Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) (6 page)

“No, it wasn’t him,” Carnifex said. “The thief wasn’t fat. And he leapt from a window to make his escape.”

“You saw him?” Aristodeus said, voice low and rasping. He leaned forward, pipe held by the bowl and pluming smoke.

When Carnifex answered, he was looking at Droom. “It was a homunculus.”

The kaffa cup stopped at Droom’s lips. He stared into it for a long moment as the color bled from his face. Without looking up, he said, “What did it do?” Automatically, he slurped at his kaffa, but the tumult of his thoughts was evident from the furrowing of his brow.

He’d seen a homunculus before, in the mines. It was common knowledge, and he’d endured decades of ribbing about it. Before Droom, no one had seen one of the deep gnomes for hundreds of years.

“Killed Jarfy,” Carnifex said. He patted his chest. “Put a hole through him. A smoking hole.”

Aristodeus’s eyes widened, and he rubbed his box beard. “Took one of the
Annals
, too, you say.”

“Which volume?” Lucius asked.

Carnifex shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter. It put it back.”

“It did what?” Aristodeus said.

“There was a gap in the shelf one minute, but when Thumil and I went back, the book had been returned.”

Droom’s mouth hung open, but his eyes were focused someplace else, presumably recollecting the homunculus that had come to him all those years ago, just before Lucius was born, when Yyalla was still alive.

“You know that’s how you got your name, laddie?” Droom said. “From that homunculus I saw. You, too Lucius.”

Carnifex nodded that he knew.

A look of impatience flashed across Aristodeus’s face. “Why would it put it back?”

Lucius stuck out his bottom lip, and he took off his eyeglasses to wipe them on his robe. “You sure you weren’t mistaken? I mean, it sounds like there was a lot of excitement.”

Carnifex couldn’t take his eyes off his pa, and when he answered Lucius, there was no conviction to what he said. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Told me I’d have two sons,” Droom said. “Your ma said I was crazy. She always had a feeling she’d only ever see one child.”

Carnifex dropped his eyes to the floor. In a way, she’d been right. She’d given birth to two, but she’d been dead before she clapped eyes on her second, the way Droom told it.

Droom saw his reaction and set down his kaffa mug. “She chose it, laddie. The surgeon said he could save one or the other, and she wanted it to be you.”

Carnifex lifted his head to meet his pa’s gaze. He felt the warm trickle of a tear rolling down his cheek, and Droom’s eyes were glistening with moisture.

Without looking away from his son, Droom said, “Is this it, do you think, Aristodeus? Has it started?”

The philosopher let out a sigh. Carnifex heard the click of his flame-maker—he must have needed to relight his pipe. When he didn’t answer, Carnifex turned a glare on him, but Aristodeus looked pointedly away.

“Your ma told me to pay it no heed,” Droom said, taking in both his sons. “But the homunculus gave me a prophecy.”

Aristodeus snorted and rolled his eyes. “It was nothing of the sort.”

“Oh?” Droom said. “Then how do you account for what it told me?”

“It was a homunculus,” Aristodeus said. “A creature of deception. Spawn of the Demiurgos, the Father of Lies.”

“That’s not what you said before.”

“Sometimes, it’s necessary to meet people where they are at,” Aristodeus said.
 

Lucius gave a knowing smile and popped his eyeglasses back on the end of his nose.

“Oh, aye?” Droom said. “Indulge the uneducated and the superstitious, is that what you’re saying? Suppose you’ll be telling me it’s all just coincidence, too, that a homunculus tells me I’ll have two boys, tells me what to name them, and then another appears in the city, and Carnifex here catches sight of it.”

“What prophecy?” Carnifex asked.

At the same time, Lucius said, “What do you mean it told you what to name us? I thought that was him.” He nodded at Aristodeus.

“I’m not the only one versed in Ancient Urddynoorian,” the philosopher said.

“Ancient what?”

Aristodeus touched a finger to his lips, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. “I meant Old Dwarvish.”

“Oh,” Lucius said. Then by way of explanation, as if the rest of them were all morons, he added, “The ancient tongue that died out with Maldark the Fallen. The language used in the scriptures he followed. The language of the earliest
Annals
.” To his father, he said, “So, this homunculus spoke to you in Old Dwarvish?”
 

