The Fifth Ward--First Watch

by Dale Lucas

  Rem struggled to his feet and leaned against the wall. Although the alley was dark and his vision still muddled, he saw that the fellow they’d stopped was slight, wiry, and red-haired—although his hair was far more of a copper gold than the auburn red that Rem sported. The little man’s impertinent face boasted an upturned little piggy nose and a wealth of freckles. He had something clutched in his hand.

  “Ginger Joss!” Torval harped. “How long’s it been, you little freckled frog?”

  “Torval, mate!” Joss offered, not sounding in the least bit happy to see the dwarf. “It’s a good thing you happened along. This cheeky bastard”—he pointed to Rem—“he ran right into me in this here alleyway. Like he was lying in wait or some such. Ask me, he’s up to no good.”

  “That’s my partner,” Torval said. “New to the wardwatch. For once—and in more ways than one—the lad used his head to bring you to heel. Now, what’s in your hand?”

  Joss tried to stuff the thing he clutched in his pocket, but Torval had his hand in an iron grip. He twisted and Joss whined and the object fell free onto the alley floor. Rem bent and picked it up. His head reeled when he did so.

  “Well?” Torval asked.

  Rem studied it. “Some kind of pendant. Don’t recognize the markings. You?”

  He offered it to Torval. Torval studied the little bauble, but seemed equally puzzled. He turned back to Joss. “Talk,” he commanded. “What is it?”

  “Heirloom,” Joss said. “Freygaf was keeping it for me—”

  Torval planted a fist in Joss’s gut. Before Joss could double over in pain, the dwarf had him pinned to the wall, one thick arm wedged across his throat. “Freygaf’s dead,” Torval snarled. “So pardon me if I find you rifling through his goods at this particular instant more than a little suspicious.”

  “I think you’d better tell him what he wants to know,” Rem said, throwing up his hands. “I barely know him, Joss, but I’m here to tell you, he’s not to be trifled with when he’s in such a mood.”

  “You shut your sauce box!” Torval barked. “You don’t know what a scheming, scummy, scurrilous little spider our Ginger Joss is! Freygaf and I busted this little twat at least half a dozen times, and he never took the bloody hint …”

  “Look,” Joss said, “I can tell this business with Freygaf has you a bit on edge—”

  Torval shoved the pendant into Joss’s face again, shouting as he did so. “What? Is? It?”

  “I can’t tell you!” Joss shot back, “And if I did, we’d all be dead, so stop bloody asking! Take me in to the watchkeep if you want, but forget you ever saw that thing!”

  Then screams sounded out of some nearby alley. They echoed up and down the little brick and plaster canyons of the Knot and brought cries of impatience and consternation and pleas for quiet. They didn’t let up, though. Whoever the woman was, she just kept screaming and screaming and screaming.

  Rem moved to the mouth of the alley and peered out into the street. There was a commotion just a few blocks down. Something on a side street. A crowd was already gathering.

  “Torval, you’d better come see this,” Rem said.

  Then, someone in that crowd cried the magic word. “Watchman! Somebody call a watchman!”

  Torval released Joss—a move more reflexive than deliberate. “Bloody hell, now we’re bound to answer …”

  And that was all Joss needed. He threw all his weight against Torval, forcing the dwarf backward against the opposite wall. Torval got the breath knocked out of him. Joss got a good head start and went pounding down the alley in the opposite direction.

  Torval growled and started after him, but Rem stopped him. “They’re calling us, Torval. I think we should answer. At least we’ve got the pendant, right?”

  Torval looked at the strange little bauble in his hand. “Aye. That we do.”

  They went to see what the commotion was about.

  Under another of those high, foul rubbish piles so common in the alleyways of the Knot, a girl hauling out the family dinner scraps for the night had come across something not usually found in a trash pile.

  It was a dead girl.

  Rem and Torval both recognized her from the oil painting that had been handed around the watchkeep earlier that night.

