by Dale Lucas
“Oh, he thought he had me,” said one of the older men, Hobb, growling to his own private audience in a far corner. He was bald, clean shaven, his round ears standing out from his head. “But I made quick work of that waddling pickmonkey. Knock knock, right on his bloody skull!”
Valaric sipped his ale. A group of men just a few spans away raised their cups to salute him as he passed. He smiled to thank them. Another group leapt from their perches, chairs and stools overturning, and crowded around him, throwing their arms around his big shoulders, slopping their ale and mead all over him.
“There he is!” they cried. “There’s our headman! Our fearless general!”
“The lord marshal of the Fifth Ward!” someone shouted.
“All hail the lord marshal!”
Valaric tried to silence them, but they could not hear his petitions to calm themselves, to stop singing his praises and raising him above the rest of them. He was no general … no lord marshal … no great man at all. He just wanted his brothers in trade to feel the old pride again, the old joy. Once being a stonemason in Yenara had meant something. They were celebrated and respected, both as craftsmen and as good members of the community. What had happened? Where had they lost that sense of service, that sense of purpose?
“The lord marshal!” someone else cried, far across the room. The whole great chamber of the guildhall exploded into cheers, and cups were held high. Before Valaric could say a word, the cheer became a chant.
“The Sons,” they said, “the Sons! The Sons of Edath! The Sons! The Sons! The Sons of Edath!”
Then a new voice, splitting through the rest, loud and sure and crisp. Valaric turned and saw a lithe figure climbing onto one of the trestle tables, rising above the fray to address the men. It was Hrissif, smiling broadly as ever. Try as he might, Valaric was too moved and mirthful to let his mood darken at the sight of the man.
“That’s what we can do, lads,” Hrissif said as the men all quieted, little by little. “That’s what stonemasons can do when they’re mobilized! Barely fifty men, as mighty as an ancient legion!”
The men cheered and quaffed.
“And there’s the man who’s responsible!” Hrissif shouted, pointing at Valaric. “There’s our good, strong leader! The leader we’ve always wanted and dreamt of! Smart! Savvy! Swift and secretive!”
The men cheered and quaffed again. By Aemon, weren’t they out of ale yet? Valaric’s warmth and good cheer were wearing off. All of this adulation was making him quite uncomfortable.
“And this is only the beginning!” Hrissif said, as though all that might follow was more barrels of ale, some mummers in motley, and a troupe of dancing girls. “We made those tonker bastards bleed tonight, and we were barely prepared. What will we do when we’ve taken greater pains to plan? To strike right at their coal-black little hearts?”
The men did not cheer that time—they did something worse. They nodded, quietly, approvingly. Solemn glances were exchanged. Cups were quietly clinked and dregs sipped off.
Step in, Valaric thought. Step in and take charge of this before Hrissif steals it from you. If this is to work—if this is to strengthen you without corrupting you—it must be managed, controlled, every step of the way.
But why should I? another part of him asked. Why should I fight it any longer? We did the right thing. The joy of my men proves it. So long as our enemies bleed and we celebrate, all is right with the world, isn’t it?
Perhaps I’ve misjudged Hrissif. Perhaps he’s been right all along …
Hrissif leapt down off the table he stood upon and started moving through the crowd. “We have the advantage, don’t we? We know every alleyway, every shadow, every chimney and foundation. We have our shrouds, we have our fists and our weapons, and we have our mandate.”
The men were all rumbling in agreement now, their passion gradually gathering force again. Hrissif had them in the palm of his hand.
“We struck at them right in the street, when they thought they were safe, and we made them bleed!” Hrissif roared. “What can we not do, having done that?”
“But the wardwatch!” someone shouted. “They were guarding them! They’ll be ready for us next time! Armed to the teeth, most like!”
