“I’m with you,” he said, “but let’s get out of these stinking alleys for a bit.”
Ageyra nodded. “Ayuh, let’s do that. I can take us back to where we picked up the trail direct. Streets’ll be quicker anyway.”
Nonetheless, they passed through the alleys for a couple of blocks before emerging onto the streets; they did not want to be seen in the neighborhood of the warehouse where the trail had ended. They made better time on the wider, cobbled ways and after the cramped, noisome alleys it was a relief to feel the open air around them. Unfortunately, moving in the open had its disadvantages as well. In the wild, the two dwarves could move as silently as a shadow in a dream, but this was not the wild. This environment had its own predators, just as adept in this landscape as the dwarves were on their own ground.
Taarven was following Ageyra, staying close to the edge of the street as she used her magic to sense the path the slavers had taken from the outer wall of the city. The locals announced their presence with metallic squeaks as they un-shuttered the lanterns that two of them gripped, one in front of them and one behind.
The candles within were dim, but bright enough to make the dwarves squint after their long night of prowling in the darkness. Three afmaeltinn faced them, and a quick glance showed Taarven three more behind, keeping their distance so far.
Local toughs, Taarven thought, and not very good ones judging from the state of their gear. They were armed with a motley of knives and crudely-made cudgels; one of them held a staff. They were skinny and ill-kempt, and if he was any judge, young. They were bold enough, however, with the odds at three to one in their favor.
“Hold up, Stumpy,” the one holding the lantern in front of them, apparently the leader, said. “Hand over your purses an’ goods an’ we’ll let you pass”
Taarven stepped past Ageyra and lifted Dirge from under his coat. “I don’t think so.”
“Best you rethink that then, Stumpy,” the leader said. “You’re outnumbered. Save yer’ self a beating or worse.”
Taarven heard Ageyra’s lang-seax slither out of its sheath and he smiled cheerfully at the tall youth. “We’ll not be outnumbered for long,” he said.
The leader took an impatient half-step and Taarven leveled the handgun at him. The young afmaeltinn may not have recognized the weapon but the threat inherent in the gesture caused him to pause. “What’s that yer’ holdin’?” he demanded.
“The key to a door you’d as soon not open,” Taarven said. “You just move along now, and we’ll leave you to your business.”
The dwarf knew it was useless as soon as he spoke. Maybe these boys were that desperate, maybe their leader just couldn’t back down in front of his crew. Whatever the reason, violence was about to happen and the time for talking was done. The leader lunged forward and Taarven shot him through the chest. Behind him, he heard Ageyra bellow an inarticulate battle cry. Shadows jumped crazily as the dwarves’ attackers dropped their lanterns. Taarven let the gun dangle from its harness as he dodged a blow from the staff, then his own seax-knife was in his hand. He moved in, catching the return swing of the staff on his shoulder as he slashed deep into the inner thigh of the youth, severing the great artery in the leg. Warm blood jetted across his face and beard. He heard a meaty thunk behind him, a scream, and the remaining attackers took to their heels and vanished into the night.
The leader of the toughs lay face-down in the street, with a dark pool spreading round even as they watched. The one Taarven had cut slumped against the wall emitting a panic-stricken mewl as he futilely tried to staunch the blood flowing from his leg. Taarven broke the action of the big pistol, but when he tried to cock the powerful spring, pain shot through his shoulder and he had to give it up.
Ageyra wiped her long blade on the fallen leader’s tunic, shook her head over the other robber’s wound. “Best we clear out before this fuss draws attention.”
He nodded, and seeing what he was about, she took the gun and finished cocking it for him with a grunt of effort. He thumbed another heavy slug into the breach and closed it. “Right then. After you.”
The pair of them trotted off into the dark, all thought of pursuing their earlier goal given up to the needs of the moment. Ageyra led them back to their inn. They slipped in quiet as mice through the stable-court door and repaired to his room. Taarven shrugged out of his grete-cote and the gun harness with a grimace. He couldn’t lift his left arm much, and a quick examination showed a deep bruise on the shoulder, already swelling.
