Gryphon Precinct (Dragon Precinct)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Grovis let out a very loud sigh. He supposed that sort of thing wasn’t going to stop any time soon. “Yes?”

  “Lord Albin wants t’see ya. Oops, sorry, I meant t’say Lord Blayk wants t’see ya.”

  “Of course.” Grovis supposed that having the girl also forget who was lord of the demesne now made it a bit easier to deal with her not remembering who was captain of the guard. He got up from his chair and led Dru, Aleta, and the pagegirl out of the office. To the former two, he said, “Please keep me posted on your progress, Lieutenants. We must find out who’s at the heart of this conspiracy.”

  Grovis then followed the pagegirl toward the squadroom’s doorway, just as Torin and Kellan were coming through it.

  “Ah, Grovis,” Torin said. “We’ve just been talking to some of the nobles about Lord Albin.”

  “Why are you involved in that case?”

  Torin smiled sweetly. “Well, you did take me off the Beffel case, and Danthres and Kellan felt I might have more luck speaking to the aristocrats.”

  Grovis had to concede that point. Kellan was an unknown quantity, but Danthres had never had the knack of speaking to those in power, whereas Torin was one of the most diplomatic people Grovis had ever met. So he decided not to chastise him, and instead simply asked, “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing good. Most of the aristocrats are busy with new tasks they’ve been assigned by Lord Blayk.”

  Shrugging, Grovis said, “Well, that’s to be expected. He is looking to make his mark on Cliff’s End.”

  “It’s more than that. There’s a pattern to everything he’s doing.” Torin started enumerating points on his fingers. “He’s raising taxes on the aristocracy, and also collecting more often. He’s looking to increase the security of the port and the castle, both structurally and philosophically, and he’s ordered more arms and armor for the castle. He’s having a barracks constructed, and he’s gotten rid of Sir Palrik, replacing him with General Ubàrlig, who has been tasked with hiring mercenaries.” Having run out of fingers on his right hand, Torin folded his arms over his chest. “On top of that, he’s been encouraging many of the older guards to retire early by vesting their pensions prematurely—it isn’t just Iaian, he’s also gone after Mannit, Rob Wirrn, Ungrilig, and Hanna Serviling.”

  “What do you make of all this?” Grovis asked, who honestly didn’t see the connection.

  Torin gave him an almost pitying look. “It’s obvious; he’s putting Cliff’s End on a war footing.”

  That confused Grovis, as he wasn’t aware of any wars brewing—and his family usually kept up on these things, as the ebb and flow of war and peace often had a direct impact on the banking industry.

  But before he could question Torin more thoroughly about it, the pagegirl said, “Lord Blayk said to bring you right away, sir!”

  “Yes, of course.” He allowed himself to be led by the girl through the hallways of the castle to Lord Blayk’s office. Grovis noticed that several of the statues had been removed, and that workers were putting tapestries up on the walls. Grovis found them all to be tacky and had preferred the sculptures that Lord Albin had decorated the castle with. It gave the place a more respectable feel.

  To Grovis’s surprise, the lord of the demesne was alone in his office. It was the first time since Lord Albin’s funeral that Grovis had seen him without the gnome assistant who seemed to be attached to his hip.

  “You wished to see me, my lord?”

  “Not especially, but seeing you is the only method by which I may speak to you.” Lord Blayk tugged on the end of his moustache. “I have been told by several people that Lieutenant ban Wyvald was asking questions of the nobility regarding my father’s death, accompanied by Lieutenant Kellan.”

  Grovis struggled to come up with a reason he could give the lord as to why Torin had inserted himself into Danthres and Kellan’s case that he would find acceptable, but Blayk was still talking.

  “I believe my instructions were quite clear on how I wished the detectives in your squad to be partnered. Ban Wyvald was to be paired with Lieutenant Manfred, and Lieutenant Tresyllione with Kellan, and it was the latter two who were assigned to investigate my father’s death.” He shook his head and looked down at one of the many slates on his desk. “I have no idea what Mother was thinking, but that is neither here nor there. It is bad enough that Tresyllione and Kellan are wasting their time investigating a death by illness, I will not have ban Wyvald doing likewise. Please place him back with Manfred where he belongs.”

