Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) (20 page)

Carnifex threw him then, down the steps, but Kloon was lithe as a cat and landed on his feet. He bounded up three steps and launched himself at Carnifex, blade glittering amber in the light of the glowstones. Carnifex swayed aside and punched him in the head. Kloon shrieked, and his knife spun away over the side. He hit the steps so hard, he bounced. Carnifex saw the danger and lunged for him, but Kloon’s legs scissored over his head, and he flipped into the chasm.

Carnifex threw himself down on his stomach and watched Kloon fall. He stretched out a hand vainly, as if he could still catch him. The knife hit the ninth level first, then Kloon struck the walkway with the sound of pulped fruit.

CHANGES

Carnifex knew he should have gone straight to the Ravine Guard, summoned one of the ninth level patrols, but instead he hurried all the way down to the fourteenth level. He didn’t know what else to do. A Black Cloak had been killed, and even if he was given a chance to defend himself, it wouldn’t turn out well. Those shoggers were untouchable, and they had as many connections and privileges as the councilors they were sworn to serve. And so he let himself into Thumil’s house, got the hearth fire going, and seated himself on the divan to wait.

The floor was stacked with crates, bags, and boxes, and it didn’t take a genius to work out what it was. It was customary for the Voice to remain in his own home, albeit with visible security from the Red Cloaks, and invisible from the Black. Clearly, though, those designated would be watching over the newly appointed Voice at the ceremony and the party after, before taking up their posts. If it had been any other way, Carnifex wouldn’t have made it past the courtyard garden. No, anyway you looked at it, the things in the hearth room weren’t any indication Thumil was moving out. Cordy was moving in.

He lost track of time as he waited. Outside, the glowstones were at full tilt as Raphoe’s glare lifted away from the ravine. Boisterous sounds of revelry came from the walkways, mostly from a distance, but occasionally drunken stragglers would pass by the windows.

Finally, he heard the front door open, and muffled voices out in the hallway. Then louder, more urgently, he heard Cordy say, “Did you leave the hearth burning?”

The door to the hearth room inched open, and a Black Cloak stepped inside. He set eyes on Carnifex and half-drew his shortsword, but Thumil appeared behind him and lay a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Kryptès. He’s a friend.”

“Carn?” Cordy said, poking her head round behind Thumil.

“I should talk with him alone,” Thumil said. He planted a kiss on her cheek.

“I just wanted to say…” Cordy tried to meet Carnifex’s eyes, but he looked away. “Maybe I should sleep at my place tonight, Thumil. I can bring the rest of my things over in the morning, then straighten up here.”

Thumil nodded that he agreed, then said to the Black Cloak, “Escort her home, and keep watch outside.”

“Sir,” the Black Cloak said, disappearing through the doorway with Cordy.

Thumil turned back to the entrance hall and issued commands to what must have been other Black Cloaks out there. The front door slammed shut, and then he returned to the hearth room carrying Carnifex’s axe.

“That should keep them busy. It can’t be much fun keeping watch over councilors’ houses, but I suppose that’s what they signed up for.” He crossed the room and leaned the axe against the divan. “I think you forgot something in your hurry to leave.”

Carnifex stared at the opposite wall, focusing on one spot until it swirled in his vision.

“Would you like a drink?” Thumil said.

There were cobwebs in the corner above the hearth. They looked like they’d been there for years, but that would no doubt change now Cordy was moving in. She was a stickler for cleanliness, and wouldn’t be able to abide even a lingering speck of dust.

“Look, Carn,” Thumil said. “I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t. I know I was wrong, but I—”

“You still the marshal?” Carnifex said.

“For now. I’ll be announcing Gul Mordin as my successor in the morning.”

“That goat shagger? I heard he had a thing for the kiddies, too.”

“That’s enough, Carn. I know you’re upset. You have every right to be. But you’re still Ravine Guard, and you’ll show Marshal Mordin the same respect you’ve always shown me.”

“Until now,” Carnifex said. “What you did tonight just throttled the life out of that respect.”

Thumil sighed and looked around for somewhere to sit. Finally, he tugged off his white robe, revealing the chainmail and britches beneath. He perched himself on the edge of the hearth and set about removing his armor.

“How long?” Carnifex said. “How long’s this been going on?”

“With Cordy? You have to believe me, nothing happened until—”

“Spare me the gory details, laddie. Just tell me when it was decided you two were an item.”

“Three, four months.”