“No,” Droom said. “It spoke the same as you or I. Only the names were Old Dwarvish.”

“Ancient Urddynoorian,” Aristodeus corrected, and then he winced. “What I mean is, it is a language from both Aethir and my world of Urddynoor, but it has a common root in another realm, if you believe such things.”

Carnifex glanced at him but decided not to take the bait. The philosopher delighted in running rings round everyone else, and before long, they’d be lost to what they were supposed to be talking about.

“So, what’s it mean?” he asked Droom. “My name.”

Droom shrugged. “I didn’t ask, and your ma told me not to. Actually, she wanted me to call you something else, both of you. But I couldn’t. When the homunculus told me what to call you, I felt something bad would happen if I didn’t. And besides, he said the names were fitting. And he said the hope of our people would arise from you. That, through my boys, the dwarves would become like the Dwarf Lords of legend.”

“Understandable, given my name,” Lucius said with a half laugh. “But not yours, Carn.”

“Carnifex means ‘Executioner,’ Aristodeus quickly said, holding up a hand to forestall anything else Lucius might say. “One who executes, gets things done.”

“Or ‘Butcher’,” Lucius said with a snigger. “One who carves up shanks of lamb and makes sausages.”

“Nothing wrong with sausages,” Carnifex said.

Droom grinned at that, but his eyes were still troubled.

“So, what’s your name mean?” Carnifex asked his brother. “Lard-arsed layabout? Man-breasts? Fat flatulent shogger?”

“It means ‘light’,” Aristodeus said.

“One who illuminates.” Lucius sat back in his chair and rested his arms behind his head. “The bringer of enlightenment.”

“No, just light.” As if to illustrate, Aristodeus once more set about clicking the end of his silver flame-maker, but try as he might, no flame sprang up this time.

“Thing that troubles me,” Droom said, meeting the philosopher’s gaze, “is you showing up for the first time right after I saw that homunculus, and you showing up today, following Carn seeing his.”

“That’s the problem with dwarves,” Aristodeus said, giving up on lighting his pipe and shoving it and the flame-maker back in his pocket. “You see signs and patterns where there is but chance and coincidence. I am here merely to help Lucius with his studies, and to wish Carnifex a happy birthday.”

“Hmm,” Droom said. He wasn’t convinced, but Carnifex knew his pa wouldn’t take it further. There were standards of behavior he believed in more strongly than being proved right, or calling a shogger a shogger. He’d made his mind up what he thought of Aristodeus, but he wasn’t the kind of dwarf to say what it was to anyone else.

“Well,” Lucius said, a lightness entering his tone, like it always did when he sought to keep the peace, “the Annal was returned, you say? No harm done, then.”

“Except to Jarfy,” Carnifex said.

“Who?” Aristodeus said.

“Like Carn said,”—Droom stood from his chair—“the lad that was killed.”

“Oh… Yes,” Aristodeus said.

Lucius dipped his eyes toward the table, and then lifted them to track Droom as he left the kitchen.

“Ready?” Droom said from the doorway.

Carnifex’s heart sank, sitting heavy in his guts like one of Bal Grimark’s goat and mushroom pies. It was time for the yearly ritual, and there was no getting away from it.

As Droom headed toward his chambers, and Carnifex made to follow, Aristodeus leaned over to Lucius and said, “Maybe it was looking for something in the
Annals
, this homunculus, some reference.”

Lucius pursed his lips and shrugged.

“You should take me to the Scriptorium later,” Aristodeus said. “See if there’s any clue to what it is.”

“For someone who thinks it’s all chance and coincidence,” Carnifex said, “you seem to be taking it rather seriously.”

Aristodeus let out a shrill peal of laughter. “Ha! Not at all. It’s just intriguing, that’s all. It’s not every day a homunculus comes calling at Arx Gravis.”

But there was more to it than he was letting on. His eyes gave it away. He was worried about something. Worried, and already working overtime on a way to remedy whatever it was.

“Coming?” Carnifex said to Lucius, and the brothers started after their pa.

“Should I…?” Aristodeus asked, standing.

“Be rude not to,” Carnifex said.

“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Aristodeus said, following them from the kitchen.

REMEMBERING THE DEAD

Droom’s suite was its usual chaotic clutter: clothes strewn across the floor, waiting to be washed; half-drunk kaffa cups; a scatter of clay pipes with singed bowls. But in his bedroom, same as this time every year, he had tidied up. The bed was freshly changed, and on the nightstand was the box of letters Yyalla had written him when they’d been courting.

