by Alex Stewart
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Heard from the wife lately?”
As it turned out there was ale, of a reasonable quality, and food, in reasonable quantities, both of which Drago took full advantage of. The mess hall, as he’d expected, was an artificial cavern hewn out of the quarry wall, in which, for once, he found all the furnishings were the right size for the gnomes who used them. The light levels were dim by the standards of the other species, with only a handful of candles scattered around the wide chamber, but that was more than adequate for gnomish eyes; used to the harsher illumination most of the inhabitants of Fairhaven preferred, Drago found it quite restful.
The mess hall was relatively quiet, to his unspoken relief, with only a couple of dozen off-duty miners spooning up rat stew, or redistributing their wages through the time-honored route of games of chance, in which chance figured less than many of the players fondly imagined. Drago noted these with the interest of someone who hadn’t rolled any dice in earnest for a lot longer than he was happy with, but overcame the temptation to join in. For now, he preferred to fade into the background, as much as an unfamiliar face could, content for Clovis to make more introductions to people whose names and faces blurred in his mind almost as soon as the ritual exchange of greetings was over.
“Do you know everybody around here?” he asked at last, and Clovis frowned thoughtfully, taking the query at face value.
“Not everyone,” he said at last, “but I know most people by sight, and I’ve always been good with names.” He shrugged, chewing on a particularly resilient piece of rat for a moment. “It’s a gift.”
One which Drago, if he was honest, rather envied. Back in Fairhaven you got used to the idea that you recognized your neighbors, the stallholders you did most of your business with, and the staff of the taverns you used on a regular basis. Some you knew by name, most you didn’t. Apart from them, there were the ones most people avoided out of a sense of self-preservation, and whom Drago knew primarily as a source of income, and a handful of prominent citizens in every district whose attention could be seen as something of a mixed blessing. But for every one of these you’d encounter a dozen or more whose lives never intersected with yours in any way more meaningful than happening to walk down the same street at the same time.
Things seemed to be different in the smaller communities he’d visited briefly on his journey up the Geltwash, where pretty much everyone did seem to know everybody else, but he’d been an outsider in those places, never really making a connection with any of the locals. Here, however, everybody seemed to accept him, even if they didn’t know him yet, simply because he was a fellow gnome in a small enclave surrounded by condescending elves, who in turn were surrounded by hostile goblins.
“There you are.” The Gaffer was making his way over to their table. “Thought I’d find you here.” He nodded to Drago. “Young Clovis keeping you entertained?”
“He’s been filling me in on who’s who and what’s what,” Drago agreed. Thanks to the young gnome’s garrulity he was pretty sure he could find his way around most of the burrow, and a fair part of the mine workings to boot, putting names to most of the people he encountered even if he hadn’t actually met them yet.
“Good lad. Found you a bunk. Not the most comfortable lodgings in the world, but it’ll do, I imagine.”
“I doubt it’s any less comfortable than the deck of a riverboat,” Drago said, and the older gnome nodded judiciously.
“Never slept on one, so I couldn’t possibly comment. But I imagine you’re right.” He glanced at the empty bowl in front of Drago. “Finished your supper?”
“Pretty much,” Drago said. He could probably have found room for another ale or two if there had been enough time, but now the edge of his hunger had been dulled, he found he was tired more than anything.
“Good. Whenever you’re ready, then.”
Knowing an implied instruction when he heard one, Drago stood, with a farewell wave to Clovis, and followed the older gnome out of the mess hall. He’d half expected to be led out into the open air again, but instead the Gaffer moved off in the opposite direction, toward the far wall, in which the mouth of a tunnel could be seen, leading into the depths of the hill.
It seemed that the gnomes here had constructed a fair-sized burrow over the years, which was hardly surprising given the decades the mine had been in operation. The walls and floor were smooth, showing little sign of tool marks, while the ceiling, as in most gnomish dwellings, had been raised into a curving arch, from the apex of which lanterns hung at intervals. Once they passed a lamplighter and his apprentice, lifting one down with the aid of a hooked staff, which blocked their way for a moment; the Gaffer seemed happy enough to wait, exchanging pleasantries, until they’d replaced the stub of candle with a fresh one and hoisted it back into place, before continuing on their way.
