Blood and Honor

“The Emerald Claw?” said Mordan. “The King had them disbanded. Did he say how they’re involved in this—or where they’re based?”

“I didn’t ask,” said Brey. “He didn’t know anything more about the undead makers, so …”

“So you killed him?” Mordan interrupted.

“I was hungry,” said Brey. “Besides, there’s always your cleric friend.”

“What cleric friend?”

“I heard you tell him you knew someone who could speak to the dead. I kept the body, so you can ask him whatever you like.”

Mordan sat down. “That was just to keep him co-operative,” he said. “I don’t know any clerics.”

Brey snorted. “How was I to know that?”

“You still have the body?” Tarrel asked. “If you turn him into a vampire he’ll be under your control, right?”

Brey shook her head. “I don’t do that.” She bridled under Mordan’s questioning glance. “I didn’t want what was done to me, and I wouldn’t do it to anyone else—ever.”

Mordan shot Tarrel a glance. “Do all Sharn inquisitives know as much about vampires as you do?”

“I knew I was coming to Karrnath,” Tarrel replied, “so I did some reading on undead. To be honest, I expected to see more of them around.”

“Brelish propaganda,” said Mordan. “I heard some of it—all Karrns worship the dead, drink blood, and spit-roast babies for dinner.”

“I’ve seen Karrns do bad enough things,” said Brey.

“How about this Blood of Vol cult?” asked Tarrel. “I heard it’s powerful in Karrnath. Any chance you could find a cleric to talk to Hintram’s corpse after all?”

Mordan shook his head. “I’m not a member,” he said, “and I don’t know anyone who is. Besides, you can’t just drag a body into a temple unannounced and ask if they’d mind having a word with it.”

“Hmm,” said Tarrel. “More propaganda, I suppose.” He sat in thought for a moment, then looked sharply at Brey. “You said you still have the body?”

“This is never going to work,” said Solly.

“You’ve always said you can be anyone,” answered Mordan.

The changeling was standing with Tarrel and Mordan in a dark attic above a fish shop near the waterfront. Slim fingers of sunlight reached in through gaps in the roof, dappling the wooden coffin where Brey was sleeping. At their feet was the pale and battered corpse of Berend Hintram.

“You don’t understand,” Solly said. “There’s more to it than the face and the clothes! I don’t know how he moves, how he stands—and then there’s the voice.”

“I can help you with the voice,” said Mordan. “He talked through his nose, kind of whiny.”

Solly snorted. “You have no idea, do you? A true impersonation is a work of art!”

“We’re not looking for a work of art,” said Tarrel, “just good enough to fool his two goons and get into that warehouse. They don’t look too bright.”

“But …”

Mordan cut him off. “You could pretend to be sick or something. That would take care of the voice. Keep your cloak wrapped round you, sneeze occasionally—they’ll never know.”

“No!” said Solly. “It’s madness. It can’t possibly work. They’ll see right through it, and then I’m dead!”

Mordan laid a comforting hand on the changeling’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll be right there. Tarrel and I can take care of the muscle if it all goes wrong. And you haven’t seen what our new friend can do. You’ll be as safe as if you were in the Black Dragon.”

“Your half-orc lawman was pretty good,” Tarrel reminded him.

Solly brightened slightly. “Well, yes, but I’ve been working on that one for weeks,” he said. “This is completely new, and it’s someone I’ve never even met”—he glanced down at the body—“alive, that is.”

“Solly,” said Mordan, “it only needs to work for a couple of minutes. Are you saying you can’t fool a couple of cheap dockside thugs for a couple of minutes?”

“I—that is—I mean …” faltered Solly. He looked at Mordan earnestly. “Just a couple of minutes?” he asked. “And you’ll be right there?”

Mordan smiled. “I’ll never let you out of my sight,” he promised.

Solly sighed. “If anything goes wrong …”

“What can go wrong?” asked Mordan, lifting Hintram’s body so that a ray of sunlight illuminated the face. “Let’s see you work your magic.”

“Got her!”

Rolund looked up from the rat he was eating. He and Aeren had entered Karrlakton undetected and established themselves in a dusty mausoleum in one of the city’s older cemeteries. The elf stood before a tall, highly-polished mirror, but instead of reflecting their dismal surroundings, it showed a wooden coffin lying in a dark attic. Not far from the coffin itself, three figures were crouching over what appeared to be a dead body.

“Where?” Rolund knew that he would get no sustenance from the vampire woman, but he was eager to feed on her mortal lackeys. He had made do with rats and pigeons since entering the city, and hunger was gnawing at his vitals.

“I’m working on that,” Aeren turned to face him revealing a face as gray and tight-skinned as Rolund’s own. “It will take another spell.”

“Then hurry,” said Rolund. Their best plan would be to kill them before sundown; then she would be helpless in her coffin.

“Be patient,” said the elf, rummaging in a bag.