The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows

by Crilley, Paul

  Unless she was already—

  No. He couldn’t think that way. The warforged had asked Cutter where she was, so she must have escaped the professor’s rooms. All he had to do was find her and they could sort this whole thing out. In the meantime, he needed to figure out what had happened in the professor’s rooms. And Salkith was the key. Cutter needed to track down the courier to find out the part he played in the night’s events.

  He returned to his room and changed his clothes, slipping on a leather vest beneath a clean shirt. It didn’t offer much protection, but it was better than nothing, and he preferred its flexibility to any kind of mail shirt. He located his short-hafted war hammer and attached its loop of leather to his belt. It weighed him down. He preferred the Khutai blades, but the heavy hammer would be more useful against the warforged. One side of it was spiked, and he reckoned he’d do more damage with it than the Valenar knives. Cutter took a small money pouch from the drawer and weighed it in his hands. Tiel hadn’t paid him for the last month’s work, so he had been dipping into his meager savings. Not much left.

  Tiel. He’d be wondering where Cutter was with his money. Regardless, Cutter couldn’t spare the time to seek him out and tell him what had happened. He’d have to leave it for the moment. There were more important things to think about.

  A knock came at the door, soft and hesitant.

  Cutter froze, then looked around his room to make sure he had everything he needed. He unhooked the hammer and crept across the wooden boards to the door. He took a deep breath, then yanked it open.

  A woman was standing there. She stifled a scream and stepped backward, staring at Cutter with wide eyes. It was Renaia, a courtesan from a brothel over in the Firelight District. He lowered the hammer and stepped backward, opening his mouth to apologize.

  At the same moment, the window behind him exploded inward, showering the room and Cutter’s back with shards of glass.

  Cutter spun, slamming the door shut as he did so, and saw the warforged landing on the floor at the foot of his bed. Cutter swung the hammer in an overhand arc. It slammed into the warforged with a dull clang, driving it to its knees. The warforged lashed out with an arm, punching Cutter hard in the stomach. His leather vest absorbed some of the blow, but it still sent him staggering back into the wall, gasping for breath.

  The warforged straightened and surveyed the room. It must have followed Cutter, hoping to find Rowen.

  Cutter flipped the hammer around and pushed himself away from the wall. The warforged was ignoring him for the moment while it searched for Rowen. Big mistake.

  Cutter swung the hammer as hard as he could and felt the spike punch through the metal plating on the warforged’s back. The ‘forged arched its back with an animal-like cry of agony and jabbed its elbow into Cutter’s cheek. His head jerked back. Cutter felt a bloom of red-tinged pain as the skin split and blood flowed.

  Cutter staggered backward, blinking to clear the flashes before his eyes. The warforged reached over its shoulder and pulled the hammer free. Blinking, Cutter managed to focus just in time to see the hammer flying end over end toward him. He dropped, and it smashed into the wall, punching a deep hole in the plaster.

  The warforged sniffed the air, but when it decided Rowen wasn’t hiding anywhere, it turned its attention to Cutter. It held its arms out at its sides. Cutter heard the scrape of metal on metal as two blades slid from the backs of its hands.

  “You don’t know where she is.”

  “I …” Cutter pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the hammer. “I already told you that.”

  “Then you are of no use to me.”

  The warforged advanced on him. Cutter took one look at the blades and grabbed the hammer, thrusting it into his belt. He couldn’t be any help to Rowen dead.

  So he jumped out the window.

  It was a pretty stupid thing to do considering his room was on the top floor of the building, but he didn’t have any other choice.

  Cutter turned just before he dropped from the window and grabbed hold of the window ledge. He shinnied across and pulled himself up at the next window. The eaves of the roof were about five feet above him. He jumped and caught hold, but the gutter came away in his hand and almost sent him tumbling to the ground. He steadied himself and tried again, this time catching hold of the wooden supports beneath the roof tiles. He looked back and saw the warforged leaning out the window. The construct grabbed hold of the window frame and climbed out.

