Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) (3 page)

Carnifex, though, didn’t want to give the Krypteia the satisfaction of cowing him, so he blithely stepped on, and Thumil joined him.

“There’s room for one more,” Carnifex said to the Black Cloak with the vambrace. “Maybe two, if we breathe in.”

Ignoring him, the Black Cloak muttered into his vambrace again, and the platform dropped like a stone.

It was a weird feeling, plummeting through the shaft; maybe even weirder than hanging from the homunculus’s floating disk. The speed of the descent flipped Carnifex’s guts like a pancake—one of Cordy’s pancakes, for everyone said hers were the best. Always had been, since they were at the
Ephebe
together, the school that prepared a dwarf to fight, long before they went on to learn anything else.

Thumil looked green, but to his credit, he didn’t spew as the platform came to a juddering halt, and they stepped off onto a statue-lined walkway that could only have been the seventh-level approach to the Dodecagon, the seat of the Council’s power.

Two columns of Black Cloaks formed a corridor for them to pass through. Of course, it could have been an honor guard, or simply a formality; but to Carnifex, it looked like a threat.

He’d only been to the seventh level once, and that was for Councilor Moary’s interminable speech on why the
status quo
could not be changed, why Arx Gravis shouldn’t open the way to trade with the Malkuthians outside the ravine, as Councilor Yuffie had proposed. Carnifex had heard every word, in spite of being on duty, but he couldn’t for the life of him say what Old Moary’s argument was. All he remembered was a lot of toing and froing, endless “What ifs” and “Well, I don’t knows”. Old Moary was famous for it. Infamous, you might say. But he’d gotten his way, as he always did. It was far easier convincing the dwarves to leave things as they were, than to introduce even the slightest degree of change.
 

Yuffie had his reasons for wanting trade with the upper lands, no doubt, and by the measure of the man, they likely weren’t legal ones. But the idea had fired Carnifex’s imagination, aroused in him the speculation of what might be found up there, what antidotes to the tedium of the ravine. When he’d mentioned it to his pa, Droom had shut the lid firmly on that can of worms. Miners weren’t exactly renowned for their wanderlust, and speculation to them was as useful as a broken pickaxe.

Thumil marched ahead a step or two, clearly on much more familiar turf. As marshal, he’d endured his fair share of summonses, and he’d let slip once or twice when he’d been asked to attend meetings, and the occasional private talk with Dythin Rala, the Voice of the Council.

Behind the flanking Black Cloaks, Carnifex caught glimpses of fluted columns and statues of the mythical kings of Arnoch. About halfway along, they came under the cover of a vaulted ceiling that hid the walkway from the one above. Supporting struts of whittled scarolite—a mystery in itself, for the ore was harder than diamond—gave way to windowless walls of hexagonal bricks. Glowstones set into the ceiling dappled the floor with an amber sheen. One of them winked and stuttered, its glow bordering on red. The flickering light it shed on the paving was like a bleeding wound, struggling in and out of reality.

They stopped outside the door. It was scarolite, too, blacker than coal and flecked through with green. There was no handle. It was no secret the twelve doors surrounding the Dodecagon were hermetically sealed, though the odd thing was, the mechanism was on the outside only. Whatever the original intended purpose of the council chamber, it conveyed the idea of an elaborate cell. Maybe that’s the only way the dwarves of old could get the job done; ensure their leaders reached a decision before they were allowed out to eat.

If that was the original function of the doors, perhaps the dwarves today could learn from the wisdom of their forebears, because the Council of Twelve was notorious for its stalling, and everyone knew it was comprised of a bunch of shilly-shallying shogwits. The idea, it seemed to Carnifex, was encapsulated in the two mummified councilors standing solemnly either side of the door, no doubt as animated in death as they’d been in life.

One of the Black Cloaks touched his vambrace to a crystalline panel on the wall, and slowly, inch by inch, the door began to grind upward.

Blue light spilled through the widening gap and painted the walkway. As they entered, Carnifex tried to locate its source. He’d heard about it from Thumil: a hidden glow that suffused the interior walls, just enough to illuminate every nook, cranny, and feature, but not so much as to make a dwarf squint. The councilors, like every one else, were used to the shade of the ravine.

