by Alex Stewart
Drago knew what that meant: later. He just had to hope that whatever discussion they had then remained on the right side of amicable. Graymane, whoever he was, was clearly not someone to trifle with.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“That rather depends on how you define adequate.”
Dusk was falling by the time they reached the mine workings, which were like nothing Drago had ever seen before. He’d been expecting something akin to a gnomish burrow, a wide, high tunnel (at least by gnomish standards) striking into the heart of the hills, probably protected by richly decorated doors. What he found instead was another stockaded garrison, not unlike the one he’d seen at the wharf, except that instead of wood, the buildings and the walls enclosing them had been constructed from locally quarried stone.
The fortified camp squatted on the rim of a huge hole, at least a quarter of a mile across and a couple of hundred yards deep, part of the bottom of which had flooded, forming a small, shallow lake. Tiered terraces, linked by ramps, fell away into the depths, where a scattering of huts and storage sheds could be dimly seen in the shadows; rather better by Drago and his new friends than any of the elves accompanying them. This, presumably, was the source of the building materials, although there seemed to be a lot more hole than dressed stone anywhere in the vicinity.
“That’s right,” Clovis said, when he wondered aloud about that. “The locals have been quarrying here for generations. The old ones, I mean, not . . .” and he gestured quietly but eloquently at the elven soldiers all around them.
“That’s how they found the gold in the first place,” the Gaffer put in helpfully. The little group of gnomes had walked from the site of the skirmish, trailing behind the wagons conveying the wounded, seemingly invisible and inaudible to the elves, which seemed to suit everybody fine. “Just dug down into the seam while they were looking for building stone.”
“At which point the Marchers suddenly decided the Barrens had really belonged to them all along?” Drago asked, and the older gnome shook his head.
“That’s a matter between them and the goblins,” he said sagely. “I couldn’t possibly comment. But I do know who pays me to help dig it out.”
“Point taken,” Drago assured him.
Stout wooden gates thudded closed behind the limping convoy as the sun slipped below the rim of the surrounding hills, but the garrison remained brightly lit, sconces and braziers flaring in front of every structure. More elves hurried forward to help the wounded, leading them away, and Clovis regained the cart full of mining tools, reaching up to take hold of the donkey’s bridle.
“S’all right, Gaffer,” one of the gnomes, Della something if Drago remembered right, called from the back after a cursory inspection. She held up a bundle of candles. “Not much blood on ’em.”
“Good. Don’t want any of it rusting before we’ve even had a chance to use it.” The Gaffer turned to Clovis. “You two get everything squared away. I’ll take care of our new friend here.”
“Who’s this?” A new voice, feminine, tart, and no-nonsense asked behind them, and Drago turned in response. The speaker was a gnome, of course, dressed like all the others he could see in stout, utilitarian clothing. Gray eyes gazed at him with a hint of amusement.
Drago gazed back. She was stocky, well-muscled, and wore her hair stuffed up inside a cap like the Gaffer’s, but which she’d allowed to remain rising to a point. So far as he could tell from the wisps of it escaping from under the brim, her hair was midnight black, with the faint sheen of polished slate. Her smile was welcoming, though faintly reserved.
“Drago Appleroot, at your service.” He bowed formally, allowing himself a hint of a smile, to show that he was playing up to the occasion and wouldn’t normally have bothered with such an elaborate display of etiquette.
“City boy,” the Gaffer put in. “Found him in the hills on the way back here. Says he wants a job.”
“Does he now.” If anything her amusement seemed to increase. She turned back to Drago, and extended a hand. Her grip was firm, and calloused, fine particles of powdered rock ingrained among the seams. “Loma Claybed, but you can call me Boss or Ma’am. If I decide to take you on.” She glanced up and down his full height, taking in every detail of his appearance. “Had much experience of mining, have you?”
“Not as such,” Drago admitted breezily, “but I know one end of a pick from the other.”
