21
Fletcher and his team sat around the tavern table, examining the map in front of them.
‘Why are they dropping us in so far from the mission target?’ Othello said, pointing to the far edge of the map, where their drop zone was marked with an X. ‘It will take us days to get there.’
‘It’s probably as close as they can get to the pyramid without being seen,’ Sylva mused, tracing the distance from the front line to the mark with her finger. ‘If we’re spotted being dropped off, then we might as well set off some fireworks to announce our arrival.’
Fletcher watched the debate with his chin in his hands, too tired to add his own speculation. The cart ride into Corcillum had been miserable, drenching them with a thin drizzle that had kept them all silently huddled together, protecting the map and instructions that Rook had handed to them on the way out of Vocans.
When they finally arrived, Othello led them straight to a boarded-up tavern, where he said they could bed down for the night, while Seraph’s team followed Sacharissa, presumably to find whoever Arcturus had chosen as their guide. Lysander also took his leave, launching into flight without any prior warning. Fletcher guessed that Lovett had stopped scrying and the Griffin was eager to return to her side.
The tavern’s rafters hung extremely low, as if designed for dwarves instead of men, and the inside looked as if it had not been disturbed for a long time, with tables and chairs scattered haphazardly around the bar. Othello had lit the few remaining lanterns, but the room stayed gloomy, relying mostly on the moonlight that filtered through the shuttered windows.
‘Where the hell are we anyway?’ Fletcher groaned, wiping his finger along the edge of the table and showing them the dust. ‘It’s filthy in here.’
‘The Anvil Tavern,’ Cress replied, pointing at a sign with the same name and symbol above the door. ‘It’s where the Anvils used to meet, believe it or not. The clue’s in the name.’
She winked at him.
The name was familiar, and Fletcher had a hazy memory of Athol suggesting he go there on his first day in Corcillum, when he gave him the Anvil card that had been used at the trial.
‘I used to come here,’ Jeffrey spoke up, leaving the table and leaning on the bar. He’d barely said a word since they had chosen him as their guide. ‘I was even a junior member, before they became arsonists and this place was shut down. Best beer in all of Corcillum. Worth joining up for that alone.’
‘Dwarf-owned,’ Othello said, his chest swelling with pride. ‘My cousin’s place actually. He said we could use it to prepare for the mission.’
‘The instructions said that the mission starts the day after tomorrow,’ Fletcher said, ignoring them. ‘I’d rather get in some shuteye now, because I don’t think we’ll get much in the jungle. We can sort all this out in the morning.’
‘Actually, Fletcher, you’ll need to stay up a little while longer,’ Othello said, a sheepish smile on his face. ‘We have visitors coming. They’ll be here any minute, with any luck.’
There was a knock on the door, the rat-a-tat-tat making Fletcher jump.
‘Right on cue,’ Othello grinned, running over to the door and throwing it open.
Two figures stood in the doorway. The closest wore long, flowing robes of pink and blue, with twisting flowers embroidered down the centre. Although she wore a veil, from the way Othello hugged her, Fletcher guessed it was Briss, his mother.
Beside her, Athol stood with his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his breeches, a tired but satisfied look upon his face.
‘Would you give us a hand with the goods?’ Athol said, motioning with his head to a boar-pulled cart behind him. It was piled high with packages, and the boar’s sides were soaked with sweat from an arduous journey. ‘Be careful, it’s precious cargo. Might save your life.’
The swarthy dwarf winked at Fletcher, then laughed uproariously as they embraced. Fletcher pounded him on the back while Jeffrey, Sylva and Cress ferried the packages inside and laid them on the table. He had not realised how much he had missed Athol until now.
It did not take long for it all to be unloaded, and Athol gave the boar a slap on the rump with his hand. The animal gave a disgruntled squeal, then trotted away, the cart rumbling behind it.
‘He knows his way back. Smarter than horses, boars,’ Athol said, leaning against a table and plucking his braces with his thumbs. He gave a low whistle as he looked around him.
‘Look at this place,’ he moaned, picking up a discarded tankard from the table behind him and turning it upside down. A thin stream of dust trickled out and he wrinkled his nose.
‘Used to be the best tavern in all of Hominum,’ he grumbled. ‘Soon as the first terror attack happened, it was boarded up and closed. Would have been burned down by some enterprising human otherwise. Damned shame.’
‘What did happen?’ Fletcher asked, trying to understand what had changed during his long incarceration. ‘What do the Anvils have to do with these attacks?’
