Blood and Honor

Mordan shrugged. “Have you got a better idea?”

Solly grinned. “I do,” he said, leaning closer across the table.

Mordan winced slightly, and listened without enthusiasm.

“Look,” Solly continued, “I just do my half-orc officer act, and we pretend you’re my prisoner. You said they were chasing you all over Falko’s shop, so there’s probably a reward out for you. Then after we’re inside, we find Falko and break him out. It’s simple.”

“Simple enough to get us killed.” Mordan replied. “Do you know how many Royal Swords are in the Palace of Justice at any time?”

Solly waved a hand dismissively.

“Oh, you can take care of them,” he said. “I’ve seen you with that rapier of yours. They won’t stand a chance.”

“And if I kill any of them, the Royal Swords will hunt me all across Karrnath and not stop until they’ve hanged me. No, thanks.”

Solly looked puzzled at that possibility. “But …” he said.

Mordan cut him off. “No,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of trouble Falko’s in, and I don’t want to know. He’s a big boy.”

Solly gave him a sour look. “Some friend you are,” he said.

Mordan took a drink. “I don’t stick my neck out for anyone,” he said. “And if you want to mix business with friendship, you can start by charging me less for all the information you haven’t been giving me.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Tarrel’s arrival.

“So what’s new?” he asked.

Mordan sighed. “Falko’s in jail, and Solly wants me to get myself killed trying to break him out,” he said.

Tarrel raised an eyebrow. “In jail?” he repeated. “What for?”

Mordan shrugged. “Could be a lot of things,” he said. “Most likely trading in stolen goods. Those masterwork swords belonged to Fort Zombie. They came and got him soon after you left. Nearly got me, too.”

“So,” said Tarrel, “they’re not from your lancers. Are you’re still sure the supplier was one of them?”

Mordan nodded. “I’d never forget that face,” he said.

Tarrel looked at him questioningly, but he didn’t elaborate. “Well,” said Tarrel, “I’ve got better news. I followed him to an old warehouse, way out at the far end of the docks. He’s got some muscle keeping an eye on it. I didn’t get a look inside, but after he dropped off the wagon he went back into town. Ever hear of a place called the Good As Gold?”

“Yes,” said Mordan. “It’s a place for second-rate merchants who want to pay first-rate prices for third-rate food.”

“He went there for lunch,” Tarrel continued, “and met with someone in a private room.”

“What kind of someone?”

“A very large kind of someone. Human, male, older, white hair, seemed important. Know him?”

Mordan cursed under his breath. “Leonus Dabo,” he said, “one of our friendly local crime lords.”

“Well,” Tarrel continued, “they looked pretty friendly. Then a messenger came—he must have brought bad news, because they dropped their smiles and left in a hurry.”

“Where did they go?”

Tarrel shrugged. “Hintram went back to his little hideout. I don’t know about Mr. Big.”

Mordan ran his hand through his hair. “So what have we got?” he thought aloud. “Hintram is selling stolen equipment from Fort Zombie to Falko, and he’s doing some kind of business with Dabo. What is it—protection for his smuggling operation?”

Tarrel shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve seen people pay protection money. They look scared or they look angry, but they don’t smile and laugh. This is some kind of deal that makes them both happy. Is the fat man looking to equip a private army?”

“If he were,” said Mordan, “Hintram would have gone to him with those masterwork swords, not Falko.” He looked around for a moment. “Did you see where Solly went?”

The desk sergeant ran a finger down the columns of the day book.

“No Falko here,” he said, looking across the desk at the primly dressed lawyer’s clerk.

“But that’s quite impossible,” the young man protested, in cultured tones. “Several witnesses saw him taken into custody only a couple of hours ago.”

The sergeant sighed and picked up a quill.

“Do you know the names of the arresting officers?” he asked.

“No,” replied the clerk, “but there were four of them, all human. Does that help?”

“You just described eighty percent of our patrols,” said the sergeant, putting the quill down again.

“Well,” said the clerk, “they obviously had orders to arrest him. Can I at least see the warrant?”

The sergeant sighed, a little harder. He hated persistent clerks. “Can’t find the warrant without the name of the accused,” he said.

“I already told you,” answered the clerk, “it’s Falko.”

The sergeant smiled, the self-satisfied smile of a player who was about to make the winning move in a game of Conqueror.

“And I already told you,” he said, “that there’s no Falko in the books.” He closed the day book with a slap.

“Listen,” the clerk lowered his voice and leaned across the desk a little, “my firm has authorized certain—shall we say, out of pocket expenses for this case.”

The sergeant looked hard into the young man’s eyes, then slowly opened the book again.

“I suppose it’s possible he gave a false name,” he said. “What’s he look like?”