Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) (23 page)

Carnifex was too breathless to announce himself. He simply stood there, drinking her in, until one of the lassies doing her hair noticed him and gasped.

Cordy looked round, and her austere beauty was transcended by a smile of genuine warmth that made her unbearable to look upon. She dismissed her helpers, and once they had gone outside, she gestured for Carnifex to approach.

He closed the door behind him and, instead of making a beeline for her, made a slow circuit of the room, pretending to study the framed pictures on the walls showing her ma and pa, the original design of the family beer label, and Cordy herself as a baby. The last was an early work of a pupil of Durgish Duffin, the artist who had painted Yyalla for Droom.

“So, you’ve met Duck,” Cordy said, tracking his progress round the room and lacing up her corset at the same time.

“He was at the mines, when the golem attacked.”

He glanced her way, and Cordy bobbed her head, as if she hadn’t known.

“He’s my appointed bodyguard.” She chuckled, a bright, tinkling sound. “Thumil insisted.”

“He never asked me.”

“Would you have done it?” Cordy asked. “Protected me?”

Of course he would have. Without question. And he knew, in his heart of hearts, he still would. But she didn’t need to know that. He left her question hanging and turned to face her, resting his hands on his axe haft as he twirled the head on the floor.

“What’s this about, Cordy?”

She dipped her eyes briefly, then stood, gathered the hoops of her underskirt, and stepped toward him. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned in close, nestled her cheek against his. The scent of her was strong in his nostrils—sweet musk that inflamed his senses. Gently, he took her arms and pressed them to her sides.
 

She sighed mournfully and turned her head away. “I do love him, you know. More than anything.”

Carnifex nodded to himself. He knew she loved Thumil. They both did.

“Really love him, Carn.” She spun back and fixed him with an unfaltering stare that begged him to contradict her. “In every way.”

He let his eyelids fall shut, and nodded again, this time for her benefit.

“I felt the same about you, Carn, for a long time. Ever since the
Ephebe
. Thumil saw it, back then, and always wondered why you never seemed to notice. I thought you were just playing hard to get, but then I started to wonder, too. I always thought we’d be together someday, like my ma and pa. Like Droom said he and Yyalla were. You were my hero, Carn. Funny thing is, I think you still are, and maybe always will be. But a woman can only take being unnoticed for so long. And Thumil… Thumil noticed me.”

Carnifex’s eyes bled tears, no matter how hard he tried to fight them back. A single silvery streak tracked down Cordy’s cheek in sympathy.

“I was blind, lassie. Still am in some ways. By the time I realized you were a woman…” He winced, expecting her to hit him, but when she smiled, letting him know she understood, he realized just how surely that boat had sailed.

“I love you, Carnifex Thane,” Cordy said, reaching out to touch his cheek. “And Thumil does, too. We’re all orphans now, the three of us, and we’re all so bound up with each other, we’re family. I sometimes think not having you in my life would be like losing a lung.”

He knew the truth of those words, only in his case, it was his heart he stood to lose.

“Thumil thinks we can get through this,” Cordy said. “That one day, we can all be friends, the way it was before.”

“I’d like that,” Carnifex said. “But now he’s the Voice…”

“That won’t be forever. He’s made it clear he doesn’t intend to die in office like Dythin Rala. He just wants to fix things a little, make Arx Gravis a better place, and then, who knows, maybe we’ll grow our own hops and start our very own line of beer. And you could go into business with us. Just think how perfect it could be.”

Did she know? Had she read his mind and seen that he planned to leave the Ravine Guard? He didn’t want to ask her. He preferred to believe that’s what she’d done.

“Cordy,” he started, then cleared his throat so he could go on. “Cordana Kilderkin—is Thumil taking your name, by the way?”

“He shogging well better,” Cordy said, “or I’ll rip his fruits off and feed them to him for breakfast.”

Carnifex shook his head and laughed. It was good to know she hadn’t changed, even if she was someone else’s now.

“Cordana Kilderkin,” he said again, “I can’t imagine a time when you and I will not be friends. I’ve been an arse and a shogwit, but the other night, Kallos the Crusher knocked a spark of sense back into my noddle. I love you and Thumil both, and I will defend your marriage with my life. You have my word on that.”