Ageyra shook her head over the injury. “It doesn’t seem like anything is broken, at least. Still and all, it’ll be a day or three before you’re much good with that arm. We’ll need a sling and some willow-bark tea, but I think you’ll be right enough within the week.”
Taarven swore. “What a stupid waste. Two of ‘em dead and for what? The few coins we might have had? It’s madness.”
Ageyra, busy fashioning a sling from a cravat in his kit, clucked in annoyance. “Need can make mad-men of us all. Look, they called the tune and started the dance, and what they got for that is on their heads, not yours and mine. You tried to get them to leave off, but they weren’t having it. I’m more worried about what this does to our own concerns.”
Taarven frowned at the older dwarf. “We’ll just have to lie low a bit. One thing for sure, after tonight I’ll not have you haring off by yourself. It’s too risky.”
She shrugged noncommittally as she finished the sling. “You just set yourself down. I’ve willow-bark in my kit and I’ll brew you some tea of it—for the pain and swelling. Meantime, wash the blood off’n yer face.”
“Ageyra, I mean it!”
She gave a nod that he took as assent as she slipped out the door. Taarven hoped rather than believed that she’d abide by his wishes, and began the awkward business of trying to wash his face and beard one-handed. At least we’ve confirmed beyond doubt that the slave traffic is passing through town, he thought, and unless I miss my guess the trail would have led us straight to the Mid-Northern Gate.
That meant that at very least the Watch was being bribed. How much further the corruption went remained to be seen.
Chapter Ten
“When there is a thing to be learned try asking. It helps to ask the right questions too. Just mind that you ask the right person…”
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
As Kevrenn made his morning ablutions, he considered his next course. He needed a plausible reason to make inquiries about ship traffic in the harbor, and he needed to do it without arousing curiosity as to why a sword-master was asking. Gudrun’s comments from the day before gave him an inkling of how to proceed.
Over breakfast he penned a note to a merchant who studied at the salle when in town. In polite words, he requested a meeting to consult on a commodities investment he was considering. He sent Ullerek off with the letter as he prepared for the day. There were no formal classes scheduled on alternate days; students simply stopped by as they were able. He would set them to practicing against other students or performing exercises, depending on their individual needs. He would watch and offer advice or correction when appropriate, occasionally engaging in a bout himself to demonstrate a method or technique. There was a modest but steady flow of students through the morning, and following lunch break, the merchant responded to Kevrenn’s letter in person.
Jerrod Engrilson was a slight man of medium height around Kevrenn’s age, with mousy brown hair greying at the temples. He traded bulk commodities with the dwarves, mainly coffee and fabrics in exchange for dwarven steel ingots, blades, and tools.
“Thought I might as well get in some practice,” he said. “Perhaps we can have a drink and discuss business after?” Jerrod said.
Kevrenn liked the man and was happy to agree. Jerrod stripped to shirt and trousers, then donned a quilted practice cote. Kevrenn stepped up to spar with Jerrod himself, for though Jerrod was not a large man, he was wiry and quick—a clever opponent—and Kevren
n thoroughly enjoyed their exchanges. As the two warmed up, the other students stopped their work to watch; they seldom had opportunity to watch their master work at anything near the limit of his abilities.
Kevrenn and his opponent started with longswords, then worked with lang-seax, and finally arming swords and bucklers. At the end of an hour they were both soaked in sweat, and Kevrenn was in a particularly good humor. He seldom faced an opponent that challenged him, and while there was little doubt he could best Jerrod, neither could he afford to take the man for granted. Gudrun, alerted by Ullerek, brought hot water and fresh towels for washing up after, and Kevrenn retired briefly to change while Jerrod donned his own street clothes.