Athol sighed and rubbed his eyes.
‘The Anvils were just humans who were friendly to the dwarves at first,’ he explained, settling down on one of the low benches. ‘Started with a few of them drinking in one of our pubs, because of our beer, of course. Soon we started handing out membership cards to keep out troublemakers, like some of the racist gangs who came looking for a fight. Didn’t take long for them to become something of a gang themselves, making sure their dwarf friends got home safe, demonstrating at dwarven protests, that sort of thing. Nothing violent though. Nothing like what happened.’
Athol paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
‘The first explosion was at one of the demonstrations, after a young dwarf lad was wrongfully arrested,’ Athol continued, a grim expression on his face. ‘Gunpowder and musket balls, packed in a barrel beside the Pinkertons and set off by a long fuse. Took out three of them and ten innocents. Could only have been an Anvil, the investigators said. The barrel had been left out days before to avoid suspicion, and the only people who knew the location of the protest was us and the Anvils. They might have pinned the blame on us dwarves, but a witness saw the bomber running from the scene. Too tall for a dwarf, they said.’
‘But why?’ Fletcher asked. ‘What could that possibly achieve?’
‘We’ll never know,’ Cress answered, her eyes closed, hands trembling with sudden anger. ‘Their leaders all upped and vanished that very same day. But there were more attacks. One at the young dwarf’s trial itself. Killed thirty people that time, including the dwarf in question. It was like they didn’t even care. They left a calling card then, quite literally. Membership cards, the kind you couldn’t fake, belonging to the leadership.’
‘Like the one you gave me, the one they showed at the trial?’ Fletcher asked.
‘No, those were cards for junior members, if you can call them that. Most of the young girls and boys in Corcillum had a card at one point or another – they handed them out like candy,’ Athol replied, shaking his head. ‘Myself included, if you haven’t forgotten. The only reason they would have brought it up at the trial was to confuse the jury, who wouldn’t know that, so far north of Corcillum. It was little more than an entry ticket.’
‘Rory and Genevieve had one,’ Jeffrey agreed. ‘Even some of the nobles. Plus most of the other servants, like Mr Mayweather the cook, used to come here. They wanted to try the beer, like me.’
There was silence then, the mood turning sombre as they realised how bad things had become. Fletcher wondered if this mission would make any difference at all, after what he had just heard. Would seeing teams of dwarves, elves and humans fighting together really bring about peace?
‘Years of progress were gone in an instant,’ Othello whispered, staring into space. ‘Pointless, pointless, pointless. Everyone blamed the dwarves, of course. Said we were seducing young, impressionable humans with alcohol, brainwashing them and making them do our dirty work.’
‘Tell them what Uhtred thinks,’ Briss said, her face inscrutable behind the veil.
Othello rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if it was a waste of time. Cress kicked him and he yelped, rubbing his shin.
‘I want to find out what’s in these packages – get on with it,’ she said, crossing her arms. ‘And respect your mother.’
‘Fine! It’s a stupid theory, but it’s no crazier than any other explanation I’ve heard,’ Othello grumbled, sitting down and examining his ginger-haired leg for bruises. ‘He thinks someone in the Anvil leadership was working for the Triumvirate. The new anti-dwarven sentiment is killing our weapons business. Quartermasters refusing to buy from us, rumours spread about us sabotaging our muskets to explode in their owners’ faces.’
‘Or it could just as easily be a fanatical dwarf who believes that we should rebel again,’ Cress said, unimpressed by Othello’s father’s theory. ‘Someone like Ulfr. He’s the worst of us. Used to have Atilla under his wing too, until he met you of course, Fletcher.’
She smiled brightly at him, then turned to Athol and Briss.
‘Now, I know you have both been working flat out all day on a top secret project, which is why you couldn’t come and watch me win the Tournament,’ Cress said, with a hint of admonishment. ‘So let’s see what the fuss is about.’
Briss clapped her hands excitedly, then reached behind and began to pass packages to the members of the team. Fletcher couldn’t help but tear open his own immediately, the soft give beneath the brown paper wrapping telling him exactly what it was – a uniform.
He shook it out and held it up to the light, amazed by the deep blue of the cloth that it had been made from.
The jacket was chased with silver thread, with an open collar and wide lapels in white. It was long enough to go past his knees, just as his last jacket had been, but the material was thicker.
