Outside the walls, rural life continued at its typical pace, with herdsmen tending their livestock, and farmers working their fields. Very few of those stuck outside the walls were dwarfs. Most appeared to be humans, and a few shepherds were skrael. The small, semi-reptilian figures running alongside their wooly charges looked almost comical. For much of the day, no one came or went from the city, which remained firmly buttoned up. Our camp was established, and the sun was threatening the horizon by the time we saw another sign of activity within Oakenyoke. A contingent of mail-clad spearmen flanked Bedros’ waifs and palanquin bearers as he approached the camp gates. An ornate geometric pattern in blue and bronze marked their angular shields.

“His Grace, the Dux[41] Pyry Theophanis will grant audience to the Ethnarch of the Volkmund and King of Zesrin. But no attendants or soldiery. The remainder of your contingent will remain here.”

“Which one?” Gebhard asked.

“Excuse me?” Bedros asked, consternation crossing his brow.

“Your trade is words. I assumed when you used the singular of ‘Ethnarch’ you were only referring to one.”

“There is more than one?”

“Indeed, this here is Erbprinz Kord Grosz von Karststadt-Salzheim. We are of equal titular rank within the nobility.”

Bedros ground his molars together with a motion that reminded me of cows chewing cud. “Are there any others?”

“Well, we have some counts and barons-”

“Any equal or higher to yourself.”

“No. Just the two of us and King Hengist.”

“Fine. The three of you will be permitted to have an audience with my Duke.” The spearmen formed an aisle on either side of the petal-strewn path. The intent was clearly meant to give the impression of being an honor guard while hedging us in. The problem was, Graymire was taller than their spears, and the looks the dwarfs gave each other made me doubt they’d hold the line should we get unruly. Still, these were our allies, and we did not come to Oakenyoke to cause trouble. Bedros’ waifs led our procession back to the city and through the gate. A broad boulevard lined in cherry trees ran to the soaring edifice with the brass dome. Clustered between the trunks of the trees were masses of curious onlookers. Dwarfs of every social stripe crowded the margins of the roadway to get a look at the foreign visitors. Every one of them that looked at least moderately well-off had non-Dwarf attendants close at hand.

Before the great domed palace, the boulevard opened up into a plaza. At the heart of the plaza was a large fountain. The statuary in the middle showed a number of subjugated figures pouring ewers from which water flowed into the fountain proper. The bow-backed wretches depicted included representatives of most sapient species. The noted exception was Dwarfs. The sole Dwarf in the ensemble stood on top of the highest, and centermost spot. Chains wrapped about his fist ran to collars on all the other figures. The sight of the statuary made me take another look at the non-Dwarf attendants. Each wore at least a symbolic collar about their necks. Many had thrall-brands on their temples. Every one of them was a slave.

Other roads left the plaza, but we were interested in the long stair at the far end. As wide as the original boulevard, the stair was flanked on either side by a tall hypostyle of rose quartzite columns holding aloft tile-capped sandstone. Crimson canopies spanned the gap, one after another, providing shade to the stairs without obstructing the breeze. Just looking at it, the stairway seemed to stretch on forever. This made Bedros’ next words all the more unwelcome.

“You cannot bring your beasts up the steps. We will tend to them, and they will be returned when you depart.” A wide-eyed slave took Graymire’s reins as I reluctantly dismounted.

“That’s a lot of steps,” Hengist said.

The rule did not appear to apply to Bedros’ palanquin bearers, as they continued to carry him up the stairs. Flanked by spear-wielding dwarfs, there was nowhere to go but up. And up. And up. From the way my legs were complaining, I could easily imagine we’d climbed up among the clouds, but we’d only gone so far as the domes of the city. We finally reached a second plaza. From this elevated position, we could see out over the walls, and I spied our encampment in the distance. Gold-veined marble pillars held aloft a frieze in rust-red and white. At a glance, it showed a march of conquest by the ever-victorious Dwarfs against a procession of savage foes. We passed under this frieze and through another hypostyle before reaching the doors of the palace proper. For the first time that I’d seen, the Archilogos descended from his palanquin and stood on his own feet.