“Very cozy,” Drago said, trying not to sound too impressed, although the corridors they passed through wouldn’t have looked that out of place in one of the less prosperous parts of the delving his relatives lived in back on the coastal plain. “I thought a mine would be a bit more . . .” he searched for the right word for a moment, before settling on “basic.”
“Oh, the mine’s basic enough,” the Gaffer assured him, leading the way past what looked like a series of kitchens and storerooms, some of which were deserted, while in others gnomes bustled about on mysterious business of their own, before taking a sharp left down a narrower corridor lined with wooden doors. All had been smoothed and varnished, and bore a different number incised carefully into the planks. “But there’s no reason we can’t be comfortable when we’re not working.” He stood aside to let a gnome hurry past, bearing a wine bottle and a faintly guilty expression. “How do, Harald. Heard from the wife lately?”
Harald colored visibly. “Got a letter last week,” he said, with faintly strained casualness.
“That’s nice.” The Gaffer watched him go. “Enjoy your drink.” He turned back to Drago. “Everyone knows he’s carrying on with Etta Rootstock, and he knows we know, but nobody says anything. It’s like that around here. No one keeps secrets for long.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Drago said, as neutrally as he could.
The Gaffer nodded. “Just saying. Don’t mean anything by it.” Which struck Drago as disingenuous to say the least. He wondered how many more coded warnings he was liable to get from well-meaning strangers before this affair was concluded. But the point was well taken. In a community this close-knit, he was bound to attract attention; thanks to Clovis’s enthusiastic descriptions of his fight with the bandits he was probably already the subject of gossip. Before he could pursue the thought any further, however, the Gaffer stopped outside one of the doors, bearing the number 138. “This is you.”
For a moment Drago was at a loss, until the older gnome tripped the latch and pushed the door open, revealing a small room containing a bed, a table and a chair. He walked in, and turned round slowly. It was nowhere near as large as his attic room in Mrs. Cravatt’s, but it would take four paces to cross, which made it spacious enough for his needs. “When you said a bunk, I thought you meant in a dormitory somewhere,” he said.
“We like our privacy around here,” the Gaffer said, with a faint smile. “Just ask Harald and Etta.” He pulled the key from the outside of the door, and handed it to Drago. “Gazunder’s in the usual place, slop bucket’s at the end of the hall.” Drago felt under the bed with his foot, heard a reassuring chink of china, and nodded. “Wash jug’s full, which you’ll probably be glad to hear after your journey.” He indicated the jug and basin perched at one end of the small table. “Can you find your way back to the mess hall?”
“I think so,” Drago said, dropping his knapsack on the bed. It sank into the mattress, with a faint rustling of straw, and he found himself trying to remember how long it had been since he last slept in a proper bed. The night before he left Fairhaven, almost a week and a half ago. He wondered if Mrs
. Cravatt had kept her word, as well as his money, or had already sublet his room to a fresh tenant. Probably not, if she was expecting Raegan to drop by at irregular intervals. He found himself wondering how the watch captain was getting on in his investigation, if Lady Selina hadn’t quietly cut him out by now, and whether Greenleaf was still stirring up mischief and dodging goblins. But none of that was his concern anymore. No doubt he’d find out when he returned home, if he ever did, and any speculation in the meantime would be pointless.
“Good.” The Gaffer nodded. “See you at breakfast, then, and we’ll put you to work.”
Secure behind a locked door, and in a bed which yielded beneath his weight, Drago slept long and soundly, until a loud knocking on the wooden panel jerked him awake. Grasping the dagger from under his pillow he sat up, listening carefully. He’d blown out the candle before going to sleep, leaving the windowless room in almost total darkness, but faint lines of light limned the outline of the door, providing enough illumination for his gnomish night vision to pick out the main objects as clumps of solid-seeming shadow.