“Perish the thought,” Hrissif said, turning and taking in all the men with his challenging carnival barker’s gaze. “We will not simply repeat ourselves, lads. We’ll strike elsewhere next time … where they least expect it. No, our next sortie will be no hit-and-run on a bunch of tired day laborers marching home with a police escort. Next time we’ll hit them where they live!”
More cheers. Fists clenched, raised, and shaking in fury. All eyes were turning to Valaric now, and Valaric did not like the feeling. As they all turned their gazes toward him, they seemed to be asking, Where shall you next take us, good sir? Where shall the lord marshal next rally his troops? Where shall we next spill blood?
It was that passion—that purpose—that he was desperate to harness. To control and direct. He could use those energies to good purpose, he knew, if he could but hold tight to the reins and get the horses galloping in the right direction.
Valaric tried to come up with some words to calm them, but all that leapt into his mind was an image. A single image. A target that he knew—that all of them would know—could make those dwarves tremble in their oversize boots if only they could leave their mark upon it.
And that’s what came out of his mouth when he spoke. Not an admonition to calm themselves. Not soothing words to banish hatred and bitterness from their hearts. Not an alternative to Hrissif’s belligerence. Only an object for their enmity.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“… And that’s all I know,” Rem said, completing his summary to Indilen of Torval’s recent trials, with both the dwarven court and Tavarix. “It’s my sincere hope that Tav’s present tonight, and that things have been smoothed over a bit between them.” The night air was cold and hard as glass. Every time Rem glanced over and saw Indilen’s marten-lined cloak, he felt an urge to climb inside it. His watch-issued greatcoat seemed painfully inadequate tonight.
“It’s awful,” Indilen said, shaking her head slowly. “Such a proud, unbending folk. Still, parents and children do quarrel sometimes. I’m sure they’ll come to some accord.”
Rem nodded silently. He’d had more than enough years living under the yoke of his own hard-hearted, proud, and unbending father to know how such enmity between those who should love and support one another could poison one’s outlook, not to mention one’s sense of self. It was realizing that there could be no accord—no meaningful compromise—that had sent Rem into exile.
For a moment—the briefest of moments—that fleeting thought of his home and why he’d left it filled Rem with an overwhelming desire to finally reveal everything to her. To finally lay down the burden of the unknown, the unspoken, that he’d been carrying about with him. In the same instant, something equally strong held him back.
“So,” Rem said, eager to change the subject. “This should be quite the experience. I’ve never been to a Fhryst feast before, but I take it as a great honor. And Torval specifically indicated that I should invite you—”
Indilen shot him a sideward glance that had become all too familiar. “Am I to assume,” she said, “that bringing me along was not your first inclination?”
“You know full well that’s not true,” Rem countered. She was teasing him, and she wasn’t. Rem had learned, the hard way, that Indilen was meticulous in matters of language and self-expression. Perhaps it was just a side effect of her chosen vocation—secretary, notary, copyist, and illuminator—but she seemed to delight in twisting his words against him and making him second-guess everything he said. She usually offered those sly, half-joking criticisms with that same sideward glance, suggesting to him that it was all in fun, but he sensed something deeper in it. It was as if she wanted him to gain greater control of his words, and by extension greater control of his thoughts—as though mastering eac
h in relation to the other could somehow smooth his rough edges and shore up some of his insecurities.
He closed his mouth and hid his embarrassment behind a wry smile. As if to comfort him, to assure him that it was all in good fun, Indilen moved closer to him, locked her arm in his, and laid her head on his shoulder. They walked that way for a time, Rem loving the feel of her beside him. Her fur-lined cloak warmed her, and when she walked so closely beside him, she warmed him just as surely. That warmth seemed to radiate through him, and he thought he felt his heart beating just a little faster. All at once he wished he could ignore Torval’s summons and take Indilen somewhere else—somewhere warm and clean, with a fire and some good honeyed wine. Maybe even a soft, fresh bed …
“Forgive me,” she said. “Sometimes I like teasing you too much.”
