"All the farmers he had traded with took care of him—none of them would slaughter a pig or a cow without giving him a part of it. If he ever needed anything, all he had to do was ask, and he would ask, although he'd always accompany the request with an offer to fix anything that needed it.
"And he went back to the sheds—going around the area fixing things for metal scraps and making them into hinges, springs, screws and wire. And in the spring, there he was in the market—trading a small fortune in fine metal work for a dozen chickens, and a different kind of grain, which, after talking it over and reading in almanacs, he was sure was perfect for his little patch of land. The chickens ate the grain, and flew away or were eaten by foxes—but the one time he got enough eggs to make an omelet he couldn't have been happier if he was feasting on griffin steaks."
The wooden houses of the humans began to be mixed with the low earthen buildings preferred by dwarves, and the tall ramshackle structures that were shared by the dragars and the skirbits. All the buildings seemed more squalid. A human child sobbed over the shouts of an adult from behind a door.
"What else? You've said all that before."
Haniel nodded. "He had been a warrior, anyone could see it. He used the hammer and knife as tools, but they were also weapons. He would almost never make a blade for anyone; one time a fellow helped him come up with a scheme to irrigate his miserable field, and the dwarf was so happy he made him a knife—the knife was so sharp the fellow was afraid to carry it.
"There was a small community of dwarves about half a day's ride away, and sometimes dwarves would come to see him and talk about fighting. Using weapons on a chain is hard, but very interesting to dwarves: it's extremely useful when you are fighting people who are bigger than you. Whenever I saw someone heading up the road to the dwarf's farm with a sword or an axe, I would always follow them, because I knew that the dwarf would spend the next hours telling stories and drinking ale.
"Anyway, I was there once, and it was a couple of younger dwarves and they were talking about killers, who was the fiercest, and who could beat who. And someone mentioned a dwarf who was so fierce he cut off his own ear once, to make a point to someone. A clan had paid a friend of his to kill him, and so the friend went drinking with the earless dwarf, but didn't bring any weapons because he knew he'd be suspicious. They drank, and then the friend snatched a dagger out of the earless dwarf's own belt. But the earless dwarf was quicker, even drunk, and he had another knife in his sleeve, and he stabbed the friend dead, before he could take the dagger out of the sheath.
"And the old dwarf, when someone told the story, he nodded, and said that he had been there. He said that he did not remember if the earless dwarf was fast, or his friend was just clumsy, but he remembered that afterwards, the earless dwarf stood over his friend's body, with tears in his eyes, begging him to live. He was dead as a post, but the earless dwarf stood over him begging him to get up, and saying he was sorry, and that he'd buy the next round of grog.
"The young dwarves didn't know what to make of it, they thought it was sort of funny. But I started to cry, because it reminded me…of what I had done. And they saw me sniffling and started to laugh and say that they shouldn't be scaring a poor human child. And then the old dwarf said 'Be gone, you fools,' he said, 'the little wizard has more blood on her hands than all of you together.' And I started to weep, and the others all left.
"And the old dwarf just turned to his forge and started to work, paying me no mind sitting in the corner and weeping. I'd never cried over it before. When I did it, I went and found my father and told him that I thought I had hurt someone, and I was just numb. Then everyone was telling me I was special, and that I'd leave my family, and then I did, and I was in the capital, seeing new things. I just pushed it away. But I cried and cried in the dwarf's house, and he went around working the bellows and banging on things. And when he saw that I was just sniffling, he asked me to help him, fetching things from around the forge, and working the bellows, and he would show me what he was doing, and tell me why he did each thing.
"He never asked me what I had done—he showed me how to make wire. And then we made tea, and had some apple preserves, and he asked me if I knew how to make them; I had seen my mother do it, and I told him about it; he said that he wanted to be ready if some trees he had ever bore fruit—he had planted them nearly ten years ago and was sure that they were due."
Bronzino nodded. "I'm sorry."