Rugbeard, the teacher of the
Annals
, said the lighting was of deep gnome origin, from a time long past when the homunculi had mixed with the dwarves. Some even said the two races were related; others, that the dwarves were but homunculi altered by the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw.

The chamber they stepped into was vast. It must have occupied most, if not all, of the seventh level of the Aorta. There were twelve sides with twelve scarolite doors that each opened onto a different walkway or plaza. The head of a Dwarf Lord was embossed in the center of every door. They were carvings of scarolite; further testimony to skills and lore that had been lost. The green-flecked ore absorbed force, which meant the doors would have made the Dodecagon impregnable to the explosives used by miners to crack open buttresses of rock. They would have ensured the chamber was spell-proof, too, warded against the dark magic said to abound in the nightmare lands of Qlippoth on the other side of the Farfall Mountains.

Twenty-four ribs of the magical malachite, as they called it, stretched from the edges of each wall to meet at a hub of gold in the middle of the ceiling. The hub was molded in the form of twin axe blades, symbolizing the
Pax Nanorum
, the Axe of the Dwarf Lords said to hang above the throne of the king of Arnoch, the mythical city of origin.

A long table of granite was the focal point of the chamber. It was flanked by twelve high-backed chairs seemingly welded from pick axes, mauls, sledgehammers, and chisels—another symbol, this time of the workers that were the lifeblood of the city.

Black Cloaks stood two to a wall, as still as the statues lining the walkway outside. Only their eyes moved, tracking Thumil and Carnifex as they entered.

The councilors were dotted about the room, splashes of blue-tinted white in their robes, each uniform in their dress, but unique in the wearing of their hair and beards. Apparently, they had time for such affectations. Time that might have been better spent doing something, rather than carrying on endless circular arguments that ensured nothing ever changed.

Like a chorus line of dancers, they glided into position, each behind a chair, in a wave of motion that was anything but indecisive. In fact, it looked thoroughly rehearsed, as if that’s how they spent their days sequestered away in the council chamber: blocking out moves that created the appearance of regality, of cohesion and solidarity.

The only thing that spoiled the impression was Old Moary’s holey socks poking out from his sandals. They looked to Carnifex like the same socks the ancient councilor had worn the day of his rambling speech.

At the head of the table, Dythin Rala, the Voice of the Council, covered his mouth and yawned. The action deflated him, and he slumped down into his chair. Taking it as a cue, the other eleven followed suit, some scraping their chairs on the flagstones as they turned them to keep Thumil and Carnifex in view.

The Voice looked gray as ash, and though his beard was awash with the same blue light as everything else, there was no hiding the yellowish streaks, no doubt the result of too much smoking. As if he’d read Carnifex’s thoughts, the wizened leader of the Council produced a long-stemmed pipe and began to tamp down the tobacco in its bowl.

The only other councilor Carnifex knew by sight was Brann Yuffie, and that on account of his shadowy presence at the fighting circle matches, and his underhand dealings at Arx Gravis’s taverns. Rumor had it, he was the one smuggling somnificus from the outside world, and making a tidy profit out of addicting folk to the narcotic herb. The Ravine Guard had closed in on Yuffie’s activities on several occasions, only for Thumil to receive communication from on high to back off.

In the action of lighting his pipe, Dythin Rala somehow managed to convey to the councilor on his right that he was ready to start.

With too much vigor, for Carnifex’s liking, the councilor concerned swiveled in his seat and speared Thumil with a vulture’s look.

“Welcome, Marshal. Your promptness is appreciated.” He had a nasally voice, but each word was carefully enunciated, vowels short, consonants clipped, and “Rs” rolling. “A nasty business, by any measure. What is your take on it?”

“Councilor Grago.” Thumil acknowledged him with a nod, but directed his reply to the Voice.
 

So, that was Grago, the boss of the Black Cloaks, and as affable as a baresark whose beer you’d spilled, from what Carnifex had been told.
 

“The philosopher’s wards on the Scriptorium were triggered at the last gasp of the suns,” Thumil said.

—Magic or some such the human Aristodeus had installed to prevent just such an incursion. The philosopher was the only outsider permitted in the city, though no one could say how or why he’d been granted permission. All Carnifex knew was that Aristodeus once tutored his brother Lucius, and had been known to the dwarves of Arx Gravis since time immemorial. He was more ancient, it was said, even than Old Moary.