“Really.” She reached out and tapped the hilt of his sword, and Drago flinched, forcing himself to override the reflexive urge to attack before she could grab it. Loma must have noticed the movement, and deduced the reason for it, because her expression hardened at once. “What about this?”
“He can use that all right,” Clovis put in enthusiastically, glancing across from where he and Della were stacking the crates and bundles from the wagon. “He saw off three bandits with it single-handed!”
“Really?” Loma’s voice was quietly skeptical. “Told you that himself, did he?”
“Didn’t need to,” the Gaffer said. “We all saw him.”
“Did you now?” Loma’s voice became a little more thoughtful, her glance at Drago a little more appraising. “Pretty impressive for someone who just wants to dig holes. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
For a second, Drago considered deflecting the question with a joke as he had with Clovis, but almost instantly decided against it. Loma was clearly no fool. Perhaps a little of the truth would be better.
“Fairhaven can be a dangerous place. I learned early, and found I had a knack for it.”
“I see.” Loma nodded thoughtfully. “In my experience, the quickest way to find trouble is to go looking for it.”
“Mine too.” Drago echoed the gesture. “But sometimes it comes looking for you instead.”
“And did it?”
Drago hesitated. There were only two answers he could give at this point, and the wrong one would ruin everything. But the more Loma said, the more his initial impression of her astuteness was confirmed. Still not entirely sure he was making the right decision, he opted for honesty: or at least an approximation of it. “Yes. So I decided to avoid it if I could.”
“Fair enough.” Loma thought for a moment. “All right, I’ll take a chance. Two weeks trial period, see how you go. But if you give me any reason to regret it, you’re gone the next day. Are we good?”
“We’re good,” Drago assured her. “And you won’t regret it.”
“I’d better not. Gaffer’ll find you somewhere to sleep, and I suppose you’d like something to eat as well?” Drago nodded. By now his stomach was beginning to forget what it was for. “Clovis, take Drago over to the mess hall while the Gaffer finds him a bunk.”
“Right. Will do.” The young gnome abandoned his stocktaking with an alacrity Drago found mildly disturbing, and hurried over to join them. It seemed he would have to do a lot more verbal deflection before the evening was out, if he wanted to avoid any more complications.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Loma turned away, then, struck by an afterthought, glanced back at Drago. “This trouble you’re trying to avoid. It wouldn’t involve a sudden need for money, would it?”
“Would it matter if it did?” Drago asked, happy to reinforce that impression without actually saying so.
Loma shook her head. “Not to me. But if you’re tempted to supplement your wages with the odd nugget from the seam, forget it. According to the lofties, the gold belongs to their king, which makes pilfering any of it treason. For which they’ll hang you.”
“I don’t need money that much,” Drago said, with what he hoped was a carefree smile.
“No one does,” Loma said, and strode off without a backward glance.
“She likes you,” Clovis said, with what seemed to be a genuine mixture of surprise and relief, then gestured toward the sloping road leading down into the depths of the quarry. “Our quarters are this way.” He stared at Drago’s scabbarded blade, in a manner the bounty hunter
found all too familiar. “Could you teach me how to handle a sword as well as you do?”
“No. That only comes with experience.” Drago followed him toward the descending ramp, intending his tone to have ended the discussion. Clovis, however, seemed incapable of taking the hint.
“Could you teach me the basics, then?” he asked.
“I could.” Drago nodded, looking down into the depths of the quarry, which stood out clearly in his gnomish night vision. On the next tier of terracing, several shafts had been driven horizontally into the stone, spilling light and warmth, a typical makeshift burrow. He found himself wondering which one was the mess hall, and whether they had any rat. “But I’m not going to.”
“Oh.” To his relief, Clovis simply seemed disappointed by his answer, rather than antagonized; he needed friends here if he was going to make any progress in his assignment. “Why’s that, then?”