It was like a knife blade slitting open the veil on reality. “That how long you thought of me as a shogger?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thumil said. He grunted as he pulled his chainmail over his head and dumped it on the floor. Underneath, his gambeson was sweat-stained and filthy, but at least it had the ring of honesty to it.

“Oh, I’m ridiculous now, am I, laddie?”

“Yes,” Thumil said. He pushed himself to his feet. “Yes, you shogging well are. It doesn’t matter what you think of me, but you are my friend, and you always will be.”

Carnifex snorted.

“And Cordy feels the same.”

“Course she does. She has to agree with you now, doesn’t she? You’re the Voice, and soon to be her husband.”

“Oh, come on, Carn, don’t be a shogger. Cordy loves you. I know that, she’s always known that, but you… you were just too damned blind or indifferent to see it.”

“Shog you.”

“No, shog you. This is my house, and you’ll hear what I have to say. That woman worships the ground you walk on, Carnifex. She might be rubbish at showing it, but what do you think it was about, all that punching you in the face and insulting you?”

“Painful? Spiteful?”

“Don’t give me that. You gave as good as you got. It’s just how she’s made, is all. Cordy’s not good at showing affection. Truth be told, she gave up on you, Carn. She thought you saw her as just one of the lads.”

“I did. So did everyone.”

“Not me.”

Silence fell heavy between them. Carnifex reached for the haft of his axe, ran his fingers over it. Part of him wanted to take it outside, sling it from a walkway, but it was a good axe, by any stretch of the imagination. And another part of him couldn’t help thinking it was a gift of friendship that, if once thrown away, would be the snuffing out of all that had gone before. He wasn’t ready for that. He’d already lost too much.

“You ready for that drink yet?” Thumil said, on his way to the kitchen.

He returned a short while later with two tankards of mead. Carnifex accepted one, but just stared into it. Even the honeyed scent wasn’t enough to entice him to take a sip. It may as well have been a poisoned chalice, the way he felt.

“You want to tell me what happened between you and Kloon?” Thumil said, seating himself on a crate opposite the divan.

“How’d you… The body, of course. I was going to report it, but—”

“But Kloon was a Black Cloak,” Thumil finished for him. “I understand that. The Ravine Guard would have had no choice but to turn you over to the Krypteia. It’s just the way things are done.”

“But you could put a stop to that.”

“Aye, as marshal I could. Protecting my own. But I’m not going to be marshal, come morning.”

“No, you’re the shogging Voice. You can do whatever you like.”

Thumil shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. The Voice doesn’t get to make decisions or change things; he’s the one to tow the line, the defender of tradition. If I start interfering with the work of the Black Cloaks, Grago will pass a motion, and I could very well be removed from office. Worse, maybe. Do you know how many Voices have been assassinated since the time of the Founders?”

“Yes, and every one traced to the Krypteia. I tell you, Thumil, those scuts have got to go.”

“No, Carn. No, they haven’t. A while ago, I might have agreed with you, but a very wise man taught me how they are necessary.”

“Oh, and who’s that, then? Surely not old Baldilocks?”

“I said wise, not solipsistic. No, I meant Dythin Rala.”

“He approved of the Black Cloaks?”

Thumil chuckled. “Approved might be stretching it a bit far, but he certainly saw how they fitted into the governance of Arx Gravis.”

“How did you know it was me?” Carnifex said. “Am I being watched?”

“Not as far as I know. But it’s early days yet, and I’ve not even had my first meeting with the councilors since being inaugurated. But as far as me knowing it was you, I didn’t. I just put two and two together. I humiliated Kloon. You punched his lights out. I’m told Kloon is somewhat unbalanced, vindictive; that he’d slit his own mother’s throat if he she refused him her titty to suck on. You know the sort.”

“No, I don’t. That’s more your forte. I always thought he was just a shogger.”

“Close enough,” Thumil said. “Thing is, hardly anyone besides a baresark would have a go at a Black Cloak, and no one but the very best of fighters would have a hope of beating one. What with our history with Kloon, and you storming out of the ceremony, it didn’t take a lot to guess who was behind his death.”

Carnifex nodded to himself, threading together the logic of Thumil’s thinking. “He attacked me, you know.”

“Undoubtedly. You might be a meat-headed scut-sucker, but you’re no killer, Carnifex. Certainly no murderer. Don’t worry, son, I’ll hand over the truth of things to Mordin and make sure he leaves you alone. As for Grago and the Krypteia, I’ll need some time to sound things out, learn the ropes, but they’ll not touch you openly, if the marshal’s got your back.”

