Harper had nearly finished the file when there was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” Pandral said, still not looking up from his paperwork.
The door opened to reveal a tall, gaunt, slightly stooped old man with flat, rheumy brown eyes. Short, thinning grey hair merged into a grey beard so patchy he looked like a dog with mange. He was dressed in the blue tabard of a tower servant, the uniform clean and pressed. He coughed politely, and with elaborate calm Pandral placed his paper on his desk and raised his head, giving the man a questioning look.
“Will you be joining the Lords for breakfast this morning, Lord Pandral?”
“No, Aldrich, I will be having breakfast in my office. As I do every morning,” Pandral said with strained patience.
“As you wish, my Lord,” Aldrich said, his voice as flat as his eyes. He turned to go, but Pandral called him back.
“Aldrich, I require breakfast for two. Harper will be eating with me.”
Aldrich turned and looked Harper up and down. His expression did not change, but his voice took on a pedantic whine.
“Protectors eat downstairs with their own kind. They are not waited on by tower servants, My Lord.”
“Aldrich, to whom are you a manservant?” Pandral asked, the warning growl rising at the end of the sentence, a subtle assertion of authority.
“You, Lord Pandral,” Aldrich answered, and the flat voice was back.
“Does it not occur to you then, that perhaps you should carry out my orders without protest?”
Aldrich stared at Pandral, then nodded with slow reluctance before shuffling out of the room. Harper could clearly hear him muttering under his breath as he closed the door behind him. Pandral watched him go, his voice thoughtful when he spoke.
“Three years a Lord and still he believes me a darchin.”
Unsure whether Pandral was talking to himself or expecting an answer, Harper took what he hoped was the diplomatic choice and held his tongue. A darchin was the term used for a man who was in training to be a Lord. Harper knew very little about the process because, outside the Lords themselves, few knew anything about it. That a Lord had mentioned the term at all in his presence was a surprise to Harper, nearly as big a surprise as having a Lord of Mydren ordering him breakfast. Pandral turned back to look at Harper, observing him, perhaps trying to guess the words he had chosen not to say.
“Have you finished reading?” Pandral asked.
“Yes, my Lord,” Harper replied.
Pandral nodded. “Leave the papers there. Come and sit here,” he said, pointing at the chair that was placed in front of the desk. Moving with slow care, ensuring that none of his discomfort showed on his face, Harper did as he was asked.
“What do you think happened to young Rodin?” Pandral asked.
So this is my test, Harper thought. Read a few notes, hastily scribbled by a semi-literate sergeant, and solve the crime.
“Obviously I cannot say for certain,” Harper said, wanting to set the boundaries of what he was capable of up front. “Not without more information. Would you like a guess?”
“I would like some creative thinking and an idea of what other information you think would be useful in solving this case,” Pandral said.
“Very well,” Harper said. “The child was put to bed by his nurse and was still in his bed, sleeping soundly, when his mother came to check on before she and her husband went out to a dinner party. Yet the child was gone, the bed arranged to look as if he still slept in it, when his nurse came to wake him the following morning. During that time, the three servants interviewed claim nobody called, no strange noises were heard and there was no sign of breaking and entering.” Harper took a breath, drawing his thoughts together.
“Well, that proves you can read at least,” Pandral said.
“Would you like me to write that all down, so I can prove that for you too? Or should I get on with the creative thinking part now?” Harper asked, realising too late that this was not Conlan or Davlin he was addressing and that he might just have talked himself into trouble. Pandral’s dark eyes held him; Harper did not flinch from the gaze.
“Were your thirty lashes not enough, Protector?” Pandral asked, cold menace in his tone.
Davlin had warned him there was just so far he should push his defiance before he had to capitulate to the Lord’s wishes, but Harper did not feel he had truly pushed Pandral that far. He still felt like he was being tested.
“My apologies, my Lord,” Harper said, still not dropping his gaze, nor running the snarl of apology through the Dwarfish. “I assumed, since it appears my future has been decided, you would now be more interested in trading quips.”
Pandral stared at him and Harper concentrated on pushing back down the black, tar-like fear that was spreading through his insides, scorching everything in its path. An amused smile eased its way onto Pandral’s face, making his eyes brighter.
“You are impertinent,” Pandral said. “And I find that rather refreshing.” Harper slowly let out the breath he was holding. The Lord must have noticed, because his smile became a little more cunning. “We shall make a deal, you and I, Harper of Twyness. When it is just the two of us we will treat each other as fellow human beings and I shall drop my title. You do not seem very good at remembering to add it to the end of your sentences anyway. However, in public you will treat me with the deference that is my right or you will be feeling the lash again. Is this clear?”
Harper smiled back. “Yes, Pandral, that sounds very acceptable.”
Pandral raised an eyebrow.
“Too soon?” Harper asked, relaxing slightly as Pandral chuckled.
“It is just a little strange,” Pandral admitted. “We have wasted enough time on this frivolity,” he continued, getting their conversation back on track. “Your guess about this crime, if you please, Harper.”
“The boy ran away,” Harper said with conviction.
Pandral raised an eyebrow. “A bold statement. How did you reach this conclusion?”