  Every instinct in Grovis’s body told him to say something deferential and positive, something that would indicate his fealty and desire to continue to fulfill the wishes of the lord of the demesne. This despite the revelation that Lord Blayk didn’t think investigating his father’s death was worthy of the detective squad’s attention.

  So it came as rather a surprise to Grovis to hear the following words come out of his mouth: “I was under the impression, my lord, that the job description of captain of the guard was to actually be the captain of the guard.”

  That got Lord Blayk to look up from his slate. “What are you blathering about, Grovis?”

  “The allocation of the lieutenants under my command falls under my purview. I am, of course, more than happy to accept your recommendations as to how that might best be accomplished, but if you wish for me to do my job, I need to be able to do it.”

  Blayk leaned forward and stared intently at him. “Your job, Grovis, is to do as I tell you to do without question. If I tell you to jump, the only question I expect to hear from you is an inquiry as to how high, is that clear, Captain?”

  “My lord, I’m sorry, but I cannot do my job if I’m seen to be little more than your mouthpiece. You said you wanted a man of breeding in the job.”

  “I wanted a man of breeding because aristocrats understand their place in the grand scheme of things, Grovis. Your place is to do as I say. I have very specific plans for this city-state, and your job—your only job—is to ease the implementation of them. If you cannot do that, you may return to your father’s bank and I will find someone who can do the job I appointed them to do.”

  Before Grovis could even think of a possible reply to that—especially in light of what Torin had told him—the gnome assistant walked in, carrying three slates. Without a word, he handed them to Blayk.

  The lord studied them, tugging on his mustache some more. “Are these all the figures?” he asked the gnome.

  “Yeth, thir, abtholutely.”

  Grovis felt the digested remains of the pastries Sergeant Jonas’s wife had made that morning start to rumble and creep up into his throat.

  He swallowed loudly and stammered for a moment, clearing his throat audibly.

  Blayk looked disgusted and sneered at him. “That will be all, Grovis. But if I hear of ban Wyvald wandering the castle asking about Father’s death, there will be trouble, do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely, my lord. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Grovis practically ran out of the office.

  THIRTEEN

  Iaian stepped onto Sandy Brook Way and stared up at the sky. The late afternoon sun was casting shadows onto the thoroughfare. It was a beautiful fall day, not too hot, not too cold, much less humidity than usual, and just generally wonderful.

  Of course, as far as Iaian was concerned, it could’ve been a blizzard in midwinter and he’d have been happier than a troll in sheep shit.

  At last, he was free. No more squeezing himself into ill-fitting armor and uncomfortable boots. No more sword banging against his leg. No more dealing with a parade of imbeciles one after the other. No more Osric making his life a living torture. No more Danthres being her usual bitchy self.

  Best of all, no more Grovis.

  Instead, he got to implement his retirement plan two years early. The money he’d hoarded from various and sundry payoffs and bribes and such had gone to pay for one of the new houses on Oak Way. Iaian had even gotten it cheap,
too, since the person who’d commissioned the house decided he didn’t want to live in Cliff’s End after the dragon burned down one of the other nearby houses during midsummer, and so was willing to let it go for a song. (Okay, a complicated song in a minor key, but still . . .) He set his wife up there where she could live out the rest of her life as an upper-middle-class woman of leisure, and need never see Iaian again, which made her happy.

  Meanwhile, he took a small apartment here on Sandy Brook Way, the location of most of the bordellos in the city-state.

  He had slept in this morning, and spent most of the afternoon in the arms of two lovely women named . . . Actually, Iaian couldn’t recall their names, but they were definitely lovely. And energetic.

  Tomorrow, I think I stick with one. I’m getting too old for threesomes.

  Everything was perfect in Iaian’s world.

  Which made the appearance of Amilar Grovis standing outside the door that led to his second-story flat rather irritating.

  “Shit, I thought I was done with your fish-faced ass, boy.”

