Mareth had woken in a bad mood, and unfortunately, Percival had taken the brunt of it. He knew that Percival was only doing his job. But he had been like this every day since Petra had left. And even though he didn’t think he’d had a waking moment that wasn’t busy, he was deeply bored. Though he was surrounded by people at every hour of the day, especially now that it seemed Lady Grey was determined to keep his mind off Petra’s absence, he felt… well, lonely.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. His whole life he had ran away from responsibility, from having people rely on him. During the election, he’d been swept up in it all and gone along with everyone else’s desire that he should stand for election. All because of the people around him. Yes, he was enjoying some aspects of the job; the new found looks of respect that he received, strategizing about what to do in the face of Pyrfew’s machinations, the whiskey cellar. But he also knew himself well enough to know that he couldn’t do this alone. For fuck’s sake, he hadn’t had a day off since being sworn in.
So today, just minutes ago, he had told Percival where to stick his agenda and marched out of the palace; a very good bottle of Penkurrth whiskey in one hand, and his expensive new mandolin in the other. Mareth waved away the various requests for his attention as he passed through the halls and out into the gardens. He passed Grimes coming in the opposite direction, not pausing to acknowledge his salute. Mareth purposefully avoided looking at Jyuth’s old apartment building, not wanting to be reminded of Petra’s absence; and before long he was out past the guard house and headed to the Mountain Gate. He deserved a day off. He could get back to the grind tomorrow, knowing that the break would more than likely tide him over until Petra came home.
As long as he didn’t have too great a hangover tomorrow, anyway.
He knew that the soldiers on guard duty overlooking the stretch of pathway to the entrance to Unedar Halt were probably looking at him strangely as he pounded on the great brass doors, but he didn’t look back. He didn’t care what they thought. Compared to the old king, his behavior was only slightly peculiar. Mareth kept up the pounding on the door for a good five minutes before a smaller door built into the large one opened, and there appeared a face that could have been made of the same weathered granite as Mount Tiston, framed by long braids of white hair.
“What the fuck, Mareth? We didn’t know you were coming.”
Mareth held up the bottle and the instrument for the Keybearer to see. “Morning, Egyed. I wondered if you and the Forger could come out to play.”
Egyed smiled, squinting his eyes behind his rose-colored glasses against the bright winter sun, and waved him in. The Keybearer led him through the tunnel that opened out into the central chamber of the dwarven city. Mareth’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dull light of the underground, but once they did, as ever, the sight of the great cavern and the buildings it housed took his breath away.
“I think the Forger is meeting with your alchemist friend. Let’s go pay him a visit, shall we? They’ll be in the crafter’s quarter.” Egyed led the way, Mareth still had no idea how to get around this place, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever been to the crafter’s quarter before. It was good they were going to see Mouse. After the battle Mareth hadn’t known what to do with him, but Neenahwi had suggested that Mouse might be too useful to waste away in a cell, so he’d taken him personally to the Dwarves. Since then, he’d known that Mouse was enjoying his time applying his creative energies with other like-minded souls in Unedar Halt; but he’d yet to see any useful results.
The crafter’s quarter was a series of oval structures, like half buried eggs with chimneys that reached up to the cavern ceiling. They all looked the same to Mareth. Heat, clanging, and occasional puffs of smoke and steam emanated from each one as they passed. But Egyed obviously knew where they were going. He led them confidently past many, before he entered one without stopping to knock. Mareth followed him in.
“Seems we have a visitor,” said Egyed to the old dwarf sitting proudly on a stuffed leather stool in the center of the wide circular work room. The Forger looked momentarily surprised before he got up, laughing, to warmly shake Mareth’s hand. His grip lent further evidence to the old dwarf’s strong muscles and rude constitution.
“Good to see you, Lord Protector. And you’ve brought gifts too,” he said, eying the bottle. Mareth knew the Forger had a taste for whiskey. “Come. Sit. Your little Mouse here was about to show me some of the things he’s been working on.”
