“What exactly are we looking for?” Hadrian asked, shifting his position again. The capstone he sat on was cold.
“The driver,” Royce replied.
The two were on the west side of the East Bridge, where Royce hadn’t taken his eyes off the front gate of the duke’s estate since they’d arrived. Hadrian sat on the bridge parapet out of the way of traffic, looking like a lost boy who’d foolishly let go of his mother’s hand and hoped she’d come back. Royce was above him, perched high on the massive end-pediment that announced the start or end of the bridge, depending on which way one was walking. He stood behind the statue of a winged beast, a giant, ugly bat-thing with horns and fangs. Royce and the sculpture made quite the diabolical pair as he clung to a wing, peering over the stone monster’s shoulder. Occasionally the gate to the Estate opened. Someone would exit, or enter, and each time Royce became still and attentive. Then the gate would close, and he would settle back, disappointed.
They never did find a new place to stay. All livable spaces were occupied, even the open-air patches of dirt under bridges and behind stables. Royce had continued to search until the sun threatened to set, then he insisted on a hectic race to the Estate. They’d been there for more than an hour, and, so far, nothing had warranted the rush. Except for his two-word statement, Royce hadn’t responded to any inquiries about their current vigil.
The day had remained reasonably warm, continuing the rumor that spring was just a few steps down the road. The morning had been sunny, but afternoon had invited clouds to the party, and more were showing up all the time. A variety of boats passed beneath them. Professional fishermen hauled in nets, heading upriver after a day on Blythin Bay. The waterway also played host to a series of trows that ran up- and downriver, dropping off one load of cargo at the harbor and picking up another to haul back upstream. Along the bridge, the flow of foot traffic, wagons, and carriages was picking up. With slumped backs and bowed heads, servants, traders, and laborers returned home, their way lit by a fading sun.
“There he is!” Royce said with urgency as he leaned forward, leering with the same malevolent expression as the statue to which he clung.
A small figure stepped outside the front gate of the ducal estate, gray-haired, partially balding. With his protruding brow and long beard, the dwarf looked like the quintessential depiction of his race. He glanced both ways before crossing the street and then entered the flow of traffic coming toward them.
“The dwarf?” Hadrian said.
“Shh!” Royce scolded as he climbed down. “Yes, that’s the driver.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, but he’s the only dwarf to come out of the duke’s residence, and I doubt His Lordship employs many.”
He didn’t look like a carriage driver. If Hadrian were to guess, he would’ve pegged the little guy as a gardener or a stable hand or, given the sack slung over one shoulder, perhaps a bearded child who was running away from home. The dwarf was dressed in a no-frills worker’s tunic and belt, with wool pants and worn boots. He held a mud-stained cloak and a small sack tied at the mouth with twine. He struggled to work his way into the flow of the bustling people who jostled him as if he weren’t there.
“I know you don’t like dwarves, Royce, but that doesn’t mean every—”
“The carriage’s footboard was ratcheted up for someone his size, so, the driver was either a child or a dwarf. Everyone would have noticed a child driving a carriage, but look how people ignore the dwarf like he doesn’t exist. Everyone blocks out what they don’t want to see. And honestly, who wants to lay eyes on the likes of him?”
The dwarf walked past, and Royce slipped into traffic a few pedestrians back.
“He works at the Estate,” Royce said quietly as they followed the dwarf across the bridge toward the plaza. “Not full-time, I don’t think. Probably hired for some temporary task, stonework most likely. And when they needed a driver for the duchess, guess who volunteered?”
“That sounds like a lot of guesses.”
“Either that, or an eight-year-old was hired to drive the duchess.”
Hawkers took advantage of the evening migration by shouting invitations and waving welcomes to the mob. Their efforts were stymied by the bells in the tower of Grom Galimus, chiming six times. When the ringing finally ceased, the dwarf was through the plaza and heading up an alley that divided the cathedral from another large stone building. This sister building had a flight of steps leading to an imposing colonnade of marble pillars above which IMPERIAL GALLERY was chiseled into the entablature. Both buildings had gargoyles, none of which were missing.
The alley between the cathedral and the gallery was wider than the one in Little Gur Em, but it was congested. This helped their pursuit. Royce kept two rows back from their prey, which required slowing down to let others pass. Moving on little legs, the dwarf wasn’t speedy. The sun was on the horizon, its dying light already lost to them in the stone canyons of the central city, where the buildings were so close Hadrian thought he might be able to touch the walls on both sides of the street with his sword tips.
