“Welcome to the Crane’s Nest, sir,” said Dando, dark circles under his eyes, as he stood alone in the common room. “We’ve no rooms tonight due to the Feast, but can I get you something?”

Branden caught his breath before nodding. “Roast fowl, a loaf of bread, vegetable soup, and a stout.”

“Aye, right away.”

Savoring the grease of the fowl and the heat of the soup, Branden tore into his food. Dando observed him a moment, then occupied himself polishing dented tableware. As Branden’s mug emptied, Dando approached. “Another, sir?”

Branden nodded. “A lager this time, Dando.”

“Aye,” Dando said, eyes flickering as they scanned Branden. “Excuse me, but I don’t remember telling you my name. None of my business where you heard it, but you look familiar.”

“Branden Balond,” he said with a sigh. The words sounded slightly foreign in his ears.

Face reddening, Dando smacked his forehead. “Of course you are! Aye, you’re stronger and clean-shaven, but that’s no excuse for my mistaking a guest. How could I blunder so badly?” His head dropped.

“It’s the eyes,” Branden said, staring at him.

Raising his head, Dando arched his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

Branden shrugged, still staring. “That’s what they tell me. My lager.”

“On the house for my mistake, and coming right now.” Dando brought the lager and Branden caught a quick glance before Dando turned away.

A laugh gurgled from Branden’s throat but reached neither eyes nor heart. “You’re good, Dando.”

Dando regarded Branden, face neutral. “Aye?”

Draining his mug, Branden clanged it down noisily. “Aye,” he mocked. “Even now. You’re curious about the dead-eyed freak; maybe you want to gloat about being right about Garlund.” His mouth alone smiled. “But you’re too good an innkeep. You see your customer has no mind to talk, so you ignore your curiosity and leave him alone.” He clanged his empty mug again. “Well, now your customer wants another,” said Branden, voice rising.

Dando brought another mug and waited.

“Good, good. But I won’t deny your curiosity,” said Branden, taking a swig. “Ask your questions. Your guest commands it!”

Forearms tensing, Dando spoke calmly. “My honored guest would do well not to command a free Dwarf of Narngund in his own business.” He shrugged. “I’ll not deny I’m curious to hear how you’ve fared.”

Branden fixed his gaze on Dando’s. “Ah! No doubt you’re waiting to hear about how right you were, what a terrible employer Garlund is, how hard and bare my life has become.” Wild laughter erupted from his throat. “You’re right. About all of it. But I’ll tell you something, Dando Thickwool,” said Branden, looking away. “I like it. How do you shape iron, Dando?”

“Easy, now—”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Heat and pressure,” Branden shouted. “Blow by blow. It burns down in the forge, night and day the heat stifles you. Toil beats your body into the ground.” He shrank into himself, folding his shoulders forward. “I learned something working for Garlund. People are iron. I owe Garlund, Furry, Fa—him!” He gripped his own forearms, knuckles white. “All the beatings he—-life has given me, only made me hard and strong, strong, strong!”

Dando said nothing. Candles slowly burned lower. The dull thud of distant fireworks echoed through the walls. “Is that why you carry a whip now? To pass this wisdom to others?” said Dando softly.

“You carry one.”

“Aye, to administer Dwarven law. I run an inn; fighting and cheating happen here too often. Is your need the same?”

A cold iron collar, smooth and unadorned, formed Branden’s answer. He placed it on the table with a thud, eyes returning to Dando with a defiant flash. “Time I buy one of my own. I deserve it.”

A spasm of disgust flickered over Dando’s face. “I had hoped—never mind. Not my business.”

“Go on. I insist.”

“I had hoped you deserve better. Can I get you anything else, sir?”

Branden slammed two coins upon the table. “How about a full, heady glass of honest speech? I’m tired of you staying above the fray. Pick a side like everyone else in this bloody city. If you think I’m an arse, say so.”

Dando spat. “That’s for slavery, and for bliss. I think you’re no better than he who did this to you.”

Seizing his collar, Branden bounded to the door. “For someone who despises him so, you serve Garlund eagerly enough.”

“I didn’t mean him,” roared Dando as Branden lurched outside.

Head buzzing slightly, Branden blinked, senses overwhelmed. A kaleidoscope of color eddied about him: costumes and fountains and firecrackers. Trumpets blared and fiddles squeaked; mingling with singing voices and unknown exotic sounds. The noon bell had not yet rung. Stooping and warding off unseen blows, he flitted his way towards the slave market like a hunted animal. He moved mechanically; blind and deaf yet colliding with no one.

Slowly order reasserted itself over chaos; shapes sharpened and sounds grew distinct. Drawing a breath, Branden stood. He found himself in a marble court. Leaping almost to the ceiling, a fountain in the center sprayed purple water in a hundred little streams; smaller fountains mirrored it in each corner of the court. No trees stood; no flowers opened to share their fragrance. Seven or eight Dwarven children laughed and played in the water.

The corners of Branden’s mouth lifted despite himself. Garlund had a child apprentice. Distinguishable from adults only by their (relatively) sparse facial hair, he found the tough-looking little Dwarves amusingly ridiculous as they frolicked. He still hadn’t learned to tell the difference between male and female, though nobody ever corrected him.

From a distance Branden caught the gleam of metal. One little figure, wearing an oversized green hat, presented something, probably a necklace, to another child clad in yellow with blue boots. Branden knew enough of Dwarven custom to realize Green Hat had made it himself: Blue Boots took it with both hands and studied it carefully. Shaking their head with a smile, Blue Boots handed the offering back to Green Hat. Branden shrugged and turned away.

Green Hat ran by, weeping amid the revelry. Tough luck kid.

Striding swiftly, an adult Dwarf followed Green Hat into an alley. Branden’s neck tingled. Cursing his own foolishness, he pursued the pair, eyes on the lilac cloak of the adult.

“Easy now, easy now,” said Lilac Cloak.

Green Hat wailed. “He hates me! He thinks my craft is ugly.”

“That’s a fine necklace you offered. I’m sure it’s your face he thinks is ugly, lass, not your craft,” said Lilac Cloak, ruffling Green Hat’s hair.

Still sniffling, Green Hat nodded.

Branden turned to leave.

“I’ve something to make the hurt go away, lass,” said Lilac Cloak. “For free, seeing that it’s Feast Day. Take this and feel better.”

Wheeling around, Branden saw Lilac Cloak hand the child a purple pill: the same he had seen Garlund give to the grovelling Kelvin.

“Hey,” Branden shouted, “hey.”

Both Dwarves jumped as their eyes darted to Branden.

“What do you think you’re—” began Branden. Cold steel on his throat cut him short.