“Corporal Jarfy was first on the scene,” Thumil continued, “and was lost to us.”

“Never heard of him,” Grago said, glancing around the table to see if anyone else had.

Dythin Rala puffed out a smoke ring, and retreated behind his wrinkled eyelids.

“So,” Grago said, “how did he die?”

He gave the impression he already knew what had happened; that he’d been briefed by the Krypteia.

Still, at mention of the death, worried looks were exchanged up and down the table. It wasn’t that a dwarf had been lost—accidents in the mines were commonplace—it was that murder had come to Arx Gravis.

Thumil deferred to Carnifex with an open palm.

“Something tore a hole through Jarfy’s chest, Councilor.” Carnifex found himself addressing Grago, whose relentless glare seemed to demand it. “A smoking hole that punctured armor like it was linen.”

“Punctured scarolite?”
 
a sunken-faced councilor said. He was stooped over the table like an old man, but he can’t have been more than two-hundred.

“Fool,” the big lummox next to him said. This one looked half baresark, what with the vivid tattoos on his face and forearms, the iron-beaded braids of his beard. “Ravine Guard are working men, am I right, Marshal? Born to the mines and the lower levels. Scarolite’s for those more equal than the rest of us, eh, Grago?”

“Councilor Crony,” Old Moary said to the lummox. Dythin Rala might have been the Voice, but it was Moary that did most of the talking, the way Carnifex heard it. “Council Jarrol. There will be plenty of time for questions once the marshal and his—Carnifex, isn’t it son? You were on duty at my address. How’s your pa, lad? I’ve known Droom since he was a nipper.”

Grago coughed pointedly.

Everyone turned to Dythin Rala, as if he’d made the noise.

“Ah, yes,” Old Moary said. “Quite. Uh, do carry on.”

Carnifex described what he’d witnessed, as best he could. When he mentioned the homunculus, mutters were passed around the table. When he described the flight on the silver disk to the foot of the ravine, some of the councilors looked incredulous, whereas others looked like they needed to visit the crapper.

When he got to the bit about the homunculus escaping beneath the waters of the
Sanguis Terrae
, Councilor Grago said, “And you went after it, yes?” His eyes flicked to the Black Cloaks in front of the walls.

The implication of his question wasn’t lost on Carnifex. Nor on Thumil, either, by the way the marshal flashed him a warning look. Pursuing the homunculus into the lake would have been a violation of the law: it would have meant leaving Arx Gravis. The punishment was exile, if you chose not to return, and execution, if you did.

“No, Councilor, he did not,” Thumil said.

“Really?” Grago said.

“Really,” Carnifex said. He had to bite his tongue to refrain from adding, “laddie.” His ire might have been up, and he might have wanted to cut the shogger down to size, but it was no way to address a councilor. Especially when your life was hanging from the slenderest of threads.

Grago’s eyes bored into his for an age, like he was seeking a vulnerability, dredging up a confession. Finally, he said, “But you thought about it, didn’t you?”

Thumil laughed out loud. “Then you obviously don’t know Carnifex, Councilor. He can’t swim.”

“Can’t swim?” a weaselly-looking councilor said in a voice full of shrill disbelief. “But that’s against the rules.” He looked straight at Dythin Rala for confirmation.

The Voice languidly opened one eye; puffed out another ring of smoke.

“Is it true, son?” Old Moary asked. “I mean, it is a woman’s duty to teach her children, same as with every other skill outside of the professions.”

“She died, Councilor,” Carnifex said. It still brought a lump to his throat, even though he’d never clapped eyes on her; though it would have been a hundred and sixty years ago to the day, come the morrow.

“Died in childbirth,” Thumil added for clarity.

“Oh,” Moary said. “Should I have known? I mean, was I in attendance?”

Old Moary had been a doctor before he became a councilor. Before that, it was said he was a soldier with a fearsome reputation.

“Long after your retirement, Councilor. She died having Carnifex.”

Old Moary squinted across the table. “Yes, of course. Strapping young lad like you; certainly not old enough to have been afflicted with my ministrations, eh?”

He held up tremulous hands. It was the shakiness that had allegedly forced his exit from surgery and opened the door to politics.