36
From the height of the sun, it was already late in the morning when Fletcher woke. It was time to face the music.
Fletcher put on his new uniform – for he had little else in the way of clothing – then strapped on his pistols, sword, bow and quiver. His satchel from the mission went on his back, and then Fletcher realised that that was it. All his worldly possessions were with him now.
For a moment he had the mad desire to avoid the responsibilities of nobility. To sneak out of the window, catch a boat to Swazulu and never come back. He shook the temptation from his thoughts with a rueful grin and headed for the door.
Downstairs, the bar area was packed to the rafters with scores of men and women sitting on the right side, dwarves on the left. The room, once abuzz with conversation, fell silent as their faces turned towards him. Berdon was the only human seated among the dwarves, and he gave Fletcher an encouraging nod.
Fletcher cleared his throat.
‘It is good to see you all,’ he said. ‘To see so many familiar faces.’
Silence.
‘Our new friends, the dwarves,’ he said, motioning to his left, ‘have kindly organised our accommodation for the night, as well as transport to our destination. They have also provided tools, food, clothing and building materials. Everything we need to begin our new lives. I am sure I am not alone in saying that we are grateful for everything they have done for us.’
His words elicited a smattering of applause from the right side of the room, and a twinge of relief ran through him. But only for a moment.
‘And I am sure I’m not alone in asking, at what cost?’ demanded a voice.
The speaker stood, and Fletcher saw that it was Janet, the spokesperson for Pelt.
‘What’s the catch?’ she asked. ‘And why are they all gathered here? There’s something you’re not telling us, and I think I know what it is.’
‘I am about to tell you,’ Fletcher said, lacing his voice with what he hoped was authority. ‘If you’d be so kind as to sit down and listen.’
Janet sat down, but her crossed arms and glare told him he had done little to mollify her.
‘In exchange for their help, I have agreed that fifty dwarves can join our colony. These are the people you see sitting here with you.’ He waved to the dwarves, who looked nervously for a reaction from the humans.
Janet’s brow furrowed.
‘So … we don’t owe them anything?’ she asked. ‘They’re not here to collect payment?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Fletcher said, confused. ‘Is that what you thought?’
‘Have you seen what’s out there?’ Janet said, pointing at the tavern entrance. ‘There’s a score of wagons full of bales of cloth and canvas, fishing gear, axes, picks and spades, wax candles, cooking utensils, hunting muskets, goddamn seeds of every crop under the sun.’
She took a breath.
‘I saw chests full of soaps and medicines, inks and papers, linens and bloody pillows – hell, they’ve got half a dozen goats at the back somewhere. You’re saying we can just have it? No debt, no nothing?’
‘It’s for all of us,’ Fletcher said, motioning to the entire room. ‘Dwarf, man, whoever. We are in this together now.’
Janet broke into a smile.
‘Well, I think that’s bloody marvellous!’
Already some of the villagers were grinning, some even raising their glasses to the dwarves from across the room. But Fletcher could see not all of the villagers were happy with the situation – a few were glowering into their mugs, some even muttering under their breath. He held up a hand for their attention.
‘We will be leaving soon, so I want you all to gather your belongings and join the dwarves on the wagons immediately. But first, I want to make something clear. If any of you are unhappy with the living arrangements, you can leave right now. There are a thousand opportunities in this city, especially for skilled workers such as yourselves. So if you don’t think you can stomach living with dwarves, there’s the door.’
Fletcher allowed his eyes to linger on each of the most unhappy-looking villagers. He knew them all by name, knew their personalities. Pelt was a small village.
‘I’m out,’ someone announced, standing up and heading for the door. He was a big bruiser of a man, formally of the town guard. His name was Clint, and he had been a rival of Didric’s, long ago. Fletcher suspected that was why he had not been offered a position in Pelt’s new prison guard.
‘I’ll take my chances with my fellow man,’ he continued, ignoring the dark glances from his fellow villagers. ‘I hear the Pinkertons are hiring.’
More villagers followed him, some shamefaced, others standing proudly and slapping Clint on the back.
‘Tell Sergeants Murphy and Turner I said hello,’ Fletcher called after Clint as he and the others strolled out.
The door slammed shut behind them, but with their departure a weight seemed to lift from the room. All in all, a dozen men and women had departed, leaving roughly a hundred dwarves and humans in the tavern.
‘Right,’ Fletcher said, clapping his hands together. ‘Let’s get moving.’