Harper shrugged, ignoring the pain that rippled up his back. “There is no motivation, no sign of struggle, and the window was open.”
“I am going to need a little more detail than that,” Pandral said. His expression was serious and calm, but his eyes sparkled with excitement, the thrill of solving a problem.
“Very well,” Harper agreed. “Let us start with motivation. There are six main motivators in human nature when it comes to crime: money, love, power, fear, lust and revenge.”
“You seem to know a lot about the criminal mind,” Pandral said, a snarl through the word ‘criminal’ implying intimate knowledge of the subject.
Harper gave him a grim smile. “I am a Protector, Pandral. It is my job to know.”
“If only all Protectors thought as you do,” Pandral murmured. There was a pause. When Pandral said nothing more, Harper continued.
“I think we can safely assume that an eight-year-old grandson of a Lord would not be subject to any of these influences—that he would be merely the victim, if we accept he was taken. If that is the case, then he was to be used as leverage, against his parents or grandfather. Yet there has been no ransom, no body, no contact of any kind. Lord Tarplan’s letter says his grandson has been gone for nearly three moons, which is a long time to keep hold of a child and not act on the next stage of your plan.”
“So, no obvious motivation. Then why did they take such a risk?” Pandral said, nodding slowly to himself. “Continue.”
“Yes, risk. This leads me to my next point,” Harper said. “The notes from the Protectors who investigated talk of a neat, tidy room, nothing knocked over, no signs of blood anywhere. I realise a boy would not be any true match for a grown man, but at the age of eight, Rodin would have had two years of combat training…” The cunning look moved back into Pandral’s eyes and Harper gave him a sly smile. “Or so I understand from the rumours I have heard about how highborn sons are raised,” he added.
Pandral gave him a
sharp look, but did not push the point. Instead he said, “So you believe the child would have fought back?”
“As his breeding and training dictated,” Harper said with certainty. “He might not have been able to escape them, but there should have been noise, some disturbance, or blood if they subdued him physically. Then there is the bed. Those who absconded with Rodin took the time to set up the bed to look like he was still asleep in it. Why? This detail seems more like something a child would do to hide his nocturnal activities.”
“And the window?” Pandral prompted.
“The nurse—they do not give her name—but her statement says that she did not notice the empty bed immediately, because the bedroom window was open and she moved to close it. She claimed her mistress did not like the windows open; so why was this one?”
“You think the boy climbed out of the window?” Pandral asked.
“In truth this is just idle conjecture, but the scenario that he ran away fits best with the small amount of information I have.”
Pandral leant back into his chair, thoughtful, quiet. Thinking it rude to stare while Pandral digested the ideas he had presented, Harper’s eyes moved over the books on the shelves behind the desk. The library represented a fortune, more money than the average Mydren man would earn in a lifetime. Yet the way they were arranged, the lack of dust, the spaces where several had been removed, made Harper think that Pandral did not take his affluence for granted, and that his library was not for show.
Eventually Pandral spoke. “If I charged you with finding the boy, what would you do next?”
“I would start with a visit to the boy’s house, look over the bedroom and ask a few more questions,” Harper replied, ready for the question.
“Then I—”
Pandral was interrupted by another knock on the door.
“Enter,” he ordered. The door opened and Aldrich entered, followed by a young boy who struggled under the weight of a large silver tray.
“Your breakfast, my Lord,” Aldrich announced, quite unnecessarily.
The boy waddled to Pandral’s desk. Aldrich took a step towards him and delivered a sharp slap to the back of his head. The boy nearly dropped the tray and gave a squeak of surprised pain, which was lost amid the rattle of crockery.
“Not there, you fool. On the table,” Aldrich snapped, pointing to the low round table in front of the fireplace. The boy nodded and changed direction. As he placed the tray down, Harper watched the hungry glance the child gave the pastries, bread and other breakfast treats he had carried. Standing and walking casually over to the table, Harper inspected the tray, whilst clandestinely palming one of the sweet, pastry treats, still warm from the oven.
“Come along, boy,” Aldrich said, moving towards the door, the boy trailing behind.
“One moment, Aldrich,” Pandral said. “I wish to send a message.”
Aldrich stood patiently as Pandral scribbled a short note on a piece of blank paper, folded it, addressed it, lit some seal wax from a flickering candle on his desk and pushed the engraved top of a thick, round gold ring into it as a seal. Harper stepped in front of the boy, his hands behind his back, and presented the pastry on an open palm. Small fingers brushed against his palm as the treat was removed.
“This is to go to Miraway Gee. He lives in Hemtark, on the Oval,” Pandral said, handing the letter over.
“I am aware of who Miraway Gee is, my Lord,” Aldrich said. The tone was too flat for the response to be called condescending, but it was close.
His expression neutral, Pandral nodded. “Very good. You may go, Aldrich.”
Aldrich shuffled out of the room, followed by the boy, who flashed Harper a grateful smile before he closed the door.
“You seem to have surrounded yourself with insolent subordinates, Pandral,” Harper noted as he seated himself in front of the breakfast feast, pouring what smelt, tantalisingly, like sweet tea into a fragile-looking cup.