The crowd began to thin as they followed a street that curved northeast. The buildings here were residential, shorter, less ornate. Hadrian spotted women on small wrought-iron balconies beating rugs, and numerous chimneys pouring smoke. The stone houses gave way to wood with stucco and timber uppers, and the number of stories lowered with each successive block. By then, the sun was gone, the hazy afterlight competing with streetlamps.
The street they followed spilled out onto another, where a long wall ran along the one shoulder. Eight feet high, the barrier was made of brick and topped with metal spikes. When the dwarf reached it, he turned and followed along its length until he reached a gate. The wooden double door was open, and the dwarf passed through. Royce paused to study the latch and hinges for a moment. They were simple iron drawbolts. The oddity was the presence of latches on both sides. The doors could be used to lock people in or out. With a hesitant glance at Hadrian, Royce continued after the dwarf.
Within the confines of the wall was a completely different world of tightly packed wooden shacks. The widest streets inside were the size of the narrowest alleys outside. Here, too, were cart vendors, but narrow as the streets were, the vendors nearly blocked them, causing pedestrians to squeeze around wagons and barrels. Royce and Hadrian had only traversed one block when Royce stopped. With concern, he looked up and down the street.
“What is it?” Hadrian asked.
“We’re in trouble.”
Hadrian looked around. They were on the cobblestones of a narrow block gripped between shabby shacks where laundry hung from the sills of open windows. Residents gathered in small groups, some in front of doorways, others at intersections around trash fires, warming themselves. The alleged driver of the ducal carriage had stopped at one of these and talked with those huddling around it.
“What’s wrong? What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see?”
Hadrian looked again but couldn’t find a threat. “See what?”
“We stand out,” he declared. “Literally. Everyone here is short.”
Hadrian looked again. Royce was right. All along the street, not a single person was more than four feet tall, and nearly all the men had beards of considerable length that were frequently braided or bound with ribbon.
“What do we do now? Walk on our knees?”
Royce shushed him, guiding Hadrian into the shadow of a porch. The thief focused on the group at the intersection’s fire, where the driver had paused to chat with five other dwarves. They mostly stood with arms folded across their chests, but on occasion, they would hold out their hands to the heat.
At that distance, Hadrian couldn’t hear what they said, but he suspected Royce could. “What are they saying?”
“Arguing about the weather,” Royce replied.
“How can you argue about weather?”
Again, Royce motioned him to silence, and Hadrian leaned against the grayed wall of the building where they sheltered. In the window, a sign hung. Maybe it said HELP WANTED or ROOM TO LET, but Hadrian couldn’t tell. It wasn’t written in any language he recognized. The window itself was oddly low, and the pair of rocking chairs on the porch looked to be for children.
This is like a miniature version of the world.
“I feel like a giant,” he told Royce. He turned back to the ring of dwarves around the fire, where a heated argument was growing; two of the dwarves gesticulated wildly, thrusting fists over their heads. Even Hadrian caught the occasional shout of “Don’t tell me what is and what isn’t!”
“These people really take their weather seriously.”
“Not arguing about the weather anymore,” Royce reported.
“What are they talking about?”
“Don’t know. Something to do with the Calians, mir, and the coming of spring. Our guy isn’t too popular, either. Nor is he happy with them. And nobody likes the duke. And—” Royce tilted his head to listen. “They’re holding a meeting, an important one in the Calian Precinct. Sounds like it has something to do with an alliance.”
The streets were emptying, and windows shuttered as the night erased the day’s earlier promise of coming spring. The cold of winter had returned, reminding everyone it wasn’t yet finished. The driver hoisted his sack and bid a less-than-fond farewell to those around the fire. He headed off into the darkening streets. Royce waved at Hadrian, and together they followed.
The dwarf stopped at a tiny butcher shop. There he haggled in an unfamiliar language over one of three chickens that hung from the porch rafters. A great deal of pointing, scowling, and foot stomping accompanied the conversation. The bird under debate was so small and scrawny that Hadrian questioned whether it was a chicken at all. If not for the white feathers, he might have guessed a crow. In the end, the driver reluctantly handed over coins and took the pair of legs, swinging the chicken as he walked. Then he stopped at a wheelbarrow where what appeared to be an elderly husband and wife sold firewood. The driver picked out three splits as if he were choosing produce in a market. Burdened as he was with an armload of wood, his sack, and a scrawny chicken that he continued to heedlessly whip about with the swing of his arm, the dwarf continued until he came to a tiny shack. The wood siding had been weathered to a dark gray. The upper story jutted out over the lower, creating an overhang that shadowed the door. A light shone from inside, and without a knock, the driver entered.