  Grovis had his arms folded, and he was tut-tutting disapprovingly. “I should have known. I went to your place of residence, but your landlady—a very disagreeable woman, by the way—told me that you bought a house on Oak Way but that you were living in this—” He shuddered. “—den of iniquity. Do you intend to spend all your days fornicating now that you’re retired?”

  “Of course not.” Iaian grinned. “I intend to spend all my nights fornicatin’, too. Right now, though, I need a nap. Fornicating’s tiring.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Grovis said. “I need to speak with you.”

  “It’s nice t’need things.” Iaian pushed past Grovis and opened the door.

  To his annoyance, his former partner followed him. “There’s something very wrong going on at the castle, and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

  Iaian rolled his eyes as he slowly walked upstairs. “You’re the one with the shiny new purple cloak, boy, you figure it out.” His knees cracked and he started to question the efficacy of choosing a residence that required stairs to access in which to spend his declining years. “It’s funny, I always figured it’d be a great day for the Guard when Osric finally quit or died or retired or whatever. Shoulda known they’d find the one shitbrain who’s worse.”

  Iaian went into his apartment, and wanted to slam the door in Grovis’s face, but the younger man moved too quickly and dashed inside, his purple cloak billowing behind him. Iaian was barely able to avoid closing the door on the cloak, which would, he thought, have been poetic justice, but sadly would have done little to get rid of him any faster.

  “I’m serious, Iaian, I’m in a bit of a pickle and I need your advice.”

  Iaian went over to the basin to rinse his hands. “I’m serious, too. You’re the captain an’ I’m retired. I don’t see what the hell you need me for.” He gave Grovis a dirty look as he dried his hands with a cloth towel. “ ’Sides, I don’t recall you thinkin’ much’a my opinion back when we were partners.”

  “It was barely a week ago that we were partners, Iaian. And I don’t know what to do about this problem, and it relates to ongoing investigations, so I can’t talk to the other detectives about it—in fact, it’s what I tell them that’s the problem. You have the advantage of being someone who understands the squadroom but who is no longer in it. I need that perspective.”

  Much as he hated to admit it, Grovis was actually making logical sense.

  And then he put the capper on it: “Besides, you’re my partner. Ghandurha knows you spent enough time drilling it into me that partners look out for each other. Well, dammit, I need someone to look out for me.”

  I taught the little shit too well. “All right, fine, tell me what the damn problem is.” Iaian sat down on the large easy chair, one of only two pieces of furniture he brought from the place he’d shared with his wife. The other was the day bed that he’d been sleeping on for almost two decades.

  Grovis looked around trying to find a place to sit, then realized there was none beyond what Iaian was seated on

  “I don’t plan to be entertainin’ much,” he said by way of explanation. “Get on with it and get outta here so I can take my damn nap.”

  “Very well.” Grovis took a deep breath, and proceeded to tell Iaian about Lord Blayk’s sweeping changes, not only to the Castle Guard, but to Cliff’s End in general, with particular note of Torin’s comments about a war footing. He went on to mention the lord’s revelation that he didn’t think they should be looking into Lord Albin’s death at all, and finished with Dru and Aleta’s information from Gobink about their employer being a gnome with a lisp who came from Iaron.

  “Okay,” Iaian said, not sure where he was going with all this.

  “Lord Blayk has a secretary who follows him everywhere and keeps track of everything for him. He brought him back from Iaron with him. He’s a gnome with a lisp.”

  “Iaron’s a pretty big city-state.” Iaian shrugged. “There’s bound t’be more’n one lisping gnome there.”

  “But what if it is the lord’s aide? That makes Lord Blayk complicit in the attempt on King Marcus and Queen Marta! Worse, what if he’s also responsible for poisoning Lord Albin?”