Mareth took a seat next to the Forger and looked for the wiry figure of the alchemist. He appeared to be in good health, though he was more interested in tinkering with the glass flasks on a metal workbench than he was in greeting his waiting audience. “How are you liking it here, Mouse?” he asked.
The alchemist looked up and regarded Mareth warily. “I like it, sir. They are nicer than the pirates. Can I stay?”
Nicer than the pirates. That wasn’t surprising, as Mareth had personal knowledge of Vin Kolsen and the people that accompanied him. “That might depend on what you have to show us,” he said, half in jest, but the glass bottles in Mouse’s hand shook.
“Don’t listen to the man, lad,” said the Forger. “There are a fair few of my people who would be none too happy with me if I sent you packing. Now, bloody well get on with it.”
“Yes, master Forger sir.” Mouse took a deep breath and picked up a small globe made of clay. “This is the first thing. We’ve called them nighty-night balls.” Mouse stopped talking, as if that was all that needed saying. The Forger and Mareth exchanged glances, apparently neither of them knew what that meant. The Forger waved his hand for the alchemist to continue. “Oh, yes. Perhaps a demonstration would help.” Mouse walked over to a cart covered with a blanket, and wheeled it over to the area in front of the two leaders. He pulled off the cover to reveal a large lizard; wings sprouting from its back but folded close in the confined space of a glass tank.
“A baby drake,” explained Mouse. “Captured earlier this summer.” He lifted the steel lid of the tank and before the drake could get out, the alchemist tossed the small globe inside. It shattered on the floor in front of the reptilian face. Mouse slammed the lid down quickly and held it firmly in place as a blue mist exploded from the shattered globe. Within seconds the tank was completely full of the mist, making it difficult to see the drake.
“A smoke grenade?” asked Mareth.
“No,” said Mouse. “Just watch.”
A few moments later, the mist had dissipated to reveal the drake slumped on the floor of its cage. Mareth got up to inspect and was amazed to see the creature’s chest rise and fall with its breath. “It’s asleep?”
Mouse nodded, a big smile sitting proudly on his face. “It’s made with the spores of a mushroom found in the lower caverns—I believe it’s commonly referred to as ‘green knobtop’— mixed with a little of my magic.”
“Magic?” asked Mareth, his eyebrows raising.
“Well, my kind of magic. Ammonia, bromine, and a tiny drop of arsenic. We harvested the mushrooms just before they were about to bloom.” Mareth had never seen anything like this before. He couldn’t count the number of sticky situations he’d been in where the little clay globes wouldn’t have been helpful. Mouse mistook their silence for concern. He pointed to a crate off to one side that was filled with more pottery balls, of varying sizes. “I have a lot more. Some bigger ones too. We could try one of the bigger nighty-nights in here? The effects on us would be completely harmless in the long term, I assure you.”
The Forger waved his hands in the air. “No. No. That won’t be necessary, young sir. Very good. Very nice. Are they difficult to make?”
“Not at all. There are lots of that particular strain of fungus. Though I was hoping to investigate what ‘red knobtop’ might be useful for.”
“Hah, I bet you are,” said the dwarf. “Just make sure you teach some of my people how to do this before you move on to your next experiment. Do you have anything else
for us today?”
“Oh, yes. But first I must ask you to put on this eye protection.” Mouse handed a pair of rose-tinted leather goggles to each of them. Mareth pulled the strap over the back of his head as the Forger did likewise. The pink shade they painted over the world was not unpleasant.
“Aren’t you going to wear goggles too?” asked Mareth.
“I like it when I get the sparkles in front of my eyes,” the alchemist said in reply, his brows arching and a smile appearing on his face that, if he was being frank, scared Mareth a little. He shuffled his stool backwards, ignoring the chuckles from the Forger. Mouse wheeled the sleeping drake away and replaced it with another cart, on which was a large, round, metal platter and a stoppered ceramic bottle. Mouse opened the bottle and with evident haste poured a small measure of a viscous purple liquid onto the platter. He quickly put the stopper back in and set the bottle down.