He listened for a moment, but no one fumbled with the latch, or attempted to pick the lock, so he relaxed a little. After a short while the knocking was repeated, sounding a little less loud and urgent without the intervening filter of sleep.
“Who is it?” he called, trying to sound a little more sleepy and less alert than he actually was.
“It’s Clovis,” a familiar voice called, slightly muffled through the intervening timber. “I thought you might have overslept.”
“You thought right,” Drago said, opening the door a crack, to admit more light and the inquisitive head of his new friend, and conceal the dagger he was still holding ready for a quick thrust up under the ribcage if he needed to. Reassured that no one was lurking in the by-now-bustling corridor with nefarious intent, and that his state of deshabille was attracting a few curious glances, particularly from the female passers-by, he retreated inside the room and struck a light. “Hang on a minute while I get my britches on.”
“All right.” Clovis hovered indecisively just outside the doorway until Drago emerged, locked the door behind him and tucked the key away securely in the belt pouch where he normally kept the cleaning kit for his sword. With a faint pang he’d decided to leave the weapon and its scabbard back in his room, tucked under the mattress; which would be the first place anyone searching the chamber would look, of course, but there weren’t that many potential places of concealment in such a confined space, and at least it would be out of sight of any casual visitor. Not that he expected many of those. The lock seemed stout enough, although he’d apprehended enough burglars in his time not to place too much reliance on that; most locks could be picked a great deal more quickly and easily than their owners would have been comfortable knowing, particularly when privacy rather than security seemed to be the issue most concerning them, as was generally the case among gnomes. Gnomish delvings tended to be crowded, with a preponderance of well-travelled corridors, so breaking and entering without attracting the attention of witnesses was far more difficult than it would have been in a human-dominated city like Fairhaven with its plethora of hidden courts and alleyways. Clovis glanced in the direction of Drago’s belt, with a faint air of disappointment. “Not wearing the sword today?”
“Why would I?” Drago asked. He tried to make his tone sound bantering. “Do you think I might need it?”
“Shouldn’t have thought so.” Once again, Clovis took the question at face value. “I can’t see any bandits sneaking in without being spotted, and the lofties’d have them long before they got as far as the mine.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Drago said, suddenly acutely conscious of the dagger tucked inside the top of his boot. Being entirely without a weapon never sat well with him, and he felt its familiar weight as a reassuring presence.
The mess hall, when they reached it, was crowded, a couple of hundred miners chatting and eating at once, their voices and the clatter of their utensils redoubled and multiplied in the large, echoing space, making the noise level correspondingly high; Drago felt it as a constant pressure against his temples, as though a thunderstorm was brewing not far away.
“Are you all right?” Clovis asked, as they found seats in a relatively quiet corner, and Drago nodded, beginning to spoon porridge into his mouth.
“Just a bit tired still,” he temporized, between mouthfuls. “It’s been a long journey.” A smear of weak sunlight was creeping in through the mouth of the cavern, and into the hall, making him feel a little more comfortable, and restless at the same time. The gnomes around him were used to spending days, even weeks, underground, but he’d spent his entire life living in a surface city; constant semi-darkness and musty air dulled his senses and left him feeling vaguely listless.
“I hope you’ve got enough energy to get some work done,” Loma said, appearing at his elbow.
Drago turned and looked up at her, nodding as he did so. “Can’t wait to get started,” he assured her.
“Glad to hear it.” She hastily suppressed the beginnings of a smile. “Let’s hope your enthusiasm holds up when you’ve got a pick in your hands.”
“I’ll do my best,” Drago assured her, with every appearance of sincerity he could muster.
“You’d better. I wasn’t joking about turfing you out if you let me down.” She turned her head a little, to address Clovis. “You seem to have hit it off with our new friend here, so how about you show him the rocks? I’ll assign him to your gang for a while, at least until we see what he can do. All right?”
“Fine, Boss. I’ll take care of him.” Clovis looked as though all his birthdays had come at once. “Does the Gaffer know?”