‘It should be long and thick enough to keep you warm at night, and light enough to keep you agile,’ Briss said, fiddling with her dress in embarrassment. ‘It’s wool, so it will breathe well, but I also rubbed oil in to keep it waterproof, though wool is naturally water resistant itself.’
Fletcher saw that the others were holding up identical clothing.
‘It’s perfect,’ Fletcher breathed, ‘and it’s the blue and silver of the Raleigh house, right?’
‘Yes,’ Briss laughed. ‘I’m glad you noticed! At first I was going to make it green, so it would blend with the jungle, but we need the world to be able to see you through the scrying crystals. Remember, this is about winning hearts and minds. A colourful uniform will help everyone identify your team.’
‘That’s so true,’ Fletcher said, shrugging on the jacket and examining the matching trousers that came with it. ‘I wouldn’t have thought of that.’
‘I also made you boots,’ Briss said, pointing to a row of thigh-length moccasins that Athol had left on the table. ‘Made with elven leather, soft but durable. The very best kind.’
Sylva smiled at that remark, bowing her head in cheerful acknowledgement. The team thanked her profusely, while Athol rocked back and forth on his feet, eager to open his own packages.
‘My turn now,’ Athol said, before Briss had a chance to respond. ‘I know you already have a bow and falx, Sylva, so I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you except for some blue-fletched arrows – your team colour.’
‘That’s OK,’ Sylva replied, though there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. ‘My weapons belonged to my father, so I think they’ll do.’
‘Good, good,’ Athol said distractedly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. ‘Cress, I already made you the torq and seax for the Tournament, so you’re all set with close-combat weapons, but I’ll be providing you with a crossbow tomorrow, some blue crossbow bolts and a sword for Jeffrey. Didn’t have room on the cart for them.’
‘Bah,’ Cress huffed, sitting down heavily. ‘I was looking forward to my new weapons all day!’
‘Now, Othello,’ Athol said, beckoning his friend over.
He pulled a package from the pile and Othello tore it open eagerly.
‘This is a blunderbuss,’ he explained, as the gun was extracted from an oily cloth. ‘It’s loaded with buckshot – small spherical balls that will spread out when fired. You won’t get much accuracy from it, but you will have some serious stopping power. A berserk bull-orc might run through a normal musket ball, kill you and be halfway home for dinner before it realises it’s been shot, same with arrows and crossbow bolts. It’ll die eventually, sure, but that won’t do you much good. Hit it with a handful of buckshot and it’ll go down like it’s been struck by a sledgehammer.’
Othello held the firearm up to the light, revealing a weapon that was very similar to a musket, but with a shorter barrel and a muzzle that flared open like a trumpet. The metal was burnished to a bronze sheen, and the wood was the dark grain of polished teak.
‘I hesitate to give it to you in a covert mission such as yours, but if your cover is blown you might as well use it,’ Athol said, stepping out of the way as Othello lifted the weapon and sighted down the barrel. ‘Just be aware that if you shoot it, they’ll be able to hear the gunshot from miles around.’
Othello’s face was a picture of joy as he reverently laid the blunderbuss on the table. Athol’s expression was identical, and he wordlessly handed him a leather gun-holster that could be slung over Othello’s shoulder.
‘There’s also a battle-axe for you,’ Athol said, pointing at a package beside him. ‘I took it off the rack – one of your father’s finest. No time to personalise it, unfortunately. I chucked a few hurlbat throwing axes in there too.’
‘Thank you, truly,’ Othello said, his voice hitching. ‘You have outdone yourself with that blunderbuss. My father has taught you well.’
‘Ah, well, he would have made it himself if he wasn’t so busy with the council. Luckily, he managed to get your tomahawk back from the Pinkertons after the trial – he’ll give it to you when he sees you off.’
Othello sat down, shaking his head with a rueful smile.
‘Now Fletcher’s turn … unless you want to go to sleep, Fletcher?’ Athol winked. ‘This can wait until tomorrow if you want.’
‘Very funny,’ Fletcher said, eyeing the pile of packages behind Athol. Could they really all be for him?
‘I must admit, most of these are just me re-gifting you your possessions, courtesy of Arcturus,’ Athol said, setting aside several large packages. ‘He kept them safe for you while you were in jail. Your bow, khopesh, scabbard, scrying stone, money, clothes and arrows are all in these. He also wanted me to give you this.’
Athol handed him a familiar-looking package, and Fletcher laughed with delight when he saw what it was.
