With that, Torval turned and stomped away again. Rem wavered over whether to follow him or not. Thus far, the dwarf had exhibited a tendency to esteem confrontation, not withdrawal. Whether they were partners or not, they’d be walking the same ward, and Rem wanted the dwarf’s respect. That answered his quandary for him, and he followed. Once more, he hove up alongside the striding dwarf.
“Look,” Rem said. “You don’t have to like me, but I could be of assistance just the same. People don’t know my face around here. They don’t know I’m part of the watch yet. Maybe I could work undercover for you? Try to roust out some information …”
Torval stopped, turned, and shoved Rem with all the strength his little body could muster—which was considerable. Rem went sprawling in the mud, narrowly avoiding a pile of still-steaming ox turds.
“You’re not my friend or my partner,” Torval snarled. “Freygaf was my partner, and he was twice the man you could ever hope to be. So just take yourself back to your rented rooms, you sot—you tourist—and find yourself something else to do. This is a game for grown-ups, not spoiled stable whelps who’ve run away from home.”
With that, the angry dwarf turned and strode away. Rem couldn’t even pull himself up off the ground, he was so shocked, so humbled. The dwarf had him dead to rights … at least, the running-away-from-home part. Rem thought he was being sold short in the matters of his dedication and capabilities, but what did he really have to show the dwarf to claim otherwise? How could he convince the squat bastard that he really did want to help, and that he really did want to bring Freygaf’s killers to justice?
At the end of the street, just before he should have turned a corner and been lost to sight, Torval stopped. He stood for a long time, as if contemplating something. Rem still sat in the mud. He hadn’t made any attempt to rise. When Torval turned and marched back toward him, Rem finally did so, and did his best to scrape the mud off his kecks and jerkin.
Torval’s face was softer now—as soft as that hard, broad countenance could be, anyway. He looked lost and sword-shocked again. For a moment, his mouth worked, but no words came. Rem didn’t rush him.
“I’m sorry,” the dwarf finally said. “That wasn’t fair of me.”
“Understandable,” Rem said. “You’ve had a shock.”
“I don’t know you,” Torval said. “I shouldn’t judge you. But judging is what we watchwardens do. Every night, again and again and again, we walk into situations we know little of and we have to read those involved. We have to guess if they’re dangerous or not, if there’ll be trouble we can handle or trouble we need help with. Judging wrong gets us killed. So, it becomes habit.”
Rem shrugged. He wasn’t angry. “It makes sense,” he said.
Torval was silent for a time. Finally, he nodded, the apology given and accepted. “Come break fast with me,” he said. “We can talk a bit. Maybe … well, maybe if you want to help me, I could use your help.”
Rem nodded. “I’d be honored. Lead the way.”
Torval led Rem into the Third Ward. Rem didn’t ask where they were going and Torval never said, but Rem trusted the little fellow now and knew that Torval was probably still sword-shocked from the revelation of Freygaf’s murder. If he was quiet, it was because he needed quiet. Rem decided to let that contemplative silence persist.
The Third Ward—where Rem kept his rooms—was nowhere near as crowded or as hoary as the Fifth. While its streets seemed just as labyrinthine and its quarters as close, there was an underlying orderliness to it all that made Rem feel far more at ease than he did while walking the Fifth the night before. At this early hour—just after sunrise—the streets were starting to show signs of activity, with food stalls and grocers’ carts nabbing prime real estate at the edges of the cobbled or muddied streets, while blacksmiths, carters, wheelwrights, stevedores, and day laborers all slumped off into the morning mists toward their labors, or in search of paying work. Generally, Rem got the impression that the Third Ward was more middle-class, an impression that hadn’t fully taken hold when he simply rented his rooms there, before knowing how the city’s wards were divided, or what another of those wards looked like.
At last they came to a nicely sized tavern near the East Gate of the city. Its shingle named it the King’s Ass, and it sported a rather charming caricature of a loutish, happily knackered monarch swaying atop a grim-faced, put-upon donkey. Even at this early hour, the doors were wide open and the buzz of conversation spilled out into the still, quiet morning air.
“My place,” Torval said by way of introduction.
“Charming,” Rem answered.
The inside was as warm and inviting as the humorous sign suggested. The rushes and sawdust on the floor were fresh, the tables and chairs lacquered and in good repair, and the clientele a fine mix—neither hoity-toity nor drawn from the dregs, but mostly made up of laborers, shopkeeps, and artisans on their way to or from work. Torval sauntered through the thin crowd like he owned the place. He led Rem up to the bar and they took stools there.
