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The patio was still empty as he watched the sun climb. Sven sat near the stone wall, chilly mountain air mixed with the sweet smoke from his roll of moonleaf, chugging gently like the volcano behind him. He took a deep inhale and looked out over the village below. The gates they had entered through yesterday looked so insignificant from this vantage. Beyond the walls, rows of tightly wrapped green bulbs on grey-green stalks swayed lightly in the breeze, their broad leaves forming an elaborate fan dance.
Sven wondered about his own garden. It was already overgrown when he abandoned the cottage. Maybe someone else had come to make a home there.
The scrabbling of pebbles drew his attention back to the patio. A jay was hopping along, picking at the stones in hopes of finding some seeds. Slowly, Sven reached into a pocket of his jacket and produced some nuts. He whistled gently at the jay, offering some food for company.
A quick flap found the jay roosting on Sven’s table, curious. Out from the shadow of the wall, the sunlight illuminated the iridescence of its green plumage. It cocked its head slightly; impatient.
Sven obliged, and poured the mix of nuts into a small pile by its feet. The bird chirped and began its breakfast.
“What are you doing up this high by yourself, hey?” He whispered to the jay. “Me? Oh, I’ve got company, they’re just inside still. I think they have an easier time sleeping than me.”
The bird looked up from the nuts.
“Nah, I’m okay,” he reassured. “Fill your belly. Take some back to the ones who need you.”
The jay’s orange beak dove into the pile, searching, discriminating against seeds it deemed less than worthy. It surfaced, nut in its beak, and flew off down the ridge. A few minutes later it returned with a triumphant squawk. The cycle repeated until the shadow of the retaining wall had been coaxed down to his ankles, and the pile of nuts was reduced to a small smattering.
The jay returned once more, this time perching on the arm of Sven’s chair. Slowly, he extended a finger to stroke its soft feathers of jade and viridian. It must not have been more than a minute before the jay sounded an alarm and took off. Within a moment, the sound of crunching gravel and the scent of bacon invaded the patio.
“Good mornin’ to ya,” the new patron called over as she sat at a table three to the right of Sven.
He waved back, half a smile on his face. She was wearing the outfit of a Gadrian courier. Sven had seen enough of them while performing down there. This one was different, though. Same cut, same fabric, but instead of the traditional colours of caerulean and white, hers was dyed in lavender and lemon, with an emblem stitched into the breast and shoulder. A lotus, perhaps. He didn’t know much about Gadrian livery, and wasn’t too keen to learn this morning.
He decided instead to look west, past the fields of cabbages and gourds, to the great storm thrashing inside its invisible container.
“It’s weird, right?” Wilbur’s voice carried from behind. “I’ve never been able to understand how that storm works. And a lot of tutors have tried to teach me.”
Sven smiled to himself. How very Wilbur. “Did you sleep alright, kid?”
“Yeah, not too bad,” the boy plopped down beside Sven, the chair flexed beneath his force and scattered gravel with a light scraping. “The bed was softer than mine, and there was this sweet leafy smell all night.”
“Heather,” Sven replied. “They stuff the edge of the top-quilt with dried heather. Reminds me of a tea with honey.”
“That’s exactly what it was,” Wilbur half-spoke. It was more of a breathy revelation than a continuance of conversation.
“Are the other two awake?”
“I ‘unno,” Wil answered through a yawn. Sven was impressed how quickly the boy’s noble etiquette had slipped, if he ever had any.
He took a long drag on his roll. The light buzzing danced through his head down to his fingertips. Pale pink smoke rolled out of his nose and collected in the space between his knees and the stony floor. He stood and turned to the young Frosthilt, extending the glowing nub.
Wilbur hesitated for a moment, but took it and inhaled. And choked on the smoke instantly. His hacking cough was interspersed with laughter. Sven joined in, too, genuinely. The absurd transaction echoed off the dark stone of the mountain and rolled down the slope to the village below.
“First time?” Sven stated more than asked.
Wilbur nodded through the coughing.
“Good sport.” Sven tapped his ring finger to the heel of his palm. A cool teal embossed his fingerprint. He placed it over the glowing embers; they snuffed immediately. He tucked the nub back inside another pocket. “Have you eaten?”
