up. For there was no one fiercer, folk said, no one more deadly with an axe, and she’d been unbeatable in a grapple. Save for with Droom, of course. He’d always claimed he’d out-grappled her on numerous occasions, but all of them were behind closed doors.
Behind the small collection lay the scroll that listed the roll of Yyalla’s ancestors. It was the mother’s line the dwarves considered important, and the mother’s family name that was passed to her husband and children. Droom was a Screebank by birth. Word was, the few Screebanks that were left hung out in the bottom of the ravine among the baresarks. Droom never said much about his family. They’d not spoken in more years than Carnifex could remember. The impression he got was that they thought Droom was a snob for marrying Yyalla: thought he was better than them. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Thanus?” Aristodeus said, reaching for the scarolite helm.
Droom slapped his hand away from it.
“I was going to say,”—Aristodeus splayed his fingers and winced—“it’s etymologically complex, but at some point came to mean ‘warrior’ and ‘hero’.”
“Which is no doubt why she inherited it,” Droom said. “But it also means ‘keep your shogging hands to yourself.’”
“Etymologically speaking?” Carnifex said.
Lucius guffawed.
Aristodeus’s eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger, but swiftly quelled to icy blue.
Droom patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, laddie. It’s just, her things. You know. It’s all I have left of her.”
“I understand,” Aristodeus said. “I intended no disrespect. Please forgive me.”
The silver-tongued shogger was as convincing as a recalcitrant councilor caught with his hands in the token vault, but Droom seemed inclined to buy into it.
“No harm done, laddie. The fault’s my own.”
The thud of footsteps coming from the front door had them all turning, and Thumil and Cordy staggered into the bedroom carrying a kilderkin between them, the eighteen-gallon casks her family got their name from.
Thumil was still in his uniform, though his red cloak looked like it had been slept in. His thinning hair had been hurriedly brushed, and his beard lacked its usual braids. Probably, Dythin Rala had kept him up half the night talking, though what the Voice of the Council and the Marshal of the Ravine Guard had to discuss was anyone’s guess. Conceivably, it was about the homunculus that had broken into the Scriptorium, but the impression Carnifex had left the Dodecagon with was that the matter was already closed.
Cordy had made some effort: her blue dress at least looked like it had been hung up after washing, and her golden hair and beard were immaculate, both plaited into fine braids held tight with silver bands. Actually, it was more effort than she usually took, and she’d not even known Yyalla. But she knew Droom, and loved him like she had her own pa, before the wasting took him. She looked different, somehow: she had curves he’d not noticed before. It was an odd thing. He’d never before thought of her as a woman.
“Let yourself in, Thumil,” Carnifex said with a deadpan look.
“Always do.”
“And you always should,” Droom said. “Good of you to come. Both of you. That for me?”
They set the cask on the floor, and Cordy used it as a seat.
“All of us,” she said. “A toast to Yyalla, and commiserations for this shogger’s birth.”
“Love you, too, Cordy,” Carnifex said.
She met his eyes with a stern gaze, utterly practiced, utterly serious. “No, you don’t.”
Thumil coughed and opened the satchel hanging beneath his cloak. “I thought, Droom, you might allow me to read a little something from this.”
He handed Droom a book in a soft leather cover. Droom squinted at the title embossed in gold leaf on the front, shrugged, and passed it to Lucius.
“ Liber Via ?” Lucius said. He looked at Aristodeus, who was leaning over his shoulder.
Behind the small collection lay the scroll that listed the roll of Yyalla’s ancestors. It was the mother’s line the dwarves considered important, and the mother’s family name that was passed to her husband and children. Droom was a Screebank by birth. Word was, the few Screebanks that were left hung out in the bottom of the ravine among the baresarks. Droom never said much about his family. They’d not spoken in more years than Carnifex could remember. The impression he got was that they thought Droom was a snob for marrying Yyalla: thought he was better than them. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Thanus?” Aristodeus said, reaching for the scarolite helm.
Droom slapped his hand away from it.
“I was going to say,”—Aristodeus splayed his fingers and winced—“it’s etymologically complex, but at some point came to mean ‘warrior’ and ‘hero’.”
“Which is no doubt why she inherited it,” Droom said. “But it also means ‘keep your shogging hands to yourself.’”
“Etymologically speaking?” Carnifex said.
Lucius guffawed.
Aristodeus’s eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger, but swiftly quelled to icy blue.
Droom patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, laddie. It’s just, her things. You know. It’s all I have left of her.”
“I understand,” Aristodeus said. “I intended no disrespect. Please forgive me.”
The silver-tongued shogger was as convincing as a recalcitrant councilor caught with his hands in the token vault, but Droom seemed inclined to buy into it.
“No harm done, laddie. The fault’s my own.”
The thud of footsteps coming from the front door had them all turning, and Thumil and Cordy staggered into the bedroom carrying a kilderkin between them, the eighteen-gallon casks her family got their name from.
Thumil was still in his uniform, though his red cloak looked like it had been slept in. His thinning hair had been hurriedly brushed, and his beard lacked its usual braids. Probably, Dythin Rala had kept him up half the night talking, though what the Voice of the Council and the Marshal of the Ravine Guard had to discuss was anyone’s guess. Conceivably, it was about the homunculus that had broken into the Scriptorium, but the impression Carnifex had left the Dodecagon with was that the matter was already closed.
Cordy had made some effort: her blue dress at least looked like it had been hung up after washing, and her golden hair and beard were immaculate, both plaited into fine braids held tight with silver bands. Actually, it was more effort than she usually took, and she’d not even known Yyalla. But she knew Droom, and loved him like she had her own pa, before the wasting took him. She looked different, somehow: she had curves he’d not noticed before. It was an odd thing. He’d never before thought of her as a woman.
“Let yourself in, Thumil,” Carnifex said with a deadpan look.
“Always do.”
“And you always should,” Droom said. “Good of you to come. Both of you. That for me?”
They set the cask on the floor, and Cordy used it as a seat.
“All of us,” she said. “A toast to Yyalla, and commiserations for this shogger’s birth.”
“Love you, too, Cordy,” Carnifex said.
She met his eyes with a stern gaze, utterly practiced, utterly serious. “No, you don’t.”
Thumil coughed and opened the satchel hanging beneath his cloak. “I thought, Droom, you might allow me to read a little something from this.”
He handed Droom a book in a soft leather cover. Droom squinted at the title embossed in gold leaf on the front, shrugged, and passed it to Lucius.
“ Liber Via ?” Lucius said. He looked at Aristodeus, who was leaning over his shoulder.
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