Ahead of them, the gates were opening, and beyond them, Northwatch resolved itself from legend into reality.
It was not what she had pictured. The hysterical diplomat's report had emphasized darkness and the overwhelming presence of large armed creatures in every direction.
What Verity saw instead was space. Courtyards designed for the movement of bodies significantly larger than hers, yes, but also organized. Purposeful. A smithy sent up rhythmic clanging from somewhere to her left, the sound carrying strangely in the thin mountain air. She could smell bread baking, and beneath that, the clean sharp scent of pine smoke and iron.
She was already reaching for her journal when she caught herself. There would be time for more thorough observations later.
Grukash led her across the main courtyard, and Verity became aware that she was being watched.
Not with hostility. The orcs they passed did not reach for weapons or bare their tusks or do any of the things the more dramatic accounts in the Archive had suggested they might. They just looked. With the calm, assessing attention of people who did not see many humans and were taking the measure of this one.
Verity was not used to being looked at.
She was used to being overlooked, which was an entirely different experience and one she had cultivated carefully over her years at the Archive. Overlooked people were allowed to sit in corners with documents. Overlooked people were not asked to attend functions or make conversation or explain themselves.
Being looked at made her aware of things she normally forgot: the mud on her hem, the way her hair had escaped its pins during the journey, the fact that she was approximately half the width of the smallest orc present and could probably be lifted with one hand.
She straightened her spine and kept walking.
"Your quarters," Grukash said, stopping before an old stone building. "The archivist's residence. It has not been used in some years, but it was cleaned when we received word of your arrival."
"There was a previous archivist?"
"An orc," Grukash said. "Varresh. She died two winters ago."
Verity absorbed this information. "The Mountain Clan had a dedicated archivist?"
"We have records. Records require keeping." Grukash's tone suggested he found the question slightly stupid, which Verity supposed was fair. "Varresh was old when I was young. She knew things no one else remembered. When she died, there was no one trained to continue her work."
"I'm sorry," Verity said, and meant it. The loss of an archivist was the loss of a thousand small things no one knew were gone until they needed them. She had seen it happen at the Royal Archive when old Magister Crewe died without properly documenting his organizational system for the treaty collection. They were still finding misfiled documents three years later.
Grukash grunted in acknowledgment. He pushed open the door to the building and stepped back to let her enter first.
The interior was dim. Verity stood in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust.
It was a single large room. A desk dominated the space beneath the room's single window, massive and scarred and meant for spreading out documents. There was an oversized bed in one corner, a fireplace with a neat stack of wood beside it, and a washstand with a chipped basin.
Verity stepped into the room and ran her fingers along the edge of the desk. A small stack of bound journals sat on the corner, their leather covers cracked with age. Beside them, a clay pot held writing implements that had long since dried out. A pair of spectacles rested on top of the journals, one lens cracked,as though Varresh had set them down two years ago and never picked them up again.
"And where are the archives?" Verity asked.
"Beneath us. Cut into the mountain." Grukash gestured vaguely downward. "There are stairs at the back of this building."
Verity nodded, already mentally cataloguing questions. How extensive were the holdings? What organizational system had Varresh used? Were there climate concerns for the older documents? She had brought materials for basic preservation work, but if the collection had been untended for two years—
"I will leave you to settle," Grukash said. "Food will be brought. The warchief will send for you when he is ready."
"Thank you." Verity turned from her examination of the desk. "Grukash—the journey here. You were very patient with my questions."
The corner of Grukash's mouth pulled back, showing the edge of a tusk. "You asked more questions in three days than most orcs speak words in a week."
"Yes, I've been told that's a problem."
"I did not say it was a problem." At the door, he turned back. "The warchief is not a patient man. You should know this."
"I appreciate the warning."
"It is not a warning. It is..." He seemed to search for the right word. "Preparation. He is not cruel. But he does not explain himself, and he does not repeat himself, and he does not suffer foolishness."
