flame-maker back in his pocket. “You see signs and patterns where there is but chance and coincidence. I am here merely to help Lucius with his studies, and to wish Carnifex a happy birthday.”
“Hmm,” Droom said. He wasn’t convinced, but Carnifex knew his pa wouldn’t take it further. There were standards of behavior he believed in more strongly than being proved right, or calling a shogger a shogger. He’d made his mind up what he thought of Aristodeus, but he wasn’t the kind of dwarf to say what it was to anyone else.
“Well,” Lucius said, a lightness entering his tone, like it always did when he sought to keep the peace, “the Annal was returned, you say? No harm done, then.”
“Except to Jarfy,” Carnifex said.
“Who?” Aristodeus said.
“Like Carn said,”—Droom stood from his chair—“the lad that was killed.”
“Oh… Yes,” Aristodeus said.
Lucius dipped his eyes toward the table, and then lifted them to track Droom as he left the kitchen.
“Ready?” Droom said from the doorway.
Carnifex’s heart sank, sitting heavy in his guts like one of Bal Grimark’s goat and mushroom pies. It was time for the yearly ritual, and there was no getting away from it.
As Droom headed toward his chambers, and Carnifex made to follow, Aristodeus leaned over to Lucius and said, “Maybe it was looking for something in the Annals , this homunculus, some reference.”
Lucius pursed his lips and shrugged.
“You should take me to the Scriptorium later,” Aristodeus said. “See if there’s any clue to what it is.”
“For someone who thinks it’s all chance and coincidence,” Carnifex said, “you seem to be taking it rather seriously.”
Aristodeus let out a shrill peal of laughter. “Ha! Not at all. It’s just intriguing, that’s all. It’s not every day a homunculus comes calling at Arx Gravis.”
But there was more to it than he was letting on. His eyes gave it away. He was worried about something. Worried, and already working overtime on a way to remedy whatever it was.
“Coming?” Carnifex said to Lucius, and the brothers started after their pa.
“Should I…?” Aristodeus asked, standing.
“Be rude not to,” Carnifex said.
“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Aristodeus said, following them from the kitchen.
REMEMBERING THE DEAD
Droom’s suite was its usual chaotic clutter: clothes strewn across the floor, waiting to be washed; half-drunk kaffa cups; a scatter of clay pipes with singed bowls. But in his bedroom, same as this time every year, he had tidied up. The bed was freshly changed, and on the nightstand was the box of letters Yyalla had written him when they’d been courting.
All that remained of her belongings was arrayed on a low table by the window and flanked by two guttering candles: the marcasite ring of pyrite and silver Droom had given her when they were married; the scarolite great helm that had been handed down to her from her mother, and her mother before, and hers before that. No one these days could craft the simplest of objects from the black ore, never mind mold it into one seamless piece with curves and lines, and the narrowest of slits to see out of. Somehow, the helm’s maker had engraved the word “Thanus” at its crown in an embellished, swirling script. Besides the banded breastplates worn by the Krypteia, Yyalla’s helm was the only example of scarolite armor Carnifex had heard of.
And then there was the oil painting of Yyalla by Durgish Duffin, that was commissioned by her pa in memory of her coming of age. She had Carnifex’s hazel eyes and Lucius’s fairness of hair, but not his physique. Only her head and torso were depicted, but it was enough to show she was like chiseled granite, lithe yet strong. Droom had always said she was the embodiment of the Dwarf Lords of legend for him. Those among the Ravine Guard who were old enough to have trained under her confirmed the fact, and said she had the moves to back it
“Hmm,” Droom said. He wasn’t convinced, but Carnifex knew his pa wouldn’t take it further. There were standards of behavior he believed in more strongly than being proved right, or calling a shogger a shogger. He’d made his mind up what he thought of Aristodeus, but he wasn’t the kind of dwarf to say what it was to anyone else.
“Well,” Lucius said, a lightness entering his tone, like it always did when he sought to keep the peace, “the Annal was returned, you say? No harm done, then.”
“Except to Jarfy,” Carnifex said.
“Who?” Aristodeus said.
“Like Carn said,”—Droom stood from his chair—“the lad that was killed.”
“Oh… Yes,” Aristodeus said.
Lucius dipped his eyes toward the table, and then lifted them to track Droom as he left the kitchen.
“Ready?” Droom said from the doorway.
Carnifex’s heart sank, sitting heavy in his guts like one of Bal Grimark’s goat and mushroom pies. It was time for the yearly ritual, and there was no getting away from it.
As Droom headed toward his chambers, and Carnifex made to follow, Aristodeus leaned over to Lucius and said, “Maybe it was looking for something in the Annals , this homunculus, some reference.”
Lucius pursed his lips and shrugged.
“You should take me to the Scriptorium later,” Aristodeus said. “See if there’s any clue to what it is.”
“For someone who thinks it’s all chance and coincidence,” Carnifex said, “you seem to be taking it rather seriously.”
Aristodeus let out a shrill peal of laughter. “Ha! Not at all. It’s just intriguing, that’s all. It’s not every day a homunculus comes calling at Arx Gravis.”
But there was more to it than he was letting on. His eyes gave it away. He was worried about something. Worried, and already working overtime on a way to remedy whatever it was.
“Coming?” Carnifex said to Lucius, and the brothers started after their pa.
“Should I…?” Aristodeus asked, standing.
“Be rude not to,” Carnifex said.
“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Aristodeus said, following them from the kitchen.
REMEMBERING THE DEAD
Droom’s suite was its usual chaotic clutter: clothes strewn across the floor, waiting to be washed; half-drunk kaffa cups; a scatter of clay pipes with singed bowls. But in his bedroom, same as this time every year, he had tidied up. The bed was freshly changed, and on the nightstand was the box of letters Yyalla had written him when they’d been courting.
All that remained of her belongings was arrayed on a low table by the window and flanked by two guttering candles: the marcasite ring of pyrite and silver Droom had given her when they were married; the scarolite great helm that had been handed down to her from her mother, and her mother before, and hers before that. No one these days could craft the simplest of objects from the black ore, never mind mold it into one seamless piece with curves and lines, and the narrowest of slits to see out of. Somehow, the helm’s maker had engraved the word “Thanus” at its crown in an embellished, swirling script. Besides the banded breastplates worn by the Krypteia, Yyalla’s helm was the only example of scarolite armor Carnifex had heard of.
And then there was the oil painting of Yyalla by Durgish Duffin, that was commissioned by her pa in memory of her coming of age. She had Carnifex’s hazel eyes and Lucius’s fairness of hair, but not his physique. Only her head and torso were depicted, but it was enough to show she was like chiseled granite, lithe yet strong. Droom had always said she was the embodiment of the Dwarf Lords of legend for him. Those among the Ravine Guard who were old enough to have trained under her confirmed the fact, and said she had the moves to back it
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