There was no one behind the bar when they hove to, but in moments, a handsome woman just shy of or into her forties appeared from the door to what Rem presumed were the kitchens. Her face brightened when she saw Torval and she made a beeline toward the pair, wiping grease from her hands on the apron that hung around her waist.
“Bless me and keep me,” she muttered, “it’s my very best customer. Just off duty, Torval?”
Torval nodded. Rem saw something strange on the dwarf’s broad face now: a sort of discord where the smile that the woman brought to Torval’s mouth clashed with the still-ruminative sadness in his hazel eyes. “Aarna, my love, you’re a sight for tired eyes.”
The sight of her really did seem to light him up from within, silly as that sounded. But still, the fresh reality of Freygaf lay upon him like a sodden mantle.
“And where’s Freygaf this morning?” Aarna asked, clearly familiar with the dwarf’s former partner. “Did he leave you for the brothels again, or were there prisoners in need of tenderizing?”
The mention of Freygaf’s name brought the trace of tears to Torval’s eyes. He was still struggling to smile, still putting on a show for the woman, but the show was fading, and the truth of his grief pressing through.
“Alas,” Torval said, “our dear Freygaf’s no more.”
His voice broke when he spoke. Rem didn’t know the dwarf very well, but he wagered it took a great deal to make him show emotion so baldly, so publicly, to anyone that wasn’t a blood relation.
Aarna, for her part, seemed to understand this. Immediately, her face was a mask of worry and concern and she rounded the bar. Without a single word—with all the simple, honest sincerity of a true and longtime friend—she threw her arms around Torval and held him. To the dwarf’s credit, he didn’t try to throw off the embrace or shun it—as many a dwarf might—but put his own long, thick arms around Aarna and held her, too. It was a good thing he was sitting on his stool, otherwise, his head would’ve been buried in her ample bosom. Then again, maybe that would’ve assuaged his grief further.
Rem didn’t say a word while Torval sought his solace in the arms of the bar matron. When their embrace finally broke, Torval gave a single, punctuating sniffle, wiped his eyes with his wrist, then slapped the bar.
“Enough,” he said. “I’m famished, and so’s the lad.”
Rem noted that Aarna beamed with something like pride at this subtle display of self-control from Torval. Clearly, she knew the little fellow well and understood that he would let no more of his grief color the morning. When more tears came, they’d come in solitude, without anyone—friend or family member—bearing witness.
She turned her bright eyes and broad smile upon Rem. “And who is the handsome lad, Torval?”
Rem found himself touched. The woman was neither flashy nor what one would call beautiful, but her large brown eyes and broad grin and comfortable curves suggested she was a woman of singular charms and distinctions. Perhaps not highborn or polished, but lovely in her own way nonetheless. To be called handsome by her, to be smiled at by her, made a man feel all the more manly.
“This is Rem,” Torval said gruffly, “a poncey whelp who was arrested the night before last for disturbing the peace but whose good looks and quick tongue got him a place on the watch. I’ve been forced to deal with his easy incompetence all night long, and now I need a tankard of ale just to wash his taste from my mouth. Can you help me?”
“I can always help,” Aarna assured him, and gave Rem her hand. “Delighted, young sir.”
Rem took her hand and kissed it. “My pleasure, madame.”
“Sundry hells,” Torval chuffed. “Bonny Prince Remeck, kissing hands and collecting favors …”
Aarna slapped Torval’s broad shoulder playfully. “You’re just jealous. Shall you be breaking fast, as well?”
“Aye.”
“Ale and repast, then, on the way.” She left them with a flourish, and Rem delighted in the silly, self-indulgent grin that bloomed on Torval’s face as he watched Aarna disappear into the kitchen.
Rem heard something off to his left, a sound that drew his gaze and begged his attention. It was laughter—high, musical, completely unselfconscious. That laughter belonged to a young barmaid on the far side of the room with flaxen ringlets and bright-blue eyes. She, too, had Aarna’s natural brightness and charm—evident from a distance—although there was no way the two could be related, so different were they. Nonetheless, Rem suddenly found himself staring, watching the young lady as she smiled and flirted and freely laughed with a group of stonemasons as they placed their orders.
For a moment, he smiled. The girl’s laugh reminded him of Indilen, and their brief afternoon together. She had a laugh like that, as well—a laugh as bright as sunlight on a rippling pond. In an instant, his smile had fallen.