“Mordin,” Carnifex scoffed.

“Who else did you think I’d pick? You? Carn, you’re the best of them physically, but marshal’s about a whole lot more than winning fights.”

“Yet you trusted me with command.”

“Of a platoon, yes. Somewhere for you to cut your teeth. But you’re not ready for the big job. Maybe you never will be.”

“Not like you, eh? Or my ma?”

Thumil sighed. “You’re still young, Carn. A hundred and sixty. I’m twice your age and then some. I wasn’t always this brilliant, you know.” He attempted a smile, but it was as false as his friendship had felt back at the ceremony. As it still felt, if Carnifex gave sway to the feelings bubbling up from his gut.

“So, over me, you appoint Mordin, a dwarf well known to be partial to young girls.”

“Girl, Carn. It was a girl. Bethyn Barlow, and she was ninety-six at the time.”

“Pah. And how old was Mordin? Five-hundred? Six?”

“Four-hundred and twenty, give or take. Much older, and his dwarfhood wouldn’t have been up to the task. Trust me, I’m not even at my fourth century, and I know.”

“Bet Cordy loves that,” Carnifex said.

Some of the forced humor left Thumil’s eyes. “That was disrespectful, Carn. To both of us.”

Carnifex felt his cheeks burning. Droom would have been ashamed of his son behaving like this. “Forgive me, Thumil. I’m being a shogger. I wish I knew how to handle this better, but I don’t.”

“Then let me give you a clue,” Thumil said, nodding at the untouched tankard in Carnifex’s hand. “Drink up.”

Carnifex set it down on the table beside the divan and stood. “I’m sorry, Thumil. I can’t do this.” He grabbed his axe. “I should be off.”

“Going home?”

Carnifex shook his head. “I’m supposed to be working. I should pick up my shift, and work extra to make up for it.”

“No,” Thumil said. “Definitely not. With this Kloon business hanging over you, I want you to take some time off. Not only that, but your pa’s just had his pyre, for shog’s sake. Take a break, Carn, at least until I’ve had a chance to clear things up with Grago.”

THE CIRCLE

When Carnifex left Thumil’s house, he had no direction in mind, other than down. As he passed the sixteenth level, he felt the brief tug of home, but what would be the point? Who was there? Not Droom anymore; and Lucius was no doubt poring over books with Aristodeus.

Rather than cross the walkway to the Sward, he continued to descend the steps of the Aorta, deeper and deeper into the ravine, until finally, at the twenty-first level—the last bastion of civilization, as it was jokingly called—he found himself climbing down the same iron ladder to the bottom that he and Thumil had come up the day of the break-in.

The sounds and smells of the street parties celebrating Thumil’s ascension had been the same on each level he passed: laughter, music, the odd snatch of frayed tempers; pipe smoke, ale, the cloying aroma of incensed braziers. But on the twenty-second level, the floor of the ravine, it was different. The gibber of gibunas, and the stench of them, undercut the festivities and stood out as a testament to the savagery of the people who dwelled at the bottom. It was baresarks mostly, and those who’d squandered all their tokens on ale and had no means of earning any more. And then there were the barge-folk, who made a living ferrying supplies to the paltry businesses, legal and otherwise, that lined the banks of the canals.

The music here was different, too: not the calming quartets of the upper levels, or the shanties and bawdy tunes of those further down. It was hard and percussive, a perpetual din that punctuated the roars of laughter and the screams that would never be answered.
 

Passersby gave him strange looks, and exchanged hushed words among themselves. Others shouted obscenities, and some seemed ready to cut him up into pieces and feed him to the gibunas. He set his jaw against the hostility. It was to be expected down here, more so because he still had on the helm and red cloak of the Ravine Guard.

Carnifex had sneaked down to the ravine bed several times in the past to watch the circle fights. He’d wanted to see for himself what the baresarks were capable of. He’d been awed at how well they could take a punch, how hard they could be hit and keep on coming, but their skill was severely lacking. Against most regular dwarves, they could rely on savagery, brute strength, their preternatural resilience, and always come off best. But he’d been wondering for some time how they’d fare against him. He’d almost gotten his answer the other night, when Kloon’s hired thugs had attacked him, Thumil, and Cordy. They’d been tough, but he’d triumphed in the end. Only, it wasn’t a pure test of strength, dwarf to dwarf. Weapons had been involved, and he’d yet to meet the foe who could best him with an axe.