The Fifth Ward--First Watch

by Dale Lucas

  Look what’s become of him.

  Look what could become of me.

  He shoved those thoughts away. There was more weighty business at hand—the sort that could get him killed if not attended to. Save all other ruminations for later.

  Just as Rem made the decision to stamp down his conscious thought and press his advantage in earnest—that it was time to engage his adversary head-on, up close, and bring the duel to a close—the Estavari redoubled his own attack and struck mercilessly. He advanced on Rem with a lunge, and brought his own sword—longer and heavier than Rem’s—down in a series of sweeping overhand chops that nearly broke right through Rem’s clumsy parries. The Estavari’s attacks were swift, strong, crushing. They drove Rem back until he ran into a table and had nowhere left to retreat to.

  On came Torval, charging from the bravo’s right with his iron maul high. But the dwarf barely proved a distraction for the seasoned swordsman—the Estavari simply threw up his cape in Torval’s vision, then raised one boot, and shoved the dwarf off again. But that moment of distraction gave Rem a fleeting opportunity to reset himself, and that was all he needed. In an instant, Rem had pivoted sideward, giving him a better angle on the bravo’s open left flank. He attempted a long lunge and daring underhand thrust designed to end the whole match.

  But the Estavari had seen him sliding into position. He spun back toward Rem, sweeping his sword out to parry Rem’s thrust, then gracefully brought his sword point up out of the parry into the perfect position for his own thrust. Before Rem could slide clear, he felt his opponent’s cold, sharp sword point biting into his right forearm. He withdrew clumsily. The wound wasn’t deep, but he was bleeding now.

  The Estavari’s smirk widened. He was quite pleased with himself.

  Over his adversary’s shoulder, Rem saw Torval again. The dwarf was retreating, rushing toward the door, for what purpose Rem couldn’t guess. Somewhere behind Rem, there came a terrific crash, the sound of two strong bodies colliding with a table, shattering it. A beer mug flew across the room at the edge of his vision.

  This is a bad spot for a sword match, Rem suddenly realized. I’m surrounded by pure chaos. Someone could slam into me at any moment and give this son of a whore the opening he needs—

  “Ready for another lesson, whelp?” the Estavari asked, and drew a new blade from an unseen sheath at the small of his back—this one a long, broad dagger. He adopted a new stance now—longsword thrust out in his right hand as a forward defense, dagger floating farther back, in his left hand, ready to parry or snatch a lucky strike. That was a classic position for a two-handed match, and any doubts Rem had as to his adversary’s noble background evaporated. The longsword and the dagger gleamed in the murky light of the common room.

  Rem prepared himself. He had only ever matched two or three opponents in tourneys who used both hands and two weapons. The results hadn’t been favorable for him.

  The bravo attacked.

  Rem’s defensive instincts were put through merciless paces. Using his single short sword to block feints from dagger point and thrusts from the bravo’s blade forced him to constantly open himself to hazard, not to mention tiring him out quickly. Worse, the oily Estavari was a whirlwind with both blades, in some ways better in this mode than he had been with only his sword. Something about the two-pronged attacks that the double armament made possible, combined with the added defensive postures he could adopt, made him bolder, surer, more audacious. Still, Rem kept his cool—albeit barely. Offense went out the window and defense became the order of the day. He blocked, he parried, he riposted. Every now and again, he managed a deft feint, but he couldn’t seem to break through the Estavari’s defenses or put a scratch on him.

  Not good.

  He needed some advantage, some distraction, some means of ending the contest. If he could find his own second blade, even something to use as a block or a buckler, then perhaps he’d have a chance. But his opportunities to search for such a shield were nil under the unending barrage of thrusts and cuts from his opponent.

  Then he heard the howl of brass whistles, the thunder of bootheels. A new slurry of combatants entered the fray, pouring in through the front door, spreading out around the room, a bevy of hard men in boiled-leather cuirasses sporting lead badges, armed with all manner of weapons—swords, axes, mauls, and maces.