“Oh,” Rem said dumbly. “Well, of course—”
“Don’t,” she said. “I hurt your feelings. A little, at least. I saw it in your eyes.”
He cocked his head so that it touched hers. “No blood, no scars. I’ll live.”
They turned, moving from a narrow lane to a wider, better-lit boulevard that snaked in broad, easy curves toward the banks of the Embrys. Torval’s home was just ahead, about four or five more blocks.
Indilen reached up, laid one hand on his cheek, and gently turned his face toward hers. “You’re the best man I know, Remeck. Here or anywhere. If I tease you, it’s only because I love you.”
But you don’t know me, Rem thought. Not the real me, the me I ran from.
Or is this the real me? Here? Now? Perhaps that other man—the one I left behind—perhaps he was the pretender …
Rem was suddenly overcome with an inexorable urge—an impulse both terrifying in its finality and gratifying in its spontaneity. He stopped, right there in the middle of the cold, darkening street. There were others out and about, but they passed at a distance, seeming to take no notice of him and Indilen. He drew away from her so that he could stand and meet her gaze, face-to-face. She looked worried. He couldn’t stand to see that look on her face after she had just so generously opened her heart to him.
“Now,” Rem said, but the words he intended to follow that pronouncement failed to tumble out of him.
“Now what?” Indilen asked.
“I think now’s the time,” Rem said. “For that talk. For … secrets.”
“Rem, we’re expected,” Indilen said. “And it’s cold as the grave out here.”
“I’ve waited too long,” Rem said, determined to see this through. Was he really doing this? What had gotten into him?
“Stop it,” Indilen said.
“What?” Rem asked.
“I understand, I do,” she said. “But this is neither the time nor the place, love. Let’s save our confessions for later?”
“I just,” Rem stammered, then swallowed his clumsy words and then tried to start again. “I thought this was what you wanted.”
“Of course I do,” Indilen said, smiling and cupping his face in her hands. They were warm, having been protected in her fur-lined cloak all this time. “Rem, my love, we’ve set forth on this journey together. It’s already begun. You need not rush to prove anything now. Just enjoy this evening with me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes. “It’s just … the things I’ve seen over the past few days. The rage, the violence simmering under the mundane stillness we take for granted every day. The other day, in the Warrens, when we were separated, I was terrified—”
“As was I,” Indilen agreed.
“Terrified that something would happen to you!” Rem quickly added. “I couldn’t stomach it, Indilen. It would break me—especially if something so horrible happened and we hadn’t cleared the air between us. If I hadn’t told you the truth.”
“What is it?” she pressed, her normal poise now seeming to slip a little. She was studying him closely, as she often did, but he could see by the narrowing of her eyes and the slight downturn at the corners of her mouth that she didn’t quite know what he was thinking at the moment. His combined impulsivity and inscrutability seemed to disturb her deeply.
“You think you know who I am—who I really am,” Rem said, lowering his eyes. “But I’ve never told you. Not the way I should have.”
“Why is it troubling you so? Now, of all nights?”
He shrugged. “Because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that you can’t truly love me if you don’t know who I really am.”
Indilen reached up and laid one soft hand on Rem’s cheek. “I know who you really are, Remeck of the Vale. I’ve borne witness to your true self, in action, from the first moment we met in that market. A kind young man. A brave young man. A lonely young man.”
“Not so lonely,” Rem said, managing a cockeyed smile. “Not since I’ve had you.”
“Partially true, perhaps,” Indilen said, “but that loneliness … it’s still there. I’ve seen you look lonely and lost in a crowded tavern surrounded by all your friends at their most boisterous, and with me right beside you. It’s like your mind is a draughty old castle on a high, bald hill, and even when you could be outside, supping and drinking and laughing and exploring, you still get lost wandering its halls.”