Still staring at the door, Pandral sighed. “What am I going to do?” he asked. “Have an old man flogged?” The statement was so at odds with the behaviour Harper had anticipated from a Lord of Mydren that he stared. Pandral saw the look and gave him a wry smile. “Am I not living up to your expectations, Harper?”
“Perhaps not,” Harper replied, placing a single pastry onto a dainty little plate. “But you are exceeding my hopes.”
“Sycophant,” Pandral muttered, and Harper chuckled. Pandral crossed the room and took the other seat at the breakfast table. “Those two remaining pastries are mine, Harper,” he added. “You have had your share.” Impressed that he had noticed the one he had slipped to the boy, Harper gave him a grin, and Pandral rolled his eyes.
They ate in silence for a while, although Harper was aware that he was still being observed. He tried not to eat too much, too quickly, but it had been a very long time since he had been provided with the opportunity to indulge in so much wonderful food. Wanting to distract Pandral from his gluttony, Harper asked a question.
“Who is Miraway Gee?”
Pandral sipped at his tea before he replied. “Miraway Gee is Rodin’s father. I sent him a note advising him that two investigators would be visiting today to ask some further questions.”
“Two investigators? “ Harper asked.
“We will visit together,” Pandral said, the bland tone of his statement doing little to negate its insanity. Lords rarely left their towers, and when they did they were surrounded by Protectors to guard them. The responsibility of being a lone bodyguard to a Lord of Mydren as he walked the streets of Hemtark was not something Harper felt he could handle.
“You have something to say, Harper?” Pandral asked, as if he could see right through him to this inner turmoil.
“I… you cannot just leave the Central Tower,” Harper spluttered.
Pandral’s eyes became frosty, black obsidian. “I am a Lord of Mydren,” he said with a soft authority Conlan would have envied. “Nobody tells me what I can and cannot do.”
Alarm bells rang in Harper’s head, some instinct born of observation and self-preservation informing him that he had hit a raw nerve. Placing down his plate, Harper dropped to his knees, his gaze moving down to the carpet.
“My apologies, my Lord,” he said, pushing the correct Dwarfish rumble of apology through the words. “I meant no disrespect. I am concerned for your safety.”
There was a very long silence. Harper’s knees were starting to complain and the throbbing of his back was intensifying before Pandral spoke again, sounding tired. “I do not need grovelling obedience from you, Harper, but I do need you to think. So get up off the floor—you look ridiculous—and work it out.”
Pulling himself up painfully, one of his knees popping, Harper sat back on the edge of the chair and looked into Pandral’s calm expression with confusion.
“Let me start you with a question,” Pandral said, a slight curve of his lips showing his amusement. “What do the Lords of Mydren look like?”
Harper realised that with the exception of the four North Tower Lords and Pandral himself, he had no idea what the mysterious rulers of Mydren looked like. A memory floated into his mind of watching Daratus walking away from his defeat wearing the clothes of a merchant. He had not looked wealthy enough to be worth robbing, but he did look like he could afford a night in an inn if he needed to take one. The clothes had fit him, and Harper recognised that they had been picked with care by a man who knew what he was doing—which meant he had most likely done it before. Nobody, beyond their servants and the Protectors who guarded them, really knew what the Lords looked like. They could, quite reasonably, leave their towers whenever they wanted, dressed as ordinary men. I could walk right past one in the street and not know it.
“You see now,” Pandral observed with a cunning smile. Harper nodded. “Excellent,” Pandral continued. “For this trip I shall dress as a Protector, and I will use the name Jonas.”
From his perspective as a man with two names, Harper thought
that there was something about the way Pandral had said his alias. There was more truth, more of the real man in Jonas than there was in Pandral. I wonder who Jonas was.
Pandral walked among the throngs of Hemtark with a calm confidence that Harper was trying desperately to mirror, while also being hyper-alert to any possible threat. Nothing would get him hanged quicker than failing to protect an incognito Lord of Mydren. They had left through the main gate, the knowing look from the gate guard following them, and headed north towards the wealthier edge of the large town. It was still early morning, but warm for the beginning of autumn, the stench of Hemtark just detectable on the breeze. Pandral walked with purpose and a long stride that Harper matched. Black eyes were constantly moving, observing, analysing, just as Harper’s were, but Harper suspected Pandral had different reasons for his vigilance.
It did not take them long to reach their destination. The Oval was where some of the biggest houses in Hemtark were found; Harper had walked past the area on his exploration of the town. Set behind high walls and thick, guarded metal gates were lavish, magnificent buildings made of the same sparkling white stone as the White Tower. The eight homes were arranged around a vast oval-shaped garden, on to which they faced. A track around the garden separated it from the houses and allowed easy access for carriages and pedestrians. It’s the Mydrenian version of a gated community, Harper thought. The back walls of each property joined together, giving a seamless barrier around the area, with only one way in and out, which had private security in the shape of four very large men in green uniforms styled very much like the grey ones Protectors wore. Pandral approached one of the guards who stood in front of a small gatehouse to the left of the access point into the Oval.
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