by Dale Lucas
Rem followed Torval’s fingers as they pointed. It was true. He saw a handful of priests in their color-coded robes—scarlet and saffron, gold and green, scintillating silver, robin’s-egg blue, and pearlescent white—most of them speaking with what Rem assumed to be the crew leaders, referring to the plans laid out before them or sawing the air with their hands, suggesting the shape of the walls or the towers yet to be built. But despite the presence of that small knot of human overseers, the greater share of bodies moving steady and ant-like about that work site were short, muscular, and broad shouldered, just like Torval.
“Perhaps I’m wrong,” Rem said, “but isn’t that a bit strange? Dwarves raising a temple to human gods?”
Torval only grunted again. Rem stole a glance at him. His partner seemed quite intent upon something—or someone—in the laboring crowd of dwarves. Rem turned his gaze back to the bustling work site and tried to tease out who or what might be holding Torval’s attentions so steadily. It was no good, though. All he saw were dwarves at work. Perhaps not such a strange thing, all in all, but certainly not a common sight in Yenara. The dwarven quarter itself was nearby, true, but everyone knew the dwarves who occupied it rarely undertook work beyond their enclave’s unmarked borders. To see so many of them at work here, now, and on a house of divinity, no less …
“Is something troubling you, Torval?” Rem asked. “I could be wrong, but you’ve seemed preoccupied all night.”
“Bah,” Torval said. “It’s nothing.” He turned from the stone railing and set off again. Rem, more than a little perturbed at the dwarf’s reticence but knowing that he had neither the strength nor the patience to press the issue, fell in behind his partner and quickened his pace. Like it or not, Rem supposed Torval would make his thoughts known in his own time, and not a moment sooner.
Soon enough they were deep into the Third Ward, rounding a corner to espy the familiar image on the shingle of the King’s Ass: a fat, besotted king grinning foolishly atop a frowning, sway-backed donkey. In milder weather—the sort Yenara boasted for most of the year—the doors would be wide-open during business hours, but they were presently shut against the cold. Quickening his pace, Rem made the entryway first, yanked open one of the heavy oak doors, then held it as Torval stepped inside. Upon stepping over the threshold, Rem was enrobed in the tavern’s comforting warmth, his senses teased by its sights, sounds, and smells: the gaudy colors of a set of newly installed stained-glass windows off to his left; the pleasant, rumbling murmur of dozens of conversations; the woodsy, bucolic tang of the fresh rushes and sawdust that littered the floors; and the mouthwatering aromas of roasting meats, baked bread, and spices mulling in hot ale and wine. Gods, his whole miserable, exhausting night now seemed worth it if this was where it had all led!
He fell in behind Torval, who was already halfway to the bar, and they slid onto the first stools that presented themselves. The place was lively this morning, but not crowded. Aarna was busy farther down the bar, delivering plates of fried eggs, thick-sliced ham, and kippered herrings to a trio of muscular bruisers who didn’t have an unbroken nose among them. Tavern bouncers, Rem guessed, or some other night workers valued more for their rough appearance and brusque manners than their delicacy. Ah well … took all types, didn’t it? No doubt this lot were just getting off their own night shifts, like Torval and Rem, and sought nothing more than a good breakfast and a long sleep.
Two stout mugs filled to the brim with a steaming, frothy brew appeared on the bar before them. They’d been delivered by young Davijo, one of Joedoc the Brewer’s boys. Though only thirteen, he was already tall and sprouting some whiskers on his face.
“Good morning, sirs,” Davijo said, his boyish voice having dropped since the last time Rem had seen him—which was only a few weeks before. “Anything to fortify the ales?”
Rem suggested the bruisers farther down the bar. “What they’re having. And throw in some of that old, veiny cheese and a loaf of fresh bread.”
The boy nodded deferentially and hurried into the back.
“Growing fast, that one,” Rem said to Torval.
“They do that,” the dwarf said, almost wistfully. His eyes were downcast, his mouth set in a stoic frown. Suddenly he spat out, “I’ve a favor to ask.”
“Anything,” Rem said.
“If this offer offends you, please, make it known to me immediately—”
“Torval,” Rem said, crossing his arms on the bar in front of him, “there is nothing you can ask for that would offend me. We’re partners, and I’d like to think we’re friends. Go on, make your request.”
Torval nodded. What on earth had him so worried?