  It was the ward guard—men Rem recognized as guardsmen of the Fifth, as well as strangers he assumed to be the men of the Fourth—and Torval was among their number. The brawl must have raised an alarm. Rem saw them all—familiar faces and new, as they poured into the room and spread out to engage with the various life-and-death matches unfolding around the room.

  Torval charged the Estavari that Rem stood toe to toe with.

  The Estavari gave Rem a mordant grin, then pivoted sideward and hooked a toppled chair with his foot. With a swift kick, he sent the chair skittering toward Torval. It collided squarely with the onrushing dwarf’s pounding feet, and Torval went sprawling, his momentum carrying him forward.

  Right toward Rem.

  Rem had no time to dodge. Torval’s compact but considerable bulk slammed into him with crushing force and the two of them hit the floor, a tangle of arms and legs. Rem’s sword flew from his hands. As they came to rest, Rem raised his head, in search of their adversary. The Estavari was already far across the room, making his escape, wending a path through the brawling chaos toward some back corridor and rapid egress.

  On top of Rem, Torval struggled to plant his hands and push himself up.

  “Where is he? Where is that shady bastard?”

  “Get off me,” Rem urged. “He slipped away. If you hadn’t come barreling in, I might have had him!”

  Torval stood, straddling Rem. “Well, you’re quite welcome,” the dwarf countered. “See if I come rushing to your aid at the last minute any time soon!”

  Rem sighed. At least he was alive to fight another day. Should he be upset about that? He thought not. He held out his hand to the dwarf. “Help me up,” he said.

  Torval obliged.

  “Give me something good!” a husky voice barked out of the chaos.

  Rem and Torval turned to see Ondego marching toward them, followed by Djubal and Klutch, the two watchmen no doubt eager to see Rem and Torval get a reaming from their prefect.

  “How did you all get here?” Rem asked, honestly confused.

  “I sent a runner after you came inside,” Torval said. “Figured we might need backup. And they arrived not a moment too soon, I’d say.”

  Ondego looked angry enough to chew them out, but focused as well—intent on some prize. Rem decided it would be best to give Ondego something at the outset to placate him.

  “We should hurry,” Rem said.

  “Hurry where?” Ondego asked.

  Rem cocked his head toward the stairs. “Up there,” he said. “There are secret passages—at least a dozen of them! They’re drugging the young women they bring here, then taking them into those passages—”

  “Go, then!” Ondego barked. “Go now! Frennis is on his way, and if he gets here before we’ve gone into those tunnels—”

  Rem looked to Djubal and Klutch. “Back us up?” he asked.

  Djubal’s dark face was split by a puckish grin. “Delighted, Gingersnap.”

  Torval called for torches and the four of them went bounding up the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX

  Rem, Torval, Djubal, and Klutch entered one of the secret passageways via a sliding panel in the first chamber at the head of the stairs. The narrow little corridor beyond was tight, the air close and stale. Torval had acquired one of their ubiquitous watchman’s lamps—the sort made of iron and tin that all the watchwardens carried on night patrol—and the little oiled wick within was all that lit their way. In single file—Torval, Rem, Djubal, and Klutch—they followed the twisting, turning passage built into the walls of the tavern.

  After two or three bends in the passage, they reached a narr
ow stairwell and began their descent. The stairs were rickety and rotten, but the space seemed largely clear of cobwebs and dust, indicating regular foot traffic from top to bottom. Down and down they went, the stairs bending in a square spiral as they took them from the second floor of the tavern down past the ground floor, then into a vast cellar, probably cut right into the earth of the bluffs about the harbor. The stairs were separated from the cellar proper by a flimsy wooden door—access, along with secrecy—but continued downward beneath even the level of the cellar. The deeper they got, the more pronounced the smell of salt water and low tide became. The watchwardens continued, Rem sure that the others were just as edgy as he was. They were in a terribly vulnerable position. The stairway was too narrow to effectively defend themselves if they were beset from above or below—or, worse, from both directions at once.

