Free A Fine Welcome: Othello's Journey by Taran Matharu

 
     
    Othello did not want to leave. The sun was setting, and the Dwarven Quarter was more beautiful than he had ever seen it. The grass had just been shorn, leaving a heady scent in the air. It mixed with the sweet tang of the newly bloomed winter heather, the purple flowers stirring with the chill breeze as he walked alone through the great tents of his people.
    Buildings loomed above him—and Othello knew he had reached the edge of the settlement. He turned and took in the sights one last time. A human king had forced the dwarves to live in the slums of the city, full of crumbling buildings and windowless ruins. Yet, the dwarves had cleared it, putting up their tents and gardens and tunneling beneath to house the thousands that had been forced into the tiny ghetto. Othello felt a flush of pride. In the face of impossible odds, they had turned it into a paradise.
    He would miss it all terribly. Sleeping in his room deep within the earth, enveloped in the cool silence of the soil. Helping his father in the workshop, sweating in the golden glow of the flames and sparking metal. Strolling in the gardens with his mother and sister, listening to the old fables of their ancestors.
    Othello sighed and trudged away, disappearing into the dilapidated streets that bordered his home. It was time.
    The sky was dark when he reached the city center, which housed the horse markets. Despite the hour, the stalls were bustling with activity, and the roads were jammed with heaving horses and carriages. Humans were packed shoulder to shoulder, hurling offers at parading horses displayed on a raised wooden stage.
    There was only one way through, and Othello did not hesitate. He ducked low and darted beneath the bellies of the horses, thankful for his short stature. In moments he had made his way to the edge of the crowds, where his transport awaited him.
    Tucked away in a side street was a mule cart, overloaded with potatoes. A weasel-faced man sat at the front, a look of annoyance plastered across his face.
    “Hello,” Othello said. “I’m—”
    “Bugger off, short-arse,” the man snapped, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Be off with ye. I won’t be buyin’ nothin’ from ye t’day. I’m waitin’ for a customer.”
    “I’m your customer, they told me to meet you here,” Othello growled, pointing at a street sign above. “Pennyworth Street, at the sixth bell?”
    Even as he spoke, a bell began to toll nearby, announcing the hour. Othello crossed his arms and waited for the brassy knells to finish.
    “Nah,” the driver said, a look of confusion across his face. “I’m supposed to be takin’ up a summoner to Vocans. Now, I know it were gonna be a commoner, ’cos a rich un’ would be gettin’ a fancy carriage or summat. But it certainly weren’t no half man.”
    “I’m a summoner,” Othello said, ignoring the racist slur—it wasn’t worth the argument. “If we don’t leave now I’m going to be late.”
    “Where’s yer demon, then?” the driver said, cocking his head defiantly.
    “I’m going there now to get one,” Othello snapped, exasperated. At least, he hoped he would.
    “What’s yer game?” the man said, leaning forward and peering at Othello. He glanced over his shoulder furtively, as if a group of dwarves might be sneaking up on him.
    “Ain’t never heard of a dwarf summoner,” the man continued, wrinkling his nose.
    “No game. Look, here’s some silver,” Othello said, pulling a handful of silver shillings from his pocket. “Will that get me there?”
    The driver had been hired by Vocans, so Othello shouldn’t have had to pay at all, but he did not want to be late. First impressions were so important, and Othello knew that, being a dwarf, he already had an uphill struggle.
    “All right,” the driver said, snatching the money from Othello’s hand before he could change his mind. “But keep yer hands to ye’self. These potatoes are for the army, not for thievin’