“Four nights from now,” the dwarf said, “on the solstice, is the Fhrystomein—a solemn feast of remembrance and reparation among my people. We keep the rituals at Osma’s request, because she wants the children to understand where they came from, what they are part of …”
Torval trailed off, as if his explanation was falling short of some silently held expectation. Rem considered trying to help him along, but kept quiet. He wanted to give Torval the chance to say all that he intended to say without interruption.
“At any rate,” Torval said with a sigh, “it is, ideally, a feast to be shared among true family and the closest of friends. It comes in the midst of winter so that we can remember what we’ve gained and lost in the year past, and petition the gods for good fortune and bounty in the year to come.”
“So you won’t be in for your shift?” Rem asked, not sure where this was going.
Torval nodded. “Aye, I’ll not—and I asked Ondego to release you as well. So that you could join us. With Indilen, if that’s your wish.”
Rem stared. Blinked. For some reason that he could barely articulate, Torval’s request truly moved him. Perhaps it was the fact that Rem had almost forgotten what it was like to share a holiday feast with friends and family. Or perhaps it was the notion that, despite the fact that he and Indilen frequently lingered here, at the King’s Ass, with Torval, or had, on occasion, enjoyed a simple picnic lunch with Torval’s family, this was the first time that Torval had explicitly invited both Rem and Indilen—together—into his home for a solemn occasion. That simple realization touched Rem deeply.
“We would be honored,” Rem said. “I’ll admit, it’s not a celebration I’m familiar with. Should I bring something or—”
“Just bring yourselves,” Torval said, waving one thick, square hand. “Ours is just a family gathering. Earnest, but not overly solemn. Osma and I, we just … we agreed that the two of you have become good friends to us—to our whole family. It is right that you should join us.”
Rem clapped Torval on one muscular shoulder. “You never fail to surprise me, old stump. Just when I think you’re hard as steel and twice as sharp, you show me what a bed of dandelions you can be.”
Torval smiled a little—an awkward, self-effacing smile that Rem found incredibly charming—then shrugged. “Don’t embarrass me, lad. You know I’ve come to rely on you. You’ve acquitted yourself in this mission—and at my side—admirably.” Then he scowled. “Just don’t go thinking this means I’ll go easier on you! You’re still a babe in these woods, after all!”
Rem straightened his posture and squared his shoulders. “Indeed, sir—and so much left to learn.” He snatched up his mug and presented it for a toast. “To friends,” he said.
“To friends,” Torval answered.
Their mugs touched and they drank.
Aarna appeared then. Grinning warmly, the ever-welcoming tavern matron bent over the bar, first planting a heavy kiss on Torval’s ruddy cheek, then moving to plant another on Rem’s.
“My two favorite head-breakers,” she said with a broad smile and genuine affection. “Have you ordered?”
“Indeed we have,” Rem said. “And once we’ve quaffed these ales and scarfed our victuals, we’ve a mind to turn this place upside down. Slow night on the ward—got to get our head-breaking in somewhere,
you know.”
“Is that right?” Aarna asked with a knowing cock of her brow.
To Rem’s great surprise, Torval played along. “There’s been a noted decline in the quality of your patrons,” the dwarf said, scanning the room furtively. “I’m inclined to agree with the Bonny Prince here—this taproom’s overdue for a good, cleansing brawl.”
“Might I remind you,” Aarna said, “that the last brawl you two started left me with barely half the furniture I started with? Not to mention a few broken windows.”
“We paid for those windows,” Torval said. “And look at the stained glass our coin bought!”
“And we got you new furniture,” Rem added, gesturing around them. “The confiscated contents of the Moon Under Water, just as you asked!”
“And to say we started that brawl—” Torval began.
“Quiet,” Aarna broke in. “You win—the both of you. For my new windows and my fine new furniture, I’m forever in your debt.”
“Truth be told,” Rem said, sipping his warm spiced ale and loving it, “we’re probably in yours, which is why we spend so much money here.”
Aarna smirked. “I feed you for free, Freckles.”
Rem raised his mug. “But we pay for the ale,” he countered, offering his best crooked smile. “And we drink a lot of it.”
Aarna rolled her eyes and raised her arms to the heavens. “Why? Why were these two miscreants forced upon me? What sin did I commit to earn their attentions?”
“Too friendly,” Rem said.