  Iaian couldn’t believe he was hearing this. “Why is any’a this even a question?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look, even before Albin made the Castle Guard into a police force, the mandate was t’enforce the lord and lady’s laws, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, Lord Blayk’s the first half’a that now. He’s the law. Hell, he’s the guy who controls the money.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Iaian held up a hand. “There ain’t no ‘but’ here. Yeah, it might be that he plotted to kill Daddy and the king and queen. It also might be that some other lisping gnome’s got regicidal tendencies an’ the rest of it’s just Blayk puttin’ his mark on Cliff’s End. Hell, Albin did the same thing when he took over.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You ain’t listenin’!” Iaian stood up. “Look at it this way, boy. Whaddaya get if you investigate Blayk?”

  “I—”

  “Either he is behind all this like you think he might, in which case it don’t matter, ’cause he’s the boss and he’ll shitcan anything you do. Or he ain’t behind it, in which case you falsely accused the leader’a the largest, most prosperous city-state in Flingaria of the worst crime on the books. And in both cases, the end result’s gonna be the same: he’ll toss you an’ any detectives you drag into it out on your asses. Now that’s fine for you, ’cause you got Daddy’s money to cushion the blow. But what do Torin and Dru and Aleta and the rest of ’em do? Huh?”

  Grovis was staring intently at the floor. “But the law states—”

  “Oh, for Wiate’s sake, boy, ain’t you learned a damn thing? It don’t matter for shit what the law states. What matters is what the people in power say matters. If that means they kiss off the law, that’s what it means. Only people who can do what you wanna do is the king an’ queen, so ’less you plan on travelin’ to Velessa t’give ’em your evidence—which barely exists right now—you’re shit outta luck.”

  Grovis was still staring at the floor.

  “Anythin’ else? Maybe you want me t’remind you how to take a piss?”

  “No! No, thank you, I’ll—I’ll see myself out.”

  Slump-shouldered, Grovis turned to leave the apartment. For which Iaian was grateful, because he needed the nap more than ever now.

  Tonight, I’ll just stick with that one blonde . . .

  FOURTEEN

  Manfred was disheartened at how quiet it was in the Old Ball and Chain when he entered.

  The place was as crowded as ever, and there was still plenty of noise, but the post-day-shift gathering was usually so loud you could only hear a conversation if it was right near your ear. Not so much, tonight. Or, indeed, any night since the double wham
my of Lieutenant Hawk’s death and Lord Albin’s.

  He had been hoping that the funeral would break the trend, but with everything that had happened since . . .

  Jared’s voice at one of the tables carried to where he was standing—more evidence, as normally he’d only hear even Jared’s booming voice if he was right on top of him at the Chain at this hour. “I can’t believe those shit-suckers’re makin’ you ride a desk!”

  Following the voice, he saw Jared, along with several other guards from Dragon, including Simon, Ebnig, Salvit, and a dwarf he didn’t recognize sitting at one of the tables in the rear. Glancing further back, Manfred saw that Torin, Danthres, Aleta, Dru, and Kellan were all seated at the corner table where the detectives usually sat. Manfred had been looking forward to being allowed to sit at that table for months, but now that he could, he found himself wanting to sit with Jared and the others.

  However, leaving aside anything else, he had news for Torin—and eventually for Grovis, of course, but he wanted to tell his new partner first, especially since it was mostly a complete lack of news.

  “Hey, Manfred!” Jared cried out. “C’mon over here a sec an’ meetcher replacement.”

  Manfred came over and stood between Jared and Simon. “How you guys doing?”

  “Shitty,” Simon said before anyone else could answer. “I failed my damn sword qualification, can you believe that shit? They got me on a desk for two weeks before I can try again.”

  Frowning, Manfred said, “The quals ain’t till midwinter.”

  “Tell that t’Lord Blayk,” Jared said bitterly. “He’s makin’ all of us test, an’ we ride a desk if we don’t pass.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “You aren’t wrong, you’re not.” The dwarf who said that held out a hand. “I’m Zinnig—they transferred me over from Mermaid, they did.”

  Manfred returned the handshake. “Glad to meet you.”

  Zinnig turned to Jared. “Oh, hey, is this the one?”

  “Huh?” Jared scowled, then brightened. “Oh, yeah! We still ain’t found Beffel yet, but you said you was askin’ for info on ’im, right?”