Flames Over Frosthelm

by Dave Dobson

  “How will we have time for that, if we have our regular duties as well?”

  “We’ll have to find a way – cover for each other, stall on our assigned cases, whatever it takes. I’ll admit to a personal motive – I’ve been wanting to take the House of Marron down a couple of notches for a long time.”

  Interesting – I knew the nobles didn’t all get along, but I was oblivious as to the politics of the Prelate’s court. “Why is that, exactly?” I asked. “You said before that Marron was seen by some as a bully.”

  “He’s a powerful man, and his house has long been close to the Prelates of Frosthelm. He has the Prelate’s ear, and he has often used that influence to his own benefit, at the expense of others.”

  That sounded like typical noble behavior to me. “Isn’t that expected? Part of the game of influence you all play?”

  Gueran was bemused. “I suppose it might look that way from a commoner’s perspective. But Marron has, shall we say, violated the rules of the game in several ways. To those nobles willing to supplicate themselves to him, he is generous. He convinces the Prelate to add to their lands and titles, but frequently at a terrible price. And not always in gold. He often demands that those seeking his favor send their sons and daughters to his house to marry his lesser relatives, or to be little more than servants in his household, or to join his militia and go off to die fighting his battles.”

  “And if a noble refuses his price?” I asked.

  “Those that refuse, he disparages to the Prelate, or worse. For some, he has fabricated evidence of crimes or treason, supported by his cronies in the court. He has destroyed more than one house in this way.”

  “But why does the Prelate not see through these ruses?”

  “Marron has a tongue of silver when he needs it, and he has his people in many places – the Brigade, the Guard, the Justiciary, the Guild – who support his claims. As the Prelate has become busier with the conflict at the border, he’s had less and less time to spend on matters of the court and the city. Where once he’d have launched his own investigations, he now trusts Marron to advise him and to handle more and more matters of state." He leaned back in his chair. “The Prelate is an able leader – don’t misunderstand. It's just Marron dripping poisonous thoughts and foul lies in his ear.”

  “Has your house suffered under Count Marron?” I asked.

  “No, not really. We’re not of high enough stature to attract much attention, so we’ve stayed clear of his dealings." Gueran suddenly looked uncomfortable, and I realized he had probably not meant to admit his family’s relatively lowly ranking. “But I’ve seen what he’s done, and it’s brutal, unjust, and devoid of honor.”

  It always came to honor or dishonor with Gueran. I suppose there are worse things to be fixated on. Something that had troubled me before resurfaced in my mind. “Clarice – you looked strangely at her before, when discussing Marron at Novara's house, as if you expected her to comment.”

  He frowned. “Yes.”

  I waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “It seemed like Clarice knew of Marron.”

  “Yes, she does. No question about that.”

  “So…?”

  Gueran cleared his throat, for a second time uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “If she hasn’t told you, then I should respect her decision.”

  I was burning with curiosity. Was Clarice also of noble birth? Or even of the House of Marron herself? My mind raced. She’d never mentioned her family or her childhood. I recalled that the few times Marron had come up, she’d either remained silent or expressed discomfort and dislike. It would be bad form to press Gueran on it, though. Not honorable. “Of course,” I said, reluctantly.

  “Well, try not to cut yourself on the pages of these books. I hear you’ve lost a lot of blood already,” said Gueran as he rose to depart. "If you need some fencing training, I’d be happy to oblige.” I wondered how he managed to summon so much sarcasm so effortlessly. He must practice his taunts at home before bed. "The first step is avoiding the pointy end of the blade. Work on that first.”

  He turned, his cloak swirling like a dancer’s veil, and strode toward the door. Perhaps he also practiced grand exits. I smiled at the thought of him striding and swirling back and forth in his chamber at night until he got it just right.

  At the archway, he paused. “Burgeo,” he said quietly, the usual sneer absent. “Her name was originally Burgeo.” He vanished around the corner.

  23

  Spit and Polish

  I saw the glob of spittle fly between the bars and stick to the far wall, oozing slowly down the stonework. There was an unintelligible but definitely unfriendly comment from the cell, to which the guard responded with a scowl.