  Still, Torval seemed little concerned. He took the stairs two at a time, bounding down, down, down, lamp in one hand, maul in the other. A few times, Rem asked the dwarf if he saw anything, but Torval never answered. He would just grunt and keep moving.

  “And here I thought you came to our fair city to escape the mines!” Djubal said.

  “Keep your sauce boxes shut and be ready!” Torval barked in answer.

  Rem shot a glance at Djubal. The ebon southlander’s face betrayed little worry, just quiet bemusement. “Right behind you, Old Stump!” he called.

  Deeper. Deeper still. The smell of salt and rotting fish grew stronger.

  Finally, they hit bottom. The stairs terminated in a cramped chamber with packed dirt walls shored up by wooden planks and struts. Beyond the little chamber lay a long, bending passageway, hewn out of the limestone of the bluffs and reinforced with skeletal wooden supports. Dim little miner’s lamps lined the passage, some still flickering, others extinguished. From the far end of the passage, Rem thought he heard voices and the hurried sough of boots, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked his companions. “It sounds like there’s someone up ahead.”

  Torval huffed in the affirmative, then broke into a dead run down the passage.

  “Is he mad?” Rem asked.

  “Always,” Djubal said, and swept past him.

  Rem set off at a trot, right on the southlander’s heels. Klutch brought up the rear.

  After following the snaking passage for some distance, Rem finally saw a broad portal ahead of them that opened into a larger chamber beyond. Torval and Djubal hurried through, already shouting as they did.

  “Blast!” Torval growled.

  “Empty,” Djubal spat.

  Rem burst out of the narrow passage into the vast chamber beyond. It was a cave of not-inconsiderable size, sporting a number of wooden piers and platforms, a wealth of shipping barrels, a few simply cobbled structures that probably acted as office, sleeping, or storage space, and, down in the little black lagoon that stretched into the cave, a single long, flat barge—the sort used to punt goods around the canals of the city and across the harbor to waiting ships. The place was in a state of disarray, clearly bespeaking a sudden and hastily undertaken migration. Rem guessed that, once upon a time, many boats had graced the little piers that stretched into the lagoon. Now, of course, all the men who toiled down here while life went on above had made their escape, unconcerned for what they left behind, intent only on flight before the wardwatch penetrated their secret passages.

  Torval kicked an overturned barrel in fury. “Blast!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the vast, open space of the cave. “Just moments too late!”

  “This must be where they brought them,” Rem said, studying a collection of barrels and coils of rope near the wall where he stood. “They brought the girls through the passages and down the stairs and then ferried them somewhere else from this cave. I’m assuming that lagoon gives out onto the harbor?”

  “Appears so,” Djubal said.

  “But where did they take them?” Klutch asked. “And how? Certainly the dockmasters would notice barges laden with unconscious young girls sliding back and forth across the harbor?”

  As if in answer, a strange thumping began off to their right. Rem heard it first, but the other three followed suit soon enough. It was irregular, alternately weak and strong, coming at no set interval. It came from a convocation of barrels pressed into a storage alcove. It could only be made by something alive.

  Rem moved nearer the alcove, readying his sword.

  “Careful, lad,” Torval warned.

  Rem moved slowly around the loose gathering of barrels. Even though the casks were piled three high in some places, their arrangement was haphazard and there were numerous empty spaces among them. He half expected to find some holdout hiding among them—some piratical knave, desperate and cornered, abandoned by his fleeing fellows, a dirk in his eager hands. But there was no one. Even as the thumping continued, he could see no one hiding among the barrels—no one cornered and waiting to make a valiant last stand.

  Then he realized that the strange thumping was coming from within one of the barrels before him. Rem sheathed his sword, moved to the nearest barrel, and lifted off its unfixed lid. It was empty. The one next to it was the same, and the one after that.

  Rem began tearing the lids off every barrel before him, sure that he would soon lift a lid and find some hapless, living soul crammed into one of the damned things, thumping hard on its inner skin, desperate to get out.

