moments before their leader finally offered his hand to Rem in greeting.

  “Othren Osk, of the ancient House of Osk. I am most delighted to meet you, Master …?”

  “Remeck,” Rem said, bowing again. “Of no particular ancient house. This is my partner, Torval.”

  Torval nodded gruffly. He seemed quite shocked that Rem had taken it upon himself to speak with these men, even annoyed. Still, he kept his mouth shut and Rem was glad of it.

  “So, the two of you are watchmen,” Othren Osk said, as though it were the most fascinating thing he had ever heard. “You patrol the streets, arrest criminals, that sort of thing?”

  “Just that sort of thing, milord,” Rem said with a nod.

  “Then I would imagine,” O
sk said, “that such tragedies as this are part and parcel for you. All too common, I would think.”

  “Death and murder are common, it’s true,” Rem said. “But the murder of one such as young Miss Telura Dall—one so beautiful and well-to-do—well, sir, there’s nothing common in that.”

  “Is that right?” Osk said, looking to Torval for confirmation.

  Torval’s face remained stony. “That’s right.”

  “Such fascinating work,” Othren said, and he genuinely seemed to mean it, even though the men at his elbow were chattering among themselves now and ready to move on. Rem knew the type: this Othren Osk was the sort of fellow who had long been sheltered by his money and power. He honestly enjoyed conversations with people from other walks, simply because their lives struck him as curious and alien. If a flesh-eating plant or white tiger could talk, he would probably be equally as pleased to speak with them.

  It was then that a servant approached, the very same bald and powdered eunuch who had saved them at the door and gained them admittance. “Good gentlemen,” he said, bowing obsequiously, “the master has asked for you and will see you now.”

  “I beg your leave?” Rem asked Othren Osk.

  “Freely granted. A delight, Watchman Remeck.”

  Rem nodded. “My pleasure, milord.” Rem looked to Torval then. “After you.”

  Torval scowled as though it were an insult and followed the eunuch out of the gardens.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They were led once more through the great hall, down a side corridor, and into a spacious but cluttered room that looked to Rem like some sort of office. Cubbies filled with scrolls and shelves laden with books lined all the walls, a large desk stood at one end of the room under a pair of watchful hanging lamps, and opposite the desk stood a trio of comfortable couches, no doubt intended for leisurely perusal of all the reading material on hand. Currently, there were several men in the room, all congregating around a certain fellow of regal bearing and aquiline profile, whom Rem recognized as their grieving host, Kethren Dall.

  “The watchmen you summoned, milord,” the eunuch said with a deep bow, presenting Rem and Torval to the proud-looking patrician before them.

  Dall studied them, looking down his nose with affected pride. The affectation did little to mask the ghost of grief apparent in his sagging, red-rimmed eyes and the deeply cut frown at the corners of his mouth. While Rem could not guess as to Dall’s true character, his immediate impression was one of trustworthiness—though he knew well that first impressions were often proven wrong.

  “What are your names, gentlemen?” Citizen Dall asked.

  Rem and Torval each introduced themselves. Rem knew the drill with men of Dall’s sort—he’d been one, hadn’t he?—so he kept his eyes down and his head slightly bowed in the rich man’s presence, feigning humility for the sake of his subterfuge. Torval, for his part, also kept his eyes down, but there was no subservient bow in his shoulders, no bend of his neck. The dwarf still stood straight, at attention, proud and mighty though he remained only four feet tall.

  The men in Dall’s company had grown silent when the two of them had been presented. Rem absently wondered if that was because they were discussing shady business, or because they simply didn’t want to be overheard talking by a pair of roughspuns from the wardwatch. Dall himself seemed to take a great deal of time to study them, then gave a nod to his eunuch servant. The servant bustled away to a side alcove of the room to see to some unknown task, and Dall addressed the two of them directly.

  “You are the watchmen who found my precious Telura?”

  “We are, milord,” Torval said.

  “In a rubbish heap,” Dall said.

  Rem threw a glance at Torval. Should they acknowledge the truth? Did Dall know it, or was he asking for a more honest report than he’d previously been given? Torval, for his part, didn’t seem too sure about which was the case either. After a long, uncomfortable silence, the dwarf finally spoke.

  “That was where we found her, milord,” Torval said, “sad as it is to report.”

  Dall studied the two of them then, his lip trembling, his eyes growing watery. Rem didn’t look forward to what might come in the next moment. The fellow could become angry, slinging all the fury and hatred he felt for Telura’s murderers at these two hapless public servants. Or he could simply break down with grief again, and they’d be forced to stand here and watch him sob until he thought to dismiss them. Either way, it wouldn’t be pretty. Rem didn’t care to be the brunt of the man’s grief or anger. Right now, all of a sudden, he simply wanted to go, and go quickly.