“Already told him.” Loma nodded, and turned away, with a final appraising look at Drago. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
“I suppose I should be flattered,” Drago said, returning to his porridge with what he hoped was an insouciant shrug. But Clovis shook his head.
“I don’t think she meant it like that,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“There’s always a flaw somewhere.”
Their meal over, Drago followed Clovis out of the mess hall and into the open air, where he breathed in deeply, enjoying the sight of a sky overhead while he still could. The morning was chill, and the light still gray, but he found himself savoring the ruffling of his hair by the breeze. Most of the miners were heading down the ramps leading to the lower terraces, but Drago loitered, getting his first full sight of the quarry in the weak morning sunlight.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” a voice asked behind him, and he turned, bringing up his hand in a casual-seeming gesture which would have blocked an incoming punch. Finding he was being addressed by the Gaffer, he continued the movement, and brushed the fringe of his hair from his eyes.
“It certainly is,” he agreed. From up here, most of the complex was visible: not just the shafts driven into the side of the cliff face on the lowest level, and into which the gnomish miners were flocking, but the scattering of buildings on the floor of the quarry he’d noticed on the evening of his arrival. All were built of the gray stone hewn from the ground here: the closest ones, showing obvious signs of gnomish workmanship, were clearly the storage sheds he’d originally assumed, many of the miners entering them to emerge a moment later with barrows, tools, or other objects he couldn’t make out at this distance. The ones further away were of cruder construction, looked older, and the people moving around in their vicinity were too tall and slender to be gnomes. Drago narrowed his eyes, already certain that these were elves, and carrying weapons to boot.
“That’s where they process the ore,” Clovis said, noting the direction of his gaze, “and the furnace where they melt down the gold and cast it into ingots, once they’ve extracted it.” Sure enough, one of the largest buildings, on the shores of the bile green lake, was vomiting smoke from its chimney, and a dull red glow could be seen emanating from its
open windows.
“How do they do that?” Drago asked. “Get it out of the rocks, I mean?”
The Gaffer shrugged. “Alchemy. In that shed over there.” He pointed to the building adjoining the furnace, which also abutted the lake. “Trust me, you don’t want to go anywhere near it.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Drago said truthfully. For one thing, the place was swarming with soldiers, and he was pretty sure their orders didn’t include inviting curious strangers in for a mug of ale and a guided tour of the place. And for another, nothing down there looked likely to lead him to Gorash.
“Glad to hear it.” The older gnome glared balefully in the direction of the lake. “Whatever they do down there, it’s not good for the health.”
“It certainly isn’t,” Clovis agreed. “That water’d kill you if you tried drinking it.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Drago said. He’d taken the bottle from his knapsack before leaving his room, and filled it with ale in the mess hall. You couldn’t trust water to drink at the best of times: even in Fairhaven it could kill you or leave you so wracked with the flux you’d wish it had, and anything outside the city was bound to be even worse. The only safe thing to imbibe, unless a mage had been at it, was something that had previously been fermented. Everybody knew that.
“Glad to hear it.” The Gaffer nodded. “Got your docky?”
Drago nodded confirmation. The packed lunches had been waiting on a table by the entrance to the mess hall, and every departing miner had been handed one as they filed past.
“You’ll be glad of it come break time,” Clovis assured him.
“I’ve no doubt I will,” Drago agreed.
“Come on, then.” The Gaffer beckoned the two younger gnomes to follow him, and set off down the sloping path. “Let’s get you kitted out.”
Drago followed him all the way down to the floor of the quarry, where dozens of gnomes were still bustling to and fro, and across to the nearest of the storage sheds. He paused, glancing up the way they’d come, marveling at how far they’d descended in so short a time. From here the cliff rose, almost sheer between the terraces cut into it, and he had to narrow his eyes again to pick out the entrances to the gnomish burrows a few yards below the top. Above that, the blocky stone buildings of the elvish garrison loomed, tiny figures no larger than his thumbnail going about their business, with nary a look down at the feverish activity they were there to protect.