  Twenty barrels in, he found the source of the thumping. It was a young girl, no more than fifteen summers old. She was crammed into the barrel in such a fashion that she could find no leverage to lift herself out. Her legs were bent up under her chin, her arms at her side. There was enough room for her to breathe, for some air to be left in the barrel when it was shut, but little more. Rem called for his companions. All four helped the girl out of the barrel.

  She was groggy and panicked, half mad with fright and probably still high on witchweed. She was lovely and ragged and the thought of someone lifting her out of one of those rooms above when she was in a stupor, then stuffing her into one of these barrels, made Rem so furious that his whole body shook with the force of that fury. When he looked to Torval and saw that his partner was trembling in the same fashion and wearing the same stunned expression, Rem knew that he was not alone.

  “Bastards and knaves,” Torval grumbled.

  “Who would do this?” Rem kept asking. “Who could do this?”

  They sent Klutch down to the lagoon to fetch some water. It was salty, true, but they could at least wet the girl’s face and try to bring her out of her stupor. While Torval and Djubal tended to her, Rem began climbing among the barrels remaining. Most were empty, but in two he found another young girl and a handsome boy, each packed just like the girl they had rescued. It was too late for these two, however: they were stone-dead, clearly having suffocated because they were packed too tightly into their barrels. Whatever precautions normally taken by their captors to keep their cargo alive had, in their sad cases, been overlooked.

  “What did you find?” Torval called from his perch beside the groggy girl.

  “You don’t want to know,” Rem said, completely at a loss. Could such things truly be? Could men be so fantastically cruel and careless?

  A bauble’s glint caught Rem’s eye. He clambered over the barrels he’d been searching, thumped down onto the wooden floorboards on the far side, then swung around a corner into a shallow alcove. There were shelves and crates there, all overflowing with a wealth of sundry, mismatched knickknacks. There was jewelry of all sorts, from the finest to the most modest, items of clothing good for trade or resale such as silk scarves, beautiful shawls and wraps, one or two evening cloaks, even a pair of hastily folded silk gowns finely beaded and embroidered, no doubt stolen from a pair of the girls that passed through here on their way to the gods knew where. Clearly, this was where the kidnappers gathered every little thing of value they could filch from the victims they subdued, be it rings from their pale little
fingers or the very clothes from their backs. All that seemed to matter was that the items were undamaged and that they might be worth a few silver andies in trade.

  As Rem studied the cache of stolen goods—broaches, torques, fine leather slippers, combs of silver, gold, or tortoiseshell—a certain something suddenly caught his eye. His gaze almost swept right by it, but some dim, unbidden recognition rang a tiny little bell in his rage-fevered mind. For a moment, he stared at it. As he reached out and drew it from the shelf where it lay amid silks and lace and a storm of polished ivory bangles, he willed for it not to be what he suspected it was. But then, once it was in his hands and he stared at it long and hard, the memory of his market encounter with Indilen just a few days earlier returned to him with clarity and force. He was not wrong, and that realization made him vaguely sick to his stomach.

  Torval appeared at his elbow.

  “What’s all this, then?”

  “Stolen goods,” Rem said, eyes never leaving the object in his hands. “From the victims, I’d assume. Anything the bastards could sell or trade.”

  Torval nodded at the item Rem held. “And that?”

  Rem’s hands gripped an oblong, finely tooled leather box. Upon the face of that box, amid delicate silver chasing, lay an ornate medallion, also of silver, emblazoned with a single letter of the old Horunic alphabet: the letter “I.”

  “This is a secretary set, custom-made. Quills with finely wrought tips. Bottled ink. A phial of sand and a blotter. A few sheets of paper.”

  “You look like you’ve seen it before,” Torval said.

  Rem nodded. “I have, Torval. Remember the girl I was searching for? Indilen? This belonged to her. I remember it well because I commented upon what a handsome piece it was, and she opened it to show me all it contained.” Finally, Rem managed to stop staring at the secretary set and looked to his diminutive partner. “She’s passed through here, Torval. These bastards took her.”