Haniel shook her head. "I'm sorry too. For you, your parents. I feel more horrible when I think about that…you were just four, asking questions. All the gods, I killed a guy."
"I don't think that's the point."
A turn took them into a dragar neighborhood, and the buildings grew taller, and more sedate. At the bottom of each was a large structure made of either wood or earth, with a large front door, where the dragars would reside. From this structure rose several wooden poles stretching high up into the sky. Between the poles were hung nets, ropes, and odd little tents, in which the skirbits lived. The skirbits glided amongst the poles, dark blotches across the sky.
"You asked me why I'm so angry at everyone a while ago. I think it's because they never punished me. They told me I was special. I fucking killed a guy."
"But you didn't know. You didn't do it on purpose. You might have been older than I was, but…"
"Oh, to hell with that. We're magic. I could have helped it."
Bronzino sighed. "It is absolute that there is no fault from the actions of a child with the Gift before they come to the Order."
"And to hell with that."
"No. The Principles do mean something. They exist for a reason."
"The reason is that shit like that is too likely for anyone to pay damage over it. Wizards are valuable, more valuable than whatever damage a kid can cause before the Order gets them. The griffin post is allowed to reduce damage to a lump sum regardless of fault, because it is handy to get messages around fast. Just think of what the Order lets itself get away with."
"The Mad Dwarf didn't punish you, either."
Haniel nodded. "But he knew that I was a killer, and that it mattered. I don't know. Maybe punishment wouldn't have helped…it'll never be quite right to me, though, that man dead and everyone telling me I was special."
The dragar neighborhood ran along the edge of the river. The houses of the most prosperous dragar were built into the riverbank, with the bottom floor opening directly into the water. Boats and dragars drifted in the darkening water, heading towards the shore. The Adepts walked along the river towards a bridge.
"Tell me about the end, again."
"Fine. It was winter. Mostly people stayed in their houses. Anyway, some dwarves showed up at the tavern, badly injured, looking for doctors. Someone went and told Bour about it, apparently they hadn't asked, but injuries mean a wizard, and so they sent someone for him. And I listened to him describe the wounds: one fellow with his windpipe crushed by a chain; three of them with slash wounds; broken bones; and a fellow with a cracked skull. And I knew, somehow, that it was the old dwarf, that those wounds had come from the hammer and knife. Bour said he wasn't going out in the snow for fellows who didn't want him. I didn't say anything, but I got on my cloak and started running to the farm. I wasn't the only person who had thought that—a farmer had gotten there before me, and a few showed up afterwards.
"They'd killed him. Stabbed him over a dozen times, and beaten him into a pulp. The whole place was wrecked; everything in his little house was smashed. He hadn't made it easy for them: two of them were dead, in addition to the injured ones at the inn.
"I went back to Bour, and he looked at me sadly and said that if no one was seeking damage there was nothing he could do about it. I went around to the farmers who traded with him, and reminded them that they had made piles of gold a year trading with the dwarf, and that they should seek it from the killers at the inn. Most of them didn't want to go on with it, especially not at first, but I yelled and cried
and got three of them to come back with me to Master Bour."
"I remember Wit saying that was awfully clever of you, the first time you told us," Bronzino said. "He was right, you know."
"And I still don't know how clever it can have been if it didn't work," Haniel said. "Bour wasn't having any of it. He said that, for one thing, it was a tentative theory of recovery, and for another, there was no way to calculate the damage because the dwarf never touched gold. Then I started calling everyone names, and said if no one was going to do anything I would go to the inn and fight them myself, and I picked up a wood axe. Master Bour stood in the doorway and forbid me from doing it; and I said if he didn't get out of my way, I'd kill him, and he didn't and so I went at him with the axe and then he…" Haniel made an odd sweeping motion with her fingers, "…rag-doll, you know? Anyone ever done that to you?"
"No, what's it like?" They came up to the bridge and started to cross. A cold wind whipped in their faces. The water lay dark and oily beneath them.