  “Well, she’s all yours,” she said to me. “Can't see what you’ll learn – she barely speaks, and then only to shower us with abuse. I’ve learned more than a few new insults. She’s a mean one – we’ve not been able to go in there since she wrestled Johannsen to the ground. Took three of us to get her off him, and he'll be wearing a cap for a goodly while until his hair grows back.”

  I thanked her and proceeded to the cell ahead. The place smelled dank and unpleasant, a mixture of bad food, unwashed inmates, and burnt pitch from the torches. There wasn’t a lot of fresh air. We were below street level under the main keep, in the Prelate’s dungeon. I was a little surprised she’d been taken here, since we have a set of holding cells in our headquarters, and the Inspectors would obviously be questioning her. I suppose the guards Boog summoned after the melee decided she merited the harsher environment. After all, she was violent and assuredly guilty.

  She glowered at me from behind the bars. It was strange – I barely recognized her from the fight a week before, since she’d been masked the whole time, and I'd been focused more on her blade than her appearance. There were her hazel eyes, though – I remembered them well, flashing from behind the mask. Stranger still was seeing her here, seething but powerless to hurt me, when the last time we’d met, she’d been trying as hard as she could to end my life, and nearly succeeding.

  She had long black hair, unkempt and a bit stringy from a week in captivity, pale skin, with a hint of red on her cheeks, and full red lips. She was strikingly pretty, even accounting for for her general filthiness, some bruises, and some rough-looking scars, one dividing her left eyebrow and one on her neck and chin. Not that her beauty had any bearing on anything. I found it strange that I could fear her so much the previous week, and now, a week later, feel not much of anything. I had thought I might feel angry, or fearful, or even pitying, but in reality, it was difficult to see her as the person who’d laughingly stuck five inches of steel into me. The whole event seemed more surreal as time passed.

  I had no idea what to say. “Er, hello.”

  She growled at me, then said something in a language I couldn’t understand. I doubted it was “Hi there, inspector! Great to see you again.”

  “I was told you wanted to talk to me.”

  She stood and came over very close to the bars, grabbing onto them firmly.

  “They will kill me?” she said, her accent lilting, almost musical, the same as her leader.

  An interesting question. Assault on an officer of the law was a year in prison. She was definitely guilty of that, but so would be a drunk who punched a guard trying to break up a bar fight. If I’d died from my wounds, she’d have been put to death for murder of an officer, no questions asked. What she’d done was likely attempted murder, which had a range of sentences depending on circumstances but could include death. It would actually likely be up to the justice she drew. And, I realized, what crime Boog and I, as the two arresting officers and only witnesses, elected to charge her with, and how we testified.

  “They might,” I replied.

  “Might? What, might?” Her frown deepened.

  “That depends on what crime you committed.”

  “I stick you with my sword! You bleed. Not complicated.”

  “
Well, it sort of matters whether I died…”

  “You not dead, yes?”

  “Yes, but also whether you meant to kill me…”

  “Of course I mean to kill you! Why else do I stick you with sword? Happy greeting of new friend?” She gave me a silly wave, and her voice took on a sing-song tone. “Hello, little man! Try out sword! Sharp, yes?”

  I winced. “Yes, quite sharp.” I took a breath. “We could either charge you with assault on an officer, or attempted murder, and there are several degrees of attempted murder."

  “Degrees? What degrees?”

  “It depends on intent, circumstance, premeditation, motive – lots of things.”

  “Who decides?”

  “Well, I do, actually. And my partner.”

  “Big man?”

  I nodded. She was silent for a bit, then spoke. “My friends – what happened to them?”

  “The one who fell off the stage still lives,” I replied.

  She snorted. “Idiot! Beaten by a mouse man! Where is he now?”

  “He’s here, but in the men’s cells.”

  “They kill him?”

  “No, he’ll get out in a couple of months – he didn’t cause us harm, just assaulted the owner of the Red Rabbit.”

  “But he meant to kill you, too. Same as me. Just too stupid and clumsy to do it.”