  It was the missing girl, Telura Dall.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Once word of Telura Dall’s fate spread around the watchkeep, a palpable gloom settled in. Those watchwardens on hand—filing their arrests, ending a shift or starting one, engaged in some investigation that took them off the streets—all became silent and morose, as though the girl were one of their own wives or daughters, as though her family’s mourning was a departmental duty of the city watch. Rem found this level of reaction puzzling. Surely, these men could not mourn for every dead body they found on the streets—in no time, their hearts would be too heavy, their duties too burdensome to undertake. He asked Torval about it.

  “It’s not the girl’s death,” Torval muttered, lost in his own reverie, “so much as the fact that now, there’s no reward for anyone … nothing to look forward to or hope for.”

  That stunned Rem to silence. These watchwardens were a hard-hearted bunch indeed, their cynicism as deep and dark as a coal mine.

  Torval made Rem fill out the report, since he had his letters and Torval had none. The report covered their journey to Freygaf’s chambers in search of clues as to who might have murdered him, their discovery and chase of Ginger Joss, and finally, the alarm sounded by the citizens of the Knot that led them to poor, dead Telura Dall. Rem read the written report back to Torval for his approval, but the dwarf only grunted and nodded. Rem supposed that was all the approval he would get, and filed the report.

  Torval sat in pensive silence when Rem returned to the scrivener’s desk they had settled at. Rem tried to respect Torval’s reticence to speak, but after a few minutes, he found himself restless. He was not only eager to share what he had learned at the Pickled Albatross, he was also desperate to fill the uncomfortable lull with some conversation—any conversation, really—so that he could stop thinking about what a horrible end young Telura Dall had come to: the daughter of a rich, proud family, murdered and buried under a slum rubbish heap.

  Are you really so different from her? a part of him wondered. Rich, pampered, out of your depth on these streets and subject to all manner of random disaster? You’re lucky that wasn’t you under that trash heap. But, of course, there is no one here to offer a reward for your whereabouts, is there?

  Rem shuddered. He decided to speak with Torval in an effort to quiet his mind.

  “I went back to the Pickled Albatross,” Rem said. He waited for some pique from Torval.

  All he got was a grunt.

  “Do you put much stock in what people say?” Rem asked. “The little things? The details?”

  Torval looked at him now. The dwarf cocked his head, raised his eyebrows, and offered an answer.

  “There’s on old saying among the wardwatch in Yenara: ‘Knotted words tie the hangman’s noose.’”

  Rem nodded. “Fair enough. Well, some things that Cupp and his barmaid had said when we were in there the other night seemed at odds, so I wanted to ask them a few more questions.”

  Torval smiled a little. “Investigation. I’m impressed, Bonny Prince.”

  Rem couldn’t help but smile at the compliment. “I think I caught one of them in a lie, and my coin would be on Cupp being the liar.”

  Torval stared at him intently now. He was clearly intrigued.

  “The barmaid, Jhonna, told us—and confirmed to me—that Indilen had come in on Saturday for her shift, but that Cupp sent her out again on an errand she never returned from. Whereas Cupp—”

  “He told us he hadn’t seen her in two days,” Torval said.

  “Precisely,” Rem said. “Jhonna has no reason to lie to us about Indilen’s whereabouts. But if Cupp sent her somewhere dangerous and she never came back—”

  “That mig
ht incriminate him somehow, meaning he’d be best off saying nothing about her at all,” Torval finished. “Good work, lad. For what it’s worth, I agree with you. I think it’s worth assuming that something unusual happened to keep your little market girl from her appointed rendezvous with you—but the question is, what? And how does Cupp figure in?”

  Rem shrugged, at a loss to explain. “I can’t say. That’s why I shared it with you.”

  Torval nodded. His eyes slid away, as if seeking something neutral to gaze upon, to allow him time and repose to ponder what Rem had offered him.

  That’s when Eriadus and Hirk appeared. They had taken it upon themselves to examine Telura Dall’s body, their senses of honor and violation pricked by news of the young woman’s murder. They delivered a summary of what they found to Rem and Torval, just so the two of them would know what a state the girl had been in when she was finally murdered. The girl was largely untouched, her body free of any indications of significant trauma or struggle. She had seawater in her lungs, though, indicating that she had probably drowned in the waters of the harbor.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Rem blurted. “How could she drown in the harbor and end up under a rubbish heap a far distance from the harbor?”