Inside the Sleeping Anvil, a warm golden glaze melted the last remnants of morning frost from their cheeks. Matua and Vala sat at a table, a centrepiece of cut and stacked fruit between them.
Sven caught Wilbur’s arithmetic. He glanced back at the seated duo, a triumphant grin took over Vala’s face while a bemused Matua fished a Duhnsmark from one of his pouches and tossed it to the girl.
“I had more faith in you, Wilbur,” Matua called them over. “I was sure you noticed us on your way out the door. Turns out her lack of faith in your perception isn’t unfounded.”
Wilbur’s face turned as red as the cranberries decorating the base of the sculpture. “I didn’t, I knew. Oh piss off, Vala.” He sat a bit more gently than outside. Perhaps the padding cushioned his force.
Vala laughed brightly. It was the first time Sven heard her laugh. Truly and fully, at least. It filled the dining hall with a musical charm.
Sven looked around the room, studying each table.
“He isn’t here,” Matua answered the unasked question. “I came back out last night after we went to the room. I watched the ponytail almost get stuck in the door.”
The tension Sven didn’t realize he was carrying released immediately. A loosening in between his shoulder blades. He slipped into the open chair, composed as ever. “So, breakfast?”
“Yes,” Wilbur answered too quickly. “Definitely.”
Sven flagged over a bar hand to take their requests. A fruit salad, a bowl of porridge with edel syrup, thick slices of toasted rye bread, and 5 hard-boiled eggs, all for Wilbur. Sven and Vala both requested the porridge, and Matua simply asked for a mug of kala.
Sven watched the bar hand trudge back to the kitchen, not nearly as lively as Agneta last night. Vala and Wilbur’s repartee became background noise as the half-wyst took in the other patrons. Most seemed to be dwersh workers coming for a morning bite before work.
Another table hosted a group of humans. Their clothes suggested traveling merchants, their accents implied Dasland. Harlow’s Finger, to be precise. He looked the crew over once again. A small part of him burned with envy toward their youth. The whole world was still ahead of them, and here he sat, half-finished, trying to piece togeth-
The chime of the welcome bell cut his thought at the knees. He looked over, the courier girl strode to the counter, empty dish in hand. She caught Sven’s eye and responded with a smile. He watched her stride down the hallway back to the rooms. If he was brave enough, he would have followed up on her raised eyebrow and suggestive smirk. Instead, he turned back to the table, where Vala stared silently into the centrepiece, her eyes screaming with urgency.
She looked to Matua. He nodded and leaned toward Sven.
“We need to go,” Matua whispered. Subtle but precise, Sven imagined Matua’s knife work was half as accurate. “Now.”
Sven’s brow furrowed, attempting to catch up on what he missed. It didn’t matter now, though. They needed to move.
Sven pulled a pouch of Ramsheads off his belt and placed it on the table discreetly.
“Wil, get up,” Sven spoke, unhurried. “We gotta go. I’ll buy you a meal after the meeting.”
There was a brief protest, but soon enough he caught on to the strange tension that took over the table. Vala rose as he did, and seemed to lead the boy out of the building. Matua went next, with Sven on his heels.
He lightly grabbed the hunter’s elbow. “What changed? Trouble?”
Matua didn’t look back. “Not sure, but definitely not good.”
No one spoke as they loaded the carriage. Vala sat in the back with Matua, Wilbur accompanied Sven on the bench. Mercy moved deftly on the poured stone streets, her horseshoes translating quiet clip-clops into subdued clacks. Clacks that quickly got lost among the choir of other horses and carriages already moving in an elaborate dance of commerce.
The trade district started outside, with large warehouses painted vibrant colours for each trading company. Sven even recognized some paint patterns from the family flags back home. He took an extra second to look for Edward’s flag, unsure if it was hope or curiosity that kept him looking.
