Nothing. Empty of everything but cobwebs and dust.
He closed the door and slipped back to the entrance hall. Just before he entered the torch-lit room, he heard voices. He stopped, knowing he would be invisible to anyone beyond, and waited for the owners of the voices to appear.
He didn’t wait long. Two dark-robed clerics walked into the room and headed beneath the archway to the left of the main doors. Cutter waited a moment to make sure no one else was coming, then followed them.
They led him down a long, sloping corridor. He hung back, able to see their position by the torch they carried. Cutter reckoned this was the passage Wren must have taken, since it headed downward.
He realized that Wren would be moving slowly, scouting the way before he moved. The priests in front of Cutter, however, were moving quite fast—quickly enough to catch up with Wren if Cutter didn’t do something about them.
He hurried his steps and before long, he could see the priests’ outlines as they walked in single file down the cramped tunnel. He drew closer, shifting his hold on his blades. Cutter glanced over the priests’ heads and saw that the corridor soon came to an end at a low doorway. He couldn’t wait any longer. Cutter sprinted the last few steps and grabbed hold of the closest one’s chin. He yanked the priest’s head back and drew the blade quickly across his neck. Blood sprayed everywhere. The remaining cleric let out a shocked cry. Cutter spun around and stabbed him in the heart before he could do anything else. They both collapsed to the flagstones.
Cutter wiped the knives on their robes, then stepped over the bodies and ducked beneath the lintel onto the stairs. He descended as quickly as possible and soon found himself in a massive room filled with pillars. No one was about, so he headed forward.
He saw Wren—or at least thought it was him—disappear through a distant doorway. He jogged forward, slowing briefly to study an altar with a cage hanging above it. Cutter arrived at the doorway moments later. A faint light glowed from within.
A moment later, all the torches in the huge hall flattened and flickered out as if buffeted by a giant gust of wind. Darkness sank over him like a mist.
Then Cutter heard someone laughing.
Wren reached for a wand at his belt.
“Please do not do that,” requested a raspy voice. “Or I’ll be forced to kill you and your accomplice.”
“What accomplice?” asked Wren. “I’m here alone.”
“Then who is the large human lurking around outside?”
“Ah.” Wren raised his voice. “Cutter, can you come in here?”
“I can’t see anything,” Cutter called back.
“Forgive me,” said the wispy voice. Two pinpoints of red light flared to life.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Wren.
“If you are at all religious,” said the voice from the same vicinity as the glowing eyes, “now would be a good time to pray.”
As if those words were some kind of release, Wren’s night vision was restored. He stared into the desiccated face of a lich. Wrinkled skin stuck to his skull, no more than a thin covering of ancient gray flesh. Two narrow holes were all that remained of the nose.
Light flared outside as the torches reignited. Wren saw Cutter move away from the door, then return a moment later carrying a torch. He held it at arm’s length, the sputtering flame giving off an oily black smoke. As he entered, the torchlight crawled over the lich, revealing him in all his nightmarish glory. Tall, emaciated, he wasn’t much more than a walking skeleton. His clothing was ancient and tattered, the colors drained by age.
“What I would like to know,” said the lich, “is what you are doing here. It has been some time since anyone was stupid enough to enter my temple.”
“You … weren’t supposed to be here,” said Wren, realizing how weak that sounded.
The lich seemed to agree, because it let loose the dry laugh once again. “Forgive me. I took you for an intelligent man.”
“Maybe if you didn’t go around stealing things from people, we wouldn’t be here,” said Cutter.
Wren winced as the lich turned his attention to Cutter. He tried to gesture for the idiot to keep quiet, but Cutter couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see him.
“And just what am I supposed to have stolen?”
“That!” Cutter pointed at the black chest with one of his knives.
The lich looked in the direction Cutter indicated. His red eyes shrunk to tiny pinpricks. “What makes you think I stole that?”
“Because the cleric told us!” shouted Cutter. He looked at Wren. “Why are we playing this game? Just take it!”
“Cutter—”
“We don’t have time—”
“Cutter!” Wren shouted. “Shut up!”
“You would do well to listen to your friend,” said the lich.
“He’s no friend of mine,” Cutter growled.
“Regardless, you should be thankful of his presence. He is the only thing stopping me from taking your head.” The lich turned to Wren. “And the only reason I am not plucking your heart from your chest is because I am amused.”
Wren frowned. “Amused?”
“Look in the chest. I give you permission.”
Wren hesitated, then turned and approached the box. Cutter brushed past him and flung open the lid. He peered inside.
“It’s full of scrolls,” he said. “Just like she said.” Cutter reached inside.
“Do not touch them!” roared the lich.
Cutter froze, his hand halfway into the chest. Wren pushed him gently aside. The scrolls were ancient and yellowed. They looked like they would fall apart if he so much as breathed on them.
“Close it,” said the lich.
Wren carefully put the lid back in place. His fingertips left marks on the wood. He absently wiped the dust on his shirt.
“What’s happening?” said Cutter.
“We’ve been tricked,” Wren admitted.
“Tricked? Who by?”