  “A puzzle, indeed,” Eriadus said helplessly. “I’m simply the messenger. Answers are your purview, watchman.”

  Rem looked to Torval. Torval nodded. “It’s rotten, all right,” Torval agreed. “But the very strangeness of it might make uncovering the truth that much easier.”

  “Gentlemen,” Rem asked, his throat closed to the size of a reed, “I just have to ask, do you see this often?”

  Rem could keep the peace, see justice done, protect the innocent from wanton predation, all without once fearing for his safety or his sanity … but all this death? Two bodies in two days—murdered, not simply unlucky—and he, on the force for the same brief span? What sort of a snake pit had he stumbled into?

  “The dead are no stranger to us,” Hirk offered, “Men and women, young and old. But for some rich man’s daughter to end up drowned, then buried in a rubbish heap? That’s beyond the pale. That’s the sort of thing we don’t encounter every day. As you can tell, lad, it throws us.”

  Eriadus cleared his throat. “The family are Panoplists,” he said. “I’ll see the young lady’s body delivered to the House of Rest for preparation.”

  Rem, Torval, and Hirk all nodded absently at Eriadus’s statement. Without another word, he left them. Business as usual carried on in the administration chamber, but the pall remained. It blanketed the whole room like a cloud of sooty smoke belched from an uncleaned chimney.

  Their triune silence didn’t break until Ondego emerged from his office and approached them. “Well,” he said, looking dog tired and sounding like he hadn’t slept in days, “let’s see it.”

  “See what, sir?” Rem asked.

  “The bauble Ginger Joss stole from Freygaf’s chambers. Your report said you had it.”

  Rem nodded. Torval had given it to him for safekeeping. He drew it out of his pocket and offered it to the chief watchwarden. Ondego studied the strange little pendant on its cheap chain for a long moment. When his examination was complete, he offered it to Hirk. Hirk studied it, but didn’t seem to recognize it, either.

  “Never seen its like,” Ondego said, handing it back to Rem.

  “Neither have we,” Torval said. “Neither has anyone. We passed it all around the room. Nothing. I’d like to run it by Queydon—since the runes are obviously elvish—but she’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Strange,” Rem mumbled. “Elves aren’t known for being great lovers of jewelry, but here we have a trinket with their runes upon them …”

  “That’s not so unusual,” Ondego corrected. “People who can’t read elvish wear jewelry with elvish inscriptions on them all the time. They think the lines of the runes are decorative. I’ve even known jewelers who admitted their elvish inscriptions were pure gibberish, simply because people want the script designs and don’t care what they say, if they say anything at all.”

  “Not to mention the fact that it’s cheap silver on an even cheaper chain,” Hirk said, inspecting the pendant for himself. “If it were the property of an actual elf, I’d wager coin it’d be of finer make.”

  “Fair assumption,” Ondego offered. Somewhere in the distance, the temple bells began to toll. Rem counted six.

  “That’ll be the sunrise and the end of your shifts,” Ondego said wearily. He wagged a finger at Rem and Torval. “Give me a moment before you two knock off. I’ll write you letters of introduction. Before you return this evening, I want the two of you to pay the Lady Ynevena a visit and have her offer her thoughts on this bauble.”

  “The Lady Ynevena?” Rem asked.

  “Elven witch,” Torval grumbled. “Remember what I told you about the ethnarchs? She’s our elven ambassador. On the rare occasions that we have trouble with our city elves, it’s Ynevena who’s ultimately responsible for straightening out our pointy-eared perpetrators.”

  “You think she might know something about this?” Rem asked Ondego.

  The prefect shrugged. “Can’t hurt to ask, can it? Wait here.”

  He disappeared into his office. Rem and Torval sank into a pair of chairs and waited, the night’s exhaustion finally starting to set in as the minutes slipped by. Finally, Ondego emerged again, two folded letters on paper in his hands. He handed Rem and Torval their missives.