“Too beautiful,” Torval added.
Aarna, always game for compliments when they were given in earnest, planted her hands on her hips and raised her chin expectantly. “Don’t stop there, boys. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Davijo arrived with their plates: two large platters heaped with eggs fried in pork fat, seared slabs of thick-cut salted ham, smoked kippers lightly warmed beside the fire, two generous plates of pungent, veiny cheese, and, on a third plate between them, a loaf of soft, steaming brown bread fresh from the ovens. When the plates were laid before them, Rem took a long moment to study his own, savoring the sight of it. His stomach growled and curled in the center of him, like a napping puppy slowly stirring toward wakefulness. He took a last long draught of his spiced ale, preparing the way for the feast to come.
“About time,” Torval said, then laid into the food before him.
Rem was just about to tear into his own when a new arrival slid onto the stool beside him. Two dainty hands shot into his field of vision, snagged his plate, and pulled it away from him. Rem spun toward the offender, ready to protect his hard-won breakfast, and found a familiar beauty with auburn hair and brown eyes beside him. She was all wrapped up in a simple fur-lined winter coat. A small oblong wooden box of fine make—her personal secretary set—sat on the bar beside her. With only the briefest, sweetest batting of her eyes, she turned from Rem and snatched up a slice of the salted ham.
“Truly,” Indilen said, “you’re the best mate a girl could have. I’m famished.”
“I was going to eat that,” Rem said, staring at her, finding it impossible to even feign anger.
“And you still can,” Indilen said. “You’re just sharing now. Pass the bread, please?”
Rem laid down his table knife and turned to tear off a bit of the hot bread. As he delivered it to her, Indilen purloined his fork right out of his hand. Daintily she began to feed herself. She turned to give Rem a bright, winning smile as she chewed her first bite, and Rem found himself almost disgusted by how besotted he was with her. She was so beautiful, so bright … even when stealing his meals and annoying the living piss out of him.
“Aarna,” he said without taking his eyes off Indilen, “could I beg another knife and fork?”
“Can’t spare any,” Aarna responded, bustling away to see to new customers farther down the bar. “Eat with your hands like the rest of us, Bonny Prince.”
Indilen forked up some eggs and kippers and offered them to Rem. “Bite, love?”
He opened his mouth and she fed him. He dared to risk getting his grasping hand forked and reached for a pinch of the cheese, using a soft slice of the bread to pick it up and smash it. He popped the whole bite—bread and cheese—into his mouth and savored it.
“What brings you out so early in the morning?” Rem asked as he and Indilen ate from the same plate, as naturally as a ragged old farmer and his timeworn wife.
“Took a chance I’d find you here,” Indilen said, sopping some hot bread in a puddle of runny egg yolk. “And I wasn’t lying—I was famished.”
“Well, now that we’re both being fed,” Rem said, leaning closer, “what say we work it off back at my loft when the plates are clean and the ale’s run dry?”
“Tempting,” Indilen said, throwing Rem a knowing glance. “But I’ve got more pressing business. And you should come with me.”
“Pressing business?” Rem asked.
“I need new quill nibs,” Indilen said. “The best I can afford.”
“New quill nibs?” Rem repeated, truly puzzled.
“I know, it sounds ridiculous,” Indilen said, “but I’ve been offered a very good job for the Great Library at the university—six weeks guaranteed, premium pay, plus a little extra for materials. I’ll be copying out a dozen or so old manuscripts as well as adding multicolor illuminations. If I’m to do work of that detail and magnitude, I need good brushes, quill nibs, and inks. I’ve got the brushes and inks, but dwarven finesmiths make the best quill nibs, so that’s where I’m off to when we’ve finished here.”
Rem was taken aback. That was most impressive. “I knew you did scribe-work,” he said, “but you never told me you could illuminate.”
Indilen shrugged as if it were plain as day. “Calligraphy, illustrations, embellishments—I’m a woman of many talents, good sir. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“I was thinking of something less—decorative,” Rem said.
Indilen bumped him warmly with her elbow. “Knave,” she said with a smile. “Impugning my honor.”
“Thief,” Rem said, leaning closer, “stealing my heart.”
“Mercy!” Torval suddenly cried. “You’re making me sick! Stop slinging that treacly pap or I’ll yark on my kippers!”
Rem and Indilen shared a conspiratorial laugh over Torval’s outburst and fell back to picking at their shared breakfast.