  She had a point, but that wasn’t how the law was written. “The law recognizes outcomes as well as intentions.”

  “Stupid law. I get killed, but he goes home in a couple months, because he stupid, and I good?”

  I said nothing. After a bit, she said, “What about the others?”

  “Both dead. One, from the blow to the head from the bench. The other, your leader, I think, killed by my partner after you and I, uh, stopped fighting.”

  She looked troubled at this. “Mantoo? And Goren? Both dead?” I nodded. She said something in her language that sounded like an oath, then spoke to me again. “And me, defeated by you, without even a blade. Horrible day. Goren should never have taken this job.”

  “What job was that, exactly?”

  “Kill you, kill big inspector, capture Bernot. We were lucky, we thought, to find you all together.”

  “And who hired you?”

  She spat at the floor. “Why should I tell you? They kill me anyway.”

  I considered for a moment. “If you cooperate, I can put in a good word for you. You’d get out in a year.” I thought of Johannsen's recent involuntary haircut. “Maybe longer, because you fought with the guard here.”

  “Bah. That guard grab me, too friendly. No man can do that.” She pressed close to the bars. “Why would you help me? I tried to kill you."

  “I’m aware of that, believe me. But you acted just for money. I am more interested in who really wants me dead.”

  She chewed on her lip. “I tell you what I know, you tell them not to kill me?”

  “If it’s true, and useful. And if you stop fighting the guards.”

  She thought for a bit. “If guards not touch me, I not fight them. You swear? We have deal?”

  “Yes, I’ll agree to that.”

  “Not agree. Swear.” She spat into her palm and held it out through the bars. Spitting seemed to be a vital form of conversation amongst her people.

  I wasn’t too excited about this, but I figured it might provide a lead for us. I worried also that she might pull my arm through or tie my limbs in a complicated knot around the iron bars. I had to give it a try, though. I worked up some spittle and spat at my hand, but I missed. She rolled her eyes as I tried to summon more saliva. I was pretty parched, and I wasn't sure if there was a specific amount required. I tried again, hitting my target, and achieved what looked like a satisfactory glob. I held out my hand, and she grabbed it, squishing the liquid together across our palms. I could see no earthly reason why this meant our agreement was more profound and more binding than if our hands were dry, but it seemed to satisfy her somehow. She finally let go. I wasn't sure of the protocol – I wanted to wipe my hand off, but I supposed that might be bad form – one wouldn’t want one's word and bond smeared on someone’s trousers. I decided to just let our deal air-dry.

  She took a deep breath before speaking again. “We four, we’re together five years, since even before leaving home. Goren was leader. Goren makes arrangements, gets jobs. Last year, he made deal, we fought at border. We were cheated –– not get full pay, so we come back here, to city, to find new job. No luck for a while, but Goren find employer last week. Good pay. He have me come along to meeting in case of problems.”

  “Whom did you meet with? Who hired you?”

  “Man named Algor, at Pampered Pig.”

  “I know the place. He asked you to kill us and capture Bernot?”

  “Yes. 12 pieces of gold if all done right.”

  Well, at least our price was high. Either we’d become major annoyances, or we had a wealthy enemy. Maybe both, and both were consistent with Marron. “This Algor, what did he look like?”

  “Old man, maybe fifty years. Black hair with gray spots on beard and mustache.”

  Didn’t sound like Marron or his mage we’d seen in the Jezarmi warehouse. “His clothes?”

  “Nice. High quality, no patches, silver buttons, fur in boots.”

  “Did the meeting go well?”

  “Goren try to haggle, get better price, but Algor not interested. Goren agree.”

  “How were you supposed to get paid?”

  “Algor come to tavern every night at sixth bell. If we do job, we meet him there.”

  “Any time limit to this?”

  “He say as soon as possible. We must meet him for progress report every few days.”

  “And did you have any of these meetings?”

  “No, we find you easy, first day, and we follow.” I didn’t feel great about that – I’d have hoped Boog and I would notice being followed by four foreigners. “We talk about splitting up to find Bernot, but you lead us to him. Little man at Rabbit place say Bernot there too, so we decide to go in. All rest, you know."