I thanked the gods that the main audience chamber was directly behind those doors. From the shape and distance to the roof, the chamber had to fill the brass dome. But the dome itself was only covered in brass, as the interior was covered in massive, painted reliefs whose detail was muddied by shadows. Lanterns hung from hooks on every pillar ringing the base of the dome. Giltwork chased the arches linking the marble pillars, glittering in the light and drawing the eye down to the dais. Upon it stood a throne entirely faced in ebony and lapis lazuli. Four Dwarfs in full plate stood spaced equidistant along the foot of the dais in front of the throne. They faced the assembled courtiers and stood unmoving. The throne was the only seat in the chamber, and it was empty. I set my jaw and tried not to let my wobbly legs betray me.

Despite their voluminous beards and the strength needed to carry about the sheer weight of jewelry burdening their frames, the courtiers gave off an effete air. Even having just climbed the interminable stair, the three of us could have bested the lot of them in battle. The only real challenge would come from the four guards at the throne. And yet, derisive chatter passed from sneering lips to agreeing ears. I shook off the thought and focused on remaining standing while we waited. From the left, a figure in black plate strode into the room. The glossy surface of the angular ceremonial armor gleamed like the night sky as he passed among the lanterns. The helmet bore the stylized visage of a dwarf face, but where eye holes might have been sat red jewel lenses. The beard of the visage consisted of a curtain of embossed diamond-shaped plates connected to each other by rings at the corners. It tinkled with every motion of the dwarf’s head. In his right hand was a tall ebon staff topped with iron scales. Two chains wrapped about the staff in a spiral. The staff was taller than I was, and easily spotted over the heads of the courtiers.

This dark figure strode up the dais and stood beside the throne. With the acoustics of the dome, his voice sounded as if it came from every direction, loud, clear and resonant.

“His Honored Grace, Dux of the Rebel Marches, Stratigos Particular and Guardian of the Chains, Pyry Theophanis the Sixteenth.”

It took all my willpower to not burst out laughing as a figure maybe two-thirds the height of the other Dwarfs emerged from behind the throne and seated himself upon it. For all the blue silk, gemstones and gold draped upon his frame, there was no disguising that Pyry Theophanis was but a child. His fair hair was neatly combed and his jaw set in determination, but his cherubic face bore no gravitas. The only thing I saw in his eyes was fear of making a mistake of etiquette. Save for the four guards at the dais and the figure in black, the Dwarfs all fell to one knee, facing the throne.

“You may rise,” Pyry said, his voice bearing the expected high pitch of youth. The court returned to their feet, some having a harder time of it than others. The Dux looked up at the figure in black. “Are these the savages, Lawspeaker?” he asked in such an innocent, earnest tone that I almost missed the way he’d referred to us. That, and the title of ‘Lawspeaker’ stood out to my ears.

“These are the Ethnarchs of the force the Emperor has invited to help crush the Drakoi.”

Wonderment and curiosity filled Pyry’s eyes as he looked us over. “That one’s taller than a troll,” he said.

“Not quite, your grace.”

“Archilogos,” Pyry said.

Bedros tipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Ask our guests what they wanted.”

“By your command.” Bedros turned and switched languages. “His Honored Grace requests to know what you would ask of his beneficence.”

Gebhard held up the ornate scroll tube. “I hold here an invitation from the Emperor to aid his armies in battle against the Drakoi. By the oath of support he swore, I request supplies and provisions that I might continue on to meet Protoarchistratigos Stojan Archelaus and his forces.”

I was surprised that Gebhard managed to get that mess of a title out without stumbling on the awkward word. Bedros turned about.

“He is quite rudely demanding we resupply his army,” the Archilogos said in Dwarfish.