He could only nod. She knew him well in that regard. He knew he could sometimes grow melancholy or turn inward, whether the moment demanded it or not. In a way it was a relief to know that his unbidden moments of introspection had not escaped her notice.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
She put her hand under his chin and raised his eyes to meet hers. “Don’t be sorry, you fool. I said what I said and I meant it. I love you. I love you reckless. I love you chattering. I love you silent. I love you pensive and paralyzed.” She leaned a little closer. “I also love you atop me, and underneath me. But mostly I love you beside me. And, most importantly, I love you no matter who you were before you came here … no matter what you left behind. Tell me all of it when you feel you must—for the time being, I know who you are. I see it every single day. And I hope you can say the same for me.”
Rem took her hand in his. Her fingers were cold now, and he rubbed them between his own roughened hands to try to warm them. Then, standing there in the cold street, staring at Indilen in the warm, dim light of nearby post lamps, with a frosting of silver moon- and starlight crowning her auburn hair, Rem thought he could not have asked for, or found, a better, more perfect partner, lover, and friend. And how strange that he’d had to leave everything he knew behind and come to this teeming, overwhelming place, and brave a million possible paths and forked roads that would have kept her away from him forever, just to end up, by blind luck—or by ordained fate—meeting her among the Saturday market stalls.
He drew Indilen close and kissed her. The kiss lingered. He was fairly sure it warmed the both of them, from the inside out.
When the kiss broke, he stroked her hair and stared into her large, lambent brown eyes. “I love you,” he said. Simple, declarative, truer than any words he had ever spoken.
“And I you,” Indilen replied. “Now can we carry on? It’s bloody cold out here.”
Rem pulled her close, threw his arm around her shoulders, and ushered her on. Down the street they went, onward toward Torval’s family lair, Rem feeling that some boundary had been passed, some milestone marked, and that, whatever happened next between him and Indilen, it would be happening to a different pair of people: partners, inseparable and bound by silent oath.
He was a lucky man. If there was any part of the Fhrysting feast dedicated to giving the gods thanks, he would be sure to offer his sincere and undying gratitude.
For a time Torval and family had rented a pair of rooms at the King’s Ass. But those rooms being unsuited to long-term family habitation, Torval had gone searching for a new place to ensconce his family: a suite of three small bedrooms and a great room built above a dressmaker’s shop, on the western edge of the Third Ward. Though the rooms themselves were low-ceilinged and cramped
by human standards—which had, apparently, resulted in the landlord’s inability to keep tenants—they were a perfect size for Torval and his family.
One of the reasons Rem loved to visit was that the external staircase that led up to the rooms faced southwest, and the building was positioned on a slight rise before the land naturally sloped down toward the river. One could mount that staircase and, before knocking at the door, turn and study the larger part of Yenara, laid out before him, stretching away to the north, west, and south. On clear, moonless nights, when there was no fog and all the lamplights of the city winked under a black and star-strewn sky, Rem thought Torval the luckiest of men, for who could not appreciate such a stunning and lovely view as that which greeted Torval every morning and every evening when he came and went?
To Rem’s great delight, Indilen enjoyed the view as well. They had often taken the time, during their handful of shared visits to Torval’s home, to stand there at the head of the stairs and drink the view in. Tonight was just such a night as they both prized for appreciating that vista: the moon was a thin crescent, the stars were bright pinpricks of light in the broad, black firmament of the cloudless sky, and there was, thankfully, not so much as a ribbon of fog upon the great, sprawling city before them. They lingered before knocking on Torval’s door, arms around one another, enjoying the view.
“Funny,” Rem said, suddenly in a thoughtful mood. “I’ve been here such a short time. It’s so far from everything I’ve ever known—five times larger than the largest city I ever visited in the north. For two thousand years this place has been here, growing and rotting and rebuilding itself and transforming, completely separate from my knowing or my existence. And yet, after such a short time, it already feels like home.”
“Not the home you came from,” Indilen said. “The home you were meant for.”
Rem smiled. “Just so,” he said. “Strange thought, I know.”
