By the time we got out again it was clear it was gonna be too late in the day to think about paying a visit to somebody who’s still a complete stranger out of the blue, given the amount of distance we’d have to cover between Rederra House and the Drumhalt. We still had light in the sky for another hour, but it was already starting to draw late, most of the day staff were clocking off to head home. So instead we made our goodbyes to Daste and her incredibly efficient manservant, who both wished us luck, and made our way back out to collect our horses. The Terrors were still watching Driver 8 from a cautious distance, but he still seemed entirely indifferent to them, while Krakka was sat on the bottom step while they both chatted amiably about nothing much.
Ceinog saw us off on the last leg heading to the gate, and while for the most part his attempts at conversation seemed harmless enough I could tell he was subtly trying to needle fresh information out of us. He seemed pretty and pleasant in manner, but he’s definitely not my type, and mostly I wanted to drive my fist right through his face the whole time. Even if he wasn’t one of the fuckers who invaded my country when I was still little more than a child, there’d still be something about him I just don’t like.
We made the journey back down the Midway Mile at a steady trot, and nothing further came up to trouble us during the journey through the Square of Commerce and on through to the Slowspan. By this point the sky was very red and the sun was well below the horizon, and Art said it’d be best for us if we were across before the night came, so we hustled to one of the half dozen bridges spanning the river’s wide but sluggish waters. Then we were in poorer quarters of the city and he was happy to take over as our guide.
The night we took the job Thermyse offered to put us up in one of the nicer hotels so we could have easy access to the hill, but knowing Untermer at least as well as I do I figured that might not work out so well for some of us. Instead she made arrangements for us to stay in the best accommodations she could arrange on the other side of the Slowspan, meaning once we’d crossed we only had to ride a hundred yards along the bank to the Iron Shark. It’s popular with many of the more experienced and successful seafarers passing through Untermer’s port, but given its relatively high prices it tends to be frequented mostly by captains and higher-ranking members of the most well-paid crews. Certainly it’s the first time I’ve ever been inside before.
It’s a sturdy, well-made building, but even so in deference to the nervousness of the staff and, in particular the proprietor, Driver 8 elected to remain downstairs, instead setting up in the backroom of the ground-level bar, which they offered to clear out for him. In the end he politely turned them down, instead simply shunting a table and a few chairs aside so he could hunker down in the corner and almost immediately power down, his glowing red eyes growing dim the way he does when he “rests”. The rest of us dropped our gear off in our rooms before coming back down to grab a good, filling dinner in the bar and suck down a few drinks before turning in for the night. Art, true to form, hit it off with the prettiest of the barmaids within the first half hour, and he vanished with her impressively early, guaranteed not to resurface before morning.
Waking up quite early, I found the sun was just starting to climb when I leaned out of my window to take in a big breath of surprisingly fresh air and a big whiff of brine on the breeze, something I always found particularly refreshing in my travels. Not for the first time, I found myself thinking that, if I ever live long to be old and rich enough to retire, I might just get a quiet place a little further down the coast and spend my final years waking up to an ocean view every morning. Feels like a dream worth cultivating.
Needless to say Yeslee was up ahead of me, already dressed and ready to head down again, so once I was washed up from the fresh-filled basin and dressed in a fresh set of clothes we went down to hunt up some early breakfast and wake Big Man up again. We took our time eating as we settled in to enjoy the growing morning and waited for the others to come down and join us, figuring it’d take a while for some to rouse themselves. I certainly wasn’t wrong in Art’s case, he was last down and looking almost indecently pleased with himself, which caused immediate eyerolls from most of us. Interestingly, Gael didn’t join in this time, instead remaining quiet and reserved about the whole thing, but they’ve been unusually cold with him the whole time since.
I’ve been to Untermer a few times in both of my careers, but I’m still nowhere near familiar enough with the city yet to claim to know it well. On the poorer side of the river in particular the streets are a bit of a warren, a jumbled maze that only someone who’s grown up in it could ever claim a true familiarity with, and even during the day there’s parts that ain’t safe to wander alone. So it was clearly up to Art to guide us all through unhindered.