Mareth held his breath.
Nothing happened.
Mareth was unsure if the experiment had failed and was about to say something, when a great whoosh of white flame rose into the air. Mareth rocked back on his stool, almost losing his balance.
“Varcon’s pimply ass!” exclaimed the Forger. “What is that? Goblin fire? Where did you get goblin piss down here?”
“Actually, it’s not just any old goblin piss you need for goblin fire,” shouted Mouse over the noise of the fire. “It has to be goblin maidens when they’ve been on a very particular diet. But this isn’t goblin fire.”
“What is it?” asked Mareth shielding his eyes with his hands from the light that was too intense for his eyes, even with the goggles on. He wasn’t sure that it was such a good idea for Mouse to be staring into the flame in that way.
“There are these little critters all around. Called ‘ember bugs.’ They’re about as big as a really nasty cockroach. Some people put them in a metal pan and use them to warm their beds, or the ladies put them in a bag and lay them on their stomachs to help with cramps. Well, if you grind them up—when they’re alive, doesn’t work when their dead—and then let them steep in acid, you get this stuff. It’s a bit slower than goblin fire to combust with the air, but it burns a lot hotter.”
“How hot?” asked the Forger, who was on his feet now and backing away. Mareth supposed a life working with metal had probably left him with a healthy respect for fire.
Mareth watched Mouse as he watched the flames, pointing in anticipation of something happening. The metal platter started to sag and then drip down in molten hot globules to the floor. Mouse turned back to look at them, still grinning like a loon. “Hot enough to melt most metals.”
“Fuck, man! What are you doing? The bottle is on the metal cart!” The Forger rushed to the cart and grabbed the bottle, even though Mareth could feel the strength of the heat even from where he was sitting. The dwarf stepped away; the ceramic vessel clutched in his hand. Mareth could see the delayed look of realization on his face, then he carefully put the bottle on the ground, away from Mouse, and backed away.
“There’s nothing to worry about. With the few drops I used, it will burn out before the cart is too badly damaged. Also, it will not work at all against stone. Do you like it?”
The Forger looked to Mareth. “What do you think? Batshit crazy or batshit good?”
“Is batshit ever good?”
The dwarf shrugged. “It makes a pretty good fertilizer.” Well, that was something else that Mareth had learned today. He turned his attention back to the original question and while he was not a military man, nor a naval man—his martial prowess went as far as being able to swing a sword reasonably well while singing a few songs at the same time—even he could see that this stuff must be useful against those Pyrfew turtle ships. “I think it could be useful. Could you combine it with those little clay balls? How much have you got?”
The fire had died down to a guttering flame now, but the cart creaked as it buckled under the heat. Mouse ignored it. “That and another bottle is all I have,” he said, pointing at the bottle. “That took about ten score ember bugs.” Mareth sagged. There was never an easy answer. “We could catch more. Or, master Forger, we could breed them instead? I’m sure that would be possible with a little experimentation.”
The Forger nodded. “Aye, you can do this. But do it somewhere far away. I don’t want a whole bunch of the little buggers in the middle of the city.” The dwarf sighed deeply. “Good work, son.” The Forger looked at Mareth, then conspicuously at the bottle of whiskey that was still on the floor nearby. “I think it’s time we were off. We’ve got business to handle. Countries to run, and all that.”
“You don’t want to see how I have trained jolt grubs to hunt in packs?” asked Mouse, gesturing to another blanket-covered cart on the far side of the workshop.
“No! Not today, at least. I think you’ve shown us enough,” said the Forger, belatedly remembering to smile as if at a boy who had offered to shoot an apple off his father’s head with a crossbow. “Come on, Mareth.”
Mareth got up from his seat and shook Mouse’s hand, muttering similar platitudes before picking up his things and heading out into the cavern beyond. That man had genius in him, but Mareth was a little afraid of what else had been thrown in the cauldron when Mouse had been concocted.
