“I’m sorry, Gravis,” Lord Byron said in his most sympathetic tone, which he knew from experience was not up to such a task, “but I regret to deliver the unpleasant news that you are being let go.”

  The dwarf in front of Lord Byron stood before the grand desk, looking horribly out of place in the lavish office.

  Lord Byron thought, He’d look out of place anywhere, I imagine.

  Not quite three feet tall, the dwarf had hair that came to his knees and a beard that brushed the floor. His eyebrows, which grew on a pronounced ridge, appeared like a pair of neglected hedges whose gardener had died a century ago. These brows cast a brooding shadow on his face. Taken as a whole, Gravis Berling seemed little more than a hairy haystack with a pair of pitiful eyes.

  But then again, they’re all like that, aren’t they?

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Gravis said, his voice the traditional deep dwarven groan of grinding rock.

  Lord Byron didn’t know much about dwarfs despite employing a tiny army of them. Like everyone, he’d heard the legends, the jokes made at public houses, and he’d witnessed the depictions at theaters where they were always villains. Dwarfs certainly looked the part. Small and hairy, they scurried about in the dark, completely at home underground where no reasonable person would ever go. Rats were the same way, and as such, they induced fear and loathing. People who weren’t revolted were often the type to see small furry things as cute, such as the lady who tries to care for a hurt squirrel or raccoon. But dwarfs were neither. Nor were they so simple a thing as inconvenient rodents. Dwarfs were dangerous, their size misleading. Lord Byron had once seen a dwarven miner crush a rock with his bare hand. Armed with pickaxes, Gravis’s brethren could cut through stone as if it were high grass. Not only were they frighteningly strong, but the entire race also possessed the endurance of wolves and the longevity of tortoises. Some stories claimed dwarfs lived as long as five centuries. Lord Byron had reason to believe there was truth to these tales as Gravis himself was easily over a hundred. The years showed in the gullies of his face, the deep valleys beneath those downtrodden eyes, and the brittle gray in all that hair. Some legends even put forth the notion that the diminutive race was not born of flesh and blood but rather crafted from stone. This was why their voices possessed that unpleasant grit and the reason why dwarfs had no feelings.

  “What do you mean, let go?”

  Lord Byron frowned, disappointed at the response. He’s pretending to be ignorant. I did hope it wouldn’t go this way. But then I also hoped the gout in my left toe would clear up.

  “As of this moment,” Lord Byron explained, “you are no longer an employee of the Delgos Port Authority Association.”

  The dwarf narrowed his eyes, bristling those awful brows. They look like woolly bear caterpillars with their fur up. Do caterpillars do that? Raise their fur? Is that why they call them woolly bears? I doubt it.

  “What’s that mean, sir?” Gravis continued with what appeared to be a charade of ignorance.

  Lord Byron fought the urge to roll his eyes. It had been a long day, most of it taken up dismissing more than two dozen dwarfs. He could have had the foreman do it?—?regretted a bit now that he hadn’t?—?but he believed in doing things the proper way. Delgos was a republic, not a monarchy. A worker had the right to hear such news directly from his employer.

  “It means you no longer work here, Gravis. You will receive your final recompense at the door as you leave.”

  The dwarf continued to stare as if he no longer understood the Rhunic language. They sometimes did that, feigned ignorance while muttering something in their native tongue.

  “But . . .?” Gravis looked around the office. “I don’t work here. I work at Drumindor, sir.”

  Lord Byron had expected that the old engineer would be a problem. Gravis Berling had been with the Port Authority longer than anyone, longer than even Lord Byron. And then, of course, there was the whole family name issue. It was said that a certain Andvari Berling?—?an ancient dwarf?—?had designed and overseen the building of the fortress. Lord Byron wasn’t at all certain this was true, but it could be. Anything could be, couldn’t it? Gravis certainly thought it was possible, and in the old engineer’s mind, Drumindor was his property?—?the ancient fortress his inheritance. This was why Lord Byron had insisted that the old engineer was to be the last brought to his office. He knew the meeting would be unnecessarily quarrelsome and draining. He looked forward to consoling himself afterward with a cup of tea and a long walk along the bay. Nothing helped clear the head like salt-sea air and a hot cup of salifan, especially with a squeeze of fresh lemon. A cup of tea absolutely required fresh lemon, or what was the point?

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Lord Byron didn’t like scenes or disturbances of any sort. He was a proper man who woke each morning at sunrise, always put on his left shoe before his right, and never went outside without hat and gloves. Order was the proper way of things and routine the heart and soul of order. People like Gravis were . . . messy. Handling him was very much like clearing a clogged drain with a bare hand. And, if pressed on the matter, Lord Byron would admit to a certain personality flaw regarding the propensity to procrastinate when it came to anything expected to be disagreeable. Informing Gravis Berling that he would no longer be allowed to care for his beloved Drumindor after more than a century was undoubtedly going to be unpleasant.