The Horse and Ladder was a decent establishment for the neighborhood, and maintained both a stable where Jerrod had left his horse and a private parlor for their better-heeled clientele. The two men were soon comfortably situated in that room, nursing mugs of the house’s finest.
“You’re stiff today,” Jerrod observed. “Not that it slowed you down much. Everything all right?”
“My own fault, I suppose,” Kevrenn said. “I was out and about late and found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some of the local toughs decided to try their luck.”
“Which wasn’t good,” Jerrod observed dryly. “I suppose the neighborhood is short a footpad or two. I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt though; I’d hate to have to break in a new training partner.”
Kevrenn shrugged. “No one died so far as I know, but they might be considering a change of career.”
Jerrod laughed, then sobered and looked at the older man shrewdly. “That’s probably not why you’ve developed a sudden interest in trade, I’ll wager.”
Kevrenn waved a hand as if shooing away the thought. “Nothing like that, but a man gets older, and his bones want less work and more comfort. Just thinking ahead, and with the dwarves at war in the north it seems like there might be opportunity for a canny fellow to turn a tidy profit. We’re close to their supply train and there seems to be a surplus of commodities for which their army might pay well.”
The other man looked thoughtful. “It’s true, coffee and textiles are a drug on the market just now. We’ve more traders up from the south than usual for this time of year. Not the usual folk, neither.”
“Oh?” Kevrenn raised an eyebrow.
“Nah, this is a whole new group. Word is they came overland to Kerl’s Cove and commissioned ships, their own design. They’ve got a new way of rigging sails, lets them sail closer to the wind; the regular ships take longer when the northers are blowing as they are at this time of year. Anyway, they got their ships, loaded them to the gunnels, and sailed right into the teeth of the weather.”
“Well, what would be the point of that? Why not just wait for the summer winds?”
It was Jerrod’s turn to shrug. “At a guess? They are building their brand, hoping to get a lock on the market before the usual traders return. Lord and Lady know they can’t be making much profit between the prices they charge and flooding the market with goods. But they’ve got a foot well and truly in the door, and might be looking to edge out their competitors.”
“Makes sense, I suppose.” He stared thoughtfully into his cup, idly swirling the dregs in the bottom. “I’m guessing this’d be the time to load up; the dwarven armies run on coffee, and they are bound to need cloth as well. From what I understand these folk they are freeing in their war haven’t got two pennies to rub together, and a powerful need of clothing and such-like.”
Jerrod looked thoughtful. “You’d need to know someone in the overland trade, willing to run the road to the Makepeace Valley, but if you could make the right connections on the other end it might well be worth the effort. I can ask around if you like.”
Kevrenn nodded. “I’d take it as a favor.”
He would, at that; this had started as a pretext, but it genuinely might be a good investment, and his supposed reasons interest made real sense. Maybe he would get involved in the trade after all.
“Anyway,” said Jarrod, after a draught from his mug, “I guess they’re playing a long game.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, given the time of year, there isn’t enough coming in to fill their holds on the return trip. Stocks build slowly over the winter, but when the spring comes there’s plenty here for the southern merchants to carry until new goods came in from the dwarven kingdom and the Sgraylen across the sea. But right now, they’re obliged to sail home with holds half-empty, and it’ll be eating into their profits. This new outfit is clearing the city’s warehouses, and the usual traders are going to take it in the teeth. They might well choose to take their business elsewhere.”
Mulling it over, Kevrenn could see the cleverness. By securing the markets in Taerneal, these “traders” could edge out their competition and have ample reason to be coming and going. A profitable trade in both directions for them, with the dwarven slaves making up the difference on their return trips. The only problem was that it did not reckon with the dwarves’ inevitable violent response.
By and by, the pair ordered a light supper and chatted about inconsequentials, and if Kevrenn was distracted, no doubt his companion simply assumed he was thinking about his potential investments.