The Drumhalt’s the most densely-packed neighbourhood of the bunch, three and four-storey townhouses and tenements jumbled together in no clear discernible pattern. What few real navigable streets there are twist and turn like crazy, hemmed in tight between close-pressing walls while the roofs cluster overhead to cut out much of the light from the sky above. Like the rest of the city this part’s at least been renovated enough for modern plumbing, but clearly they did a pretty slapdash job done here since I’ve seen drains overflowing in more than one place we’ve walked through here. Since Art insisted we leave the horses behind and walk we’re having to step pretty gingerly at times to avoid the worst of the muck, but there’s no getting away from the smell.
“How we doin’, Art?” I find myself enquiring for the second time as we take turns jumping over a particularly wide stream of very grey water before following our prowler as he turns into a street so narrow it’s more accurate to call it an alleyway. “We getting close yet?”
“The address that Daste lady gave us is pretty close now.” He doesn’t bother looking back before ducking under the first length a surprisingly low-hanging clothesline which appears to be fully loaded. That being said, I don’t get why whoever did this bothered, the half-wet clothes pinned on it don’t look very clean at all. I’m about to wonder aloud what kind of idiot would leave their washing hanging out in what’s surely still a public street unattended, but once I’ve ducked under the first span I discover a particularly grubby child sat on a small stool with a big empty basket at their side. They’re small and young enough, with such a thick, unkempt mop of filthy hair, that I couldn’t begin to guess their gender. Impossibly large blue eyes blink through dirty bangs at me as I walk past, watchful and perfectly unafraid, and when I notice they have one hand clutched behind their back I suspect they’ve palmed some kind of blade, just in case. I give them a nod and try a friendly smile but their expression doesn’t change at all as they watch me pass.
We’ve both reached the other end of the clothesline, Art clearly having waited for me to come through in case we got separated, though I don’t know why, when we hear the commotion down the other end. For a moment I wonder if we’ve got some trouble after all, then I hear Gael say: “Oh, wait, no … Big Man, hold up. I’m sorry, there’s just no way you’ll fit under here.” and I get what the problem is. Yeah … this is not a situation a nine-foot tall golem’s built for.
A moment later Yeslee stoops under the last span of line and dull grey clothing with a subtly irritated look on her face and fixes me with a particularly pointed look as she draws back up to her full height and lets her bow rest at her side. “Heads up.”
Before I can ask what she means, there’s another small commotion closer to us as Krakka jumps aside in surprise to make way for the same small child as they come barrelling down the alleyway in a full spring right past us and quickly vanish round the next corner. I frown deep as I turn to Art, finding he’s doing the same, but it’s a more wary one as he immediately looks up and starts scanning the windows above, and probably the eaves of the roofs as well. “Yeah, that’s not a good sign.”
Gael comes through right after Krakka and takes a look round for a moment before breathing out sternly through their nose, their lips set in a tight line and their brow stern. “Right … can we all clear a space here, perhaps? A big one, preferably.”
“What?” I can’t help protesting, but I back up a little all the same, Art and Yeslee following my example. “Why?”
Setting their hands on both his shoulders, Gael physically guides Krakka towards us too before he can protest as well, then calls out: “All right! You can come through now!”
Another of those strange portals we can’t really see opens up in the newly-cleared space and as it closes again just as quickly it seems to be through Tulen as she suddenly materialises out of thin, mildly unsettled air with her hand on Driver 8’s. I immediately cock my brow as I give Gael a look, but they just shrug. “It was either that or tear down this poor person’s washing to make room. This seemed the more polite choice all round.”
Driver 8 turns enough to look down at Tulen as she lifts her hand off his. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She smiles up at him, then stumbles as she tries to step away, her knees giving out under her. Gael and Art both start for her but I’m already moving and I catch her long before she’s in any real danger.
“Careful.” I hold her for a few moments until the swoon passes, and her smile’s a little more wan as she looks up at me.
“Oooooh … well that happened.” She touches her forehead vaguely for a moment, then manages to get her feet under her firm enough to stand up on her own again. “Woo … thank you for that.” She turns to Driver 8 at last, who’s still watching her. If he was capable of expression I think he might actually look concerned. “”I’m sorry … you are much heavier than you look. I think.”
