32
There were celebrations that night. The Anvil Tavern had opened once again, the boards that had covered the windows piled up and burned in the fireplace, and rickety tables brought from the basement and covered with food and beer.
Most of the guests were the dwarven recruits, having sneaked away from their camp outside of Corcillum. It was hard to tell how many had crammed themselves into the building, and Fletcher found himself huddled beside a low table of swarthy dwarven men, resisting the temptation to sample the jugs of beer they generously offered him every few minutes.
They all knew who he was, knew what he and his friends had done for the dwarves. He had more tankards of beer in front of him than he knew what to do with. Uhtred had spent most of the past few days in deep conversation with the recruits. It was he who was responsible for their performance that day – though it had been touch and go for a while.
Dwarven songs were being sung simultaneously on different sides of the room, with each group trying to drown out the others in a cacophony of deep voices. Sylva and Cress had been adopted by an opposite table, and their sweet voices trilled above it all, much to the encouragement of the men around them. A strange instrument that looked like a mix of a bagpipe and a trumpet was playing a tune that somehow managed to be the only tune that nobody was singing to.
The entire Thorsager family were busy behind the bar, the happy reunion between Othello and the male members of his family swiftly superseded by the need to cater for their scores of hungry guests. Traditional dwarven food was being rushed out of the small kitchenette in the back at an impressive rate, and disappearing down throats just as quickly.
Fletcher gave the hungry soldiers a run for their money though, revelling in the variety of the food and mouthwatering flavours. Soft, honeyed bread studded with nuts and fruit was hand-torn away in hunks, an appetiser to the piles of steaming dumplings stuffed with garlic and pork. Baskets of crispy root vegetables seemed the most popular – parsnips, yams and cassava that had been thin-sliced and seasoned with rock salt, all of it golden fried and still sizzling.
It was only just beginning to dawn on Fletcher that his immediate troubles were over, and for the first time in a long while he found his mind wandering to Pelt, his old home. But Pelt was gone. Berdon – that was what home meant to him.
But he had no way of knowing where his surrogate father and fellow villagers were. The journey from Pelt down to Raleighshire was a dangerous one, patrolled by brigands and con men.
He was already planning to fly out in the morning, scan the main roads for their passage. His own route had been in the back of a sheep cart, which as far as he knew could have taken many detours along its way down. That journey had taken two weeks, but theirs … well, they could arrive any time between that very minute and another month.
It was these thoughts that were swimming in his mind when the Anvil doors slammed open and the armoured men marched in, their pikes crossed in a solid wall of wood and steel. Fletcher’s heart leaped, but he soon relaxed when he saw Harold following behind them, his hands held up and an apologetic smile on his face.
The mood dropped faster than a cannonball at his appearance, and he shuffled his feet awkwardly at the myriad of bearded faces that looked his way. The low buzz of murmuring began.
‘Lads, I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Harold said, his face becoming grim now that he had their attention. ‘But I must ask you to leave at once.’
The murmuring turned to silence. Then: ‘Ah, come off it,’ one of the more inebriated dwarves groaned. ‘Come join us for a wee drinkie.’
Harold gave the dwarf a forced smile, but very few of the other dwarves chuckled. Dwarves knew Harold was a friend to their people, but his intrusion on their night was unwelcome. Fletcher could tell he had misjudged the situation. In the back of his mind, he wondered if they would obey at all if he ordered them. Had they meant that oath they had sworn but a few hours ago?
‘Uhtred,’ Harold called, ‘Fletcher, Othello. Might I have a word? Carry on for now, lads.’
The three of them shouldered their way through the dwarves and ducked beneath the pikes. The spell was already broken – the music had stopped, and disgruntled muttering had begun to pervade the room.
‘It’s the Pinkertons,’ Harold muttered under his breath. ‘They’re still outside the Dwarven Quarter. My father hasn’t ordered them away.’
‘Why?’ Othello asked, his brows furrowing. ‘They should be gone by now.’
‘After what he saw today, he … he’s furious. When we arrived back at the palace, he said he might risk it anyway. Even without the people on his side, or the soldiers, he thinks sending the Pinkertons in to invade your homes might be enough to make your dwarves riot, especially if they rough up your women a bit. His words.’
‘But if he ordered that now, he’d look like a monster,’ Uhtred growled, looking over his shoulder to make sure the other dwarves couldn’t hear. ‘That’s why he didn’t make the speech today: the people would turn against him and he’d lose all his power.’
‘Well, if the dwarves don’t resist and start fighting the Pinkertons then of course that’s true, but if they do then he has a rebellion on his hands, one that he can put down with all the violence he can muster. I’ve convinced him it just won’t happen, so for now we’re holding back. But if he finds out that there’re a hundred drunken dwarves in a tavern down the road, he’ll roll the dice. We need to get them out of here. Now.’
Uhtred closed his eyes and clenched his fists.
‘No matter what we do, there’s always something else, some new threat,’ Uhtred said, his voice tight with emotion. ‘What happens if we’re unlucky next time? What then?’
‘We’ll discuss that in a minute. Right now I need you to get these men out of here before something bad happens.’
Uhtred turned and ducked under the crossed pikes of the royal guards.
He stood on a table and addressed the crowd:
‘Tavern’s closed. Everybody out. Take as much food as you like, leave the tankards. Athol, Atilla, Cress, Thaissa – make sure they go straight back to the barracks. No exceptions.’