James Baker’s diary and the spellcraft book had been neatly tied together with twine. Somehow, Arcturus had managed to rescue them from his cell. As Fletcher took it, he saw a note was pinned to the top:
Fletcher grinned from ear to ear. The mysterious benefactor who had put the books in his cell had been revealed. Although he now knew that they were not half-brothers, Arcturus had done more for him than any brother could. Fletcher owed the man so much.
‘I should have given that to you last,’ Athol grumbled, noting Fletcher’s joyous expression. ‘Anyway, here you go.’
He held out a weighty package, which Fletcher set carefully on the table, then tore open.
A pair of pistols shone in the flickering light, one with an elongated barrel, the other with two shorter ones. The longer pistol had a Salamander engraved along the grip, the detailing intricate – more the work of an artist than a gunmaker. The other had a Gryphowl design of equal beauty, with a wing pointing down each barrel.
‘Captain Lovett called on us earlier and helped me with the design. I hope you like it,’ Athol said, rubbing his callused hands and watching Fletcher’s face anxiously.
Fletcher hefted the Salamander pistol, careful to keep his finger off the trigger.
‘It’s amazing,’ he breathed, rubbing the polished wood with his hand. It had a reddish tinge, and was smooth as silk.
‘I’m so glad you think so,’ Athol said, breaking into a broad grin.
Athol stepped forward, taking the weapon and holding it up to the nearest torch.
‘This one’s a prototype. The inside of the barrel is “rifled”, with a groove that spirals down the inside and gives the bullet spin. You’ll find it fires further and more accurately than any musket, but it’s harder to load.’
Fletcher began to peer down the barrel, then thought better of it as Athol twitched it away and lay the weapon aside.
‘This is another prototype,’ Athol said, picking up the next pistol. ‘Two barrels means two shots, but twice the reload time, so there’s no rifling for this weapon. The barrels are smoothbore. Othello will show you how to load and fire these later down the line.’
‘And you should name your guns,’ Othello said, his eyes still focused on the gleaming metal of the blunderbuss. ‘This one is called Bess.’
He reddened slightly, as Cress grinned at the name.
‘Childhood crush,’ he admitted, his ears slowly turning pink.
Fletcher laughed, then turned to his own brace of pistols. For a moment he considered naming them after his parents, but it felt wrong somehow. No, the engravings were the key.
‘Blaze and Gale,’ he said, brandishing each pistol. ‘Blaze for Ignatius’s fire and Gale for how Athena can glide on the wind.’
‘Fine names,’ Sylva agreed, nodding her head solemnly.
The guns weighed heavily in his hands, and he felt the power behind them. Capable of ending a life, just by pointing and shooting. Formidable weapons indeed.
‘Aim for the head if it’s an orc and be careful of the noise,’ Athol advised, pushing Fletcher’s hands down so the pistols pointed at the floor. ‘Now, your final gift. I had to make some last-minute adjustments when Captain Lovett told me you had taken up Electra’s offer, which is why we were a little late.’
Athol opened the package himself, revealing a long leather band, with a collection of straps, holsters and toggles along it.
‘This is your harness,’ he said, pulling it over Fletcher’s head and adjusting the straps. He tugged and pulled here and there, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.
‘That’ll do just fine. Let’s get you all set up. Holster those pistols, will you? You’ve got me all nervous pointing those things around.’
Fletcher slid his pistols into the holsters that were now at his sides, feeling the balanced weight of the two on his hips. Athol tore open the packages behind him, and Fletcher felt his bow and quiver clipped to his back, and the khopesh’s scabbard added to his belt. Finally, the dwarf nipped around and slotted four of the vials that Electra had given them in a bandolier along Fletcher’s chest.
‘Perfect,’ Athol said. ‘You’re armed to the teeth but you’ll be able to slip through the jungle like a wraith with this thing on, nothing falling off or jingling.’
‘It is perfect,’ Fletcher said, looking around for a mirror to admire himself, but failing to find one. He contented himself with looking down at his chest, gripping the handles of his pistols and feeling the power behind them.
‘I don’t know how to repay you Athol, or you, Briss. I have some money – I won’t be needing it in the jungles. Let me do that at least.’
‘Not a chance,’ Athol said, pushing his hands into his pockets.
Fletcher took the purse from one of Arcturus’s open packages and tried to hand it to Briss, but she backed away with her palms in the air.
‘Just survive,’ she said simply, putting her arm around Othello’s shoulder. ‘And keep my boy safe.’