Cordana backed away to her stool, sank into it, and began to weep. She was relieved—he could see that from the slump of her shoulders, the rhythm of her breaths; but not half as relieved as he was to be able to slink out of the room and make his way to the nearest ale house before the ceremony began.

He met Lucius and Aristodeus on the fourteenth level, and together they made their way along the main walkway to the ridge skirting the ravine wall. It was a a sprawling platform of granite that extended out from the rock face enough to hold a small village. The only building it boasted, though, was the oast house that formed the backdrop for the wedding ceremony. It was a circular, two-storied structure with a conical roof. Beyond it, fringing the ravine wall, were the hops that would be brought to the oast house for kilning. Row upon row of bines wound their way up strings suspended from overhead trellises.
 

It was as good a place for a wedding as any, but Carnifex suspected Thumil had chosen the location as a concession to him. Rumor had it the Council had wanted the ceremony to take place at a vineyard on the seventh. Mind, it could also have had something to do with the fact Thumil had grown up on the fourteenth, and still made his home there.

Lucius wore a crumpled jacket atop a black scholar’s robe. He’d run a comb through his hair and beard, but the blustery breeze had already undone the good work.

Aristodeus didn’t have to worry about the wind, and he’d made even less effort with his clothing than Lucius. He still had on the same white toga he always wore. The odd thing was, it never picked up a stain, never stank of sweat. Which told Carnifex he either had spares, or he was a stickler for washing them whenever he was out of the way. He certainly had to do something, the amount of times he’d come and gone since showing up on Carnifex’s birthday. Where he went, how he got there, were as big a mysteries as the never-fading whiteness of his toga. Carnifex wouldn’t have given a flying shog about it, had it not involved his ma’s scarolite helm somehow.

More Red Cloaks than he’d ever seen assembled in one place were lined up in phalanxes across the length of the ledge, both front and back. Guests had to pass through them to get in, and endure their watchful eyes once the service began. Black Cloaks moved among them like rats through grain. Councilor Grago himself was directing their movements.

“How many would you say that is?” Aristodeus said. “Three thousand? Four?”

“Red Cloaks?” Lucius shrugged. “I’m not going to count them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Closer to five,” Carnifex said. “Virtually the whole Guard.” In a crisis, the dwarves could muster ten times that number. Everyone was required to train at the
Ephebe
from their youngest days. “There’ll be a few on patrol at the top of the ravine, but for events like this, it’s a full turnout. Same with the Black Scuts, by the looks of things. Bound to be a few on skulk duty elsewhere, but for now, it’s pretty much all eyes on the wedding.”

“Is it now?” Lucius said.

Aristodeus flashed him a look.

“Let’s just hope the baresarks don’t get emboldened,” Lucius said. “Last thing we need is to come away from the wedding and find they’ve raped and pillaged their way through the lower levels.”

Carnifex shook his head, but he didn’t miss the furtive glances that passed between his brother and the philosopher. Aristodeus started to mouth something to Lucius, but stopped when he saw Carnifex noticing.

“Seats at the front?” Lucius asked.

Recognizing Carnifex, the Red Cloak on duty waved them through.

“Just me,” Carnifex said. “Best man’s prerogative. You’ll have to find your own spots. Meet me after, at the banquet.”

He left them talking and made his way between the ranks of Ravine Guard and through the press of guests inside the cordon.
 

The site marked out for the ceremony was a simple enough affair, which suited both Cordy and Thumil. A granite dais had been set before the oast house, around which were stone benches for the guests of honor: the Council of Twelve, missing only Grago, who was still directing the Krypteia, and obviously Thumil himself; Marshal Mordin, who Carnifex acknowledged by thumping his chest in salute; the chamberlain, and the motley-clad dwarf, Stupid, who looked as out of place as Carnifex felt. Stupid watched as Carnifex seated himself next to Mordin, madness or unfathomable sadness in his eyes.

Why Stupid was there at all was anyone’s guess. Why he should be numbered among the guests of honor was beyond comprehension. Maybe Thumil was obligated to show him the same deference Dythin Rala had. Likely, it was a mystery passed on from Voice to Voice.

Thumil arrived soon after Carnifex had settled himself on his bench. He wore a simple white robe, all trace of the dwarf who’d been marshal as gone as the tufts of hair that he’d been losing lately. The back of his head was riddled with patches of baldness that would have given Aristodeus a run for his tokens.