“Apologies are unnecessary, Mistress Kelsira. I am built to be both powerful and durable, so my form is suitably substantial. I fear this may not be conducive to easy teleportation.”
Tulen blinks for a moment, seeming a little surprised, but it’s gone in an instant as her smile returns as bright as before. “Oh no, please. Call me Tulen. We’re all friends here.”
Big Man shifts a tiny bit and if I didn’t know any better I might think he’s actually drawing up just that little bit straighter. “Then I will call you Tulen, of course.”
When I turn to Krakka I see he’s grinning with subtle amusement, and it’s hard to keep from laughing myself. This is almost getting surreal.
“Yeah, this is all very well, but reckon we better get moving again.” Art’s still looking round, clearly a little spooked now. I don’t like that at all, and it’s clear the thought’s infectious, as the good humour quickly drains out of the others too.
We find the child two more turns down the way, sat a few steps up a steep stair leading up between two particularly close buildings. They’re not alone, two more similarly dirty little urchins of unidentifiable gender perched on a step two up from them, and all three watch us closely as we pass them by. We encounter more as we navigate the next two twisting alleys, all regarding us with that same cool, solemn watchfulness, and I start to suspect they’re all together. Keeping tabs on us now, either for their own reasons or for someone else. The short-hairs on the back of my neck are starting to prickle now, and I lay my hand on Hefdred’s hilt without consciously thinking about it first.
Art leads us through one more alleyway, tighter than any we’ve come down before but still wide enough that Driver 8 can make it by turning sidelong and shuffling his way through, and then stops when we emerge into an enclosed square on the other side. Houses open onto it on three sides, but on the fourth, directly across as we come through, there’s a tavern on the left and what seems to be a small apothecary’s shop on the right. That said, judging by the some of the signs and the contents of the very grimy window, much of what the apothecary actually says would be more fairly described as general junk and nick-nacks, which makes me suspect they probably moonlight as a pawnbroker. Or maybe not even moonlighting, once I think about it I wonder how successful an apothecary would even be in this particular neighbourhood.
There’s a few trees here too, at least half the ground given up to nature, while the rest is paved with badly cracked grey flagstones. More than a few of the open earthen spots seem to have been tilled over and there are small patches of potato and tomato plants sprouting in them, older children lounging around them, silently watchful like the younger ones, but also more openly suspicious. Guarding the modest little groves for their parents, I’d imagine. After a moment looking round I realise the trees ain’t just to bring some green to the place either, this is a makeshift apple orchard.
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“Gael, I wouldn’t.” I interject as they reach up while inspecting one of the lower hanging apples as we make our way in, and they pull it back swiftly, almost as if stung, a fresh blush starting in their cheeks. Much as expected, the boy watching over this nearest patch of common land’s already sprung up off his stool, face unreadable as he moves over with the kind of languid, careless swagger you only ever see in a teenager. He ain’t even trying to hide the small but very keen knife casually gripped at his side.
“You can have one if you want, but it’ll cost you.” he drawls, although he seems entirely indifferent to our actual response.
“Really?” Gael perks up a little now. “How much?”
The boy considers for a moment, clearly looking them over with a very critical eye, then shrugs with continued indifference. “A silver mark’ll do it.”
“One apple for a silver?” I cock my head as I look him over, my disdain clear as I watch my friend clearly being taken for a ride. “Must be the most fucking amazing apples in the universe. Are they magic?”
The boy turns my way now, and as he looks me over I see the first cracks of real doubt in his façade. His eyes linger on Hefdred in particular, and I’m a long moment realising I’ve still got my hand on the hilt, but now I leave it there for effect. Finally he licks his lips and lets out a deep sigh, like he’s having to make a real hard choice right now. “Fuck it, four for a silver. That’s best I can do, mind.”
I cock my brow. It’s still pricey, but I admire the kid’s balls holding his ground for that much. So I dig in my pocket for a moment and pull out two silver coins, which I flip to him one at a time. He seems genuinely surprised looking down at ‘em, but covers quick while stuffing ‘em in his pocket, then finally sheathes his knife. “Ta. Help yourself, best apples you’re gonna find in the city, I guarantee.” He starts to turn away, then looks back. “Couldn’t interest you in a couple spuds or tomatoes while your ‘ere, could I?”