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The shack had two glassless windows. Tattered cloth covered both, but one covering was ripped, and through it Royce and Hadrian spied on their suspect. To Hadrian’s shock, more than a dozen people were within. Children and elders, male and female, they all crowded into the small space of one room. The light came from a cook fire where a surprisingly cute dwarven lady took the bird from the driver. With children pulling on her apron, she held up the chicken, made some comment, and then kissed the driver on his nose. The two laughed.
Instantly feeling guilty for spying, Hadrian left Royce to monitor the dwarf while he found an abandoned crate to sit on near a rubbish pile. After Royce’s commentary, he’d expected that the dwarf was on his way to some nefarious hideout, a creepy tower, or ancient ruin where Genny Winter was chained to a wall or suspended over alligators. Instead, he was snooping on the hard-working provider for a warm and loving family. Their poverty made the act of spying even more distasteful. Hadrian hadn’t been invading merely a gathering but an event as sacred as a funeral. Most of the garbage pile he waited in consisted of wood chips and strips of bark, which made Hadrian think it might not be rubbish at all. In a household so picky about buying firewood, he couldn’t imagine them discarding anything that burned.
Hours went by before Royce approached Hadrian. The thief had something small in his hands. “Not a stoneworker,” he said, holding up an exquisitely carved wooden figurine of a rearing horse, polished and lacquered to a honey finish. Every muscle and the individual strands of hair in its mane and tail were rendered in startling detail.
“It’s beautiful.”
Royce nodded. “There’s a shed around the other side filled with things like this.”
“Why doesn’t he sell them?” Hadrian looked over at the house. “I don’t know what they pay him at the Estate, but I would think such craftsmanship would pay well. This is better than what I’ve seen in the shop windows.”
Royce nodded while still looking at the carving.
“We spending the night?” Hadrian asked.
Royce shrugged, then pivoted abruptly.
Hadrian heard it, too. The front door of the shack clapped. The woodcarver, and alleged driver of duchesses, was on the move again.
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With cloak on and hood up, the dwarf appeared significantly more sinister than before as he slipped out of the shack and set out into the night. This time he clutched a bread-loaf-sized box in his arms and presented the image of the quintessential villain of a hundred children’s stories: Gronbach, the little bearded dwarf bent on evil. As the driver scurried through the shadows, Hadrian had no trouble believing the tales of a nefarious dwarf. The scene was fable-perfect, except he had also seen the earlier moments when a tired worker dragged himself back to his impoverished family and provided them a miserable excuse of a chicken. Kisses from a loving wife were never part of the Gronbach myth. He didn’t even have a wife or children. In the fairy tales, he was a monster, and his reputation cast a shadow over all dwarves.
The little guy moved with more speed, darting up the maze of narrow streets. At one point, he broke into a trot, and Hadrian was certain he’d been discovered. But after a few yards, the dwarf slowed to a quick walk. If he had looked back, the driver would have spotted Hadrian, who stalked with his own hood up. The dwarf certainly would wonder about the tall man with three swords strolling late at night in a dwarven enclave, but he wouldn’t see Royce. While the thief was much closer, he was slipping from shadow to shadow and appearing as little more than a flutter, a faint disturbance that could have been the corner of a firewood tarp blown by the wind. But the dwarf didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder as he maintained a generally northeastern course, avoiding windows, doors, and firelight.
Convinced they were finally on their way to the sinister ruined tower and alligator pit, Hadrian was puzzled when the dwarf approached a figure at the entrance to a cemetery. The burial ground was a modest patch of headstones walled in by a tight congestion of stone buildings, one of which might have been a small church. The tombstones, however, were marvelous. Even at a distance, they revealed artistry. Dwarves were known for stonework as much as for kidnapping young women, and the statuary in that yard was more beautiful than any he’d ever seen. Most were depictions of people—the deceased, Hadrian assumed. These weren’t the diminutive, malevolently hooded monsters of a host of cautionary tales, but the exquisite heroes of their own stories. Straight, proud, smiling figures looked up at the sky or down with empathy at those who might come to grieve on their behalf.
This is how they see themselves, he thought. Combining this sight with the scene in the shack, Hadrian began to wonder if there would be an alligator pit at all.
