‘Wow. I had no idea you had a hand in creating our empire,’ Fletcher marvelled. ‘Nor that elves were the first summoners.’
‘Not so,’ Sylva murmured. ‘The orcs were summoning long before we were. But theirs was a rough, nascent art, small imps and nothing more. Would that it were so today—’
‘I have a question,’ Othello interrupted. ‘Why didn’t you bring your own demon? Surely you must have your own demons over there, if you taught men how to summon in the first place?’
‘That is a difficult question to answer. We had a long period of peace after the Hominum Empire was founded. Whilst the dwarves were rebelling and the orcs were raiding the kingdom of man, the elves remained in relative safety. So, our need for using demons to defend ourselves passed. Of course there were other factors. For example, the summoning of demons was banned for a brief period four centuries ago, when duelling came into fashion amongst our clan chieftains’ heirs. Eventually there were no more demons to gift as they were either killed in these duels or released back into the ether.’
Othello’s stomach rumbled and Sylva laughed; the sombre tone of the room rushed away.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Fletcher said, standing. After a moment’s hesitation he jumped outside. Thirty seconds later he rushed back into the shed, soaked to the skin once again but holding an armful of corn.
As he settled back down Fletcher noticed something he hadn’t before. Othello’s back was tattooed in black, depicting a hammer crossed with a battle-axe. The level of detail was extraordinary.
‘That’s a beautiful tattoo, Othello. What does it mean?’ Fletcher enquired.
‘Oh, that. It’s a dwarven sigil. They are the two tools that dwarves use. It represents the axe for our prowess in battle and the hammer for our skill as craftsmen. I never liked the idea of tattoos though. I don’t need marks on my skin to tell the world that I am a true dwarf,’ Othello grumbled.
‘Why did you get it then?’ Sylva asked, spitting a few ears of corn on a rusted pitchfork and holding it over the flames.
‘My brother had it tattooed on him, so I had to do the same. Sometimes I need to take the rap for him. It makes more sense that we look identical. The Pinkertons take off your shirt when they . . . punish you.’
Sylva continued to look at him with a mix of bafflement and horror, then her eyes widened as they settled on Othello’s scars.
‘We’re twins, not that the Pinkertons could tell the difference usually anyway; one dwarf is the same as another to them,’ Othello explained.
‘So . . . you’re like Isadora and Tarquin then,’ she ventured. ‘I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a twin.’
‘I thought they were twins, but I wasn’t sure,’ Fletcher said, trying to picture the two nobles.
‘Of course they are,’ Othello said. ‘It’s always the first-born who inherits the ability to summon, twins included. The other children have a much smaller chance, although it happens sometimes. Nobody is quite sure why, but it has certainly helped consolidate power in the noble houses. Firstborn sons and daughters inherit the entire estate, so the lands are not portioned out to multiple children in the majority of cases. The Forsyths have enough land for two though, that’s for sure.’
The dwarf pulled an ear of corn from the pitchfork and bit into it greedily, blowing on his fingers.
‘So tell me, Sylva, what were you doing in Corcillum? Did you see Genevieve and the others in the perfumery?’ Fletcher asked, trying to put aside the fact that she had almost got them killed.
‘The nobles took me in a carriage to the town square. Then Isadora and Tarquin brought me to the flower district, as they wanted fresh roses for their rooms. I was wearing a headscarf to cover my ears and hair, so I did not think there would be a problem. But my eyes, they must have given me away. That fat man, Grindle, he tore my shawl from my head and dragged me down an alleyway with his friends. Isadora and Tarquin ran at the first sign of trouble. They did not even look back. I didn’t have a summoning leather with me, so Sariel remained infused within me. I’ll never make that mistake again.’
‘Summoning leather?’ Othello questioned, finishing off the last of his cob and reaching for another. Sylva slapped his hand away playfully.
‘Greedy! Fletcher, have some. I noticed none of you came down for lunch at the canteen earlier, you should eat something.’
‘Thanks. All I had for lunch was an apple,’ Fletcher said, grabbing an ear for himself. He bit into the soft kernels, each one bursting with cloying sweetness in his mouth.
‘A summoning leather,’ Sylva turned back to Othello, ‘is just a pentacle printed on a square cut of leather, which would allow me to summon Sariel when she has been infused within me. I’m not sure if your summoners call it that today. The documents I found on summoning practices were pretty ancient.’