“By the Silver Flame wench.” The lich laughed. “She used you to try to steal my phylactery. My life force. It is the only way I can be harmed.”
“Gaia?” said Cutter. “She tricked us?”
“It would appear so,” said Wren.
“So there never were any scrolls?”
“Doesn’t seem that way.”
“And now,” said the lich, “I think I will kill you after all.”
Wren whirled. The lich walked toward him, hands raised. A crimson glow was forming around his fingers.
Cutter stepped to the side and opened the chest. He held the torch over the scrolls. “Hold!” he ordered.
The lich froze.
Cutter leaned close to Wren. “Run when I give the signal.”
Wren looked at him. “What sig—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Cutter thrust the torch into the chest and set the scrolls on fire. The lich howled and lunged forward. Cutter upended the box, scattering the burning scrolls over the floor. Wren sprinted for the door. Cutter came after him, but not before grabbing the chest and thrusting the torch beneath the lich’s clothing. The creature went up like it was soaked in oil.
“That won’t kill him,” said Wren as Cutter joined him. They both ran into the huge chamber.
“No, but it might delay him long enough for us to get out.” Without waiting for a response, he started running as fast as he could.
Wren joined him, the screams of rage and pain echoing behind them like a strong wind at their backs.
They skirted the courtyard and reached the crypt. Torin scrambled to his feet. Gaia turned to face them.
“Did you get it?”
Cutter threw the box at her. She caught it and fumbled with the catch, almost dropping it in her eagerness. She yanked it open and looked inside.
“But …” she looked from Wren to Cutter. “There’s nothing in here.”
Wren smiled. “Sorry, my dear. You told us to get the chest, and that’s what we got. We’re not resp
onsible for its contents.”
“But the scrolls aren’t here! If you think I’m giving you—”
Cutter strode forward and lowered his face until it was inches from Gaia’s. “Don’t even think about trying to go back on the deal,” he said softly. “You wanted the chest, we got it. And we nearly got killed in the process. You said the lich wasn’t there.”
“He wasn’t! He must have come back when I wasn’t watching.”
“You will give us what is ours,” said Cutter.
“Or what?” said Gaia.
“Or I send Wren and Torin away and you get to see what I can do with this.” Cutter held the point of his knife close to her eye.
Gaia thought about it. After a moment, she nodded. “Fine.”
“Good girl,” said Cutter, and sheathed his knife.
The third day of long Shadows
Sar, the 28th day of Vult, 998
When Cutter first entered Wren’s apartments, he had to struggle to keep the amazement from showing on his face. He’d be damned if he let the half-elf see how he felt. He probably watched everyone who came into the place just to see their reactions.
Cutter glanced over, and sure enough, Wren was watching him with a slight look of disappointment.
The thing that was so impressive about the apartment was that it seemed to be outfitted entirely from livewood. The wood had been coaxed and shaped into everything possible: chairs and desks, bookshelves and partitions. It must have taken decades to get the apartment into its current form.
“It was my father’s pet project,” said Wren, launching into a little speech in spite of Cutter’s apparent unconcern. “He poured all of his time and a substantial amount of money into it. Wanted it ready when he retired.” Wren looked up at the gracefully curved branches that formed the rafters. “Unfortunately, that meant neglecting everything else while he worked on it, his family included.”
Wren glanced at Cutter. “He died two days before he was to move in. My mother always said there was a lesson there, but we could never decide if it was about the foolishness of putting off one’s enjoyment to some unforeseen future, or spending all your time on pointless projects.” He grinned. “I always said it was the first, she said the second.”
“And he’s devoted his life to making sure he doesn’t repeat his father’s mistakes,” said Torin, heading past them into the lounge. He took a bottle of wine from the specially grown alcoves.
“Indeed. Instant gratification is the way to go. At least if I die, I’ll die happy.”
Wren put the small box on the dining table and sat down. He took off the lid and set it aside while Torin poured three glasses of wine and handed them round. Cutter took his crystal glass gingerly, scared he was going to break the delicate stem.
“I don’t suppose you have any ale?”
“Afraid not, no.”
“Didn’t think so.” He placed the glass gently on the table and turned his attention to the box. The Khyber dragonshard lay on a bed of white cloth—Cutter leaned closer. It looked like a towel. The shard itself was black, about the length of his hand, with purple-blue veins running through it. Such a small thing to be responsible for so much trouble.
“So,” said Wren, “what do we know?”
“Nothing,” said Torin. “Everything we thought we knew was based on the assumption that this was a drug deal gone bad. Everything’s changed now.”
“Not so,” said Wren. “We simply need to adapt our theories. First, why is the professor involved? Why did he have the shard in the first place? Cutter, did Rowen say anything to you about that?”
Cutter felt his whole body lurch at the sound of her name. He took a gulp of wine.
“Nothing that I can remember,” he said. “We always assumed it was drugs, seeing as it was Salkith coming to pick it up.”
“Right. Salkith. Did he say anything of interest when you questioned him?”
“Only what I told you. He was supposed to drop this off at a tavern in Khyber’s Gate. The Goblin’s Revenge, I think he said.”
“At least that’s some progress.”