  “Do either of you have children?” Kethren Dall asked. His voice broke.

  “I do, milord,” Torval answered. “Three. And I’ve lost two in the past, so I know something of milord’s pain at this present moment.”

  Rem looked to Torval. He hadn’t imagined the dwarf would share such information with this rich stranger whom they may never see nor speak to again. Still, he understood the wisdom of it. If Dall was about to fall apart in their presence, it might bode well for them if he knew that one of the two men before him was also a father, and knew what a father’s grief felt like.

  “If that’s true,” Dall said, “then I daresay you do know what I’m feeling. What would you do in pursuit of the men who were responsible for your dear daughter’s murder, master dwarf? What could stop you in your quest for justice?”

  Torval’s mouth was set stonily again. “Nothing,” he said slowly. “Nothing in the world could stop me once I’d set my sights upon them and determined to hunt them down.”

  The eunuch appeared again. He handed something to Dall, which Dall then brandished for Rem and Torval: a pair of small leather pouches. They tinkled metallically. Rem knew they were filled with coin.

  “Then I expect you to stop at nothing,” Kethren Dall said, and flung one of the little coin sacks in his hand to Torval, the other to Rem. Each caught them and hefted them. Rem could not tell whether the coin within was gold or silver, but either way, the gifts were generous.

  Not gifts, he reminded himself. Bounties. This man expects his daughter’s killers to be brought to justice.

  “These are tokens of my appreciation for all you’ve done thus far,” Kethren Dall said. “For finding my little girl and seeing her returned to us. Now I beg you, gentlemen—find the men who stole her from us. Find them, and let me look into their eyes just once before they’re brought to their final justice and sent to their gods for punishment.”

  “We can hunt these men,” Torval said. “But we cannot accept this coin, milord. We were only doing our jobs and it wouldn’t be right—”

  “Then give the coin to the prefect if you must. Let it buy new armor or new swords for the men of the watch, or fill your buttery stores. It’s out of my hands now and in yours, and I won’t have it returned without being insulted.”

  Torval nodded. “Ours is but to serve, milord.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps presaged the opening of the study door. There stood the elf, Mykaas Masarda, looking quite surprised to find so many people crammed into Citizen Dall’s den. He scanned the faces of all present and gave a barely perceptible bow of his head in greeting.

  “My apologies for interrupting, old friend,” Masarda said to Citizen Dall. “I had no idea you were speaking privately with anyone.”

  “No apologies, Mykaas,” the patrician replied. “I was just expressing my gratitude to these good watchwardens—as you suggested.”

  The elf turned and studied Rem and Torval more fully, and Rem thought he saw something in the woodlander’s smooth and angular face: an almost invisible flash of pretense that suggested that his surprise in finding them there was false. Rem took the opportunity—that extended moment when Mykaas Masarda seemed to study and size them both up—to do a little hasty consideration of his own.

  The elf was youthful and pale, ears tapered and pointed, head bald save for a long flaxen topknot that fell down his b
ack in a well-bound braid. Up close, the thorning scar on his forehead was much more apparent, slightly livid in the shadowy lamplight of the study. Lingering in the hall outside was a man in clearly low-class raiment that Rem marked as Estavari by his olive skin, dark hair, and well-oiled beard. He wasn’t dressed to impress, nor for the funeral, so Rem assumed he must be the elf’s bodyguard. Even at this distance, half-cloaked in the shadow of the hall beyond the elf, the Estavari looked equal to any adversary that would stand against him.

  Strange, Rem thought, that the elf would bring his bodyguard with him to a funeral vigil.

  Rem and Torval each made slight bows. Mykaas Masarda, their new elven acquaintance, offered his hand to each in turn.

  “Watchmen,” he said, not ungraciously. “It is my pleasure, and my honor.”

  “Citizen Masarda is an old acquaintance of mine,” Citizen Dall offered. “Though in all our years of association, I don’t think he’s aged a day, while time has certainly heaped its whips and scorns upon my old countenance.”

  Masarda seemed embarrassed. “The curse of my kind, I’m afraid.”

  “And what brings an elf out of the woods and into this close, crowded city of ours?” Torval asked. “I thought it strange enough to see my own kind on these streets, let alone the kith and kin of your fair kind, good citizen.”

  Rem shot a puzzled glance at Torval. What was he doing? Was he trying to insult their host and get them kicked out? Of course, Rem had wondered those very things aloud only moments ago, but he never would have expected Torval to give them voice.

  “Rare, indeed, to be sure,” Masarda answered with a slight smile. “In all honesty, master dwarf, the forest was never for me. These streets, with their press and shadows and noise and colors, move me far more deeply. But if one considers, it’s really just a forest of a different sort, isn’t it?”