Dread Brass Shadows

11

The Dead Man had suggested a stop, coming back, at the Joy House, owned and operated by one Morley Dotes, friend of mine, professional vegetarian, assassin, and elfhuman breed. I gave it a think and decided to skip it. Morley is handy when the going gets rough, but he has his liabilities. Most of them are female. No sense bringing him in where he'd face so much temptation. Besides, not having him in meant the odds were better for me.

The Joy House. Some dumb name for a restaurant with a menu fit only for livestock. How about the Manger, Morley? How about the Barn? Or the Stable? Though that kind of smacked of upscale chic.

What people call Dwarf Fort or Dwarf House sits on four square blocks behind the levee in Child's Landing. The Landing abuts the river north of the Bight, where the big water swings sharply southwest and the wharves and docks start and go on for miles, all the way to the wall. Legend says the Landing was settled when humans first came into the region. First there was a fort, then a village that grew because it lay near the confluence of three major rivers. Then there were more fortifications and a growth of industry during the Face Wars, when human insecurities compelled our ancestors to prove they could kick ass on the older races.

The Face Wars were a Ion? time ago. Things have come full circle. Now the Landing is occupied by nonhumans come to grab at the wealth floating around because of Karenta's endless war with Venageta.

I can always work up a case of indignation about the war and its spin-offs. One is, the nonhumans are picking our pockets. Our overlords are cheering them on. Someday they'll be picking our bones.

That's not racist, either. I get along with everybody but ratmen. Our rulers, in their wisdom, in their infallible opportunism, made treaties with these other races that shield them from military service even if they've lived as Karentines for ten generations. They gobble the privileges and don't pay the price. They're getting fat making the weapons carried by youths who couldn't be conscripted if the nonhumans weren't there to replace them in the economy.

If you're human and male, you'll do five years in service. Nowadays, with the Cantard in the hands of Glory Mooncalled and his mercenaries and native allies, they're talking about making that six years. Meaning even fewer survivors coming home.

I'm bitter. I admit it. I survived my five and made it home, but I was the first of my family to do so. And nobody thanked me for my trouble when I got back.

Hell with it.

Dwarf House covers four blocks. A north-south street cuts through the middle. A canal spur runs through east to west. Rumor says the blocks are connected by tunnels. Maybe. They're connected by bridges four stories up. Make that four human stories. Dwarves are dwarves. There would be more floors.

The buildings have no outside windows and few doors. Humans seldom get inside, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was if they let me in and didn't want me out, I was sunk. Not even my pal the King would come rescue me. Dwarf House enjoys virtual extraterritoriality.

I looked the place over before I knocked. I didn't like what I saw. I knocked anyway. Somebody has to do these things. Generally somebody too dim not to back off.

I knocked again after a reasonable wait. They weren't in any hurry in there.

I knocked a third time.

The door swung inward. "All right! All right! You don't have to break it down. I heard you the first time." The hairy runt in red and green was probably six hundred years old and had been assigned to the door because of his winning personality.

"My name is Garrett. The Dead Man sent me to talk to Gnorst Gnorst."

"Impossible. Gnorst is a busy dwarf. He doesn't have time to entertain every Tall One who wanders past. Go away."

I didn't move except to insert a foot into the doorway. The dwarf scowled. I guess. He wasn't much more than eyes inside a beard big enough to hide stork's nests. "What do you want?"

"Gnorst. He owes the Dead Man."

The dwarf sighed. What might have been a conciliatory smile stirred the brush on his face. He grunted and made noises that would be considered rude at the dinner table. "I'll inform the Gnorst." Bam! He slammed the door. I barely saved my foot. Then I snickered. These characters had to get a little more imaginative. I mean, Gnorst Gnorst, son of Gnorst, the Gnorst of Gnorst? Hell. I guess they don't have much trouble remembering who's related to who. If Gnorst lost his voice, he could answer most personal questions by blowing his nose.

I bet it makes perfect sense to dwarves.

The hair ball was back in five minutes. Probably record time for him. "Come in. Come in." Either the Dead Man's name was magic or they were short on chow for their pet rats. I hoped the character with the imaginative name was impressed with my credential. "Follow me, sir. Follow me. Mind your head, sir. There'll be low ceilings."

The door dwarf did me the added courtesy of lighting a torch off a lamp that yielded a light so feeble it would have done me no good at all. He gave me a look that said this was first-class treatment, properly reserved for visiting royalty.

Dwarf House inside was all gloom and smell, like tenements where families crowd in four to the flat. Only more so. Ventilation was nonexistent.

We trudged up stairs. We went down stairs. I stooped a lot as we marched through workshops where dwarves by the platoon worked on as many projects as there were dwarves working The lighting was uniformly abysmal, but my guide's torch added enough to reveal that these were all proud craftsmen. Each dwarf's product was the best he could fashion. Which would make that item the best of its kind Dagger, shield, plate armor, clock, or clockwork toy, each was a work of art. Each was unique. Each artisan was a master.

My lower back was gnawing at me before we were halfway where we were going. I breathed through my mouth because of the smell I hoped nobody took offense. The racket was incredible. Those dwarves banged and clanged and scraped and squeaked like crazy, all for the sake of maintaining an image as industrious little buggers. I bet they started loafing the second I was out of sight.