Blood and Honor

Tarrel had seen plenty of dead bodies in his career as an inquisitive, and he could tell at a glance that Falko was dead; he had to establish how he died, and if possible, when. With the practiced ease of a master inquisitive, he set about examining the body. The limbs were stiff, indicating that he had been dead for at least a few hours, but there was no obvious sign of any wounds, or even bruises. At last Tarrel found what he was looking for—a small puncture mark behind Falko’s right ear. There was no sign of what had caused it, but he noticed a trace of a resinous substance sticking to Falko’s hair close to the wound. Tarrel cut the hair off with a small knife and wrapped it in a handkerchief. There would be time to identify it later.

He stood up and looked at the body, glancing back and forth at the cell door and at the barred window set high up in the wall. Judging by the wound, the dart—or whatever it was—had struck Falko from behind and slightly above; from the way the body had fallen, it probably came from the window. The window was too high for Tarrel to reach, but his mirror showed him that it led directly outside, with nothing but a sheer wall. Standing where he judged Falko had been, he looked out of the window along the most likely path of the projectile. There was nothing in sight, as he expected.

A cursory glance around the cell turned up nothing else. Tarrel put his tools away and peered out of the cell to where Solly stood on the corner. Everything seemed quiet. He left the cell, locking it again behind him, and quickly repacked his tools.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said to Solly.

“But I just talked us in past all those people.” said the changeling. “What do we tell them on the way out?”

“Easy,” replied Tarrel. “The high-ups took one look at me and decided I’m the wrong guy. Now, you’ve got to take me all the way back to the Palace of Justice.”

Solly groaned. “They’ll never believe it,” he said.

Tarrel chuckled. “If I know bureaucracy, they will.”

“Stop here.” Mordan kept his rapier pressed against Hintram’s neck. He brought the wagon to a halt in a darkened alley. There was no one about.

“What do you want?” he asked. His voice still had the nasal whine that Mordan had known as a child.

“I want you to talk to a friend of mine,” Mordan said, “about the Vedykar Lancers.”

Hintram tried to conceal a start of surprise. “Never heard of them,” he said. Mordan chuckled unpleasantly.

“We’ll see about that,” he said. “Though I must say, you’re looking pretty good, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering you’re supposed to be dead in the Mournland.” Hintram twitched his neck uncomfortably. A trickle of blood was running down from where the rapier made contact.

“I’m telling you,” he protested, “you’ve got me mixed up with someone else!”

“Of course I have,” said Mordan, in a low and dangerous voice. “You’re just an honest dealer in stolen zombies and equipment, trying to make a living in our brave new age of peace. You can talk to me, or I can take you to the Ministry for a little chat. I’m sure they’d love to know about your little arrangement with Dabo. Your choice.”

Hintram shifted uncomfortably on the driver’s bench.

“Just get that thing out of my neck,” he said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

“I think I’ll leave it there for now,” replied Mordan. “Do you know where the Black Dragon is?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Drive there, and don’t attract any attention. Oh, and you know the friend I want you to talk to? He’s a cleric of the Blood of Vol, and he can talk to the dead. So the only one who needs you alive—is you.” It was a lie, but it would keep Hintram co-operative.

Hintram flicked the reins, and the horse walked on. The rapier-point pricked his neck as the wagon jerked into motion, and he flinched.

Something heavy landed on top of the wagon. The canvas cover ripped from its frame, enveloping Mordan. As he struggled to free himself, he caught a glimpse of Hintram running down the street with a speed born of sheer panic. Behind him, and gaining fast, was a dark shape—vaguely humanoid but impossible to identify in the darkness. Hintram ran down an alley, and the shape followed. A second later there was a scream, and then silence.

Wrestling himself free of the canvas, Mordan jumped down from the wagon and ran after the two. When he got to the alley, it was deserted.

“Well, that was a good day’s work,” said Mordan. “Falko’s dead, his warehouse has burned down, and I caught Hintram and then lost him.”

He and Tarrel were sitting over dinner in his usual booth at the Black Dragon. Solly had left, saying that he had to attend to some other business.

Tarrel nodded as he speared a pickled radish with his fork. “What do you think chased him?” he asked.

Mordan shrugged. “Something heavy, strong, and fast. Beyond that, I have no idea.”

Tarrel finished his meal and dropped some coins on the table. “We’re not at a dead end yet,” he said.