“Don’t push your luck.” I cock my head the other way while giving him the blankest stare I can muster, and this does the trick. It probably helps Big Man chooses this moment to finally emerge from the alley, and the kid’s eyes go wide.
“Fuck me …” he barely breathes, stumbling back a few steps and almost tripping over his stool in the process.
Driver 8 pauses for a moment once he’s through and slowly turns to scan the square. By this point Gael’s already plucked a few apples, tossing me one as I turn their way. Catching it with ease, I polish it on the breast of my shirt for a few moments before looking it over. It’s very red, and surprisingly big, nice and firm. I take a bite.
“Mmm … nice. Y’know what? I might actually have been tempted to pay a silver for this.”
“They are very good.” Gael nods, munching away while tossing one to Art and then another to Yeslee. Tulen picks another, which she hands to Krakka, who never would’ve had a hope of grabbing one for himself, then claims another for herself. Gael picks two more, tossing one to Shay, then calls that it with a nod once they see me pick another which I stuff into one of my coat pockets to give to Trampler later. A good horse like him deserves an apple this tasty. Reckon he might lose his mind over it.
“Okay then,” I swallow my second bite and turn to Art as he munches indulgently on his own. “Which one is it, then?”
Art frowns for a moment, then reaches into a hip pocket to retrieve the slip of paper Daste gave us. He unfolds it with a simple flick of his wrist and reads it, frowning now. “Um … yeah, it just says the square. There’s no specific address.”
Great … I look round for a moment, sighing. I didn’t wanna do this. I turn to the boy. “Oi.”
He’s transfixed by Driver 8, and not alone. Looking round, I realise all the kids are on their feet now, staring just as hard at the golem. Sighing again, I step up to the boy and snap my fingers in his face, which makes him jump and finally regains his attention. “Ah! What?”
“We’re looking for Sonagh. Any chance you could point us in the right direction?”
A flicker of a smile touches his lips. “Ah, so you changed your mind ‘bout them spuds then?”
All I do is stare him down, but while this starts him sulking again he doesn’t relent, instead simply crossing his arms over his very thin chest and staring right back through the tangled thicket of his dirty blond hair. Finally I roll my eyes and hold up another silver. “Forget the spuds, just tell me where ‘e is.”
“The pub.” The boy extends his hand, expectant and a little smug now.
I pass him the coin, but keep hold when he starts to take it. “You’re sure?”
“Course. Sonagh owns it.”
Of course he does. I let go of the coin and don’t even bother to watch him pocket it, instead turning back to the others. “This way.” I take another bite as I start to cross the square.
The Rare Lady’s exactly what I would’ve expected in this kinda locale – a total dive. It’s pokey and barely qualifies as a tavern, ‘least on first appearances. There’s only two windows and both seem to have been papered over inside, barely open an inch-wide crack at the top in deference to the warm Untermer weather. The sign ain’t even carved, the name simply painted on a long board nailed over the entrance, although the hand that held the brush seems to have had some artistic skill. The door’s propped wide and it seems pretty dark inside. Loud, too.
“Okay, best stay out here, Big Man.” I look round the square one last time, noting a few of those smaller children now stood in the mouth of the alley we just emerged through, still watching. “Anything happens, just … bang on the wall. No way we’ll miss it.”
“Within reason.” Art adds as he steps up beside me. “Watch you don’t bring the building down while you’re at it, y’know?” He grins up at Big Man.
Driver 8 just looks back, not saying a word. Art’s smile doesn’t last long in the face of what’s clearly intended to be a withering stare, and one of the most effortlessly effective I’ve ever seen. Rolling my eyes, I grab the back of Art’s neck and turn him toward the open doorway before shoving him through ahead of me.
Art doesn’t stumble, but I didn’t expected him to. He still stops pretty much right inside once he’s through mind, and when I come in after I see why – calling it a dive looking at the exterior’s actually being generous, it’s more of a full-on shithole. It’s dark, gloomy and very dusty, the air a genuine haze the few cracks of sunlight that lance through pick up myriad motes dancing through, mingled with a good deal of smoke. A few dirty, fat-burning lamps provide barely enough light to squint through, but then seems just about everyone in here’s burning tobacco too, some in pipes but a great many in nasty cheap roll-ups.
