Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude)

by Green, Simon R.

  Donald stirred uncomfortably in his chair as other memories came back to him. Lord Durandal had stood beneath that portrait as he expounded his mad scheme to enter the Darkvoid in search of the legendary Wolfling World. If he found it, he never returned to tell of it. And that ornate china vase had been given to Donald by Count Ironhand of the Marches, to commemorate the time they stood together with a single company of Watchmen and fought back over a hundred Hob hounds. Donald couldn’t stand the ugly little vase, but he kept it so as not to upset the Count. Donald had always liked Ironhand. He frowned suddenly, as he remembered Count Ironhand had been dead for over fifteen years. Drowned, saving a child who’d fallen in the River Autumn. Brave and chivalrous, Ironhand, even to the end. They were all dead now; all the old heroes and warriors who’d held Mistport together and made it strong. Dead and gone down the many years, with only him to remember them and the glorious deeds they’d done.

  And who’ll remember me, when I’m gone? he thought slowly. Who’ll remember Donald Royal, except as a footnote in some dusty history book.

  And now Jamie was dead.

  Donald shook his head slowly, a cold harsh anger building within him. He was old and he was tired, and he hadn’t drawn a sword in anger in more than twelve years, but he was damned if he’d let his kinsman’s death go unavenged. He levered himself up out of his chair and paced up and down before the fire, thinking furiously. Where to start, that was the problem. There was a time, not that long ago, when he could have just summoned a company of the Watch and demanded access to the investigation, but these days he had little real power. He’d lost interest in politics when his last opponent died, and since then he’d let things slip. He only stayed on with the Council out of a sense of duty. Besides, the Watch weren’t getting anywhere. Going about it all wrong, as usual. Instead of concentrating on what happened to Jamie at the Blackthorn, they should have been asking what brought him there in the first place. There was also the question of what he was doing sharing a private booth with Councillor du Wolfe. They didn’t have a damn thing in common. All right, they might have been lovers, but Donald would have sworn du Wolfe had better taste than that.

  Donald scowled thoughtfully as he paced up and down, slowly grinding his right fist into his left palm. He’d have to go back further, try and discover what Jamie had been up to prior to his death. And that wasn’t going to be easy. Jamie never kept books or records on his various dealings, for fear they’d be used against him in a court of law. But who else would know? Donald stopped suddenly as the answer came to him. Jamie might not have trusted anything to paper, but his old partner might have. It hadn’t been that long since they split up. And even if she hadn’t kept any records, the chances were she might know something about why Jamie had gone to the Blackthorn on that particular night.

  Yes, all he had to do was find Jamie’s old partner, Madelaine Skye.

  Donald stalked out of his study and hurried down the gloomy hallway to an old, familiar cupboard. He fumbled with the key in his eagerness, but finally hauled the door open. Inside the cupboard lay all his old swords and daggers, still lovingly oiled and cared for and wrapped in specially treated rags to protect the metal. He chose his favourite sword and carefully unwrapped it. The length and heavy weight of it felt good in his hand, as though it belonged there. He smiled, remembering, and then slipped the sword into its scabbard and buckled the belt around his waist. He unwrapped a knife, and slipped it into the top of his boot. He hefted his old throwing axe in his hand, but reluctantly decided against it. He hadn’t practised in so long, his eye was bound to be out. He put the axe back, and instead gathered up a few useful odds and ends and distributed them about his person. Just in case.

  He closed the cupboard door and locked it. The sword at his hip seemed heavier than he remembered, but then, he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He grinned at the understatement. Luckily, he’d always relied on skill as much as muscle. He pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves and wrapped his heaviest cloak about him. If he remembered correctly, Jamie had said Madelaine Skye had an office in the old Bluegelt building in Guilds Quarter. About an hour’s walk, if he hurried. Donald Royal smiled. It felt good to be doing something again, after all the many years.