“And the scroll he is holding?” Pyry asked.

“Is an oath of support from the Emperor.”

Pyry propped his jaw upon his fist, trying to look contemplative. “If we just give them what they want, they will go away?”

“Yes, your grace,” Bedros said.

“But I’ve never met a savage before. I want to keep them in the palace for a bit.”

“How long would you like them to stay?” the Archilogos asked.

“Not too long, your grace,” the Lawspeaker cut in, “The slaves might get… ideas.”

Pyry looked at the Lawspeaker, then back at us. “A few days,” he said.

“As you command,” Bedros said before turning back to us and switching languages. “His Grace will honor the oath of support and provide you with the supplies and provisions you require. However, it will take several days to gather sufficient quantity. In the meantime, he would like to extend an invitation to stay here as his guests.”

The most infuriating thing about the excuse Bedros had picked was that it was so plausible it might even be true.

“I need to stay in contact with my subordinates,” Gebhard said.

“Runners will be placed at your disposal for communication.”

Unable to find a decent excuse to be let back to our camp, Gebhard gave a cut nod. “Very well.”

“Superb.” He turned back to the Dux. “They understand your wishes and will be staying for a few days.”

“Archilogos,” the Lawspeaker said, “We will find individual translators for these three. Once you show them to the dining hall, you are dismissed.”

Bedros bowed low to hide the scowl on his face from the Lawspeaker, bending over almost in half with an extravagant gesture of his arm.

***

Jet and ivory figures inlaid into the golden sandstone walls conveyed a cornucopia depicted in semiprecious stones as the eye progressed around the perimeter of the dining hall. Each figure, dish and foodstuff was individually carved into a realistic, if idealized, image. The room was smaller than I’d expected, and few of the courtiers were in attendance. A low table filled the center of the space. It was ringed by Dwarf-sized divans with intricate embroidery. As the couches were too short, I had to sit upright. The new translators proved to be a trio of beardless dwarfs who demurred on introductions, saying it was not their place. With their proximity and the position of our seats, it was impossible to have a private discussion with either Hengist or Gebhard without drawing attention to it. In fact, it was impossible for anyone in the room to have a private conversation.

The meal started with etched crystal goblets into which was poured honey-colored liquid. I stared at the ivy patterns on the glass before me and tried to guess what the drink was.

“Is something the matter?” someone asked. The echo from my translator made me realize the question had been posed to me.

“Apologies. Not too long ago, I had a drink get poisoned, and I am… over-wary.”

The Lawspeaker pointed to the slave who was pouring beverages. “Take a drink from his glass.” The svelte, fair-haired girl set down the crystal ewer and picked up my goblet. She downed a swallow without hesitation and set it back down. The level within the cup was visibly lower by a slight margin. “You will prove every glass you pour him.” The Lawspeaker had not taken a couch, and was still in his ceremonial armor. He was positioned behind Pyry, and enough to the side for the young Dux to look up at him.

“I appreciate the gesture,” I said, picking up the goblet. The beverage was sweet to the tongue, but burned the throat. The fumes cleared my sinuses quite readily. I guessed it was quite a bit stronger than the wines I was more familiar with. The first actual dish placed before me was a piece of bread bigger than a roll but smaller than a loaf and baked into the shape of waterfowl. It sat on a pond made from a mashed paste. Vegetables artfully carved into lilies and leaves decorated the pond. The dwarfs took their knives to their bread bird and revealed that the body had been filled with red jelly. They used their slices to scoop up the pond mash and ate it like that. Though it was only a baked good, I mercifully decapitated my bread bird and started with the head. The paste was mildly sweet, but as I chewed, the taste of the dark brown bread came through. The pungent and powerfully flavored spices overwhelmed the palate and drowned out everything else until I’d rinsed my mouth with another drink. It had the consistency of bread, but the flavor of an entire spice cake packed into that morsel. I wondered if the dwarfs’ taste buds were dead from their cuisine.

