Blood and Honor

The food, when it arrived, was surprisingly good. The meat might have been real threehorn, rather than the heavily seasoned beef enjoyed by the other patrons; the spices were well-blended, and the vegetables were a valiant effort to recreate the flavors of the Plains with local ingredients. The meal was accompanied by two steaming mugs of tal—Mordan couldn’t quite place the variety, but he thought it was redbush.

“So,” said Mordan as they ate, “who’s the redhead, and why is she asking about the Vedykar Lancers?”

Tarrel shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Why are you interested in her?”

“I’m working for her family. She and her unit were presumed dead in the Mournland, but a spell placed her here in Karrlakton a few days ago.”

Mordan raised an eyebrow as he put down his mug. “A spell like that costs a lot of money.”

“They can afford it,” Tarrel said. “They’re an old military family, and they wanted the body back for burial. Now, they ant their daughter back—whatever it takes.”

“But she seems to have other ideas.” Mordan said. “And it looks like her ideas include tracking down the Vedykar Lancers. There’s another badge, as well.” Mordan pulled Solly’s sketch out of his jerkin and put it on the table. “This one,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before. I don’t even know if it’s Karrnathi.”

“Well, it’s not Brelish,” said Tarrel, “nor Thrane, Cyran, or any other nationality I’ve looked into.” He paused for a moment, then turned his hands palms up. “And that’s all I know.”

The two regarded each other in silence. Mordan reached into his belt, put Tarrel’s wand on the table, and pushed it across to him. He took it with a silent nod of thanks.

“She’s looking for the Vedykar Lancers,” said Mordan, “and so am I. You haven’t been able to track her down in Karrlakton?”

Tarrel shook his head. “Don’t believe everything you read about Sharn inquisitives,” he said. “We can only follow the evidence, and she’s not leaving any. My guess is that she has some scores to settle with these two units.”

“Well, she’s in the right place,” Mordan said. “Karrlakton was the main depot for our forces going into Cyre. If that’s where she encountered the Lancers, they should have come through here, and there should be a record of their deployment.”

“Should be?”

“Yes, but there isn’t.”

Tarrel clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “That’s not very Karrnathi,” he said. “I thought you people were serious about records and regulations.”

“I thought so too,” said Mordan, “until I started looking. The official story is that the Vedykar Lancers were deep inside Cyre on the Day of Mourning and were lost along with all the thousands of others. But there are no records of their movements for the previous six months.”

Tarrel’s ironic smile faded. “None?”

“Not in Korth, and not at the Lancer’s headquarters in Vedykar. They came back from a tour in Cyre, they were brought back up to strength and re-equipped—and then they vanished.”

“Interesting,” said Tarrel. “I know what that usually means in the Army of Breland.”

“Right,” said Mordan. “Some kind of secret mission.”

“What kind of cavalry were they?”

“The kind with shiny breastplates and bright plumes on their helmets, who ride behind the King’s coach in parades. Sons of the great and good, graduates of Rekkenmark, filled with honor and tradition.”

“The kind that might not want the War to end, like that General … Ervus?”

“Eschus. General Rolund Eschus, upholder of the Tradition of Victory,” said Mordan. “No, I don’t think they went renegade,” he continued. “They might not want to stop fighting, but they wouldn’t defy an order from the King. They’d obey it to the letter, all the while complaining loudly about the loss of honor to themselves and Karrnath. What was he last trace of your girl?”

Tarrel reached into his coat and pulled out a battered notebook. He leafed through it for a few moments, then stabbed at a page with his finger.

“She was with a ranger unit operating behind the lines in northern Cyre. They last reported back on seventh of Vult, 993.”

“Almost two months after the last official record of the Lancers’ movements.”

“Right.”

Mordan leaned back in his seat and thought. “Has your client gone to the gnomes?” he asked.

Tarrel shook his head. “They can’t. Money’s no object, but because of their rank several members of the family have access to Thrane’s military secrets. You know what the gnomes are like.”

Mordan nodded. The gnomes—particularly, though not exclusively, those of House Sivis—loved other people’s secrets, and the price they asked for their knowledge, though always high, was not always in cash. He had made inquiries himself with the few gnomes he trusted, and been unable to meet their price.

“So,” said Tarrel, “you’re the local expert. Where do you go in this town to find out about secret missions and missing units?”

“The same place I was going when you stopped me,” said Mordan. “Bald Falko’s.”

“Why?”