“Well,” Rem said, “I’m damned proud of you, and despite my exhaustion I’ll be happy to take a stroll through the Warrens with you. Just promise me it won’t be the whole day? I do need some sleep.”
“Vowed and attested,” Indilen said with a curt nod. “I know you do. And truth be told, it’s not that I need a chaperone—I just wanted to see you. It’s so hard, sometimes, our days spent only catching one another in passing, with only one full day together each week.”
“You could take some night work,” Rem suggested. “Copy manuscripts by candlelight? Sleep through the day at my side?”
“And end up blind before I’m forty,” Indilen said. “No, thank you. So long as I’m a working quill-slinger, I’m working by day.”
“Well, then,” Rem said. “Sooner started, sooner finished. Should we go now?”
Indilen shook her head. “This plate’s not clean, Bonny Prince. I’m not moving ’til it is. If you’re in such a bloody hurry, help me.”
Aarna suddenly reappeared and placed a fresh, steaming mug of her spiced ale before Indilen. “There you go, lass. I’ll put it on their collective tab.”
“Then buy the whole bar a round,” Indilen said, sipping the ale. “On them.”
“By the gods, lad,” Torval suddenly interjected, throwing a warm, knowing smirk at Indilen. “You are a salty one, aren’t you?”
“Sour, salty, soft, and sweet,” Rem said before she could respond. “And all mine.”
Indilen smiled at him, took a healthy bite of pork and eggs, then washed it down with a good, stiff draught of the
hot ale. Rem couldn’t take his eyes off her. And to think: if he hadn’t left it all behind—his family, his world, the future that had been decided for him—he never would have met her. The very possibility that he could have lived his whole life without finding this woman, whom he’d come to love so dearly in just a few short months, filled him with a terrible dread, even as the fact of their love and affection warmed him.
“You’re staring,” Indilen said.
“Should I stop?” Rem asked.
“Oh no,” she said sweetly, her gaze meeting his. “Keep staring.”
Rem obliged, satisfied that he now had all he needed to fill his belly and his heart for the morning—hot food, warm ale, his best friends, and the woman he loved. He settled in, feeding himself as the warmth and welcome of the King’s Ass swaddled him like a newborn babe.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was nigh on eight bells when Torval mounted the stairs to his rented rooms, fished the key from one of the pouches at his belt, and let himself in. He was more than a little ashamed of himself—bright and early in the morning, the rest of the world waking and off to work, and here he was, drunk and ready to collapse. He knew his was a topsy-turvy, nocturnal life—awake and about while most of the city, including his widowed sister and his children, slept—and that his early-morning breakfasts were the equal of most working folks’ suppers, but he was still left with a vaguely skeevy feeling about coming home in such a state: reeking of ale, swaying as if he stood on a rolling ship’s deck, desiring nothing but a bed and the sweet oblivion of sleep. He’d lingered too long at the King’s Ass, even after Rem and Indilen set out for their little shopping sortie in the dwarven quarter. But that wasn’t an accident, was it? No, he’d lingered deliberately, until he knew that his sister, Osma, and his daughter, Ammi, would be in the market, at their stall, while little Lokki took his lessons at school. For only then, alone, anaesthetized, could he return home without feeling the ache of Tav’s conspicuous absence.
Torval shut the door behind him and studied the front room: fire burnt down to ash and cinders, plates and cups left to dry on a towel beside the emptied washbasin, two bundles—food of some sort, intended for him—wrapped in cloth on the trestle table where they all ate their meals. Though he’d probably missed Osma and the children only by an hour or less, their living space was already cold and empty. Torval preferred it this way of late. When they were all about—Osma cooking or cleaning, Lokki bouncing between Torval and Ammi in search of attention or entertainment—Torval found himself unnerved by the noise, the energy, the scurrying, and the ever-changing half-finished conversations. None of it felt right—felt complete—without his eldest son. Oh, certainly Tav dropped in to see them once a week on his appointed day of rest, usually with some special little bauble for Lokki, tales of apprenticeship trials for Ammi, and all sorts of lively, scripture-themed dissertations for Osma—but even as Torval’s son shared such rapport, such warmth and energy, with his siblings and his aunt, he seemed to be at a loss when speaking with Torval. And Torval, admittedly, was at a loss when speaking to him.