In the end he saw Jerrod to his horse, with the latter promising to return the results of his inquiries as soon as he had learned anything useful. The sword-master watched his dinner companion depart with a pang of regret; despite ulterior motives, he’d genuinely enjoyed their time together. Jerrod had passed the point of being merely an acquaintance and student, Kevrenn realized with mild surprise. Somehow the man had become a friend, and he had few enough of those to appreciate the fact.
That being the case, he would need to take care not to embroil the man in his own interests. He was swimming in dangerous waters, and should he falter, it would be all too easy to take those he cared about down with him.
Chapter Eleven
“One should never attribute to evil what can be accounted for by stupidity. But it’s equally important not to dismiss evil when you see it. “
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
Inaction had always chafed at Ageyra’s soul, and after two days of waiting on Taarven’s recovery she was nigh on stir-crazy. Time was running out; there was only so long Hannes could delay his next trip to the Makepeace Valley without arousing comment. They were fortunate that his daughter-in-law had announced her pregnancy; this was something of an event among dwarves and a cause for celebration. It made an excellent excuse for delaying his business for a few days.
But that time was coming to an end. It would be weeks before they could return, and the trail would be cold by then. They’d have to start all over, and Ageyra was in a foul temper as she and Taarven sat over breakfast in the inn’s common room. When she looked up and saw Hebert, one of Hannes’s warehousemen, entering the bar she thought it likely their time was up, for this trip at least. She figured the young afmaeltinn had been sent to fetch them back for the return trip. He cast his eyes about, and spotting the pair of dwarves, hurried over.
He joined them at their table without ceremony, but instead of the expected summons, he had a rather different task. “Master Hannes sent me to find you. I’ve relations in The Breakers and the Master bade me have them make enquiry. Well, my cousin Merkell has encountered something most odd, and we thought you’d want to investigate.”
“Oh? Odd how?” Taarven asked.
“He didn’t say,” Hebert said, “Only that you’d best come and see. I think he’s an idea you won’t believe without that you see it your own selves.”
The young man must have caught Ageyra’s skeptical look, for he shook his head. “If Merkell says you’d best see, then I trust him. He’d knife a man for a cooked rat, he would, but he wouldn’t turn on his own family.”
“Where?” Taarven asked.
“He’ll meet us here within the hour. He’ll tell you then.”<
br />
The trio waited, sipping coffee. Taarven nipped up to his room to fetch a quill and some foolscap, and quickly wrote out a report for the lad to pass along to Hannes. As Hebert was tucking the missive into his pouch, another man entered the common room and looked about. He bore a marked resemblance to the young afmaeltinn, though he was a bit older and more heavily built.
He was as disreputable-looking a specimen of humanity as Ageyra had seen, dressed in fine-looking clothes that close inspection revealed to be cheap imitations. There was nothing cheap about the several well-worn dwarven-steel knives he carried, though, and they showed signs of long use. She’d have been loath to trust him but for Hebert’s vouching. He was dressed to travel, with a loaded satchel under his arm and a broad-brimmed hat. Spotting them, he came over, and Hebert introduced him.
“My cousin Merkell,” he said, “by my uncle on my mother’s side. These fine dwarves are Taarven and Ageyra. Drovers working for my Master.”
“Drovers is it?” Merkell said with a raised eyebrow. “Well then, any friend of Hebert’s….”
He sat without further ado, and after an obliging barmaid supplied him with a mug of thick, dark beer, he said, “OK then. My cousin says you’re all right, so you’re all right with me.”
He took a generous swallow and continued, gesturing with the mug for emphasis. “I’m a business man, I am, and business being what it is, it pays me to keep an eye on the North road. Since my business is my own, so to speak, I tend to keep to the back roads and trails. You follow?”
They nodded.
“So, here I am just going to and from, minding my own business, when I cut across the trail of a whole bunch of people walking all in a line. Can’t tell how many, but enough that they tore the trail up something fierce. Being a curious sort, I back-trailed them to a hollow up among the hills.”
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