The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows

by Crilley, Paul

  He heard Torin’s voice behind him. “And you know what flies are attracted to, don’t you?”

  The second day of Long Shadows

  Far, the 27th day of Vult, 998

  Wren had traveled a lot over the years. He’d spent time in nearly all the Five Nations for one reason or another, usually accompanied by Torin. During that time, he’d come to the conclusion that you could judge the quality of a city by the liveliness of its night life.

  And Sharn’s night life was the best he had ever found.

  He smiled as he walked through the Firelight District of Lower Menthis, nodding genially at faces he recognized, looking around with interest at new inns or taverns that had opened since his last visit. A fortune teller’s shop had replaced old Fintal’s place. He used to sell the best spiced hot potatoes. And he was open all day and all night. Wren had often wondered how he did it. He’d eventually asked the old dwarf and it turned out he had a twin brother and they worked shifts. Wren had been slightly disappointed at that.

  Artificers and illusionists had bent and tweaked magical light into signs of a hundred different shapes and sizes, all of them inviting the lucky customer inside for one form of entertainment or another. It had become something of a competition to those in the trade, to see who could devise the brightest, most outlandish and eye-catching display. Wren had even heard they gave out awards these days.

  The familiar noises of the streets washed over him in waves. Not gentle waves, but storm-tossed, violent waves, beautiful yet dangerous, alluring yet life-threatening. It was the cacophony of all things at once: the hoarse cry of stall merchants, the seductive calls of courtesans, the cries of fear or pain as someone became a nightly statistic. It was all here. Every aspect of city life in all its brutality and beauty.

  Wren loved it.

  “Stop grinning like an idiot,” said Torin.

  “Come now, Torin. It’s a beautiful night. The stars are shining—”

  “How would you know? You can’t see the stars from here.”

  “It’s stopped raining, at least.”

  “It’ll start up again soon. And anyway, it’s misty.”

  “Torin! Always the pessimist! Look how the mist reflects the lights! Nature and craft, joining together, creating something that couldn’t exist one without the other.”

  Torin shook his head in disgust. “You’re so full of it, you know that?”

  “Of course I do. And therein lies my charm.”

  A loud roar erupted from somewhere up ahead, and then three goblins smashed through a glass window and skidded across the road. A second later, a huge minotaur stepped through the opening. It stomped across the street to where the first of the goblins was trying to rise. It pushed the smaller creature back to the ground, then lifted its huge foot and brought it down on the goblin’s head with a savage bellow of anger. The minotaur did the same to the other goblins, staring down at them with satisfaction before turning and walking into the mist.

  “We shouldn’t be down here, anyway,” said Torin nervously. “The nights of Long Shadows aren’t for normal people.”

  “Rubbish. It’s just a festival like any other.”

  “Yes, but it’s a festival where minotaurs and bugbears creep out of their holes and do nasty things to people like us.”

  Wren indicated the dead goblins. “How do you know that was anything to do with the Shadow? The goblins could have cheated the minotaur at cards. Or tried to steal from him. This is Lower Menthis, Torin. You don’t need a religious festival for the crazies to come out of the woodwork.”

  “Exactly! Which begs the question—what are we doing here?”

  “Visiting a friend,” said Wren. “One who may be able to help us.” He glanced down at Torin. “What do you think of all this, anyway?”

  “Not sure yet,” said Torin thoughtfully. “Not enough information. The killer wanted something from the professor. That’s a given, judging by his broken fingers.”

  “You noticed that, did you?”

  “Of course I did. This girl you mentioned. Either she was in on it, or she witnessed it. Either way, I think she’s the key.” “My thoughts exactly.”

  They reached the end of the road and turned into a closed-off street. At its end was a huge building with an understated sign glowing above the double doorway. The sign spelled out the owner’s name as well as the name of the establishment.

  “Savia’s?” said Torin. “What are we doing here?”

  “I told you—she’s a friend who may be able to help.”

  A hulking bugbear stood by the doors. He stared at them, then evidently decided they posed no threat and opened the door for them. Wren and Torin stepped into a small greeting area, a quiet room with tasteful paintings on the walls and ornately carved furniture situated around small glass tabletops that floated in the air. Violin music wafted from somewhere. Wren made a mental note to ask Savia how she accomplished this. He would love to have music playing throughout his apartments. What a wonderful idea.

  A young woman in a low-cut white dress with blue leaves embroidered around the hems approached the two of them, a charming smile playing about her exotic features. Her skin was dark, her hair black as a raven’s wings. Wren bowed extravagantly.

  “My lady,” he said.

  “My lord,” she replied. She smiled down at Torin. The dwarf blushed furiously. “And what can we at Savia’s do for you tonight? Are you interested in gambling? Companionship? A meal, perhaps? We have a new chef from Aundair who is rapidly gaining a name for himself among our more discerning clients.”

  “Companionship, I think,” said Wren.

  The woman smiled. “Of course. Male? Female? Elf, dwarf, changeling? Anything you desire we can provide.”

  “What an extraordinary claim,” mused Wren. “Anything, you say?”

  “We pride ourselves on it.”