“Because you’d only learn enough to get yourself killed,” Drago said, “and if you’re not carrying a sword you’re less likely to get into a fight in the first place.” The two gnomes began to descend the gently sloping track.
“Do you get into lots, then?” Clovis asked, and Drago shrugged.
“Only if I can’t avoid them.” Then he stopped walking, and held up a hand. “Hang on a minute.”
“What for?” Clovis turned back, his expression curious, and Drago gestured for silence.
“Someone’s coming,” he said, and shrank back against the steeply sloping side of the quarry. They’d already descended the best part of a yard, leaving the ground above almost at the level of his nose and eyes; here in the shadows, away from the flaring torches, the top of his head would be invisible to elven eyes unless they were searching very carefully for eavesdroppers. At least he hoped so.
“Who?” Clovis asked, scuttling across to join him, and peering over the lip of the ground in turn.
“Graymane.” Drago spoke in an undertone, curtly gesturing to his companion to be quiet. “I want to know what he’s doing here.”
Clovis looked puzzled, but to Drago’s relief seemed to have enough sense not to ask any more questions, at least for now.
The gray-clad elf seemed to be waiting for someone, with a palpable air of impatience. After a moment he glanced away to the left, where a flurry of movement just outside the circle of firelight he stood in resolved itself into a trio of elves: the officer from the ill-fated convoy, another identically dressed, and therefore presumably of equal status, and a third, who they flanked, a deferential pace behind. From the even larger plume on his helmet, elaborate embroidery sprawling across his cloak, and distinctly fleshy jowls, Drago deduced that this was the garrison commander. From the scrunched-up letter in his hand, and the expression on his face, he was also able to deduce that whatever news Graymane had brought with him was distinctly unwelcome.
“What kept you?” Graymane asked, and the commander’s jowls wobbled as his jaw clenched in response. Nonetheless, he nodded with every outward expression of courtesy he could muster.
“There’s always something in a place like this,” he said blandly. He nodded at the officer from the convoy. “And when Captain Meadowsweet handed me your letter, I felt the least I could do was read it with the attention it deserved.”
“Given that it has the king’s personal seal on it, I’d expect nothing less.” Graymane nodded too, accepting the excuse at face value, and making it clear that he was only doing so because it suited him. “So you’ll cooperate with me?”
“Of course.” The effort of remaining polite was almost strangling the commander, unless it was the neckline of his mail shirt, which had clearly been used to accommodating a little less neck in former years. Drago found himself wondering if the grandly dressed elf was wearing a corset underneath his armor, or was simply relying on the linked steel rings to keep his belly in check. “Though I really don’t see the need—”
“Don’t you?” Graymane’s voice grew quieter and more menacing; Drago had heard that tone before, generally not long before the shedding of blood. “I do.” He turned to the elven officer who’d led the convoy. “How about you, Captain Meadowsweet? Do you see the need?” He turned his gaze on the other officer, who so far had said nothing. “Or you, madam. Or perhaps we should ask the soldiers you lead.” He smote his forehead, in a pantomime of bewilderment. “Oh, I forgot. They’re too busy picking rebel arrows out of themselves to have an opinion.”
“I’m beginning to find your tone needlessly offensive,” the commander said, drawing himself up with all the dignity he could muster. Which even Drago could see was entirely the wrong tack to take. Graymane clearly had scant respect for anyone’s opinion but his own.
“And I’m beginning to find your obtuseness and incompetence appropriately offensive,” Graymane shot back. “Are we clear about that, Oaktwig?” Drago wasn’t entirely sure, but from what he remembered about elven manners, the use of somebody’s family name without an attached title or honorific was a mortal insult. The two junior officers exchanged horrified glances.
“By the roots, sir, if you weren’t the king’s emissary—” Oaktwig grasped the hilt of his sword, his jaw jutting as belligerently as possible beneath its protective layer of fat.
“You’d bleed all over my sword. Fine. But I am, so we won’t be dueling tonight. Do any of you have anything useful to say before I get to work?”