“Oh ho, see here,” Torval said beside him. “Some bull’s had his lead yanked.”
Rem threw a glance at Torval, tried to force a smile and sound nonchalant. “Just admiring the scenery.”
“What you see doesn’t seem to be pleasing you,” Torval said.
Rem shrugged. He thought he might speak, as well, but no words came. Thankfully, Torval did not press him for any.
Rem had been so sure that Indilen would be there, working at the Pickled Albatross, to meet him. Why in all the sundry hells of the Panoply hadn’t she deigned to even show up and speak with him that night? Had their brief but memorable afternoon together really meant so much to him and so little to her? Had she lied to him? Forgotten about him?
Or had something terrible befallen her? Something that kept her from her appointed shift, and their intended meeting.
“I could introduce you,” Torval said.
Rem finally found the words that had escaped him moments ago. “I should learn my lesson where barmaids are concerned.”
“Come now, lad,” Torval said, “You can’t stop petting the pups just because one bit you and ran away.”
“If she’d deigned to bite me,” Rem said, “I’d have counted myself lucky. She skipped right to the running-away part. And, honestly, Torval, I really thought there was something between us. Some spark, like tinder and flint—”
“Such is the way of things,” Torval said wistfully. Aarna returned with two tankards and thumped them down in front of the pair. Torval lifted his and Rem followed suit. Before he drank, Torval paused, held out his tankard, and poured a small measure of the ale onto the rush- and sawdust-strewn floor.
“A draught for Freygaf,” he said quietly. “May his ascent of the mountain be smooth and his welcome in the Halls of the Undying a warm one.”
Rem gave Torval an approving nod and poured out some of his own ale. Then he lifted his tankard in toast. “To Freygaf.”
“To Freygaf,” Torval said.
They drank.
The ale in the tankard was some of the finest Rem had ever tasted—fruity and fulsome, big and malty, with some mild hoppy bitters to temper its sweetness and a whorl of mouth-tempting spices. The brewers of the Lycos Vale were renowned throughout the north, but Rem honestly couldn’t remember ever tasting an ale to compare with what he now quaffed.
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered, licking his lips. “Where on earth did they find this stuff?”
Torval smiled. “Aaaah, another satisfied customer! That’d be Joedoc’s hand. He’s the brewmaster. Doesn’t work the mornings, so he’s not around at present—but he’s a genius with barley and malt, isn’t he?”
Rem settled onto his stool. “I think I’ve just found my new favorite watering hole,” he said.
Torval made a mock-serious face. “I saw her first, Longshanks!”
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to share, you obstreperous little man?” Rem asked, laughing.
For the first time since being thrust upon Torval, Rem felt like the two of them might make good partners after all. When their laughing tapered off, the food arrived—cheese, some dried plums, and salt pork—and the two ate. Rem found the fare simple but satisfying—and the quality of the ale more than made up for the simplicity of the food that accompanied it. When they had finished, Rem felt the weariness of a long night upon him and begged his leave of Torval.
“I’ve got to sleep,” he said, feeling as though he might conk out at any moment, right there at the bar.
“On your way, then,” Torval said, pulling coin from the little purse at his belt.
“Wait a minute,” Rem said, “I’ll not have you paying for my ale just yet—”
“Shut your cake hole,” Torval snarled. “This one’s on me. ’Sides, they only charge us for the ale here. Food’s free for watchwardens. You can buy for me after you get your first pay purse.”
Rem was touched. “Very generous of you. Thanks, Torval.”
“Get out of here,” Torval said. “Go get some sleep. We’ll have another long night ahead of us come sundown.”
Rem stood and swayed on his feet. The combination of the ale and his weariness was working on him. Hard. He steadied himself on the bar.
Aarna emerged from the kitchen again. “Leaving us already, good sir?” she asked.
“For the last time, Aarna,” Torval said, almost growling, “this little snot’s no ‘sir.’ He’s just another dumb watchman walking the beat, like the rest of us.”
Rem felt a bloom of warmth in the center of him. Strange as it might be, he liked the sound of that. Of all the things in the world that he could be—that he might have been—a watchman walking a beat sounded good enough for him.
Rem bent over the bar, took Aarna’s hand again, and gave it another kiss. “Until the next time, milady.”
“You can bring him back whenever you like,” Aarna gushed to Torval.
“Bloody hells,” Torval grumbled.