“Not really,” said Torin. “We have no idea who he was supposed to deliver to.”
“And the fact that he was delivering it there in the first place is strange,” said Cutter.
“How so?” Wren leaned his elbows on the table.
“It’s Daask territory. If Salkith was recognized, he’d be killed straight away. There’s a war going on between Boromar and Daask. We don’t just traipse around each other’s territories setting up meetings and drops.”
“Now that is interesting,” said Wren. “So what would make someone from Boromar set up a meeting with someone from Daask?”
“You’re making assumptions,” said Torin. “One, you don’t know it was someone from Boromar, and two, you don’t know it was someone from Daask. This could have been a private deal.”
“I don’t think so,” said Wren. “The speed with which Rowen was tracked down implies someone with a lot of resources. No, until we know differently, let’s assume this is a Boromar deal.”
“That opens up more questions than answers,” said Cutter. “Boromar clan isn’t just a bunch of people working for one person. It’s hundreds, thousands of people with their own agendas. Most of the members of Boromar have never even laid eyes on Saidan Boromar. They do what they do and they pass money up the chain. As long as that money keeps moving, everyone is happy. To say it’s a Boromar deal means it could be one of ten thousand people.”
“Hmm. Point taken.”
“The biggest question to me,” said Torin, “is where does that warforged fit in? Does he work for Boromar? He certainly did their dirty work for them when he killed the professor and Rowen.” He glanced at Cutter. “Sorry.”
Cutter ignored that. “The warforged seemed a bit crazy to me. Talking all this religious stuff, you know? ‘He was the darkness’ kind of thing. The Boromars don’t like crazy people. They’re not dependable. And it was like no warforged I’ve ever seen. More like an animal than anything else.”
“Fine. Let’s leave it out of this for the meantime.” Wren poured himself more wine. “So what do we do next? We have no more leads. Nothing to follow.”
“I have a question,” said Cutter.
“Please,” said Wren, “go ahead. We’re all ears. At least, Torin is, but it’s not his fault the way he looks.”
Cutter ignored that. “Now, understand that I’ve never been to a university before.”
“Understood,” said Wren.
“But the professor—he taught at Morgrave?”
“He did.”
“The thing is—at his apartments—I didn’t see any kind of course work. No books, papers, or anything that told me he was a teacher.”
Wren and Torin exchanged glances.
“So the way I see it, he’s the key. All this started with him. Why don’t we check his office?”
Wren said, “Torin, did you check his office?”
“Didn’t know he had one.”
“And you call yourself an inquisitive?”
“Me? I’ve barely been at Morgrave. Why didn’t you check it out? You went back there.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“Hah. I’ll bet you did.”
“Enough. What time is it?”
Cutter glanced out the window. “Probably two hours ‘til dawn.”
“There’s still time. We need to take a look around his office before everyone arrives for the day.”
“One point,” said Cutter. “Actually, two. We’re wanted by the Watch. We have to keep a low profile until we can clear our names. So strolling through the crime scene of a murder I’m supposed to have committed doesn’t seem such a great idea.”
“Good point.” Wren turned to Torin. “I’ll understand if you want to sit this out. So far, your name’s been kept clean.”
“Please,” said Torin. “I’ve stuck with it this far. I’m not going to bail when it
starts to get interesting.”
Wren grinned at Cutter. “Such loyalty. He’s like the son I never had.”
“I’m older than you are, idiot.”
“Then you’re like the father I never had.”
“You had a father.”
“Then the slightly aloof yet wise and knowing great uncle I never had.”
Torin thought a moment, then said, “I’ll accept that.”
Cutter blinked, staring between the two. They were like an old married couple, bickering like that all the time.
“And what’s your second point?” asked Wren, turning his attention abruptly back to Cutter.
“What? Oh. We have no idea which office is the professor’s.”
“Leave that to me.”
“Host,” groaned Torin, “do we have to?”
Cutter hung back and looked around nervously while Wren knocked briskly on the door of the boarding house.
There was no immediate answer, a fact that didn’t surprise Cutter in the least. It was still an hour before dawn. No one in their right mind would be up.
He had to admit that it was kind of peaceful. The cold of night had faded, and he could feel a tiny hint of warmth in his bones. The sky was clear up high. Not a cloud in sight, and the stars still shining like brittle ice.
The door opened a fraction, and the point of a sword slipped through to hover a hair’s breadth from Wren’s groin. He looked down and raised his eyebrows in amusement.
“My dear, I did one day hope to have children. Please don’t destroy that dream for me.”
The door opened all the way, and Cutter saw a young dwarf woman standing in her nightdress. Her hair was a mess, flat in the front and sticking up like a bird’s nest at the back. The right side of her face was marked by the wrinkles of her blankets.
“Wren? What are you doing here?”
“We need your help, Kayla.”
“My help? Why not ask Larrien?”
“I don’t want to wake him at this ungodly hour.”
“But you’ll wake me?” She looked over Wren’s shoulder. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Cutter. He’s helping us investigate the death of the professor.”
“I thought that was taken care of. Didn’t they arrest someone?”
The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows Page 16