them from military service even if they've lived as Karentines for ten generations. They gobble the privileges and don't pay the price. They're getting fat making the weapons carried by youths who couldn't be conscripted if the nonhumans weren't there to replace them in the economy.
If you're human and male, you'll do five years in service. Nowadays, with the Cantard in the hands of Glory Mooncalled and his mercenaries and native allies, they're talking about making that six years. Meaning even fewer survivors coming home.
I'm bitter. I admit it. I survived my five and made it home, but I was the first of my family to do so. And nobody thanked me for my trouble when I got back.
Hell with it.
Dwarf House covers four blocks. A north-south street cuts through the middle. A canal spur runs through east to west. Rumor says the blocks are connected by tunnels. Maybe. They're connected by bridges four stories up. Make that four human stories. Dwarves are dwarves. There would be more floors.
The buildings have no outside windows and few doors. Humans seldom get inside, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was if they let me in and didn't want me out, I was sunk. Not even my pal the King would come rescue me. Dwarf House enjoys virtual extraterritoriality.
I looked the place over before I knocked. I didn't like what I saw. I knocked anyway. Somebody has to do these things. Generally somebody too dim not to back off.
I knocked again after a reasonable wait. They weren't in any hurry in there.
I knocked a third time.
The door swung inward. "All right! All right! You don't have to break it down. I heard you the first time." The hairy runt in red and green was probably six hundred years old and had been assigned to the door because of his winning personality.
"My name is Garrett. The Dead Man sent me to talk to Gnorst Gnorst."
"Impossible. Gnorst is a busy dwarf. He doesn't have time to entertain every Tall One who wanders past. Go away."
I didn't move except to insert a foot into the doorway. The dwarf scowled. I guess. He wasn't much more than eyes inside a beard big enough to hide stork's nests. "What do you want?"
"Gnorst. He owes the Dead Man."
The dwarf sighed. What might have been a conciliatory smile stirred the brush on his face. He grunted and made noises that would be considered rude at the dinner table. "I'll inform the Gnorst." Bam! He slammed the door. I barely saved my foot. Then I snickered. These characters had to get a little more imaginative. I mean, Gnorst Gnorst, son of Gnorst, the Gnorst of Gnorst? Hell. I guess they don't have much trouble remembering who's related to who. If Gnorst lost his voice, he could answer most personal questions by blowing his nose.
I bet it makes perfect sense to dwarves.
The hair ball was back in five minutes. Probably record time for him. "Come in. Come in." Either the Dead Man's name was magic or they were short on chow for their pet rats. I hoped the character with the imaginative name was impressed with my credential. "Follow me, sir. Follow me. Mind your head, sir. There'll be low ceilings."
The door dwarf did me the added courtesy of lighting a torch off a lamp that yielded a light so feeble it would have done me no good at all. He gave me a look that said this was first-class treatment, properly reserved for visiting royalty.
Dwarf House inside was all gloom and smell, like tenements where families crowd in four to the flat. Only more so. Ventilation was nonexistent.
We trudged up stairs. We went down stairs. I stooped a lot as we marched through workshops where dwarves by the platoon worked on as many projects as there were dwarves working. The lighting was uniformly abysmal, but my guide's torch added enough to reveal that these were all proud craftsmen. Each dwarf's product was the best he could fashion. Which would make that item the best of its kind. Dagger, shield, plate armor, clock, or clockwork toy, each was a work of art. Each was unique. Each
If you're human and male, you'll do five years in service. Nowadays, with the Cantard in the hands of Glory Mooncalled and his mercenaries and native allies, they're talking about making that six years. Meaning even fewer survivors coming home.
I'm bitter. I admit it. I survived my five and made it home, but I was the first of my family to do so. And nobody thanked me for my trouble when I got back.
Hell with it.
Dwarf House covers four blocks. A north-south street cuts through the middle. A canal spur runs through east to west. Rumor says the blocks are connected by tunnels. Maybe. They're connected by bridges four stories up. Make that four human stories. Dwarves are dwarves. There would be more floors.
The buildings have no outside windows and few doors. Humans seldom get inside, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was if they let me in and didn't want me out, I was sunk. Not even my pal the King would come rescue me. Dwarf House enjoys virtual extraterritoriality.
I looked the place over before I knocked. I didn't like what I saw. I knocked anyway. Somebody has to do these things. Generally somebody too dim not to back off.
I knocked again after a reasonable wait. They weren't in any hurry in there.
I knocked a third time.
The door swung inward. "All right! All right! You don't have to break it down. I heard you the first time." The hairy runt in red and green was probably six hundred years old and had been assigned to the door because of his winning personality.
"My name is Garrett. The Dead Man sent me to talk to Gnorst Gnorst."
"Impossible. Gnorst is a busy dwarf. He doesn't have time to entertain every Tall One who wanders past. Go away."
I didn't move except to insert a foot into the doorway. The dwarf scowled. I guess. He wasn't much more than eyes inside a beard big enough to hide stork's nests. "What do you want?"
"Gnorst. He owes the Dead Man."
The dwarf sighed. What might have been a conciliatory smile stirred the brush on his face. He grunted and made noises that would be considered rude at the dinner table. "I'll inform the Gnorst." Bam! He slammed the door. I barely saved my foot. Then I snickered. These characters had to get a little more imaginative. I mean, Gnorst Gnorst, son of Gnorst, the Gnorst of Gnorst? Hell. I guess they don't have much trouble remembering who's related to who. If Gnorst lost his voice, he could answer most personal questions by blowing his nose.
I bet it makes perfect sense to dwarves.
The hair ball was back in five minutes. Probably record time for him. "Come in. Come in." Either the Dead Man's name was magic or they were short on chow for their pet rats. I hoped the character with the imaginative name was impressed with my credential. "Follow me, sir. Follow me. Mind your head, sir. There'll be low ceilings."
The door dwarf did me the added courtesy of lighting a torch off a lamp that yielded a light so feeble it would have done me no good at all. He gave me a look that said this was first-class treatment, properly reserved for visiting royalty.
Dwarf House inside was all gloom and smell, like tenements where families crowd in four to the flat. Only more so. Ventilation was nonexistent.
We trudged up stairs. We went down stairs. I stooped a lot as we marched through workshops where dwarves by the platoon worked on as many projects as there were dwarves working. The lighting was uniformly abysmal, but my guide's torch added enough to reveal that these were all proud craftsmen. Each dwarf's product was the best he could fashion. Which would make that item the best of its kind. Dagger, shield, plate armor, clock, or clockwork toy, each was a work of art. Each was unique. Each
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