“Wasn’t easy,” she said.
“No, I’d expect not. Was never like that with the humans, though. We didn’t look down on the half-born. I grew up playing with half-born cousins. My uncle married a half-born woman, goblin and dwarf. Not sure what that made his children. Didn’t much care.”
“I can’t picture you as a child.”
“I was smaller.”
“Still a split?”
“What do you think?”
Davrosh half-turned in the basket, grinned. “I’d guess less of a split, but more of a little pisser.”
Sorrows shrugged and nodded, shouted a command at the dogs, and turned onto a side street. The white pine and spruce thinned, were replaced by tall, empty maples and oaks. The shops grew a bit brighter, larger. The homes were polished, stately. Not the palatial estates of the daughters, but they still spoke of wealth and influence. The homes of sons; dead branches of family trees. The unchosen majority. It was a matter of numbers. A basic concept. Easy to understand.
With nine sons to a daughter, most dwarf males would never sire dwarf children. They’d leave to fight against the Cursed. Some would return, some wouldn’t. The ones who did were left to choose between bachelorhood or alternative lifestyles. Encouraged to do one. Somewhat tolerated when they picked the other. No family was exempt. Even House Valinor had half-born descendants scattered across the city and kingdom. Nine sons to a daughter. Inevitable. A matter of numbers. But biases were changing, slowly. The Quarry might be filled with half-born, but so were other neighborhoods in Hammerfell. The sled passed a group of children throwing snow at each other. They were young. Maybe a decade in age. Some were green-skinned, some fair. Some of the green-skinned boys had the shadow of dwarf hair on their faces. Some of the fair-skinned girls had softly pointed ears showing amid piles of raven braids. Some of the children would make a life in Hammerfell; find work, find love, start a family of their own. Biases were changing, slowly. But some would feel the tension like a current, pulling them down. They’d fight against it; wouldn’t fit in. Most of those ended up in the Quarry. Fewer dwarves in the Quarry. Less tension. But some would still feel the current, would be swept away to Beggar’s Hollow. A matter of numbers. Inevitable.
“Cherry Grove?” Davrosh asked. “Why in all hells are we in Cherry Grove? You trying to prove a point?”
“Need to see someone about a box,” Sorrows said.
“What box?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just need you to watch the dogs.”
“Piss off.”
Sorrows led the sled to a large house; two stories, sprawling, stables on the left, garden on the right. Sculpted shrubbery beneath a blanket of snow. Slate roof, plaster walls over timber. Exposed joints at the corners, above the front door. A good house with a good yard and a path of packed snow leading to a porch. The dogs pulled the sled into the stables, and a green-skinned youth with a close-cropped beard stepped out to meet them. Sorrows left the sled. Davrosh followed. Expected. He walked across the yard, down the path, and knocked on the front door.
Sounds issued within: low voices, then footsteps, the rattling of a lock. The door opened to a dwarf standing barefoot in a thin robe. His hair was gray and tied loose behind his head. His beard was gray and fell across his bare chest onto an ample belly. His eyes were amethyst and bright, and his smile revealed even, white teeth.
“Well, if it isn’t Solomon Sorrows on my doorstep,” he said.
“Long time, Brenn. How you been?” Sorrows asked.
The dwarf smiled. “Oh, you know me. Just waiting for the gods to call me back. Who’s your friend?”
“Master Remma Davrosh at your service,” Davrosh said, extending a hand.
They shook, and Brenn raised an eyebrow, staring her up and down. “Aren’t you a pretty thing? And a Master at that. Your tastes are improving, Solomon.”
Davrosh held up her hands. “Oh, we’re not… it’s not like that.”
“It’s always like that,” Sorrows said. “I’ll be sure to invite you to the wedding, Brenn.”
Brenn gave a short laugh. “I wouldn’t say no, though I expect Master Davrosh would never say yes.”
“Orchole,” Davrosh said, face turning red.
Brenn shook his head, put his arm around Davrosh and led her inside. “I see you know him well enough already. Don’t you worry about old Solomon. He’s gone a bit delusional with age. No one takes him too seriously. Used to have a thing for my gran, though, centuries back.”
Sorrows grinned, followed them into the house, closed the door. Brenn took them to a sitting room; leather armchairs, polished bookcases; smells of leather and old paper and tobacco. A decanter of what was most likely whiskey, a pair of tumblers. A window looked out into the neighborhood; the sounds of children laughing seeped through the glass. A good sitting room. Brenn gestured, Sorrows and Davrosh sat.
Brenn turned, called out down a hall, “Will, be a dear and bring some bread and cheese.”
“Who is it?” someone asked from somewhere in the house.
“Solomon Sorrows.”
Metal clanged, footsteps padded on stone then went silent, then padded on stone again. A dwarf rushed into the room. He had white hair, a white beard, amber eyes, a matching robe, matching bare feet.
“Sol, you old bastard,” he said when he saw Sorrows. He grinned, hurried across the room, and thrust a hand at Sorrows. “How long has it been?”
Sorrows hesitated. “Easy, Wilhelm. I don’t have the stone. You’ll likely snap bones, and I need to be able to shoot for the foreseeable future.”
Brenn frowned; Wilhelm raised an eyebrow. He nodded, slapped Sorrows on the shoulder.
“One of those visits,” Wilhelm said.
“Afraid so,” Sorrows said.
Wilhelm glanced at Davrosh. “So this one’s doing a bit more than warming your bed?”
“Why does everyone assume he’s bedding me?” Davrosh asked. Her face was crimson, fists clenched, knuckles white.
Wilhelm snorted, patted her knee. “As though he should be so lucky. My mistake and my apologies, Miss...”
“Master Remma Davrosh,” Brenn