  • • •

  Guilds Quarter wasn’t quite as impressive as Tech Quarter, but it was certainly just as prosperous. The squat stone-and-timber buildings had a smug, self-satisfied air of solidity and respectability. The streets were well-lit and reasonably clean, and beggars were firmly discouraged from loitering. Powerful men lived in Guilds Quarter, men on the way up. Or on the way down. It was that sort of place.

  But Guilds Quarter, like every other Quarter, had its good areas and its bad areas. Madelaine Skye’s office was in one of the worst sections, a shambling clutter of streets so close to the inner boundary that it was only just a part of the Quarter. The Bluegelt building was the tallest in its street, with three floors in all, but the brickwork was old and pitted, the façade was decidedly shabby, and the whole place exuded a distinct air of genteel poverty. Donald could remember when the Bluegelt had been one of the major merchant houses, but of late it had obviously come down in the world. He stood in the street outside, staring glumly at the dark, empty windows, and trying to get his breath back. When he was younger he could have made the walk easily, but at his age nothing came easily anymore. He moved wearily over to the great front door and leaned against it for a moment while he waited for his second wind. The lantern over the door shed a dirty yellow glow that illuminated very little outside its pool of light. Donald didn’t care. There was little enough in this street worth looking at.

  His breathing finally evened out, and he stepped away from the door and pulled his cloak tightly about him. The evening was fast turning into night, and he had to get inside soon, before the real cold began. He tried the door handle, and it turned easily in his hand. The door wasn’t locked. Donald shook his head unhappily. The Bluegelt must really be on its way out to have such lousy security. He let himself into the building, and pushed the door shut behind him.

  The long, narrow hallway stretched out before him, half hidden in shadows. A single oil lamp burned above the main door, its dim blue light flickering unsteadily as the oil ran low. Donald moved slowly forward into the hall, peering warily about him. The hall itself was clean, but bare. There was no furniture, no fittings, no portraits or tapestries on the panelled walls. The wooden floor had neither rugs nor carpet, and from the look of it hadn’t seen a trace of wax or polish in years. The rats has deserted the sinking ship, and taken everything with them that wasn’t nailed down. Doors led off the hallway to either side, but Donald didn’t bother to check them. Nobody here would give a damn who he was or what he was doing, as long as he didn’t disturb them. He glowered at the stairs at the end of the hall. He could clearly remember Jamie saying that Madelaine’s office was on the top floor. Typical. Donald hated stairs. Even when he was feeling at his best, a long flight of stairs could still remind him how frail he’d become.

  Three flights of stairs and several long rests later, Donald Royal stumbled to a halt before the second door along the narrow hallway on the top floor. The flaking paint on the door said MADELAINE SKYE: CONFIDENTIAL ENQUIRIES. Donald smiled slightly. He’d never met Skye before, but that sign told him a lot about her. A euphemism like that could mean anything you wanted it to. Basically, all it really meant was that Skye was for hire, if the money was right. He knocked politely on the door, and waited impatiently. There was no reply. Donald tried the door, but it was locked. He smiled wryly; at least somebody in this building understood the need for good security. He put his ear against the wood of the door and listened carefully. There wasn’t a sound from inside the office. He straightened up and looked quickly about him, and then knelt before the door to study its lock. The only light came from a single lantern at the far end of the hallway, but it was enough for Donald’s needs. He took a thin twist of wire from inside his left glove and i
nserted it carefully into the door lock. He jiggled the wire a moment, getting the feel of the tumblers, applied a little expert pressure, and the door was no longer locked. Donald removed the wire and slipped it back into his glove. Nice to know he hadn’t lost his touch. He pushed the door open and walked into Madelaine Skye’s office.