  Cutter cursed the creation of all warforged and pulled himself up onto the roof. He ran carefully along the center peak and leaped across the gap onto the next building.

  The three neighboring buildings were all part of the same structure, giving him space to build up speed. But he was rapidly running out of roof. The street on which the Feather was built was nestled between huge towers that soared up on either side. On the lower levels of Sharn, any kind of empty space between tower bases was a much sought after prize.

  Cutter glanced over his shoulder and saw the black metal of the warforged glinting in the light of the surrounding city. That glow was always there, a permanent facet of city life gleaming from windows and everbright lanterns and passing skycoaches. Cutter was thankful for it as he reached the end of the roof, because it enabled him to search for a means of escape.

  Not that one presented itself. A wide street opened up below him. The building on the opposite side was over twenty feet away. No way was he making that jump. Cutter cursed himself for not listening to Rowen and buying himself a feather fall charm. She was always saying he would need one.

  Cutter pulled out the hammer and turned to face the warforged. It had slowed to a walk and was now only a few arm-lengths in front of Cutter.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Cutter. “What do you want with Rowen?”

  “She took something that didn’t belong to her,” said the warforged.

  “I’ll find her. She’ll give it back.”

  “It is too late for that.” The warforged crossed its arms across its chest, the blades forming a V under its chin.

  Cutter looked over his shoulder. A skycoach was approaching. Keep him talking, Cutter thought. Maybe there was still a way out of this.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?” The warforged was silent for a moment, and when it spoke again it was in a soft whisper that caused the hair on the back of Cutter’s neck to rise. “I am the unnamed. I am the fear of darkness. I am the night stalker, the killer of children. I am the will of the Shadow, and I do his bidding.”

  Cutter swallowed. The Shadow?

  “Enough of this. It is time for you to embrace darkness.”

  “Embrace your own darkness.”

  Cutter swung his arm with all his might, the hammer coming around in a wide arc. He released the haft, keeping hold of the leather loop. The iron smashed into the warforged’s face, sending it staggering to the side. Without waiting to see what damage he had caused, Cutter turned and leaped into the air, praying that he’d timed this right.

  He hadn’t. The skycoach was already drifting past. He stretched out with his free hand and managed to grab hold of the stern as he plummeted through the air. His arm jerked in its socket and the coach lurched downward. He gritted his teeth against the pain, then threw his hammer over the side and grabbed hold of the hull with his other hand. He pulled himself up and flopped over the side, landing on his back. Cutter heard the driver shouting something from up front, but couldn’t hear what he was saying. Nothing complimentary, that was sure.

  He pushed himself up against the side of the coach and stared at two young men who were regarding him from their padded seats with looks of irritation.

  “Did you see that?”

  “I did. No consideration. None at all. He made me spill my wine. You.” One of the men prodded Cutter with his foot-a foot shod in a silk slipper. “How dare you jump into our coach like that. Have you no manners?”

  “Of course he doesn’t. Look at hi
m. He’s a brute.”

  “Mmm. Quite tasty though, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose … in a vulgar kind of way. If that’s your thing.”

  “Oh, definitely. If that’s your thing.”

  Cutter sat up. “One more word from either of you and you’re over the side.”

  “What’s going on back there?” shouted the driver, trying to see over his shoulder and control the coach at the same time.

  Cutter ignored him and got to his knees, looking back at the rooftop.

  The warforged was dropping through the air straight for him.

  Cutter cursed and rolled backward. He pushed the driver aside and grabbed hold of the controls. He yanked them to his chest, pulling the coach into a steep climb.

  He almost made it. The warforged slammed into the side of the coach as it climbed upward. The vehicle shuddered, but Cutter managed to hold it steady. He turned and searched frantically for his hammer. It lay at the feet of the two men. Cutter dived for it, but as soon as he released the controls, the warforged’s weight tilted the coach to the side. He rolled with the movement, banging his head against a seat. He saw the driver tumble over the edge of the coach. Cutter hoped he had a feather fall charm on him. His hammer slid along the deck toward his face. His hand shot out to stop it from breaking his nose, and he grabbed hold of the seat to help him to his feet. The warforged was trying to pull itself into the coach, but it had no leverage now that it was listing so far to the side.

