‘Oh, there’s plenty. The law dictating the number of children we can have each year is the most galling. We can only have as many children as the number of dwarves who died the previous year. Given that we can live almost twice as long as you humans, that’s just a handful. As for the right to join the military, aye, that’s a step in the right direction. The King is a good sort, but he knows his people don’t trust us, especially the army, thanks to the dwarven uprisings eighty-odd years ago. The thinking goes, once we’ve proven our loyalty by shedding blood beside his soldiers, well, then the King will revisit giving us equal citizenship. But until that time, this is how it has to be.’ The dwarf’s voice was tinged with a hint of anger, and he turned away as if overcome with emotion, rummaging in a box behind him.
Fletcher remembered the scorn from the other villagers in Pelt when it was announced that dwarves would be fighting in the Hominum army. Jakov had been joking that they could barely brush his balls if they walked between his legs. The stout dwarf’s arms were thicker than most men’s thighs, and his barrel-like chest reflected his deep booming voice. If Jakov took this dwarf on, Fletcher knew who he’d put his money on. The dwarves would make formidable allies indeed.
‘Do you know anywhere cheap and safe to stay around here?’ Fletcher asked, trying to change the subject.
The dwarf turned back and handed him something, closing Fletcher’s hand over it before anyone saw.
‘There’s a place not far from here. It’s a dwarf-friendly tavern, called the Anvil. Maybe somebody can find work for you there. Say Athol sent you. Take the third right down the street, you can’t miss it.’
The dwarf gave him an encouraging smile and turned to another customer, leaving Fletcher holding a square of paper with an anvil printed on the centre. Fletcher smiled and headed in the direction the dwarf had pointed, then remembered he had forgotten to thank him.
As he turned, he locked eyes with the scruffy men from the tavern, their faces lighting up in recognition. They careened towards him and Fletcher began to run. People stared as he jostled through the street, earning himself a clip round the ear as he brushed past a well-dressed man accompanying a young lady.
Just as he was about to reach the turning for the tavern, the street was blocked ahead by two carriages, the horses wheeling and neighing as their drivers yelled at each other. Cursing his luck, Fletcher was forced to turn down a side street. He sprinted into it, glad to at least be away from the thronging crowds. The street was empty, the shops on either side already closed for the night. Then he stopped short, his heart hammering in his chest. It was a dead end.
15
Fletcher used the time he had before the thieves arrived to coax the demon on to his shoulder. It dug its claws into the leather of his jacket, sensing his agitation.
‘Be ready, little fellow; I think this is going to get messy,’ Fletcher murmured, nocking an arrow to his bow and kneeling for better aim. The men rounded the corner and stopped, staring at him.
‘Back off or I’ll put this through your eye. I’ve no qualms about putting down a cutpurse,’ Fletcher shouted, squinting down the arrow at the largest of them. The man smiled, showing a mouth full of yellowed teeth.
‘Aye, I’ve no doubt. But you see, we’re not so much cutpurses as cutthroats, if ye catch my meaning.’ The man sneered and held up a curved blade. ‘All we wants is yer purse and we’ll be on our way, no harm done.’
He took a few steps forward, putting himself within ten feet of Fletcher. The demon hissed and huffed twin plumes of flame from its nostrils that flared just a few inches from the man’s face, sending him stumbling back into the others.
‘I’m not messing around here. Leave now or you’ll regret it!’ Fletcher shouted again, though his voice trembled. He glanced at the silent houses around him. Why hadn’t anyone heard? Someone needed to call the Pinkertons. How wretched it would be to have made it this far, then to die in a dank alleyway on his very first night.
‘Ah, a summoner. You’re one of them adepts from Vocans Academy, aren’t ye? Little past yer bedtime now, isn’t it?’ the man said, brushing himself off.
‘Leave!’ Fletcher said, realising the demon could probably only breathe fire a certain distance. He didn’t want to test that tonight.
‘Well now, ye’ve shown me yours. Let me show ye mine,’ the man said, then whipped out a pistol and pointed it at Fletcher’s chest. Fletcher almost loosed the arrow then and there, but the muzzle jerked as the man walked forward once again.
‘Now which one do ye think will hit faster, the gun or that there bow?’ the man asked with easy confidence. Fletcher eyed the pistol. It was an ugly thing, the metal rusted and the barrel cracked and worn.
‘It doesn’t look too accurate,’ Fletcher said, backing away.