  He shut the door behind him, and waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. The only light came from a street lamp set just outside the window. Donald shook his head grimly at the lack of shutters. The glass in the window wasn’t even steelglass. The security in this building was apalling. He moved slowly forward into the gloom as his eyes adjusted. It wasn’t much of an office, as offices go, but it had the bare essentials. There was a desk, with a few papers on it. A fairly comfortable chair behind the desk, and another, rather plain chair for visitors. Two lamps he couldn’t risk lighting. There was a battered old couch, pushed up against the right-hand wall. A few neatly folded blankets and a pillow lay piled at one end, suggesting that the couch sometimes doubled as a bed. A large potted plant stood alone on the windowsill. It had no flowers, and its leaves were drooping.

  Donald moved slowly round the office, trying to get the feel of the place. It was cheap, but adequate. The furnishings were rather functional, but there was nothing wrong with that. Donald didn’t much care for frills and fancies, and distrusted those who did. And yet… the overall impression he got was one of desertion, as though Skye had walked out some time ago and not come back. Donald ran a finger across the desktop, and frowned at the trail he’d left in the dust. He moved behind the desk, dusted the seat of the chair with his handkerchief, and sat down. It was even more comfortable than it looked. Donald stretched his tired legs and looked about him. It was all very interesting, but so far he’d seen nothing that would explain why Jamie died. It had to have been some case he was working on. He couldn’t have been killed over his debts; everyone knew Jamie always paid up eventually. Donald frowned thoughtfully. Maybe it was something he or Skye had stumbled on by accident.

  He took out his pencil torch, switched it on, and leafed through the papers lying on the desk. Just memos and reminders, mostly trivial stuff, and none of it current. The paper should have been handed in for recycling long ago. No wonder there was a paper shortage. He looked speculatively at the two desk drawers. He tried them, and they were both locked. Donald did his trick with the wire again, and then pawed carefully through the contents of the two drawers. Again it was mostly everyday stuff, but finally he came up with a tan folder. It had been pushed to the back of the right-hand drawer, and left unlabelled. The folder contained three sheets of paper, each covered with notes written in a sprawling longhand. The writing was so bad he couldn’t read half of it, but it seemed to be a report on the Hob hounds’ movements around the outlying farms. Donald’s frown deepened as he read on. As far as he could make out, the report seemed to suggest that the only reason the hounds were avoiding the outer farms and settlements was because they were being herded away.…

  Donald stared blankly at the page in his hand. If this report was right, and Jamie and Skye had gone looking for more information, that might explain everything. Only the Empire had the interest and the resources to mount an operation like this, and they wouldn’t have taken kindly to being investigated. Donald slipped the paper back into its file, and then frowned suddenly. If the Empire had wanted Jamie dead, one of their agents would have killed him simply and neatly, and then disposed of the body. They didn’t leave traces, when it could be avoided. They certainly wouldn’t have destroyed a whole tavern full of people just to kill one man. Donald scowled. Whoever killed Jamie, it almost certainly wasn’t the Empire, which meant he was right back where he started. He sat back in his chair and hummed tunelessly, trying to make sense of it all. The folder and its contents were important, he could feel it, but he couldn’t see how it linked in with Jamie’s death.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Donald’s heart jumped at the unexpected voice. He looked up, startled, to find a tall silhouette filling the open doorway. He sat up straight in his chair, and let one hand drift back to his sword hilt.

  “I wouldn’t,” said the voice, and Donald moved his hand away again. He just had time to realise it was a woman’s voice, and then he winced as the room was suddenly full of light, throwing back the gloom. His eyes quickly adjusted to the brightness, and he studied the newcomer warily. She stood just inside the doorway, holding up a storm lantern in her left hand. She was tall for a woman, easily five foot nine or ten. She had a tousled head of reddish-brown hair, falling in great waves to her shoulders. Her face was a little too broad to be pretty, but her strong bone structure gave her a harsh, sensual look that was somehow much more impressive. She wore thick mismatched furs under a battered but serviceable cloak. There was a sword on her hip, and her right hand held a throwing knife.

  “I asked you a question,” she said calmly. Her voice was deep, smoky, assured. “What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Donald Royal. I’m looking for Madelaine Skye; I have some business to discuss with her.”

