‘What does your father do? Is he a blacksmith? My father was a blacksmith,’ Fletcher said, trying to fill the awkward silence he had created.
‘My father is one of the artificers who developed the musket,’ Othello said with pride. ‘Now that we hold the secret to their creation, the Pinkertons tend to not bother the dwarven blacksmiths. I can’t say that for all dwarf businesses though. The creation of the musket was the first step in the long journey to equality. Our joining the army is the second. I will finish what my father started.’
‘You must be the first dwarf officer in Hominum, even if you are just a cadet at the moment. That is something to be proud of,’ Fletcher said.
He meant every word; the more he found out about the dwarves, the more he respected them. He endeavoured to emulate their resolve to better their situation.
Othello stopped and pointed ahead of him.
‘Welcome to the Dwarven Quarter.’
27
The tall buildings fell away to reveal row upon row of huge white tents, exquisitely embroidered with kaleidoscopic shapes of red and blue. Springy green grass replaced the cobblestones, and each pavilion was surrounded by lovingly tended gardens. The vividly coloured flowers wafted sweet scents in the air, reminding Fletcher of his youthful summers in the mountains. Unencumbered by the dingy buildings, the winter sun cast a pale but warm light across Fletcher’s face.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Fletcher said, amazed by the sudden transformation. He had expected the Dwarven Quarter to be a squalid and miserable place, given the standard of the buildings that surrounded it. Othello smiled at his words and limped on, waving at nearby dwarves as they sat talking in the gardens.
‘This is mine.’ Othello pointed to a nearby tent. ‘My whole family lives in here.’
‘How many are there of you?’ Fletcher asked, trying not to mind the stares he was receiving from the other dwarves as they passed by.
‘Oh, there are probably around thirty of us in each tent, but ours contains my father’s workshop, so there are only twenty of us in this one. He needs his space.’
Fletcher tried to wrap his head around how a pavilion tent could house twenty people and a workshop. Each one was about the size of a large barn but, unless they slept in bunk beds, there was no way that could be true.
‘Take down your hood and remove your shoes before you go in. In our culture that is polite,’ Othello said. Fletcher helped him take off his boots; the poor dwarf had begun to turn pale from the pain of his injury and bending over was difficult for him. As he kneeled and struggled with Othello’s thick-knotted bootlaces, a short figure in flowing robes ran up the path towards them, crying out in shock. Her face was obscured by a pink veil, held in place by a delicate silver chain.
‘Othello, what happened?’ the figure wailed in a high-pitched voice.
‘I’m OK, Thaissa. We just need to get me inside. It’s best not to let the others see me injured. They will think I am being mistreated at Vocans, which is not the case.’
Thaissa parted the tent flap and ushered them in. Strangely, it was not the tightly packed room that Fletcher had expected. Instead, the floors were lined with ornate floor mats and cushions. In the centre, there was a thick metal pipe that extended to the top of the tent like a chimney. Understanding dawned on Fletcher when he saw the spiral staircase that wound around the pipe, going deep into the earth. They lived underground!
Thaissa, who could only be Othello’s sister, continued to fuss around him, piling cushions on the ground for him to lean against.
‘You have a lovely home,’ Fletcher commented as another figure came up the stairs. He caught a flash of a rosy-cheeked face with bright green eyes before the female dwarf uttered a shriek and pulled a veil over her face.
‘Othello!’ she cried out. ‘How can you bring guests here without letting us know? He has seen my face!’
‘It’s OK, Mother, I don’t think a human counts. He is my friend and I ask that you treat him as such.’ Othello slumped to the ground and clutched at his side.
‘You’re hurt!’ she gasped and ran to him.
‘Please, get the bandages. Constable Turner and Sergeant Murphy attacked me again. This time I think they may have broken a rib. I will need you to bind my chest.’
He spoke in short bursts of breath, as if it hurt to breathe, as he removed his jacket and the top half of his uniform. His broad chest and shoulders were covered with a thick pelt of curly red hair, which also extended halfway down his back. The skin of his shoulders was latticed with scars; evidence of more brutality from the Pinkertons. Fletcher shuddered at the sight.
Othello’s mother ran downstairs as Thaissa dabbed at his forehead with her sleeve. She returned soon after with a roll of linen and began to wrap it tight around his chest. Othello winced with each swathe, but bore it stoically. Fletcher could already see a black bruise blossoming on the dwarf’s chest.