“Fucking jolt grubs. Hunting in packs?” The dwarf shivered. “I don’t think I ever want to see that.”
The Forger had his feet up on the wooden desk in his office. He swirled a measure of whiskey in the cut glass tumblers he had pulled down from a shelf. The dwarf stuck his large nose into the glass and inhaled the smoky oaken notes. He murmured in appreciation. “This is a good one. You should come visit more often.”
Mareth took a good sip on the whiskey himself. The warmth passing down his throat and into his belly felt comforting, like an old friend paying him a visit. The absence of Petra, and his other comrades, made him want to drink. But ironically, so did the companionship of this old dwarf. Petra better get back soon, or who knew what she would be returning too.
“So,” continued the Forger, when Mareth didn’t answer, “are you interested in those sleep bombs and fiery stuff?”
“Are you looking to sell it to me?”
“Of course. You guys are our best customer.”
“But I gave you the alchemist…”
“Aye. But I’m not charging you bed and board for looking after him. We have to make sure this is fair.”
Mareth chuckled. “Bastard.” The dwarf nodded, taking a drink. “I’ll take whatever you can give.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you something for free to make the deal sweeter. A little bit of advice. Don’t get into a war.”
It was Mareth’s turn to sigh now. This weight was dragging at him. Pulling him down into the tempting arms of his old friend. “I’m trying. Real hard. Had to make some tough decisions already. Things I didn’t think I’d need to do, all to avoid a war. But I might not have much say in the matter. Tell me, will you stand with us if I can’t avoid it?”
“We’ll see, lad. If this distillery is in jeopardy, I’m sure I’ll be able to rustle up a few folks to help.”
Mareth laughed and they clinked their glasses together. It felt good to be laughing with someone with whom he could both be himself but who also understood the burdens he carried. To think he was doing it with the dwarf he had first met naked. Mareth put down his glass, picked up his mandolin and strummed a few chords.
“Play something then, Lord Bard. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He plucked at the strings, nodding in answer to the dwarf as well as to himself, his fingers searching for the perfect song. And then he had it. He beat the tempo on the body of the mandolin until the dwarf clapped out the beat. He gave the Forger a wink and played.
Show me the way to Bottom Run
Where the lass’ asses sway
Show me the way to Bottom Run
And I shall play all day
Fe na
Fe
nah rah lu
Fe na
What’s a man to do?
The Forger reached down to a drawer in his desk and emerged with a tambourine in his hand. He leapt to his feet and beat out a steady jingling rhythm.
I will live in Bottom Run
Why would I want to depart?
I will live in Bottom Run
These girls have stolen my heart
Fe na
Fe nah rah lay
Fe na
I’ll be happy everyday
Show me out of Bottom Run
I’ve lost my coin and my map
The drink is gone and the night is done
And I fear I have the cl—
OH, Fe na
Fe nah rah ron
Fe na
Fe nah I’m done
They sang, and danced. The Forger taught Mareth a few songs to add to his repertoire, as well as finally telling him the story of Neenahwi and the spectre. And though there was no such thing as night in the city of Unedar Halt, the empty bottle of whiskey, along with the empty bottle of Dwarven moss gin, told him it was time he should be heading back home.
The Forger led him, though Mareth was not sure who was holding whom up, back to the great brass doors of the Mountain Gate. They shook hands and said they must do this more often, before Mareth stepped out of the smaller inset door into the crisp Kingshold night. The cold slapped him in the face, enough to be able to stumble in a semi-straight line back toward the lights of the palace. Mareth tried to blink away his double vision as he swayed, eventually discerning a handful of people approaching him, carrying lanterns. The light from the shuttered lanterns shone in his face and hurt his eyes. He used his hand to shield his eyes so he couldn’t see who approached, but he expected it was the guard. Maybe they can help me get to bed, he thought.
“Itsh me. The Lord Protector,” he called as he stumbled forward to meet them.
Ioth, City of Lights Page 18