“Please, tell me about your homelands,” Pyry said.

Hengist’s tale of Zesrin did not excite the youth, as his neighbor was too well known. Gebhard’s taciturn delivery was even less engrossing. So, I felt the need to be effusive in my description of Ritterblume. Talking also meant I wasn’t expected to keep eating the overpowering spiced bread. I spoke of the hills and the pastures, of the rock formations and the ruins, of the mysterious roads to nowhere and the maze-like karsts of the Slagveld. My description of a snowfall that had reached my waist got the Dux particularly engaged.

“I’d get lost in that, it would be up to my head.”

“The year it happened, I was only about as tall as you are now, so we’d still have found you,” I said. Pyry laughed at that.

“Here the snow never gets more than toe-deep.”

Mentioning the karsts led me down the path of talking about other places I’d been. I continued to describe the cities of the Volkmund, the pilgrim trail, and the Imperial highway. Something about my delivery held the young dwarf’s attention even as I spoke of parts of Zesrin. He looked at me eagerly when I stopped talking.

“Well?” Pyry prompted.

“And then I reached here. Your own eyes can do your city more justice than my words,” I said.

The young dwarf sighed. “I wish I could travel.” The translators didn’t repeat his words, nor the utterance of the Lawspeaker that Pyry needed to be older first. The first course presaged what was to come. The herbs baked into the meat dish rendered it impossible to tell what animal it might have been, and the dessert was too sickly-sweet to complete. Finally, the meal concluded, and the Lawspeaker directed a slave to show us to our rooms.

The labyrinthine corridors of the Oakenyoke palace were more than my sense of direction could handle. By the time the slave guiding us indicated the chambers we would be staying in, I had no hope of finding my way back to the front exit. The walls of the suite were covered with tapestries from floor to ceiling, depicting a great many scenes with no apparent unifying theme. On a hunch, I peered behind one of them. The dark granite forming the wall had been ornately carved as per many stone surfaces in the palace. Then at some point the wall has been disassembled and put back together wrong. Large polygonal slabs of stone were held together by great spans of mortar jammed with rubble to fill the gaps where they did not fit. Scenes sat out of order, at odd angles or outright inverted. The tapestries were hung to hide the mess.

“There are no doors,” Hengist protested. I took another look around the suite. The only things covering the archways between rooms were curtains of silken brocade.

“I suppose we can assume there is someone eavesdropping on everything,” Gebhard said.

“That’s a safe assumption even when there are doors,” Hengist said. “Servants tend to be everywhere.”

“Still, they have to go out of their way here.” Gebhard gripped his forehead and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. His voice dropped in volume. “So what did we miss from the language barrier?”

“Not a whole lot,” I whispered back. “Bedros doesn’t like us, and painted us in a bad light, but the Lawspeaker doesn’t trust him.”

“I could tell that much anyway.”

“The rest of the translators were accurate.”

“Thank you,” Gebhard said, though his tone was more dismissive than grateful. I took this as a sign to wander off. I only went as far as a suitable bed. The edifice I found was made of gilt iron, and raised high enough from the ground as to have three oaken steps for dwarfs to climb into it. It was not such a difficult prospect for me. Samite curtains separated the sleeping area proper from the tapestried room around it. Whatever fabric was stretched across the frame to hold it aloft, the mattress itself was stuffed tightly with wool and covered in linen sheets. A heavier blanket was folded across the foot of the bed, but Quendaverus had not shown the kind of weather that made me reach for a blanket. In fact, if I wanted to get any sleep, I needed to take some of my clothes off.

[41] Dux is the proper title for the lord of Polyarotron, though its commonly used derivative ‘Duke’ is equally applicable in casual conversation. Formal address mandates the use of the proper title Dux instead.

If you want your own copy, the whole book is available from Amazon in eBook, Paperback, and Hardcover variants.