The dwarf walked directly up to the figure at the entrance, no hesitation, no greeting, either. The fellow waiting at the gate to the cemetery was tall, thin, and dark-skinned, with hair that was mostly gray.
Royce looked backward with apprehension, and in his gaze was a wealth of information. He wasn’t so much looking for anything as telling Hadrian to be wary. One slaughterhouse wagon was more than enough. Not that another runaway cart would be the threat again. This tiny street was peppered with windows, doors, and a host of other obstacles: barrels, awnings, porch steps, and piles of garbage. Royce wasn’t saying, Watch out for another killer wagon but rather, I don’t like the feel of this; keep your eyes open for a trap.
The fact that Royce had exchanged so much information with a look disturbed Hadrian. There was no doubt he had heard Royce correctly on all counts, and Hadrian’s utter confidence in that silent discourse only added to the anxiety that he was harmonizing with Royce’s mind. While that was good for work, Hadrian couldn’t shake the sense that it was bad for everything else—like his sanity.
Sticking close to the walls and staying out of the moonlight, Hadrian crept up to where Royce stood at the base of the three-story church—the only stone building in the neighborhood, which obviously predated everything around it.
“ . . . ninety-eight swords, half as many shields.”
“Why so few shields?”
“Shields aren’t as important and are harder to store,” the dwarf said. “We haven’t stopped. Production has slowed, sure, but that’s all. Don’t forget we’re the ones carrying the burden. The rest of you aren’t out a single din.”
“You’re just scared,” the Calian replied. “We all had great hopes the ransom would succeed, but the feast is the day after tomorrow. Spring is coming, my friend, and whether I’m the seed, the rock, or the sod, I fear the plow.”
The dwarf nodded. “Time’s up. A hundred swords is the best we can do.” He held out the box. “But with this, it should be more than enough.”
“I’m more frightened of what you hold than the swords.” The Calian eyed the container as if the dwarf were waving a crossbow in his face. “Griswold, if it becomes necessary, will you use it?”
“This one is yours.” The dwarf handed the box to the Calian.
He took it slowly, gingerly, and held it away from his body, as if a swarm of angry bees were inside.
“With that, I can ask the same of you. Will you use yours?” the dwarf asked.
“If it comes to it, what choice do we have? A hundred swords won’t be enough, and Villar will use his. Giving him a monopoly on such power would be the pinnacle of stupidity. We have a responsibility to act as safeguards to one another. And then there’s the sacrifices to think about. Not to mention what happens afterward.”
“That’s something we’ll decide when we get there—if we get there. One can’t start building a house without determining the size and shape of the foundation.”
“Comments like that are what make others see only your height,” the Calian said. “You’re reinforcing false ideas. You’re a woodcarver, for Novron’s sake!”
The dwarf laughed. “I’m a woodcarver, but in no way is it for Novron’s sake.”
They both smiled. Then the Calian stretched his neck and peered up the road. Hadrian and Royce froze, but the Calian didn’t see them. “Where is Villar?”
The dwarf gave his own casual glance. “He’s usually the first one here, isn’t he?”
“Do you think—”
Royce spun and shoved Hadrian out into the street. Off balance and bewildered, he staggered backward into the moonlight, catching the attention of the dwarf and the Calian. They both stared at him in shock and fear.
“What the—” Hadrian began just as the thief sprang to his side. An instant later, a massive block of stone struck the street where the two had been standing. It shattered, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
Looking up, Hadrian spotted a silhouette peering down from the roofline of the church. It withdrew from sight, melting into the darkness.
“Meet you back at the boardinghouse,” Royce said quickly as he leapt to a windowsill. From there, he scaled the stonework to the church’s roof where he, too, vanished.
Hadrian looked back toward the graveyard. The dwarf and the Calian were running away in opposite directions.
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Hadrian had always considered himself a good runner, but that night he was handicapped by racing in the darkness of an unknown city. Weighed down by three swords while chasing a slender man with a solid head start didn’t help, either. Unable to pursue both, and already knowing where the dwarf lived, he chose to follow the Calian. The good news was that his target appeared to be considerably older, and he still protectively held the dwarf’s box.
The contents must be valuable or he would’ve dropped it before running.