  Lord Byron took an exasperated breath before stating what he was certain Gravis was well aware of but pointedly pretending to be oblivious to. “Drumindor is part of the Delgos Port Authority Association, Gravis. Why are you being

  so obtuse?”

  Perhaps it was his use of obtuse that caused it. Lord Byron doubted the likes of Gravis had a clue what the word meant. But whatever the reason, the dwarf appeared to stop listening. Despite his small vocabulary, Gravis had gotten the message. Perhaps it just took a bit of time to penetrate all that hair. “I’ve worked there all me life. I . . .?” The dwarf stroked his beard, eyes shifting about in a vague panic.

  Lord Byron had witnessed similar mannerisms in men walking to the gallows. Gravis was noticeably terrified as any person would be when faced with a very sudden end to what had been a long life.

  “I never had any children,” Gravis confessed, as if this were some great crime. He sounded suddenly short of breath. “I’m the last of the Berlings?—?the last. There’s no one left in me clan. I . . . I have no family, except me wife, and she . . .?” He hesitated as if a new and terrible thought had walked uninvited across the threshold of his mind. “My Ena, she’s sick! The poor lass. She’s been ill for some time, getting worse, too. How will I . . . Without me job, I’ll be asked ta pay rent on that shack of ours. If I lose it?—?I got nothing. There’s no place that will hire me, not now, not at my age.” He looked at his hands as if they had betrayed him. “What’d I do wrong, sir? I swear ta your god and mine that I’ll make it right. I will. I’ll do anything. Please. Please.”

  Lord Byron had expected the question. They had all asked it, and he had answered the same way each time. “It’s not anything you did, Gravis. The Tur Del Fur Administration Triumvirate has determined that, given the recent lawless disturbances, continuing to allow your people to operate Drumindor is . . . well, it’s a threat to city security.”

  “What disturbances? And what do you mean about a threat to security?” Gravis looked lost. “The Berlings?—?built Drumindor, sir. This?—?this whole bay was uninhabitable before Andvari Berling arrived. I’ll tell you what’s a threat, sir?—?not having a Berling take proper care of the old gal. That’s dangerous, that is. Letting me go?—?as you call it?—?that’s irresponsible, unsafe, and absolutely a threat to this city’s security.”

  “I am aware of your?—”

  “Mount Druma used to erupt all the bleeding time, spewing clouds of ash and poison gas and letting loose streams of lava. This lovely little bay was a toxic death trap a’fore we built Drumindor!”

  “Yes, I fully understand?—”

  “And then there were the pirates, the Dacca and the Ba Ran. They used to ravage these coasts! If it weren’t for my people, there’d be no Drumindor, no Tur Del Fur, no Port Authority Association or Administration Triumvirate! If it weren’t for my people, this office would be in a smoking crater of molten rock! All your lovely little shops, cafés, taprooms, and theaters wouldn’t exist.”

  “It’s not my decision, Gravis.”

  “You’re the president of the Port Authority Association!” The grind of gravel rose to the roar of a lion. “Ya just said Drumindor is part of the bloody DP-double-A.”

  “Yes, but I don’t run the country. This decision was made by the Triumvirate. If you have a problem, take it up with them.” ?This was Lord Byron’s shield. He had never thought of it that way until witnessing Gravis change from the wandering wizard of wheels and levers into something more frightening. Once more, Lord Byron remembered how that miner’s bare hand had crushed a rock like a clod of dirt, and for a moment, he felt afraid. Gravis’s hands, old as they were, might still possess power beyond mortal man.

  “Aye, you’re right. It’s not up to you. Not even up to the Unholy Trio. Even if they wanted to, they can’t change the way men think,” Gravis said in resignation as he looked at the polished floor and shook his head. “It’s the same as always, isn’t it? We thought the republic would be different. No kings, no emperors,

  no church. Just free folk minding their own business. But it’s still the same. It’s always the same.” He looked up sharply and fixed Lord Byron with a piercing glare. “I should be the one firing you?—?all of ya. Drumindor is mine, and none

  of you deserve her. You can’t understand her language, and ya don’t even know how she works.” He paused and thought a moment as if another idea?—?a horrible one?—?came knocking. “But I do.”

  Gravis Berling glared up at Lord Byron, and a smile appeared under all that hair, an awful, terrible smile. “Aye, that’s right, I know her very well.”