The floor’s essentially invisible since it’s covered by a layer of straw and sawdust, while what vaguely passes for décor’s utilitarian at best. The walls are bare, just the raw stone of the building itself, which is fine now but I suspect this place gets a little nippy once what passes for winter down here sets in. The furniture’s ugly and piecemeal, seeming to have been lifted from other sources, and I doubt many were paid for first, so there’s some tables dotted here and there, but mostly just a jumble of chairs, stools and even lonely benches. The clientele sit wherever, either in groups or on their own, and every one of them went completely silent soon as we came in.
They’re one rough-looking bunch, too. Dirty and rugged and very worn, I’d be more amazed to see half of ‘em in so early in the day drinking heavy as they clearly are if they weren’t clearly nightshift workers. Others look like they’re probably regular fixtures most of the time, more than a few sharing the look of genuine veterans from the Rebellion. Seeing that, suddenly I don’t feel so uncomfortable …
Gael ducks in behind me, clearly sharing a joke with Tulen as she follows her in, but their laughter fizzles out the moment they get a look at what’s surrounding them. “Oh … yeah, Kes … I don’t know about this place, actually.” Gael almost looks ready to bolt already.
“Chill, it don’t actually look that bad after all.” I give ‘em a little cocked smile and they just frown back.
“Seriously? This looks like the sort of place where we’re as likely to end up on the menu as get turned out on our backs.”
I cock a brow at that and my half-grin just grows a little. “Gael, look a little closer. Some o’ these folk are my people.”
That just deepens their frown. “Your … Kesla, I don’t know what …” They stop as realisation dawns. “You mean resistance?”
“Once upon a time, maybe.” I shrug.
Looking unconvinced, Gael turns to Tulen, then leans close to whisper something in her ear. The dragonhalf just looks round with wide eyes, still thoroughly unconvinced by her chances of making it out alive.
“C’mon.” I turn away and let my hand settle on Art’s shoulder now, which makes him jump. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Boss, it’s still morning.” Art considers for a moment. “Ain’t it?”
“Live a little, Art.” I give him a little nudge and bite off another chunk of apple, munching as I steer him towards the bar.
Yeah … that is overly complimentary too. What’s supposed to be the bar is just a long, wide piece of heavy wood laid across three warped old barrels. There’s more stacked behind, taps hammered right into the wood since there’s no way a place like this can afford the right plumbing for actual pumps like in fancier places. Least they ain’t just dipping the mugs right into open barrels like in some of the places back in on the docks in Hocknar, but it’s the only other good point I encountered so far. Something tells me they don’t probably don’t do food here, ‘least nothing any of us would actually wanna try.
Art moves back behind my shoulder as I approach the bar, and I have a feeling it’s less nerves than just wanting to watch my back now. The barman slouches into the wall, not moving as I arrive, doesn’t even look up, he just keeps polishing one of the various battered, mismatched tankards with a rag. It’s clean though, I’ll give him that, and that’s another plus I notice now I’m looking – this place may be pretty crummy, but the mugs all seem to be kept clean despite clearly being stolen or second-hand cast-offs like the furniture.
The barman’s a bugbear, one of the biggest I ever seen, actually. Massive hunched shoulders and long, ropey arms, solid with muscle but rangy, with very dextrous hands indeed. His beard’s thick and shaggy like his mane, but surprisingly smooth, he clearly looks after himself. He’s dressed mostly in mismatched leathers, his stained cloth apron seeming more of a simple nod to his profession than an actual functional item of clothing. His horns are his most impressive feature, but then that tends to be the case with bugbears, great forward curving arcs of sharp, ribbed bone like he’s a particularly gnarly bull.
“Help you lot at all?” he rumbles as I lean on the bar, crossing my wrists. He doesn’t raise his long-snouted head yet, but his dark, deep-set eyes are finally looking my way.
“Sonagh round?”