After what felt like too long and too many eyes upon them, they finally approached the opening to the interior. A massive arch of polished marble framed the gaping maw of the mountain, twenty meters wide and at least four times as high. At each edge stood a gargantuan, twelve meter tall sentry of bronze. Sentinels, the people called them, carved to look like old rulers and fallen heroes. Even now, he couldn’t help slowing as they passed. His mother told him the story many times as a child. Denin and the Songbirds, a dwersh army that marched to defend the people of Atlas from the Scorch. How they saved her town, the Sentinels marching through the infernos with slow purpose.
The passage to the interior transitioned calmly from the open sky to caverns within. Lights populated the walls just inside the arch, becoming more and more sparse as the tunnel continued, until Sven’s eyes adjusted completely. Along with the gradual decrease in light came an equally gradual increase in warmth. Sven still couldn’t understand how they were able to pump all the excess heat out of the city. He asked a different engineer each time he visited, and it still made no sense.
The inner city itself was a sprawling hive of buildings carved directly from the mountain; the only pieces remaining from mass excavations. An enormous sphere of false fire drifted lazily across the ceiling of the city, doing a weak impression of the sun from three-hundred meters away. Sven supposed it helped travellers make sense of time while staying underground.
Whatever the reason, it wasn’t worth contemplating currently. Sven directed Mercy toward a stabling hub near the centre of town. Technically, horses and carriages could go to the upper levels, but he didn’t want to spend all the extra time trotting up the path at the perimeter of each level.
The four walked from the hub to the great crystalline pillar in the dead centre of the volcano city. The material glowed slightly; it was a protective casing built around the main conduit and shot up through all of the levels of Duhnspik. More importantly, it’s where the lifts were located; large platforms encircling the conduit pillar.
“Is this the way to the bailiff?” Vala questioned, a half step behind Sven.
“Technically, yes,” he replied, not looking back. He flagged an operator with a wave. The operator raised a bushy eyebrow, and Sven held up a thumb on his left hand and three fingers on his right.
The operator motioned them forward onto the platform. “I can only go up as far as the garden,” he bleated gruffly. “That okay?”
“More than okay, my friend,” Sven answered quickly. “Need to get to the bailiff’s office.”
The operator paused and took the group in. The tired apathy coating his face slowly transformed into curiosity, then aged poorly into suspicion and mistrust. “What do four Uiti need to see the bailiff about?”
Wilbur pushed to the front, his shield leading. “Apologies, we are here on diplomatic duties.” He extended a hand to the operator. “Allow me to introduce myself, Wilbur Wilmuttsson, of the Frosthilts.”
The dwersh man glanced at the arms painted on the shield. His shoulders relaxed with recognition. He grasped Wil’s hand in his own and shook heartily. “Ah, from Clearwater, mm? You finally going to let our builders put up a proper bridge?” The operator laughed as if he had just heard a terribly funny joke, but with a distinct tone of patronizing superiority Sven normally attributed to his interactions with humans. “Alright, Lord Frosthilt, let’s get your group off to the bailiff.”
The operator pulled a lever on the control panel in front of him. With a great hiss, a metal fence rose from the platform up to the middle of Sven’s thigh. Then, a second lever was pulled and placed in the fourth of seven notches. The platform shuddered and twitched. With an abrupt lurch, the floor shot up into the air.
“Bit of a risk throwing your family name around like that,” Sven spoke into Wilbur’s ear. “Could’ve gone a completely different way.”
Wilbur shrugged. “I don’t know about that. It’s always helped me out here before.”
The five stood in silence as the hydraulic platform continued to rise, passing through a tunnel carved into the ceiling. The light dimmed immediately, and was quickly warded off with the pale white glow emanating from the railing. The subtle glow broken by a flash of light each time they passed a level’s doorway.
The lift slowed, creeping bit by bit closer to the open doorway hewn in the lift-shaft’s wall. Above them, Sven could see another dot of light. Above that an even smaller speck, and even further still the faintest green aura from the seventh level gardens.
“Here we are,” the operator proclaimed by rote as the railings retracted into the floor, “Level Four: Ducal governance offices. Barracks And Armoury, Treasury, Tax Offices, Industry Regulations, Labour Union, Chancellory, Magistracy, and Court Hall for his Excellency, Duke Rubahn IV of the Family Harroning.”