  The woman looked at him sharply, and then put away her knife with a quick, practiced motion. She moved over to the desk, put the lantern down, and studied Donald carefully.

  “I’m Madelaine Skye. What do you want with me?”

  The office seemed warmer and more comfortable with both its lamps lit. Donald Royal sat in the visitor’s chair, which was just as uncomfortable as it looked, and studied Skye curiously while she talked. Having finally met her, it was easy to understand why Jamie had stayed with her for so long. Normally, Jamie’s attitude to women had always been love them and leave them, and given the kind of women he usually went around with, it was hardly surprising. But Jamie and Madelaine Skye had been partners for almost three years, and this was undoubtably due to Skye. She was a dynamic yet very feminine woman, with enough energy in her to run a small generator. Donald had no doubt she’d made Jamie an excellent partner. He just wondered what the hell she ever saw in Jamie in the first place. He suddenly realised Skye was talking about the case she was working on at present, and he listened more carefully.

  Information about the outlying farms and settlements was always hard to come by, Skye said, but of late it seemed to have dried up to the bare minimum. This had to be partly due to the recent storms, but even the esper network was having problems getting answers. Skye had been approached by Councillor Darkstrom, on a purely unofficial basis, and asked to look into the situation. She and the Bloodhawk were going out to Hardcastle’s Rock to lead the official investigation, but Darkstrom had wanted her own, separate enquiries made at this end. Apparently she didn’t trust some members of the Council.

  Darkstrom hadn’t said anything more than that, and for the money she was offering, Skye hadn’t felt inclined to press her. So she started digging, and straight away she began hearing strange tales about the Hob hounds. From what Skye had been able to gather, it seemed the hounds were somehow being steered away from the farms and settlements. Communications had been all but sabotaged to keep a lid on this, but still the word had got out, in certain quarters at least. The men involved in the herding had gone to great pains to stay anonymous, but there was no doubt as to who and what they were. Empire agents. Why the Empire should want to protect the outlying settlements wasn’t clear as yet.

  Donald frowned, and leant forward. “But what has all this got to do with Jamie’s death? Where’s the connection?”

  Skye shrugged. “Beats me. Jamie and I had already broken up before I took on this case. I’m not sure what he’d been up to lately; I’ve been… out of touch for a while. But it seems Jamie had been paying visits to a certain well-known doctor, Leon Vertue.”

  “The body bank doctor?”

  “You got it. And everyone knows Dr. Vertue has solid links with the Empire.”

  “Maybe we should have a quiet word with him,” said Donald slowly.

  “We
could try, but I doubt he’d see us.”

  “He’ll see me. I’m a Councillor.”

  Skye laughed. “You think he’ll give a damn, with his connections?”

  Donald scowled, and nodded reluctantly. “All right, we’ll have to approach this by a more devious route. We need someone who’ll talk to us about Vertue’s setup; someone who might know what Jamie was doing for the doctor.”

  “I know just the man, an old drinking companion of mine. A shifty little bugger called Donovan Shrike. He still owes me a few favours. But even so, the kind of information we’re looking for is going to cost money. Lots of it.”

  “I have money,” said Donald shortly. “Where will we find this informant?”

  “At the Redlance.”

  Donald grinned suddenly. “Is that rat hole still there? I thought the Watch cleaned it up years ago.”

  “It’s under new management these days, but by all accounts it hasn’t changed much. Except for the worse.”

  “Very well. Let’s get going.”

  Skye raised an unplucked eyebrow. “You want to go now? This evening?”

  “Of course. The longer we leave it, the more likely it is the trail will get cold. Let’s go.”

  “Wait just a minute. What makes you so sure I’m going to work with you? All right, you’re Jamie’s grandfather, and I know your reputation. I suppose everyone in Mistport does. They teach it in the schools these days. But that was a long time ago. I can’t run a case and look after you at the same time.”