Very slowly indeed, he puts the tankard down on the bar and folds the cloth into a neat square before setting it down beside it, and finally looks up. Now I see the scar, a great long, puckered slash across his snout he’s lucky didn’t carve half his face off in the process. His expression doesn’t change, mind. “Who’s asking?”
“Kesla Shoon. Head up a crew called the Creeping Bam. We gotta talk to ‘im.”
“What about?”
I give Gael a sidelong look as they step to my side. They still look a little anxious, but I doubt it’s their surroundings, not now. “We’re friends of Darion Foxtail.”
“He’s my father.” Gael’s gripping their staff in front of ‘em like they do when they’re nervous.
For the first time, something subtle shifts in the bugbear’s face. The slightest softening of his expression, the air of intimidation he’s so effortlessly cultivated easing off. His frown deepens all the same as he turns to look behind him, and for the first time I notice a half open door right behind the bar, cleaner, warmer lamp candlelight burning within.
A moment later the door swings in the rest of the way and someone steps out, pausing just inside the frame to look out towards us. Tall and heavily muscular, not so massive as the barman but still very imposing, and even before their silhouette resolves into a person as they step forward I know he’s a full-blooded orc. They’re not unknown in the big cities, but still uncommon enough sight to be noteworthy, although their presence here along with a bugbear’s a good deal more unprecedented.
“Is that so?” He’s looking right at Gael, his particularly piercing golden eyes fixed on ‘em, taking in their face, proper appraising now. He’s a little older than many orcs I encountered over the years, although this just means he’s a survivor, as if I couldn’t already tell from all the scars. He keeps his long hair in a tight ponytail, the black shot through with an awful lot of silvered grey like his thick, scruffy beard. He wears leather britches and a loose, worn linen shirt that’s clearly seen better days, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His left tusk is broken jagged, too. He looks more like a veteran than anyone else in the whole place.
After regarding Gael for a long moment, he sighs deep. “Yeah, you are. Any fool who met him can tell he’s your da.”
“You’re Sonagh?” I venture. Suddenly what Daste said about us not being surprised makes a lot more sense, and when I give Shay a sidelong glance I see she’s thinking the same thing.
“Was last time I checked, aye.” He turns to me again, still appraising, then takes in the rest of our group. “Daste sent you, didn’t she?”
“More just pointed us your way, but yeah.” I shrug. “Order sent us.”
“That much’d be clear even without two wizards in your company.” He scratches his shaggy scruff, thoughtful again. “Let ‘em through, Dow. This lot ain’t here for beer.”
The bugbear quirks one ledge-like brow at Sonagh. “You sure ‘bout that, boss? Some of ‘em look ready for some serious shit.” He looks back at me over for a moment, then clearly checks over Art and likely Yeslee too.
“Don’t shit yourself, Dow.” Sonagh growls, already heading back through the door. “They’re on our side. Look at their leader. You can tell she’s Freedom Legion same as us. Anybody with eyes knows what to look for can tell that much.”
This time when the bugbear looks at me he seems a little warmer. “Really? Hmmm … yeah, you might be right about that.” He stuffs the rag in the tankard and picks it up, then flips the whole board up with his other hand as he steps aside to make a gap. “By all means, make yourselves at home.”
Turning to the others, I cock my head for Art to follow me and trust the others to fall in behind as I step through. Sonagh’s already gone so I just step through the door into the backroom. It’s a bit cramped back here, little more than an antechamber really, another closed door across the way that I reckon must lead down to the store cellar with the rest of the beer and whatever else they drink in here. I doubt there’s much wine in a place like this. In the other corner there’s a surprisingly cosy little office nook with a small desk and a worn but perfectly comfortable looking leather desk chair.
Sonagh’s not here either, but as I turn back to the door I spot a staircase leading up on the other side and reason he must’ve headed upstairs instead. Art’s come through now and I mutter: “Reckon we’re fine here, but watch my back all the same, yeah?” before starting the climb into the relative gloom.
“Sure thing, boss.” He doesn’t draw, but I know Art’s flexing all the same as I barely hear him step up behind me. Not that I’m expecting anything. This is the man we been sent to meet, right? Why would we have anything to worry about?