Haniel shivered. "It's like it sounds, but just much, much worse. You can think, mostly, and feel things, but just no control of what you do. Like, I put down the axe, but my mind had nothing, nothing to do with it. Ugh…I didn't even know how to fight it, hardly remembered what it was like to move on my own. And then, the longer it goes on, parts of your memory just start popping up, but somehow nasty and different, like your dinner when you are sort of half-sick from having drunk too much wine.
"I wasn't under for long. He had me put me down the axe and then marched me into my room, locked the door behind me, and let me go. I spent about the next two months in that room. His housekeeper, I guess, although I think he also slept with her, would bring me meals. Bour had written this long-winded, unspeakably boring book, and he knew it was long-winded and boring and had done it on purpose. He would send copies of it to wizards he disliked and then act hurt when they hadn't read it, and use it as a reason to avoid them.
"Anyway, there was a wizard that he particularly hated, and he was working on an especially nice copy of it, so that he could start an especially bitter feud when the wizard didn't read it. And that was what I did for the next month—just copy his vile book, and with every page I finished, I would have to show it to the housekeeper, and if there were any smudges, or mistakes, or it wasn't neat enough, she would make me write the whole page again."
"You still have very good handwriting."
Haniel nodded. "It wasn't exactly that I wasn't allowed to leave the room, they unlocked the door after the first night, but if I ever did leave my room, someone would suggest that I go back in and do more copying, citing some deadline that we all knew was imaginary. The one time I was let out was about a week before they let me out for good. It seemed that the old dwarf had been someone important before he retired to our part of the world. No one ever explained it to me, and the only person I could think of to ask was Bour, which…well, would have been unpleasant.
"Anyway, that was why he was killed, but also a good many dwarves mourned him. A dwarven priest of some sort came to conduct a dwarven rite to determine what should be done with his things and concluded that I should have the old dwarf's hammer and knife. So he marched to Master Bour's and asked to see me, and Bour led me out of my room, and I saw this strange dwarf with beads and strings woven into his beard standing in front of the door, and he handed me the hammer and knife and said that it was mine, and then said some things in an old dwarven language and turned around and marched away."
"Do you know why he decided to give you the hammer and knife?"
"It's even more confusing, because someone later said that the priest was also the Mad Dwarf's son, so I don't know if he was acting as the next-of-kin, or in a religious capacity. I just have the hammer and knife."
They walked on the bridge in silence. "Why did you pick up the axe?" Bronzino asked.
"To kill the murderers, or at least die trying."
"You know, you had had more luck killing another way. Why didn't you try that?"
"I didn't think of it. Once They get you, They are always telling you never to use the Gift, other than when and how They say. That gets inside you after a while, at least it did me. What's your point?"
"I was thinking about punishment. I think killing that man was the worst thing that ever happened to you, and you always knew it. And no matter how desperate or angry you are, you will never do that again, because nothing will ever hurt you more than doing that. If there was any need to punish you, you would at least have thought about using the Gift on the Mad Dwarf's killers."
"I don't think that's the reason for punishment," Haniel said. "When you hurt someone, the world demands that you be hurt in return."
Bronzino laughed. "That's heresy. By the Principles of the Order, all that is demanded is that the injured be made whole."
They were near the far end of the bridge and Haniel stopped and leaned on the railing, facing the river. Bronzino stood beside her.
Haniel chewed on her lip. "Then why was your father hanged? And what does it even mean to be 'whole'? You will never be whole—and that was true from the moment he killed your mother, and will be until the moment you die. And it's true of the man I killed's children, his brother, his mom—they'll never be whole. I don't dream about them every night. Only one in three, these days." She shook her head. "He had a little girl, you know, he loved her so much, and at this point if I stopped seeing her in my dreams, I'd miss her."
Bronzino said nothing, but turned and looked at the river.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"What for?"
"Your parents, you. I shouldn't have brought that up."
"Do you think you're wrong about it?" he asked.