  I thought for a bit. I suspected she was telling the truth. Her story sounded plausible, she had no reason to lie other than fear of this Algor person, and she had some real incentive to tell me what she knew. Under the arrangement she described, Algor probably knew things had gone sour by now. Even if he didn’t know what happened at the Red Rabbit, the team he'd hired hadn’t met with him. And, if he were closely connected to Marron, then he or Marron or both had probably heard of our fight. It would be a juicy rumor among the noble classes, I guessed, blood shed at the Red Rabbit.

  I considered trying a ruse, where I got this woman to meet Algor and tell him she had captured Bernot. Depending on how much Algor knew, it might be tempting, and we might be able to arrest him at a meeting. Marron seemed to have pretty good sources of information, though. I supposed it was likely that Marron knew by know that the mercenary and her partner had been taken prisoner, or even that Bernot had escaped, which would ruin any attempt at deception that I could imagine.

  All of that seemed complicated. In the end, the best option was probably the simplest. Do the legwork, ask around, and track down Algor. I had a name, or at least an alias, a place, and enough evidence to arrest him for questioning and possibly conspiracy to murder. I wasn’t in top physical form, but I was mending well with the help of the healer and Arnaud's clay, and Boog was unharmed. If we were careful, we could probably pull it off if Algor hadn’t gone into hiding.

  “You not kill me now?” asked the woman, leaning close to the bars.

  “If your information is useful, then I’ll put in a good word for you. You’ll get a year in prison, probably, maybe exile from Frosthelm afterward."

  “Exile after? Hah. I want exile now. As soon as possible.” She looked a bit wistful. “You good man, I think. You treat me well, with no reason to. Job to kill you was bad job.”

  “Er, well,” I said. I felt heat at my cheeks.
<
br />   “You spare my life, also, so you save my life.” she went on. Her eyes widened in sudden realization. “I owe you blood debt."

  That was puzzling. She didn’t seem to be in a position to pay any debt, blood or otherwise. “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  She stood up straight. “Inspector Mingenstern, I swear blood debt to you,” she said seriously, spitting on the floor. Of course, the spitting. “You need me, I come. You in danger, I fight for you. You in trouble, I help, or I take your place. Lucianna your loyal servant until debt repaid.” She pounded her chest with her fist.

  Great, I thought, just great. The woman who tries to kill me is now going to guard my life from her jail cell. “Lucianna? Who’s that?” I asked, though I thought I knew the answer.

  “Me,” she said. “Lucianna Stout, daughter of Mileno Stout.”

  “All right, then, Lucianna,” I said. “That’s very kind, but I——”

  “Small problem, now,” she interrupted.

  “What’s that?” I asked. I could think of several.

  “I can’t protect you from prison.”

  It occurred to me that the only one I’d needed protection from recently was her. “I think I’ll be all right, for now." She looked unhappy. “The best way you can help me is to serve out your sentence and cause no more trouble. And be more selective about what jobs you take in the future.”

  She sat down on the stone ledge in the back of her cell, her eyes downcast. “All right. I stay, I serve, no trouble. You tell them I sorry.” She looked up at me. “I am sorry.”

  I thanked her, not really sure of the protocol here. Off to find Algor. As I turned to leave, she said, “When I get out, I teach you some sword fighting. So you not get hurt. Well, not so much, anyway.”

  24

  A Man Walked Out of a Bar

  Follow him? Boog signed from across the crowded tavern. Algor was straightening his cloak, having just stood. He pushed his sturdy oak chair back under his table in the back corner. A neat one, I mused.

  I signed back. I will. You come later. I waited until Algor was closer to the door, his back turned, before getting up. I dropped a copper coin for the serving maid next to my half-full mug and barely-eaten plate of mutton on the table. Sometimes, having a mission in a tavern was a pleasant bonus, but the ale at the Pampered Pig tasted as though it was intended for actual pigs, and definitely non-pampered ones. The sheep to whom my mutton had previously belonged was wreaking revenge on humanity from beyond the grave. The meat was so gristly and tough I thought it might function better as a boot sole than as a meal.