  “I don’t recognize you, my dear. Are you new here?”

  “I’ve been here for two months.”

  “Host, has it been that long since I visited? How lax of me. Savia will never forgive me.”

  “Are you an acquaintance of Savia’s?”

  “I am indeed. We’re old friends. Is she available? I’d like to talk to her, if that can be arranged.”

  The young lady’s face took on a sorrowful look. “I’m afraid Savia has retired for the night.”

  “How disappointing. Is there no way I can convince you to rouse her?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Ah, well. On second thought, I think I’ll join the gambling tables. But my friend here—I think perhaps Lia?”

  The young woman glanced at Torin, her lips twitching into a small smile. “Of course. If you’d care to take refreshments at the bar, I’ll just see if she’s available.” She smiled again, showing bright white teeth amidst the dusky skin, and turned from them with a swish of her filmy skirt.

  “What a remarkable woman,” said Wren. “Simply stunning. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “What are you up to?” asked Torin, ignoring his question.

  “Nothing. I just thought you looked tense.”

  “I am tense. It comes from working with you.”

  Wren smiled and led them through the door into an open room with tables and chairs for dining and a huge bar that took up two full walls. It was quiet within, but Wren could hear voices and music coming from a doorway to their right. That was where the gambling tables were situated. Many were the times that Wren, unable to sleep, had paid a visit to Savia’s and greeted the dawn with fellow players.

  Wren turned to Torin. “I’ll be in there, waiting for your signal.”

  Torin frowned. “What signal?”

  Wren ignored him and smiled as a willowy elf walked toward them.

  “Wren! How are you?”

  “Lia! I’m ecstatic now that I’ve seen you.”

  “You say that every time you come here.”

  “And it’s always true.”

  Lia gave Wren a kiss o
n the cheek. “What brings you here on such a miserable night?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Sounds intriguing.” She glanced at Torin. “Who’s your embarrassed friend?”

  “This is Torin. A more redoubtable character you will never meet. I want you to be nice to him.”

  Torin’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Wren?”

  Lia took Torin by the arm. “I’m always nice to my clients.”

  Torin glared at Wren. “This is why my wife doesn’t like you, Wren. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course she likes me. I keep you out of her hair. Now, here’s what I want you to do.”

  Wren tossed his cards onto the table and tapped his fingers impatiently. How long had they been up there? Over half an hour, surely. Torin wouldn’t be—

  No, not Torin. He was fanatically faithful to his wife. He wouldn’t even consider such a thing. Wren was in awe of people who could make that kind of commitment. To promise yourself to one person for the rest of your life …

  He couldn’t get his head around it. It was like trying to comprehend the number of stars in the sky, or count the grains of sand on a beach. His brain wasn’t built for the task.

  The dealer swept his cards away and flicked seven more onto the table. This time, she placed the first and fourth cards face up. Interesting. She had been watching Wren’s tactics and had adjusted her own mode of play. This could be quite an interesting game.

  A high-pitched scream from the rooms above whipped everybody’s eyes upward. Wren watched the players, noting those who took advantage of the distraction to check out their opponents’ cards. He yawned and stood up, nodding at the shocked dealer.

  “Excuse me.”

  He left the gambling room and turned to the right. A wide staircase led up to the bedrooms. Another scream echoed through the brothel. A half-dressed man stumbled past Wren, looking over his shoulder in fear. Wren winced. Savia wasn’t going to be happy with this. She’d want compensation.

  A small crowd had gathered outside one of the bedrooms. The bugbear from the front door was gripping the handle, getting ready to break down the door.

  “Wait!” shouted Wren. He hurried over to the room. Courtesans looked at him, fear clear on their faces. Wren felt a twinge of guilt. This was one of the things courtesans feared the most—psychotic customers.

  “Wait,” he repeated. “Is that Lia’s room?”

  The bugbear frowned at him. At least Wren thought he was frowning at him. It was hard to tell.

  “It is,” said one of the girls.

  “Then I know who is in there with her. An ugly little dwarf. I saw him come up here. He was drooling and muttering to himself.”

  “I heard that!” shouted a voice from inside the room. “Don’t make me angry! I don’t want to hurt her, but I will if I have to!”

  Wren shouldered his way past the bugbear. “What do you want?” he asked. “Just tell us. We can work something out.”

  “I want to talk to Savia. Right now.”

  Wren turned to the closest girl. “You heard him! Fetch Savia. Hurry!”

  “But she’s sleeping—”

  “Are you mad? You have an insane dwarf rapist in there! I think she’d want to know about it.”

  The girl let out a squeal of fear and ran up the flight of stairs to the next floor. Wren leaned on the door and looked up at the bugbear. The creature looked upset. Probably because his brain was having to do a bit of work.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Wren told him. “Once Savia’s here, you can beat him around a bit.”

  This seemed to cheer the creature a bit. Wren turned his attention to the girls clustered around in various states of undress. “Better be careful, ladies. This kind of weather, you’ll catch a chill.”