  The hammer slid along the deck toward Cutter’s face. His hand shot out to stop it from breaking his nose, and he grabbed hold of the seat to pull himself to his feet. The warforged was trying to pull itself into the coach, but it had no leverage with the vehicle listing so far to the side.

  Cutter looked frantically for a means of escape. An idea came to him, in the form of the huge tower looming large before him. He took the controls and directed the coach upward, trying to keep it at the same angle so the warforged couldn’t climb in.

  Open balconies revealed rooms and shops in the side of the tower, but that wasn’t what he was looking for.

  As he rose into the mist, he saw it—a bridge that entered a wide opening in the tower and tunneled inside.

  “You!” he called one of the men. “Yes you, you idiot. If you don’t want to die, listen to me carefully. When I jump, grab hold of these controls and hold them tight. Understand?”

  “What?” The man looked terrified. “What is that warforged doing?”

  Cutter saw glowing white eyes rise over the edge of the coach. Khyber, he swore silently. He had no choice. Now or never.

  “Grab the controls!” he shouted. Cutter jumped, kicking the levers forward so the coach dropped nose first into a dive.

  The warforged reached out to grab hold of him but was too late. Cutter hit a balcony railing chest first, the breath exploding from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, let alone hold on. His fingers slipped and he fell backward from the railing.

  He closed his eyes, waiting for the back-breaking impact, but it didn’t come. He forced his eyes open, looking to the side. Nothing was moving. He looked the other way and saw a man with a wand pointed at him. He lowered it and Cutter floated gently to the ground.

  Cutter staggered to his feet, looking for signs of the war-forged. It was nowhere to be seen. Cutter opened his mouth to thank his rescuer, but only a pained gasp came out. He gave up and simply waved a hand, hurrying along the bridge into the tower.

  “Hey!” the man called. “You need to report this to the Watch! I want my reward!”

  Cutter ignored him and melted into the safety of the crowds, following the flow of traffic, not knowing or caring where it led him. Just as long as there were people around.

  The second day of Long Shadows

  Far, the 27th day of Vult, 998

  Where did she say it was? I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “I noticed. You were too busy watching Savia’s backside.”

  “How dare you! I’ll have you know that I value and appreciate Savia as a person.”

  “Yes. That must have been why you were trying to see inside her dressing gown every time she bent forward.”

  “You saw that, did you? Can you blame me? She’s a fine looking woman. I mean, I know you’re married and a loyal husband, blah-blah-blah, but surely that doesn’t stop you looking. You can still appreciate the form of a beautiful woman. That doesn’t make you unfaithful, does it?”

  “Not as such, no.”

  “Unless you prefer your females to be the same race as yourself? Although I’ll admit I never thought that of you.”

  Torin sighed. “No, Wren. I find females of all races attractive.”

  Wren continued as if Torin hadn’t said anything. “I myself find your wife incredibly attractive, and but for the fact that I respect you as a friend, I’d be all over her like a dog in—”

  “Here we are!” said Torin loudly, cutting Wren off.

  Wren smiled. It was too easy. Really. He looked up at the building across the street. Whereas Savia’s was tasteful and discreet, the Tufted Feather declared itself and its intentions with all the enthusiasm of a forty-year-old stripper being ogled by men half her age. Red everbright lanterns adorned the wall above the door in a rather tasteless shape. And in case one was still in doubt as to the kind of business carried out there, a young, half-naked elf was dancing in the window.

  “She looks bored,” Wren commented.

  “Wouldn’t you be? Being paid to perform for drunken men?

  “Torin, I never knew you felt so strongly. Is it personal? Has one of your family been forced to turn their hand to—how shall I put it? Earning their money from home?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I simply feel it’s degrading and humiliating.”