"No…I don't know. It isn't my place. And who really knows anything?"
Bronzino did not take his eyes off the river. "I don't think you're wrong."
"Kindness, then. I might have been kinder about it."
"Thank you," he said softly.
They were silent for a while longer. "Go for a drink?" asked Haniel.
"It's late and I have too much to do tomorrow."
Haniel winced and tried to pretend that she did not and Bronzino tried to pretend that he did not notice.
"There's a dragar cigar place just on the other side of the bridge, I'll treat you," he said.
Haniel nodded and they turned and walked. "Generous. What does the dragar owe you for?"
"Well, nothing really. I was sitting when he got some money from a man who sold him rotten herbs, and he thinks kindly of me as a result."
Haniel chuckled, and Bronzino shrugged.
They arrived at a brightly lit shop and Bronzino opened the door. Herbs hung from the walls and a large lantern hung from the ceiling. In the back under the lantern was a low table surrounded by chairs, and a dragar grinned and got up as Bronzino walked in.
"Do you care what goes in them?" Bronzino asked.
"None that makes you see stuff or want to screw everyone? And nothing that tastes like cloves, if you can avoid it." She sat by the table in the back, while Bronzino and the lizard-man conversed over herbs.
After a moment, the lizard approached her, holding a bottle and a small metal cup. "It's a cordial of swamp berries, sent from home, if you would care to try it."
Haniel nodded with far less hesitation than most humans, and the lizard filled the glass. Haniel noticed the pickled beetle that fell into the cup with the liquor as she reached towards the glass.
The lizard looked apologetically at her, and started to reach for the beetle. "I'll fish it out…"
Haniel firmly took the glass out of his hand and gave it a grateful sniff. "Swallow the beetle, or crunch it?"
"The dragar custom is to eat the beetle, but most humans find it off putting…"
Haniel finished chewing the beetle and handed him the empty glass.
"If you would care for another one?" he said.
"Please, if you don't mind."
He poured t
he drink.
"No beetle, this time."
"There's only half a dozen or so in the bottle, we consider them delicacies."
Haniel rolled the liquor around in her mouth. "Not the same without the beetle, still good though. Thank you very much."
The dragar smiled at her, and Bronzino called him over. They weighed out some herbs and then came and sat at the table with Haniel. The dragar took a sheaf of thin papers and rolled up three cigars. At the end, he licked the edge of the papers with a flick of his forked tongue and handed one to Haniel and Bronzino. Bronzino looked expectantly at the lamp, and the dragar smiled and called out a few words in a foreign language.
A salamander climbed out of the lamp, wrapped its tail around a rung at the bottom, and then dropped down, hanging by its tail and looking around. Bronzino put the cigar in his mouth, and the salamander breathed a jet of flame and lit it. Haniel put her cigar in her mouth and the salamander lit it as well, swung back up to its rung, and then retreated into the flame of the lamp.
Bronzino grinned with delight.
Haniel smiled. "Tourist shit," she said. "Three years in the city, you'd think you'd be over it."
"It is natural for humans to wonder at the bond between us and our little cousins," the dragar said gravely.
"It's a trained salamander," said Haniel. "Even priests can figure out how to do that."
"Priests?" asked the dragar.
"Sure. Back home, the priests had them."
"What religion did you practice?"
Haniel grinned. "The real one: the Mass of the Poppy. The priests would prepare a concentrate from the poppy, and the salamander would eat it, and blow out smoke that you would suck up with a hollow reed."
"The real religion?" said Bronzino. "What do you mean?"
"The Mass of the Poppy is a proper religion," said Haniel. "The other ones…they're just cults, probably based on some story about some asshole with the Gift from before the Order, who some other assholes mistook for a god. And other religions only care about the people who believe in them. All we believe is that anyone who wants to can partake in the Mass of the Poppy, and peace be upon them. The faithful grow poppies, and the priests prepare them and train salamanders."
Students of the Order Page 39