  A few moments later, the courtesan appeared at the top of the stairs, followed closely by Savia. Wren watched her appreciatively as she descended the stairs. The woman was tall, her dark hair showing flecks of gray that somehow enhanced her looks. Wren usually liked his women younger than Savia, but there was something about her. She had an air of confidence about her, an aura of intelligence. Not to mention an incredibly fine body.

  Savia hurried past the girl, pulling a robe around herself. She reached the bottom of the stairs and caught sight of Wren. Her eyes narrowed. Wren could see numerous emotions flashing across her face. First relief, then anger, then a touch of amusement, and finally calculation as she tried to figure out what Wren was up to.

  She walked up to them. “You can go, Baras,” she said to the bugbear, touching him lightly on the arm.

  “I promised him he could beat up Torin a bit.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Just a little bit.”

  “False alarm,” Savia said to the girls. When they looked doubtful, she raised an eyebrow at Wren. “If you’d be so kind?”

  Wren knocked on the door. “You can come out now.”

  The door swung open to reveal a contrite Torin. Lia sat on the bed behind him, filing her nails. She looked up and smiled.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” said Savia. “I hope you made it worth her while, Wren.”

  “Of course!” said Wren, offended.

  “Good. You can go now, Lia. That goes for all of you. Get back to your rooms.”

  She waited until the corridor was empty before turning her attention back to Wren. “I suppose you’d better come up to my chambers and tell me what this is all about.”

  Despite his best efforts, Wren had never been inside Savia’s rooms. For some reason, the woman consistently managed to resist his charms. He looked around the gently-lit sitting area. She definitely had good taste, so she should be drawn to Wren like a Khyber worshiper to a hole in the ground.

  Torin stood uncomfortably by the doorway while Wren breezed around the room, picking up small carvings and examining them, bending down to study the porcelain inlay on a small black table. It looked dwarven to him. He came to a stop before a series of stone sculptures depicting a warrior in various poses of prayer. He reached out to touch them, then drew his hand back.

  “Are these real?” he asked, seeking out Savia.

  “They are.”

  Wren turned his attention to the carvings. They were Valenar in make. The statues represented the seven deep prayers the elves recited to their ancestors before going into battle. But the statues must have been over five hundred years old. No new ones had been made since the Valenar left Aerenal. They were passed down through the generations and treated with the utmost reverence.

  “How did you come by them?” he asked.

  “They were a gift. For a favor.”

  “A gift! Host, woman! What did you do for them?”

  “None of your business. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  Wren’s gaze lingered on the statues, then he tore himself away and joined Savia on a small couch. On the table in front of them were papers and files, some marked important. Wren realized they must involve the city council.

  Savia saw him looking and gathered the papers together. “Focus, Wren. Come now.”

  “Sorry.”

  He went on to tell her of the night’s events, ending with a description of the assailant and the name they had found in the professor’s diary.

  “How bizarre,” said Savia.

  “Does the description strike you as familiar?”

  “Well, yes. But that’s what I find so strange. The description perfectly matches a man called Cutter. He works for the Boromar clan watching over some of their girls. The establishment isn’t far from here, actually. It’s called the Tufted Feather. And ‘Red’ … I can only assume that to be Rowen. She’s a courtesan, but she and Cutter are an item. The girls think it all terribly romantic.”

  “Interesting,” mused Wren. “Torin, what am I thinking?”

  Torin had stepped forward from his place by the door when Savia started talking. He cleared his throat. “You’re thinking this Cutter couldn’t handle his girl s
leeping with other men. That he killed this professor in a jealous rage.”

  Wren winked at Savia. “Taught him everything he knows,” he said. “What do you think? Does it sound feasible?”

  Savia shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know this Cutter fellow. I’ve only seen him in passing.”

  Wren stood up. “Come, Torin. I know you wanted to get home to that lively wife of yours, but duty calls.” He took Savia’s hand and kissed it. “Always a pleasure. Call me if you ever change your mind about dinner. The invitation is always open.”

  Torin was waiting for him by the door. They exited the rooms and headed into the corridor.

  “Does your wife really not like me?” asked Wren.

  “Hates you. Do you find that hard to believe?”

  “Frankly … yes. I think you’re lying just to upset me.”

  Torin sighed. “Believe what you want, Wren. Let’s just get this over with.”

  The second day of Long Shadows

  Far, the 27th day of Vult, 998

  Cutter dumped the skycoach a few districts away and returned to the Tufted Feather on foot. He was aching all over from the fight with the warforged, and he was sure the last two fingers on his right hand were broken, or at the very least, dislocated. He couldn’t even remember how that had happened.

  He slipped through the front door and headed straight for the stairs. The rain had washed much of the blood from him, but he still looked a mess. Luckily, no one paid him any attention.

  He checked Rowen’s room to make sure she hadn’t returned. It looked the same as he had left it. He stood at the foot of her bed and tried to think it through.

  She was still out there somewhere. But where? It made sense that she would return here to Cutter. He could protect her.

  Unless she thought she was being followed or she feared the warforged would be waiting for her.

  So where else could she be? She had no family. Her only brother had been killed last year in a tavern brawl. She had no home. All her friends lived around the district.