Thumil had a brief exchange with the chamberlain and proffered his
Liber Via
. The chamberlain winced and frowned, then gave a reluctant and world-weary nod. When he stood and moved with Thumil to the center of the gathering, he glanced at the page marked with a white ribbon.

“Carnifex Thane,” someone hissed in his ear.
 

Carnifex craned his neck to see Grago leaning over his shoulder.
 

“I never forget a name, same as I never forget my Black Cloaks. They are like family to me. Kloon was like family to me. You, of all people, should know how it feels to lose family.”

A hush fell over the crowds pressed up against the cordon of Ravine Guard.
 

Grago broke off from whatever else he was about to say and seated himself among the rest of the Council.

All around the ledge, red cloaks fluttered as the wind picked up. Clouds scudded across the sky seen through the gaps in the overhead walkways. For an instant, the shine of the twin suns was occluded. Thumil gave a worried look above, but visibly relaxed when the clouds moved on and the proceedings were once more bathed in golden light.

Carnifex forgot all about Grago as he set eyes on Cordy emerging from between two phalanxes. At first, he thought she’d come alone, but then he glimpsed Duck stepping into line with his confrères. Cordy entered the space before the oast house and took Thumil’s hand.

She was immaculate in her white gown. The gold ties in her hair picked up the scant sunlight peeking through the clouds and glittered. The corset beneath her dress drew her waist in so tight, Carnifex could have encompassed it with his hands. It only served to set off the curve of her hips, the flare of her shoulders. Her tow hair cascaded in ringlets that fell into the golden braids of her beard, and the skin of her face, of her chest and shoulders above her dress, had the sheen of satin, the texture of olives.
 

It was enough to test a dwarf’s loyalties, but his were forged in iron. Droom was his model in that, and he always claimed he got it from Yyalla. Friendship before self was the simple way of summing it up. No matter how hard it was. No matter the cost.

A warm glow ran beneath Carnifex’s skin—not the scolding heat of envy he’d felt when Thumil had first told him; not the scorch of lust. He recognized it for what it was: the beginnings of acceptance; a taste of the happiness his friends could have, if freed from guilt at his loss.

Thumil turned and nodded, and Carnifex stood, fumbling in his pocket for the ring. When he had it in hand, he went to Thumil’s side, and the three of them faced the oast house. Before them, the chamberlain opened the
Liber Via
and began to read.

The reception in the Dodecagon was a staid affair, offset only slightly by the jaunty airs from a string quartet. Twenty or so round tables had been set up in the council chamber, at which special guests were seated. The Council of Twelve sat aloof from them at their debating table, with Cordy and Thumil in the center.
 

The food was fancy but passable—roasted beef from Councilor Crony’s farm at the foot of the ravine; swede and carrots from the second level allotments; and Grimark’s shredded greens, which Thumil had taken a liking to. Wine from Councilor Castail’s family vineyard flowed freely, but Carnifex caused a stir when he requested beer instead. Fortunately, Cordy had anticipated the need and had arranged for a few kegs of Arnochian to be there just in case.

Carnifex sat at a table with Lucius. Aristodeus wasn’t included on the list of banquet guests, but if anything, he’d seemed relieved. He had more work to do with the scarolite helm, but when Carnifex pressed him about the nature of that work, all he would say was “Precautions.” It didn’t go unnoticed, though, when he’d left the ledge on the fourteenth, that he didn’t go alone. The motley fool, Stupid, had gone with him.

By his third tankard, Carnifex ceased to care about the glares Grago occasionally sent his way, and was more than happy listening to Lucius droning on about the disagreements he was having with Aristodeus. Apparently, the philosopher was now of one mind with Rugbeard, and considered the mentions of the golems and the Axe of the Dwarf Lords in the
Annals
a later interpolation at best, and a dangerous fake at worst. Lucius was adamant any later interpolation must have occurred after Rugbeard made his copy, which struck him as ludicrous and incredibly difficult to manage, given the way the parchment and ink was a perfect match for the rest of the volume. The alternative posited by Aristodeus, he said, was even harder to accept: it would have required nothing short of a magic wand to effect such a seamless alteration in the brief amount of time the book had been missing from the Scriptorium.