All that remained of her belongings was arrayed on a low table by the window and flanked by two guttering candles: the marcasite ring of pyrite and silver Droom had given her when they were married; the scarolite great helm that had been handed down to her from her mother, and her mother before, and hers before that. No one these days could craft the simplest of objects from the black ore, never mind mold it into one seamless piece with curves and lines, and the narrowest of slits to see out of. Somehow, the helm’s maker had engraved the word “Thanus” at its crown in an embellished, swirling script. Besides the banded breastplates worn by the Krypteia, Yyalla’s helm was the only example of scarolite armor Carnifex had heard of.
 

And then there was the oil painting of Yyalla by Durgish Duffin, that was commissioned by her pa in memory of her coming of age. She had Carnifex’s hazel eyes and Lucius’s fairness of hair, but not his physique. Only her head and torso were depicted, but it was enough to show she was like chiseled granite, lithe yet strong. Droom had always said she was the embodiment of the Dwarf Lords of legend for him. Those among the Ravine Guard who were old enough to have trained under her confirmed the fact, and said she had the moves to back it up. For there was no one fiercer, folk said, no one more deadly with an axe, and she’d been unbeatable in a grapple. Save for with Droom, of course. He’d always claimed he’d out-grappled her on numerous occasions, but all of them were behind closed doors.

Behind the small collection lay the scroll that listed the roll of Yyalla’s ancestors. It was the mother’s line the dwarves considered important, and the mother’s family name that was passed to her husband and children. Droom was a Screebank by birth. Word was, the few Screebanks that were left hung out in the bottom of the ravine among the baresarks. Droom never said much about his family. They’d not spoken in more years than Carnifex could remember. The impression he got was that they thought Droom was a snob for marrying Yyalla: thought he was better than them. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

“Thanus?” Aristodeus said, reaching for the scarolite helm.

Droom slapped his hand away from it.

“I was going to say,”—Aristodeus splayed his fingers and winced—“it’s etymologically complex, but at some point came to mean ‘warrior’ and ‘hero’.”

“Which is no doubt why she inherited it,” Droom said. “But it also means ‘keep your shogging hands to yourself.’”

“Etymologically speaking?” Carnifex said.

Lucius guffawed.

Aristodeus’s eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger, but swiftly quelled to icy blue.

Droom patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, laddie. It’s just, her things. You know. It’s all I have left of her.”

“I understand,” Aristodeus said. “I intended no disrespect. Please forgive me.”

The silver-tongued shogger was as convincing as a recalcitrant councilor caught with his hands in the token vault, but Droom seemed inclined to buy into it.

“No harm done, laddie. The fault’s my own.”

The thud of footsteps coming from the front door had them all turning, and Thumil and Cordy staggered into the bedroom carrying a kilderkin between them, the eighteen-gallon casks her family got their name from.
 

Thumil was still in his uniform, though his red cloak looked like it had been slept in. His thinning hair had been hurriedly brushed, and his beard lacked its usual braids. Probably, Dythin Rala had kept him up half the night talking, though what the Voice of the Council and the Marshal of the Ravine Guard had to discuss was anyone’s guess. Conceivably, it was about the homunculus that had broken into the Scriptorium, but the impression Carnifex had left the Dodecagon with was that the matter was already closed.

Cordy had made some effort: her blue dress at least looked like it had been hung up after washing, and her golden hair and beard were immaculate, both plaited into fine braids held tight with silver bands. Actually, it was more effort than she usually took, and she’d not even known Yyalla. But she knew Droom, and loved him like she had her own pa, before the wasting took him. She looked different, somehow: she had curves he’d not noticed before. It was an odd thing. He’d never before thought of her as a woman.

“Let yourself in, Thumil,” Carnifex said with a deadpan look.

“Always do.”

“And you always should,” Droom said. “Good of you to come. Both of you. That for me?”

They set the cask on the floor, and Cordy used it as a seat.

“All of us,” she said. “A toast to Yyalla, and commiserations for this shogger’s birth.”

“Love you, too, Cordy,” Carnifex said.

She met his eyes with a stern gaze, utterly practiced, utterly serious. “No, you don’t.”