“Don’t you mean ‘she’ might be able to help?” Gretchan, with a twinkle in her eye, asked.
“Well, yes I do!” Brandon snapped, dropping a steel coin on the table to pay for their drinks. He stomped toward the entryway, hastened along by her laughter. His ears burned, and he could feel them turning red.
He wasn’t sure why his face felt flushed, but he was suddenly terribly chagrined about all the carousing and womanizing he’d done in the city, back when life had seemed so much simpler. He and his brother, Nailer, had cut a wide, if shallow, swath through the maids of Kayolin, and truth to tell, they’d enjoyed every minute of it. He tried to console himself with the thought that, for the most part, the maids of Kayolin hadn’t seemed to mind much either. With his brother slain, he realized that the women he had, sometimes, treated rather shabbily were still likely to be his best allies in the city.
Gretchan seemed in a good mood regardless, humming to herself as they weaved their way through the crowd and left the Deepshelf Inn. She took in the scenery and chattered cheerfully. She remarked about the intricacies of iron tools in one shop and about the orderliness of a clean, bustling factory, glimpsed through a large door, as they made their way down the narrow street and around first one, then another, tight corner.
“They can’t be much different from similar kinds of places where you came from,” Brandon suggested, exasperated by her positive attitude.
She shook her head. “The delvings in the east, where I grew up among Severus Stonehand’s Daergar, are a lot more primitive than this. And remember, I’ve never had the chance to see Thorbardin.”
“Yeah, I guess I see your point,” he admitted. For the first time, it occurred to him that Garnet Thax was certainly the most spectacular dwarf delving that Gretchan had ever seen. Once more, he felt guilty about having taken that unique place for granted in the past.
“Let’s avoid the main road,” he suggested as they passed one of the great, spiraling ramps that connected the many levels of the city. “We can take some of the smaller stairwells that lead up through the city. They’re steeper to climb but a lot more private. I’d hate to run into Heelspur’s Enforcers.”
They followed a straight and relatively wide avenue away from the central shaft of the Atrium. To either side the smithies and manufacturing centers had given way to small residences, apartments stacked two or three high with small, round doors and, only rarely, a window looking out onto the street. Stone steps led to the higher entrances, which were recessed from the street. The flat ceiling over the roadway tended to be about twenty feet overhead, providing many shadowy alcoves, especially along the top layer of dwellings to each side.
There were a few dwarves coming and going along the street. Doors opened here and there, and a few young fellows simply sat outside of their apartments and watched the street with hopeless eyes. The dwarves were dressed if not in rags, then in relatively poor and careworn garments. The occasional lamp in the street was dark, as if no one wanted to spend the steel to refresh it with oil. Brandon couldn’t help thinking that the area was a perfect place for spies to lurk or ambushers to hide, and he constantly looked over his shoulder. But honestly, he told himself, it didn’t seem like the kind of neighborhood where they’d run into any Enforcers.
They came to an arched alcove at the side of the street. Illuminated by low-wick oil lamps, they could see that it entered onto a landing and was connected to a tightly spiraling series of stone steps leading up to the right and down to the left.
“Here’s one of the stairwells,” he said. “Let’s head up.”
They entered and climbed for a long time, ascending several hundred feet as they moved from the deep-levels into the city’s midlevels. The stairwell itself was cloaked in shadows except where dim lamps illuminated each of the landings, which provided access to streets, once every thirty or so vertical feet. As Brandon had predicted, fewer dwarves were out and about up there. The ones they met didn’t give them a second glance, though several children gawked as Kondike, eye to eye with them, trotted by.
“Here we are,” Brandon said finally. Kondike still padded along behind as they emerged into a street and turned toward the Bluestones’ neighborhood. Brandon felt a strange mix of emotions as he noted the familiar locales, the shops and inns he had frequented during most of the years in his life. The streets were lit more consistently there, and they heard loud laughter and crude boasting as they passed one open doorway. Even so, the pedestrians tended to walk with their heads down, avoiding strangers’ eyes. Even if Gretchan didn’t notice anything amiss, Brandon knew the neighborhood, and it seemed a good deal less neighborly than when he had departed the city a year and half before.
The Cracked Mug was a small and prosperous establishment, offering good food and very good beer at reasonable prices. It was only a few blocks away from the Bluestone family home, occupying a strategic position right at the level’s exit to the main ramp spiraling up from the deep-levels. The two travelers approached it from a back alley.
Brandon had spent many hours in that place, partaking of the fine fare and pleasantly flirting with the lovely barmaid Bondall Fairmont, who had been one of his first and longest-lasting lovers. As he and Gretchan stood outside the Mug’s open front door, and he smelled the familiar, tantalizing aroma of roasting meat, he felt as though he were a far-ranging traveler who had finally come home.
“This is a good place to stop and see what I can find out,” Brandon said. Still, some unspoken hesitation held him back, and for a long time he stood on the street, looking at the faded sign depicting a stout beer stein with a jagged break running through it.
“Hey, daydreamer,” Gretchan whispered, prodding him. “I think you’ll attract more attention standing here in the street than you would if we went inside.”
“Yep, you’re right,” he agreed, opening the door and holding it so Gretchan could enter first. He took a deep breath and forced himself to pick up his feet, moving through the doorway into the smoky, crowded great room. The ceiling was low, supported by arches carved from the bedrock of the mountain. Most of the tables were occupied, but he spotted a small one in back and ushered Gretchan in that direction. As usual, the dog stayed close to his mistress’s heel, moving nimbly through the crowd.
They sat down with their backs to the others in the room, though Brand kept his head cocked, looking over his shoulder. He spotted a barmaid-sure enough, it was Bondall-coming toward him and, catching her eye, surreptitiously raised a finger to his lips.
The pretty maid’s eyes widened momentarily, but she held her tongue as she bustled over to them. She cracked a sly, teasing smile as she spotted Gretchan, while the priestess, for all her bravado, blushed a pale pink.
“So, stranger, what’ll it be?” Bondall asked before leaning down to rest her elbows on the table. “You do know there are bad ones looking for you, don’t you?” she asked in a quiet voice. Then she winked at Gretchan. “And who’s your friend?”
“Uh, this is Gretchan Pax. Gretchan, Bondall Fairmont … an old friend,” he growled. “And yes, I do know they’re looking for me. They had my name on a list at the outer gate.”
“Yep. I guess old Heelspur would really like to put the screws to you. Just when he was claiming his son discovered that vein of gold, you put him on the spot by blaming him for your brother’s murder. Mind you, most of Kayolin believes your version of events-that Heelspur boy doesn’t have the gumption to search the deep delvings, let alone face a cave troll. Everybody knows that he was lazy and a coward to boot.”
“A lot of good it did me to tell the truth,” Brandon said bitterly.
Bondall shrugged. “What else were you going to do? Now, do your mum and dad know you’re here yet?” she asked.