Blood and Honor

Several minutes later, the two of them stood in Tarrel’s rented lodgings in the merchant district. A large trunk lay open beside the heavy oak table in the center of the room, and Tarrel was assembling a spirit burner. On the table, a round glass flask stood on an iron tripod. In the flask was the cutting Tarrel had taken from Falko’s hair, containing the dark resin.

“I think this came from whatever killed him,” he said. “If we’re lucky, it’s some of the poison.”

Mordan stared at the alchemical apparatus, his arms folded. “And what will that tell us?” he asked. “Who killed him?”

“Maybe,” said Tarrel.

Mordan frowned. “But you don’t even know how the poison was delivered,” he said.

Tarrel looked up. “Not for sure,” he said, “but I’ve got some suspicions. I’m thinking it was a blowgun dart made of ice, with the poison frozen inside. The dart melts, leaving no evidence. Easy enough to make with a simple freezing spell. We’re looking for a professional.” He added a few drops of a blue liquid to the flask and started to heat it.

“Does that get either of us any closer to the people we’re looking for?” asked Mordan, a little peevishly.

“I don’t know yet,” answered Tarrel, “but it’s all we’ve got, so …”

He never finished the sentence. The windows imploded with a crash, and a dark shape flew in, knocking over the table and sending both of them sprawling. Mordan felt hands close on his shoulders in a vise-like grip, pinning his arms by his sides. He struggled but couldn’t break free. There was a blur of motion, and he found himself flying through the broken window, still in the thing’s grasp. They hit the ground outside …

An orange flare shredded the darkness. The creature released its grip on Mordan, and he struggled free, drawing his rapier. He found himself facing a tall woman, dressed in a ragged uniform under a dark cape. Her face was twisted in a mask of pain and rage, but he recognized her—she was the red-headed woman Solly had impersonated in the Black Dragon, just the day before.

She struck him with a back-handed blow, snapping his head around and throwing him backward. Dizzy and weak, he dragged himself to his feet and brought his rapier up to the guard position. Then Tarrel appeared in the doorway of the building; the night lit up orange again, and a beam of light struck the woman in the back. She staggered, and Mordan’s rapier caught her in the arm. Her skin smoked where the sword went home, and she howled in pain—not like a woman, but like a wounded animal. She turned and started to run, but Tarrel leaped on her back, one arm clamped round her throat as the other reached over her shoulder in a stabbing motion. She gasped and fell to the ground.

Mordan limped to where Tarrel stood over the fallen woman. He kept the length of his rapier between them, but she didn’t move. She didn’t even seem to be breathing—and then he saw the wooden stake sticking out of her chest.

“Now you know what that wand does,” said Tarrel. “Come on, help me get her inside!”

Along the street, faces were beginning to appear at windows. He put one of the woman’s arms over his shoulder, and Mordan took the other.

“What’s goin’ on?” A short, stocky woman stood in the doorway of the lodging house, dressed in a nightgown and cap. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the three suspiciously.

Tarrel gave her an apologetic smile. “Nothing,” he said. “These are friends of mine. They were out celebrating, you see, and it seems the young lady had a little too much to drink.”

The landlady glared at the woman’s sagging form. Her cloak had fallen forward, hiding the protruding stake.

The landlady stumped back to her apartment, muttering about foreign ways and some people’s lack of consideration. Tarrel ran back to his room and reappeared a few minutes later with a large bag.

“Well,” he whispered to Mordan, “it looks like we’re going to your place.”

“She’s secure,” Tarrel announced, standing up. Mordan had called in a favor with some business contacts and gained them the use of a waterfront basement. A trapdoor gave access to the river; it was normally used for smuggling.

The woman hung by her wrists over the trapdoor, with her feet tied together and the stake still in her chest. Tarrel had hung a silver chain around her neck, with a pendant in the form of a crescent moon. In one hand he held a holy symbol of the Silver Flame.

“Things are about to get noisy,” he said, “so I’ll make the introductions now. Allow me to present the Honorable Captain Brey ir’Mallon, of Flamekeep in the fair land of Thrane.”

Mordan raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle.

“So that’s why your client can afford expensive locating spells,” he said. “She’s related to the General?” General Valtar ir’Mallon was a war hero, respected even by his enemies.

Tarrel nodded. “Only child,” he said.

Mordan grimaced. “He’s not going to be happy, is he?”

Tarrel did not answer.