Blood and Honor

The man looked up from his drink and cast a jaded glance over the huge, battle-scarred half-orc officer. His narrowed blue-gray eyes took in the uniform and lingered for a moment on the badge of the Royal Swords, the national guard that maintained and enforced martial law in Karrnath. His gaze passed over the heavily muscled arms, the unsheathed great-sword, and the neck as thick as a man’s waist.

“Knock it off, Solly,” he said, “I’m not in the mood.”

The half-orc’s features seemed to melt, then the figure shrank, turning into a perfect replica of the seated man: the same lank, jaw-length blond hair, the same slitted blue-gray eyes, the same fine features masked by a three-day growth of stubble, the same missing left hand. The only difference was the grin. The changeling slid into the shadowy booth, facing his original across the table.

“So have you got anything for me, or not?” Mordan asked.

Solly half-shrugged. “Well, yes and no,” he said.

Mordan took a deep swallow from his mug of Nightwood ale. “I’ll take that as a no,” he said.

Solly raised the stump of his left wrist, sprouting a hand from it and wagging a finger slowly in front of his face.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Maybe I didn’t find what you’re looking for”—he leaned forward a little—“but I’ve got something that’s almost as interesting.”

“What?” Mordan asked wearily. “Another map to the Cyran bullion vaults in Metrol?”

Solly widened his eyes and clapped his hand to his chest in mock offense. “Would I do that to you?” he asked. “No, I sold that to the bunch of new faces in the corner. This is for real.” He shifted again, to what Mordan took to be his natural form: a slim humanoid with white hair that flopped over a half-formed face like pale clay. His eyes were like dark holes in the snow. Mordan held his gaze.

“Very well,” Mordan said. “What is it?”

“Looks like you’ve got competition,” the changeling replied.

Mordan raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Someone else has been asking about the Vedykar Lancers.”

“Asking what?”

“The same as you—where were they posted, last known position, and so on. Except she didn’t know their name. She’s working from a sketch of a badge.”

“She?”

The lower half of Solly’s face opened in a crude leer.

“I thought that would interest you.” Chuckling, he shifted his face to portray a human woman in her mid-twenties. Her features were fine but strong, with a determined chin and long auburn hair.

“And that’s not all,” Solly continued. His voice was husky and feminine, with a strong Thrane accent.

“What else?” There was a pause, and the woman cocked her head expectantly. Mordan pulled a small leather purse from inside his cloak and tossed it across the table. It was caught in mid-air, with a soft clink of coins.

“She had another badge.” said Solly. “She wanted information on both of them.”

Mordan frowned. “Whose badge?”

“You tell me.” Solly shrugged, shifting back to his usual form. He reached inside his jerkin, pulled out a scrap of paper, and pushed it across the table.

Mordan leaned forward, his habitual squint narrowing as he looked at the design—a white skull over the number sixty-one, in red on a black background. After a few moments, he straightened up, shaking his head.

“Never saw it before. How long has she been asking around?”

“A couple of days. That’s all I know.”

“You sure?”

Solly spread his hands. “If you want to pay me more money, I’ll make something up.”

Mordan thought for a moment. “Keep an eye on her, and let me know what she finds out.”

“And if she asks me?” Solly asked. “After all, everyone comes to me eventually.”

“Tell her what you’ve found out for me, which is nothing. There’s no record the Vedykar Lancers were ever here, nobody knows where they were, and you don’t know the other badge. But keep me out of it.”

He finished his ale and rose to leave. He glanced over at the corner table, where a group of adventurers pored over a map and talked in low, urgent tones, then shook his head with a sad smile and stepped out into the damp evening of Karrlakton, beneath the sign of the Black Dragon.

The fog was trying to turn to rain, as it usually did at this time of night and this time of year. The moisture was too heavy to hang in the still air but too light to fall, and it clung to whatever touched it. The cobbles were slick underfoot, reflecting the pale light of the few remaining everbright lanterns; most had been broken or stolen and sold. The fog muffled sounds and robbed the scene of all color.