The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(49)
The swarthy dwarf winked at Fletcher, then laughed uproariously as they embraced. Fletcher pounded him on the back while Jeffrey, Sylva and Cress ferried the packages inside and laid them on the table. He had not realised how much he had missed Athol until now.
It did not take long for it all to be unloaded, and Athol gave the boar a slap on the rump with his hand. The animal gave a disgruntled squeal, then trotted away, the cart rumbling behind it.
‘He knows his way back. Smarter than horses, boars,’ Athol said, leaning against a table and plucking his braces with his thumbs. He gave a low whistle as he looked around him.
‘Look at this place,’ he moaned, picking up a discarded tankard from the table behind him and turning it upside down. A thin stream of dust trickled out and he wrinkled his nose.
‘Used to be the best tavern in all of Hominum,’ he grumbled. ‘Soon as the first terror attack happened, it was boarded up and closed. Would have been burned down by some enterprising human otherwise. Damned shame.’
‘What did happen?’ Fletcher asked, trying to understand what had changed during his long incarceration. ‘What do the Anvils have to do with these attacks?’
Athol sighed and rubbed his eyes.
‘The Anvils were just humans who were friendly to the dwarves at first,’ he explained, settling down on one of the low benches. ‘Started with a few of them drinking in one of our pubs, because of our beer, of course. Soon we started handing out membership cards to keep out troublemakers, like some of the racist gangs who came looking for a fight. Didn’t take long for them to become something of a gang themselves, making sure their dwarf friends got home safe, demonstrating at dwarven protests, that sort of thing. Nothing violent though. Nothing like what happened.’
Athol paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
‘The first explosion was at one of the demonstrations, after a young dwarf lad was wrongfully arrested,’ Athol continued, a grim expression on his face. ‘Gunpowder and musket balls, packed in a barrel beside the Pinkertons and set off by a long fuse. Took out three of them and ten innocents. Could only have been an Anvil, the investigators said. The barrel had been left out days before to avoid suspicion, and the only people who knew the location of the protest was us and the Anvils. They might have pinned the blame on us dwarves, but a witness saw the bomber running from the scene. Too tall for a dwarf, they said.’
‘But why?’ Fletcher asked. ‘What could that possibly achieve?’
‘We’ll never know,’ Cress answered, her eyes closed, hands trembling with sudden anger. ‘Their leaders all upped and vanished that very same day. But there were more attacks. One at the young dwarf’s trial itself. Killed thirty people that time, including the dwarf in question. It was like they didn’t even care. They left a calling card then, quite literally. Membership cards, the kind you couldn’t fake, belonging to the leadership.’
‘Like the one you gave me, the one they showed at the trial?’ Fletcher asked.
‘No, those were cards for junior members, if you can call them that. Most of the young girls and boys in Corcillum had a card at one point or another – they handed them out like candy,’ Athol replied, shaking his head. ‘Myself included, if you haven’t forgotten. The only reason they would have brought it up at the trial was to confuse the jury, who wouldn’t know that, so far north of Corcillum. It was little more than an entry ticket.’
‘Rory and Genevieve had one,’ Jeffrey agreed. ‘Even some of the nobles. Plus most of the other servants, like Mr Mayweather the cook, used to come here. They wanted to try the beer, like me.’
There was silence then, the mood turning sombre as they realised how bad things had become. Fletcher wondered if this mission would make any difference at all, after what he had just heard. Would seeing teams of dwarves, elves and humans fighting together really bring about peace?
‘Years of progress were gone in an instant,’ Othello whispered, staring into space. ‘Pointless, pointless, pointless. Everyone blamed the dwarves, of course. Said we were seducing young, impressionable humans with alcohol, brainwashing them and making them do our dirty work.’
‘Tell them what Uhtred thinks,’ Briss said, her face inscrutable behind the veil.
Othello rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if it was a waste of time. Cress kicked him and he yelped, rubbing his shin.
‘I want to find out what’s in these packages – get on with it,’ she said, crossing her arms. ‘And respect your mother.’
‘Fine! It’s a stupid theory, but it’s no crazier than any other explanation I’ve heard,’ Othello grumbled, sitting down and examining his ginger-haired leg for bruises. ‘He thinks someone in the Anvil leadership was working for the Triumvirate. The new anti-dwarven sentiment is killing our weapons business. Quartermasters refusing to buy from us, rumours spread about us sabotaging our muskets to explode in their owners’ faces.’
‘Or it could just as easily be a fanatical dwarf who believes that we should rebel again,’ Cress said, unimpressed by Othello’s father’s theory. ‘Someone like Ulfr. He’s the worst of us. Used to have Atilla under his wing too, until he met you of course, Fletcher.’
She smiled brightly at him, then turned to Athol and Briss.
‘Now, I know you have both been working flat out all day on a top secret project, which is why you couldn’t come and watch me win the Tournament,’ Cress said, with a hint of admonishment. ‘So let’s see what the fuss is about.’