“Thanks much, chap,” Sven clapped the operator on his shoulder.
Wilbur stepped out first, as was his lordly right, Sven assumed. Vala followed closely, as if using the bully boy as a tower shield. Sven extended an arm to Matua with an elaborate flourish, the embodiment of mischief upon his face. The black eyes stared back at him, followed by a disappointed exhale through the nose. Matua walked off the platform, followed by Sven, quite pleased with himself. As soon as the four of them were off the platform, the railings shot up again. A scissor gate closed the gap left by the lift shaft.
Sven took a moment to acquaint himself with his surroundings. The floor was decorated like a flagstone path, with lush, verdant moss swelling between the cracks. The hallway—street, Sven decided—was wide enough for his carriage, marked with a distinct blue stone dividing it into two laneways. The Street didn’t make it all the way to the walls; it ended about thirty-six centimeters earlier, where it met a dark soil populated with vibrant flowers. Behind the flowers rose a hedgerow, about as high as his ribs, dampening the sound of bureaucracy around them.
“Which way should we go?” He asked no one in particular. The central pillar was like the hub of a wheel, but the lift gates were offset from the hallway spokes.
“I’m already closer to this one,” Wilbur replied as he marched forward.
Off they walked through a maze of streets and hedges and stone. Markings on the walls were carved in Dwerish runes none of them could read. They walked single file, following Wilbur’s confidence. Sven wasn’t sure if Wil actually knew where they were going, or if he was just assuming he was correct, as the young and proud tend to do. After the fifth left turn, he decided the boy was utterly lost.
“Wil,” he called forward, “slow down for a second.” A clerk approached from the opposite direction, their arms full of scrolls. “S’cuse me, friend,” Sven waved the clerk over. “We’re a bit lost. Could you point us to the bailiff, please?”
The clerk had a look of soft regret on their face. “Ix kommon nak xpek goodt. Ix try help, xpek onothar, pleasse?”
Shit. Sven retained his composure, more for his companions than himself. With a warm smile, he began again, more slowly, with actions where he could. “Can you, tell us, where, the bailiff, is.”
The clerk nodded slowly. “Wot iss this word: bael eef?”
“Bailiff, in the magistery. Uhm, a law person. In charge of records.” He looked to the others for help. Vala had shrunk back down into herself like before, Matua was scanning the middle-space between them for the proper term in Dwerish, and Wilbur shrugged with a frown, less helpful than a fish in the crow’s nest.
After a silence that lasted past the span of discomfort, recognition flashed over Matua’s brow. “Rindellor,” he blurted out.
“Ah, Rindellor, ha! The Rindellor iss here; follow thees hallway, than take the nekst, ahh, thees way,” the clerk motioned to the right. “Then, Rindellorit pardskilid. Easy!”
Before Sven had a chance to properly thank the clerk, they were walking off briskly.
“So,” Wil broke the silence, “we take a right?”
It was cold inside the magistracy. Not only in temperature, which Sven found slightly odd, but in the colour of the room, and the countenance of the clerks and officers who he watched push past each other. They sat on a wooden bench lined up on a polished white wall. Vala stared at her feet, mindlessly picking at the tip of her right ear. Matua had his eyes closed, head against the polished stone. Wilbur was pacing, leaving little scuff marks on the matching white floor each time he turned. There was already an insect-sized race track beneath him.
Sven continued his attempt to make eye contact with one of the reception clerks. A nod, a wave, anything. Instead, they kept their eyes averted from acknowledging four scruffy outsiders in their pristine lobby.
It had been at least twenty minutes since they arrived. The guard told them to sit and wait to be called. Now even he was pretending they weren’t there. At the twenty-fifth minute mark –according to Sven’s internal clock– he pushed himself to his feet and walked up to the stone rampart of a desk that spanned the width of the room. The clerk refused to look up at him. Sven continued to walk until his stomach was pressed against the stone.
Still nothing.
He leaned forward from his shoulders, stretched his neck until the scent of the clerks soap was readily available, their foreheads almost touching.
Nothing.