  “There—those should smooth things over with any Second Ward watchmen who might challenge your presence in their ward, and the Lady Ynevena herself. Now go home. You’ve uncovered a clue and located a missing girl, dead though the poor wretch was. I’d say that’s a full night for anyone.”

  Rem stood, ready to be on his way. Torval’s movements were much slower, as though he had grown heavier since planting himself in his chair. As they slowly withdrew, Ondego offered them a last admonishment.

  “Gentlemen,” the prefect said. “Please, try not to stop at any more gambling houses to make a mess on the way home?”

  His voice was light, even whimsical, but Rem heard the implicit order in it. Torval started to speak. Ondego stopped him.

  “That’s right,” he said, “I heard all about your little tantrum at the Creeper’s. That’s not even your beat. I had to hear it from Djubal and Klutch.”

  “Call it a hunch,” Torval grumbled.

  “Well, call this a censure,” Ondego countered. “I don’t mind rousting out the criminal element of this city when we’ve got probable cause, but in this case, you went wading into the Creeper’s domain, stomping like a highland ox in a porcelain shop, all based on a wild notion gleaned from Freygaf’s past. This city can’t stand too many upsets of that sort, Torval, do you understand? Even scum like the Creeper can have powerful friends. You go stirring him up, make sure it’s for a reason, not just because your kecks are in a twist.”

  Torval nodded. Ondego looked to Rem to make sure he understood as well. Rem nodded and lowered his eyes.

  “Fine,” Ondego said. “Get out of here, both of you. I’ll see you on your next shift.”

  Ondego left, and Hirk with him. Rem ran his hands down over his face. It was true—although their night was not complete, it had been a long one. He was ready to go home and crawl into bed. He clapped Torval on the shoulder.

  “Come on, partner,” he said. “Don’t think of it as censure. Think of it as two days of watch-work in one night. We’ll get behind the mule again come sundown.”

  Torval nodded. He seemed preoccupied. Finally, he looked to Rem. “Would you join me for breakfast again?” he asked. “I’ve a new place in mind.”

  Rem nodded. “Lead the way.”

  Once more, the city seemed to awaken as the predawn gloom became the silvery, mist-laden light of a new morning. Now that the sunrise bells had been rung from the tower of the Great Temple of Aemon, the city’s quiet, glowering tenements and boardinghouses quietly extruded their residents
into the streets. Piss-mongers collected slop barrels from the tenement dooryards for their clients at the tanneries, the smells of fresh-baked bread wafted warm and inviting from the open windows of bakeries and sweet shops, and animals snorted and lowed in their separate stables from the many liveries that lined the main avenue through the heart of the ward. It was a new day, and life went on apace, even though poor Telura Dall was not—and would never again be—there to witness it.

  Though he was exhausted, hungry, and eager to collapse into his bed, Rem enjoyed this time of the morning. Already, he had come to think of this as a special privilege of his position: with each dawn, he got to watch the sleeping city awake, its hardworking denizens stirring to meet their daily destinies, whatever they might be. It gave him a strange feeling of conspiratorial warmth, as if he and Torval and all the men of the night’s watch shared a secret with Yenara herself, and could count themselves part of some strange inner circle.

  Few words passed between them. Rem was not sure if Torval was thoughtful or simply tired. But since the soft sounds of the waking city brought him such comfort, and since their walk would not be an overly long one, Rem decided that enjoying that blessed silence, that glorious absence of all need or imposition, was best for them both. Torval knew where they were going. Rem would simply follow and eagerly await the surprise at the end of their journey.

  They were nearing the great intersection of Harbor Avenue and West Gate Street when Rem heard someone moving up quickly behind them. The streets were soft and muddy, and they had not reached West Gate Street yet, which sported cobblestones, so the sound that he noted was not precisely footsteps, but more of a strange, fast-approaching sucking sound. When Rem was sure that he was not imagining it, he threw a sideward glance at Torval.

  The dwarf heard it too. He nodded.

  The footfalls reached their sloughing crescendo. Rem and Torval turned toward them. They found themselves staring at a pair of big, broad men—bruisers, leg-breakers—flanking a wispy fellow between them, a familiar, smirking little apparition with red hair, ruddy skin, and bad teeth.