  “And what would you have them do?” said Wren. “Beg on the street corners? Die of starvation?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  Wren pointed upward. “Want to bet that broken window up there belongs to our man?”

  Torin looked up at the window. “Why do you say that?”

  Wren shrugged. “Just a feeling. People tend not to leave their windows broken for long. Come.”

  Wren jogged across the street and entered the building. A dwarf stood behind the bar but had his back to them as he poured drinks. Wren moved straight through the common room and up the stairs beyond, Torin trailing close behind.

  Wren heard the sounds of fighting as soon as he reached the first landing. They came from one of the floors above. He grabbed a densewood wand from his belt and sprinted the rest of the way to the top floor, but the sounds stopped by the time he arrived.

  A woman stood in the corridor, her ear pressed to a door. As soon as she saw Wren, she quickly bent down and picked up something from the floor.

  Wren approached cautiously. “What’s going on?” he asked the girl.

  “I … I don’t know. I came to see Cutter, but there was a crash—I think the window broke—and he slammed the door in my face. It sounds like fighting.”

  “Doesn’t it just?” Wren turned to Torin. “You owe me for the window.”

  “We didn’t bet!”

  “Come, come, Torin. Nobody likes a stingy dwarf. It panders to stereotypes.”

  Wren held his wand before him and pushed open the door. Silence greeted him. A muggy draft blew through the broken window. Wren stepped inside and glanced around. He replaced his wand. Cutter was gone.

  “You can come in now, Torin. The danger has passed.”

  Wren heard the dwarf swearing under his breath and smiled again. He checked the drawers and the cupboard, but found nothing of interest. The man obviously lived light. There were signs of a scuffle, but no damage besides a hole in the wall. Who was he fighting? And where did they go?

  Wren leaned out the broken window, careful not to cut himself on the shards of glass. He turned and looked upward. The roof was close. Cutter could have made his escape that way. Well, he certainly wasn’t going
to run around on rooftops in the middle of the night. Cutter would be long gone by now, anyway.

  Wren ducked back inside. Torin was seated on the bed, and the woman hovered uncertainly in the doorway, eager to be away.

  “You can go now, my dear,” said Wren.

  “Oh. Fine.” She turned to leave.

  “Just one thing before you leave.” The woman paused. “What’s in the envelope?”

  “Which envelope?”

  “The one you picked up from the floor when we arrived.” The woman shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come, come, my dear. Let’s not play around. Rowen is in danger, and the more you delay the worse it could be for her.”

  She looked surprised. “You know Rowen?”

  “And Cutter, yes. We’re trying to help them. They’ve angered some very powerful people tonight, and we want to protect them. So why don’t you hand over the envelope, and we’ll see what the young lady has to say for herself.”

  The woman still looked doubtful. Wren sighed. Why was it never easy? “What’s your name?”

  “Renaia.”

  “Renaia. What a beautiful name.” He saw Torin roll his eyes. “Renaia, we know Rowen was involved in something up at the university. Now, whatever it was has put her life in danger. Torin and I—I’m Wren, by the way—we can help her. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for something bad happening to your friend, would you?”

  Renaia stared at Wren for a long time, biting her lower lip. Wren thought she wasn’t going to give it to them, that he’d have to take it by force, but she finally reached into her blouse and pulled out the envelope.

  Wren took it from her and ripped it open. Inside was a folded piece of cheap paper. Written on it in a shaky hand was a short message. Got dreamlily. Hidden at the family crypt. Will meet later.

  Wren handed the letter to Torin. So, the murder had been a drug deal gone bad. Had Rowen killed the professor? No, that didn’t feel right. What, then? Were she and Cutter both in the rooms? Rowen took the drugs, Cutter stayed behind to finish off the professor, deciding to get his revenge on the man who was sleeping with his woman? Possible. But then why the letter? Wouldn’t they have made arrangements beforehand? Maybe things didn’t go according to plan. Maybe—