The second officer raised her hand, a little diffidently. “I haven’t seen the letter myself. Am I to infer that you’re here to assess our security and report back to the throne?”
“At last, an elf with a brain who attempts to use it. You are?”
“Rinora Moonshade. Captain of the second century.”
“And in your opinion, Captain Moonshade, is security around here adequate?”
The officer looked distinctly uncomfortable, darting quick glances at the other two, who did their best to keep their own faces impassive.
“That rather depends on how you define adequate,” she said at last.
“A good question.” Graymane nodded judicially, like Clement Wethers preparing to send the boys round for a little chat about some minor inconvenience to the Tradesman’s Association. “I’d define adequate as the rebels not being able to steal your supplies or intercept the gold you’re digging out of here on the way to the wharf any time the inclination strikes them. With an ease which indicates to me that someone in this garrison is telling them exactly which shipments have the highest value, or contain items of particular use to them.”
“You think we have a traitor in the camp?” Oaktwig was quivering so much with indignation that Drago kept expecting to see ripples spreading across his entire body. Perhaps he was wearing a corset then. “That’s inconceivable! No elf would ever—”
“You’d be surprised what an elf would ever, for the right kind of bribe,” Graymane said dryly, leading Drago to wonder if, against all appearances to the contrary, the grim-visaged elf possessed the rudiments of a sense of humor.
“Why would it have to be an elf?” Meadowsweet asked. “The place is crawling with shortarses. They’ve got much more in common with the gobs.”
“And you trust them with sensitive information, do you?” Graymane asked.
“Of course we don’t.” Oaktwig bridled afresh at the insinuation. “Ghastly little rodents. We only keep them around because they can get twice as much ore out in half the time as elven miners. But no one actually speaks to them.”
“They’ve still got eyes and ears,” Graymane said, “but for now I’ll accept your assurance, and focus my attention on the elves here.” His eyes swept meaningfully across the trio in front of him. “All of them.”
“You do that.” Oaktwig’s gaze was glacial. “I suppose I ought to wish you luck, but I can’t see the point. If Gorash has agents in the camp, we’d all have had our throats cut long ago.” Which, still listening from the shadows, Drago had to concede was a good point.
“Perhaps.” Graymane stil
l seemed unconvinced. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”
“At your convenience,” Oaktwig said, in tones which strongly implied that it most certainly wouldn’t be at his, and turned away, followed by his subordinates. From where Drago was standing, their voices drifted back on the wind.
“It depends on how you define adequate? For sap’s sake, woman, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking one of you might actually back me up for once . . .”
Graymane smiled briefly as the bickering voices faded into the distance, then turned his head, looking long and hard in Drago’s direction. Drago grabbed Clovis by the arm, his fingers digging into the other gnome’s bicep, silently signaling him to not move and remain quiet. Fortunately, the young miner took the hint.
After a moment Graymane relaxed, saying nothing, and turned away with a faintly quizzical expression on his face. Drago waited a few moments, then relaxed himself, stepping away from the rock face back into the middle of the downward-sloping path.
“Why were we listening to that?” Clovis asked, looking even more confused than before. “It had nothing to do with us anyway.”
“But it might have done,” Drago said, and fortunately Clovis seemed inclined to let it go at that.
Which was more than Drago could do. If Graymane was right, and Gorash had an agent inside the camp, then that just might be the opportunity he needed. If he could find out who it was before Graymane, he might be able to follow them to a meeting with the bandits, and get a solid lead on Gorash’s whereabouts.
Then again, if the agent found out he was there his own life would be hanging by a thread, waiting only for the goblin bandit’s instructions to kill him to catch up. The chances were he only had a couple of days left in which to act.
Well, best not to waste them, then. He knew exactly what his first move should be.
“Right,” he said to Clovis. “Two things. Which one of these burrows has the food, and will there be any ale to go with it?”
