Chapter 5

“Thought I saw the boy under the table last week,” came a deep male

voice from behind them, the timbre reminiscent of rocks grinding together.

“Only because I dropped my fig,” Targyon said, turning toward Cutter, the

only dwarf who’d fought with the kingdom army during the war.

Red-haired, red-bearded, and barefoot, Cutter wore a belt full of weapons

and tools that would have brought most men to their knees with its weight.

After almost five years, Jev still didn’t know his real name. Cutter assured

him it was too difficult for humans to pronounce, even though Jev spoke six

languages in addition to a smattering of Preskabroton Dwarf.

“That wasn’t a prize I was willing to let go easily,” Targyon added.

“Considering nothing but berries grow on the elves’ benighted continent.”

“So long as there was a reason your dusty butt was top-up like a dirt

flower sprouting from a rock.”

“A dirt flower? Is that an actual plant?” Targyon arched his eyebrows at

Jev.

“Maybe,” Jev said, “but dwarves have about fifty words for dirt. It’s

possible there wasn’t a more apt translation.”

“I hope you’re not mocking my language, human.” Cutter pointed the

hook that replaced his missing right hand up at Jev’s face. “I’d hate to have to

break your nose when you’ve somehow managed to survive all these years of

battles without a blow to crook it.”

Cutter’s own nose looked like a sculptor’s drunken apprentice had

battered at it for years with a hammer.

“You’d better treat my nose well,” Jev said, “if you want that introduction

to the city’s master gem cutter.”

“Arkura Grindmor,” Cutter said, his tone managing to take on a wistful

quality without losing any of its harshness. He faced the railing and the city.

Their vessel had sailed close enough that the masts and smokestacks of

docked ships blocked the view of the waterfront, but meandering streets

climbed up the slope from the harbor with buildings visible as they stretched

up and over the ridge. “Can we see the master today? Do you know where the

workshop is located?”

“I do know where his shop is, assuming it hasn’t moved in the last ten

years.” Jev looked to Targyon since he’d been in the city far more recently.

“I don’t think she’s moved in ten years,” he said dryly.

“There’s plenty of moving involved in bringing out the magic in a gem,”

Cutter said. “I’m sure she’s as sound as a boulder.”

“That’s a compliment, right?” Targyon asked.

Jev nodded. “For a dwarf, yes. He’s practically swooning. One wonders if

his interest in our city’s master gem cutter isn’t more personal than

professional. I hadn’t realized Master Grindmor is a, er, woman.” Considering

he’d seen the dwarf a few times and even gone to the shop once, it was somewhat alarming that he hadn’t known that.

“She does have that appealing beard.” Targyon scraped his fingers

through his own beard. It was on the clumpy and scraggly side, but Jev’s

wasn’t much better. None of them had bathed, shaved, or had haircuts in he

couldn’t remember how long.

“Indeed,” Jev said. “It’s fuller and fluffier than the tail of a wolfhound.”

Cutter squinted up at Jev’s face, perhaps entertaining nose-breaking

fantasies again. “I’ve never met her,” was all he said. “But I’ve waited a long

time to beg her to take me on and teach me.”

Cutter touched one of the many leather pouches and kits attached to his

belt, one that held his jewelry tools. He had often put those tools to use while

assisting the army, repairing and improving the dragon-tear gems that some of

the officers wielded. They were the only source of magical power in the world

that humans could draw upon and use, and they’d been imperative in

surviving against the magical Taziir. Jev didn’t know what more the dwarf

hoped to learn about carving, but he owed it to Cutter to help him gain an

apprenticeship if he wanted one.

“King Alderoth?” a man asked as he approached Targyon. It was

Lieutenant Morfan, one of the signal officers.

“What?” Targyon’s brow furrowed at the incorrect address.

Jev wondered if they had both misheard it. The earnest Lieutenant Morfan

wasn’t known for telling jokes. Or laughing at the ones others told.

“Sire.” Morfan dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “You may have

noticed the flag message we received a short while ago.”

Jev and Targyon glanced toward the high stone walls that stretched into

the Anchor Sea, creating a protected harbor for the docks and swimming

beaches. A semaphore soldier had been atop it earlier, waving his colored

flags toward the Fleet Stallion. Since Jev was colorblind, he’d never tried to

add the semaphore code to his repertoire of languages, but he did remember

thinking the flags had been waving about more quickly than usual. More

urgently?

“Uhm, yes, but whatever you think you saw must have been a mistake

if…” Targyon spread a helpless hand and glanced to Jev, as if he had some

idea what was going on.

He did not. As his father’s eldest—and now only—son, Jev knew how the

government and the succession worked, but he couldn’t think of anything that

would account for this. King Abdor was dead, but according to the last reports

Jev’s company had received, his three sons were alive with Crown Prince

Dazron running the kingdom.

“It’s not a mistake, Sire. I checked three times to be certain. I, too, was…

surprised.” The lieutenant lifted his head but only enough to glance up at

Targyon. “The three princes died of a rare disease of the blood, all within