Free Grudgebearer by J.F. Lewis

was from the spirit realm, as was only right and suitable for a god. Conwrath looked away.
    Japesh sat on a gilded wooden stool near the door of the magistrate’s office, a look of practiced neutrality fixed as firmly across his features as other men might don a helm. His eyes held a different message: Say the word, Captain, and I’ll gut this one. God Speaker or no. Surely your wife can’t be too mad. And if he’s supposed to live, his goddess will save him then, won’t she?
    A study in self-importance, Breemson’s office spoke as loudly to the man’s stubborn pride as his own offended reaction to the presence of the Grudgebearers in his city. What wasn’t gilded was lacquered. Nothing was local except for the door itself. If Conwrath guessed correctly, the magistrate’s desk was made from purpleheart wood, which had to have been hauled all the way from Castleguard in Upper Barrone.
    Conwrath amused himself by trying to estimate the shipping costs for the item itself as well as for strictly the materials necessary. The Dwarves preferred locally sourced materials and placed prohibitive taxes on those transporting construction materials across the intercontinental Junland Bridge, which would have been the fastest way to get the desk from the Upper continent to the Lower one. The tariffs alone to get the cursed thing across the length of Barrony . . . Conwrath suspected the goddess had not demanded such expenses be incurred.
    â€œWhy do they want to see me about it?” Breemson hissed. “It’s not my fault we didn’t have the correct instructions! Shidarva judge me now if I’ve angered them deliberately.”
    â€œMagistrate.” Conwrath tried not to sound too condescending. “The Grudgers aren’t angry with anyone. They—”
    â€œAren’t angry? They killed and ate half the trade delegation!” Breemson shrieked. “And then they dare to come to my doorstep to threaten me.”
    Conwrath didn’t like the inflection on that “dare” or the “me.” Indignation never sat well with an Aern.
    â€œI believe Kholster is approaching you in an open, honest manner . . . hoping to . . . ah—”
    â€œClear up any further misunderstoodings,” Japesh added helpfully.
    â€œMisunderstandings?” Breemson squawked as he bounded out of his chair. Conwrath winced at the volume. The Aern had particularly good hearing. What, he wondered, were the odds that Kholster and every one of his Aern could hear every word they were saying, even from out in the audience chamber? “I suppose having the Long Speakers withhold news of his arrival was meant as a sign of openness and honesty then? I assume I misunderstood that, too?”
    â€œCousin.” Conwrath began a different tack. “This is easy. I know the Aern seem backward and savage from your side of the battle, but they’re knife-to-the-chest sort of people. Never a knife in the dark. If they want to kill you, they’ll tell you that’s what they intend to do—”
    â€œThey don’t get sneaky until after they’ve put words against you,” Japesh said.
    â€œAgainst me how?” Breemson froze.
    All three of them turned to the door at the sound of a commotion outside in the magisterial arena. Conwrath thought he heard the tail end of what might have been the word “unconscious” followed by a clang, a thump, and the sound of a body hitting the door and sliding to the ground.
    â€œGenerally,” Kholster said, as he opened the door and stepped over the unconscious guard who had been posted at it, “I shout them with thunderous volume at the offending party, in front of many witnesses.” He frowned at Breemson, and Conwrath wondered what the pudgy official with his sweat-stained robes and holy tattoos must look like to the Aern.
    Then he knew. Aern tended to make food comparisons