“Pardon me, friend,” Sven began through his teeth, “My group and I have been waiting for nearly a half hour to be called up and assisted. As no others have come in to the office in such time, I was wondering if our needs might please be seen to, hmm?”
The clerk responded by continuing to scrawl on his parchment. Sven did not relent. He began thrumming a rhythm on the desktop while waiting for an answer. He looked back at the three still waiting. Wilbur had stopped pacing. Matua had an eye half open.
“Who are you here to see?” the clerk asked without looking up.
Finally, progress.
“The bailiff, please, we came on behalf of Wilmutt Frosthi–”
“Do you have a registered appointment?” He cut Sven off as soon as the old man’s name escaped his lips.
“Well, no. We have come request informat–”
“No appointment?”
Sven’s thin patience was weakening. “That’s correct, like I was saying–”
“Can’t help you without an appointment.”
“Will you let me finish a fucking sentence before shutting me down?!”
The clerk looked up with tired, disappointed eyes. “Sir, please measure yourself.”
“Measure myself?” Sven let out an exasperated laugh. “Measure myself. I’m plenty measured, fuzz-boy, want me to measure you?”
“What exactly is going on here?” A sharp voice cut through Sven’s echoed mania and lodged itself deeply between his ears. He turned to the source.
From an open doorway, a figure stood in silhouette. She walked down the hallway toward the vestibule, her shoes making measured percussion on the stone.
Fitted pants of dark cotton swished purposefully above the black shoes. A long sleeved tan shirt was covered by a leather vest dyed Harroning blue and brown that was equal parts protection and regalia. She stepped into the light, amber eyes fixed on Sven. Her fur reminded him of a red fox; short, wiry, and well maintained.
The clerk leapt to attention. Not just active emotion, but fully rising to his feet like a spring-loaded toy. “Dronxpektor Marro,” He greeted her with a depth of respect Sven assumed he could not possess. “This elefuit,” he gestured to Sven, “says he has need to speak with you.”
“Does he?” The woman came closer, examining Sven’s every detail. Something about her sparked distant recognition. “Well, well. Two unexpected visitors within two days.” She stopped less than a hands-width from Sven, then turned on her toes and began walking back down the hallway. “Come along, Mister Brightleaf, and bring your troupe with you.”
He took half a step forward, victorious, then paused. Wait, I didn’t introduce myself.
“Nice show, Sven,” Wilbur bumped him forward. “How did you know that would work?”
Sven smiled, composed. “A lifetime of experience, kid.”
They followed the bailiff back to her office. Painted on the door in both Dwerish and Common was her name and title:
RAHSAN MARRO, BAILIFF
Beyond the door was a contrast beyond anything Sven could have imagined. Pale white walls were replaced with dark granite. Planks of live-edge wood were affixed horizontally to each wall just above the middle, with branches and leaves in painted gold sprouting from them. The floor was entirely a dark wood sanded just enough that the swirls of grain were still remarkable. It reminded Sven of a prestigious hunting lodge.
Rahsan motioned to a set of plush velvet furniture while she walked to the Navy wingback behind her desk, which matched the walls. “I saw your name on the North Gate’s evening report,” she began. “As soon as I did, I made sure to alert the guard offices on the bottom three levels about a potential disorderly event in the night.” She looked at him with the smile of an inside joke which he was apparently privy to.
Sven stood in the middle of the room, Matua his shadow. Wilbur and Vala sat on the sofa.
“Please,” she continued, “sit.” There was a smaller, less comfortable, but equally ornate chair directly opposite the desk. Sven felt it was more a command than an offer, which he obeyed quietly.
Rahsan’s desk was a war game of notes. Sheafs were organized into neat regiments and flanks on either edge, with a barren battlefield between them. The sole exception was a lavender envelope in the centre of the desk. It was cleaner than would be expected from a standard courier’s cart. This was hand delivered exclusively. The seal was made of a yellow wax, stamped with a lotus flower signet. He pa as the dots connected from the patio to the letter. He lingered on it a moment too long it seemed, as the bailiff picked it up and cast it aside with an exacting lack of ceremony. He met her gaze, it had turned from expectant to inquisitive.