The Calian cut through an alley Hadrian didn’t know existed, pulling down stacks of empty crates to block his pursuer’s progress. By the time Hadrian emerged from the debris-strewn alleyway, the Calian had gained a greater lead and was openly sprinting down the center of the next street. Hadrian didn’t know what time it was, but he guessed it was after decent folk went to bed. Few remained on the cobblestone thoroughfares, and while all of them stopped to watch, none made any attempt to stop his pursuit. The Calian tried to lose him by cutting through more alleys, and he succeeded. Hadrian lost sight of his target; the man was gone. Guessing that the man would head for the same gate that marked the exit from the dwarven community, Hadrian ran for it. He was rewarded by a glimpse of the Calian racing out.
He headed south toward the harbor, sandaled feet striking the stone in rapid slaps. In the growing fog of the silent streets, Hadrian could hear the man long after he’d lost sight of him. This was the only noise the Calian made. Hadrian generated a multitude of sounds: clapping swords, the flap of his cloak, and the pounding of his boot heels.
Luckily, the Calian was slowing down, getting tired most likely. Darting into a series of dilapidated houses, he dodged a ladder and jumped a pile of manure that Hadrian slipped in. He didn’t fall, but it was close.
They both ducked under a clothesline loaded with clothes someone had forgotten to take in. With boots still slick with muck, Hadrian ran past a cascading avalanche of busted crates, over an open sewer grate, around a brimming water barrel, and into a yard enclosed by a battered wooden fence. The Calian managed to leap the stockade-style wall, and for precious seconds, Hadrian lost sight of him again.
By the time Hadrian had cleared the fence, he’d once more lost his prey.
The barrier was merely a dividing line between one property and another—separating an alley filled with a stack of broken wagon wheels and one filled with dented buckets. The Calian could have gone left or right. Rather than running off blindly, Hadrian stood still, held his breath, and listened. He had no idea where he was anymore. They had raced up a dozen different streets. The architecture was back to four-story buildings with stone bases and timber-and-stucco uppers. Damp, salty air accompanied a growing level of fog, which reduced his visibility to half a block. His only clue was a familiar pungent fragrance, a pervasive incense burned in many homes in Calis.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Off to his left.
He darted around the buckets and back out onto a street, another tiny affair. Again, he had a choice, and once more Hadrian paused to listen. He waited but heard nothing.
Is he hiding? Hadrian was exhausted after the long run. The old Calian had to be, too, or maybe he’d realized it wasn’t such a good idea leading his pursuer back to his home. Or perhaps he had simply taken off his sandals. Slowly, carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, Hadrian made a calculated guess that the Calian had continued in the same general, southerly direction, and he crept that way. Reaching an intersection, he found a lonely streetlamp illuminating three choices. Straight ahead lay the masts of ships, black against the starry sky. To his right, the dark edifice of the cathedral towered over rooftops and the bright-white fog. Its lower reaches were illuminated by the increased presence of streetlamps. To his left, there was only darkness.
I’d pick darkness, Hadrian thought and started down the dismal street. He’d only gone a few steps when he heard a wet tearing noise. In daylight, while surrounded by a crowd of smiling friends, the sound would have made him cringe, but in a strange, dark place of mist and twisting streets, it made him shudder. This wasn’t a happy noise. Hadrian drew his short sword. The metal made a soft ring as it left the scabbard. Something moved. Hadrian saw little more than a shift in shadows, but the sound was a harsh sudden jerk, the sort a startled deer might make. There was a thrash—something knocked over—and then silence.
Hadrian guessed his prey was fleeing again and quickly rounded the corner. He tripped, and this time he did fall. He hit the hard alley floor with his left shoulder and knee, grunting with the pain that shot up his thigh. His knuckles struck the cobblestones hard enough to make him let go of the blade. Instinct made him roll to one side and snatch up his weapon as he did. He raised the blade in defense against the expected attack.
No one was there.
He was alone, lying on the ground in a dark alley, feeling foolish. Hand throbbing, knee aching, shoulder sore, he once more held his breath to listen. All he heard was the distant ringing of cathedral bells.
It’s official, I’ve lost him.
Royce would never let him hear the end of this fiasco. You couldn’t even catch an old man?
Angry and disappointed, Hadrian looked for what had finally tripped him up. It took several seconds of staring to understand what he was seeing. It failed to make sense in so many ways that his mind took a great deal of convincing to finally accept it.
Three steps back, the Calian was sprawled on the wet stone. Hadrian knew him by the burgundy wrap, the green scarf, and the box. These features provided the identity rather than his face, because he no longer had one.