“Sorry,” Sven broke the too-long silence. “You said there was disturbance in town last night?”
Rahsan laughed with a layer of melancholy. “No. I said I was expecting you to make one, like last time, Steffon.” She paused, perhaps hoping to spark something within Sven.
Nothing happened.
“Maybe you don’t remember,” she carried on. A bit more disappointed than before. “I suppose it was nearly forty years ago, now. And you were quite drunk.”
A rumbling began in the pit of Sven’s stomach; a weight filled his lungs. “Oh,” he spoke softly. “Of course.”
He watched her eyes jostle around the room quickly, subtly. He understood exactly what she calculated as her face softened to a condolence.
“Now,” she resumed her composition. “What brings you so boisterously to my office before the bars are serving?”
Sven had no words.
Matua, still behind Sven, reached over him and placed the letter on Rahsan’s desk. “This is Wilbur Frosthilt,” he pointed at the boy. “We were hired by his father to track down his older brother. The one lead we had lead to a dead end, containing that letter. We were advised to come to you for help identifying the insignia marked at the bottom, and perhaps deciphering the message.”
Rahsan examined Matua, then the letter.
She frowned.
Wilbur shifted on his two thirds of the sofa; Sven had never experienced second-hand restlessness before.
Vala seemed to be coming back to herself, she was actively trying to reclaim her half of the sofa from Wil.
“I’m not sure what script this is,” Rahsan spoke finally.
“It’s United Goblon’i,” Sven answered vacantly, before Matua could.
Rahsan looked impressed. “So you know what it says then?”
“Not exactly,” Matua replied. “I can read the script, but it’s a bad transliteration of Dwerish, we think.”
“Odd.” She leaned back against the navy fabric. “If that’s the case, I can take to the scribes in the church. They should be able to translate it.”
“Fantastic!” Wilbur shot to his feet. “When can we have the translated copy?”
“Well, I will request a priority translation,” she leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “So, I would expect it to take about three weeks.”
Wilbur deflated back into the plush.
“If we wait here that long there’ll be no chance of finding Willem,” Matua remarked.
“Who said we have to wait here?” An idea began to form in Sven’s head. “Bailiff Marro, what can you tell us about the insignia? Maybe there’s a thread we can still follow while the translation is done, hey?”
Rahsan tugged thoughtfully at her beard. “Quite proactive, Steffon. I was going to suggest something similar.” She got up from her chair and walked to a file cabinet. “I do recognize the mark, in fact.” She pulled a key from her vest and opened the drawer. While she searched through the documents, she continued, “it belongs to the Hillcrest Company. Mercenaries, so they say. More like reavers, in my opinion. Absolutely feral, but effective. The Duke has hired them at least twice when –ah, here it is.” She pulled a parchment piece from the drawer and closed it.
“This,” she carried on, returning to her seat, “is a report from a guard patrol last spring. It details a raid on Woodfall, do you know it?”
Sven shook his head.
“It’s a logging village south of the mountain. The soldiers stationed there claimed the raiders carried no banner, but several of them had the Hillcrest mark painted on their armour. If this isn’t happenstance, Woodfall will be your best chance to find out more before I do.”
“Have there been any raids since?” Vala piped up from the corner of the room.
“There have, but no more sightings of the insignia. At least, none reported.”
“How long is the trek by carriage?” Sven’s mind was moving.
“If you leave now,” Rahsan paused to think, “you could be there before sunset.”
“Well, I guess we should get going, then,” Wilbur rose to his feet again. “Thank you, madam.”
“I’m glad I could assist. Really, thank Steffon here. If not for his outburst, there’s no way Ulf was going to let you four see me.”
Sven smiled sheepishly.
“Well thanks, ‘Steffon’,” Wil chuckled.
Rahsan stood, concluding the meeting. “I wish you all the best luck. And if I learn anything more before I expect to, I will have it sent along to Woodfall.”
“Thanks, Bailiff Marro,” Sven replied.
“Please, Rahsan is fine.” She smiled. “Good to see you once more, mister Brightleaf.”
Sven nodded with a faint smirk and closed the door behind him.
