After checking to make sure the d’Medani woman had cleared out, taking her friend with her, Greddark led Zoden through the broken doorway into his office. The interior was every bit as dirty as Greddark’s appearance had led the bard to believe it might be—possibly worse. Tables cluttered with mechanical parts and bits of forgotten food were scattered haphazardly throughout the room, while bizarre tools and unfathomable mechanisms hung on long chains from hooks in the ceiling, requiring Zoden to duck and bob as he tried to follow the dwarf to his desk, which was itself covered in schematics, scrolls, and bubbling beakers. The walls were papered in drawings and maps, layered over each other with no discernable pattern. And something smelled vaguely like burning oil.
Greddark pushed a bulging sack off a low stool, spilling the metal scroll cases it held, seemingly oblivious to the racket they made as they bounced and tumbled across the scarred wooden floor. He motioned for Zoden to sit, while he cleared a small space and sat on the edge of his desk.
“So, people are dying in Aruldusk, the local Bishop’s blamin’ it on shifters, but you disagree. That about it?”
Zoden, somewhat flummoxed by the dwarf’s succinctness, replied, “Well, yes, if you’re painting in monochrome and using only the broadest of strokes.”
Greddark grunted. “I don’t get paid to tell pretty stories, bard.”
“What do you get paid for, exactly?” Zoden asked, with a pointed glance at the scroll cases still rattling around on the floor. From what he could see, the dwarf was more of an artificer than an inquisitive, or a “security specialist,” for that matter, considering he’d been fending off—what, thieves? bounty hunters?—when Zoden had arrived. And he sincerely doubted the adjective “master” applied to the wild-haired tinkerer in any of those roles.
“Finding answers people don’t want found, mostly. Like the fact that you’re a coward and a drunk from a nearly destitute family who feels both guilty and secretly relieved that the murderer missed his target and killed your brother instead.” Ignoring Zoden’s outraged spluttering, he continued. “But I could have gotten all that from Dzarro. How about this? You’re carrying a dagger in your left boot, and you’ve got a stolen bottle of Frostmantle Fire in that bag on your hip—down by about two fingers since you opened it when you got off the rail this morning. Probably drank it to calm your nerves after that fight you ran from.”
“How—?” Zoden managed, then quickly recovered. “Magic.”
“No. Observation. Reason. Deduction.” Greddark slipped off his desk and jabbed a meaty finger at Zoden’s boot. “Never mind the tell-tale bump. When you walk you put slightly more weight on your right foot to compensate for the dagger’s presence. And it has to be a dagger, doesn’t it, because what else would fit in such a fashionably tight boot? Though that particular style of footwear went out in Aruldusk two seasons ago. The fact that you haven’t upgraded your wardrobe tells me more about your financial situation than Dzarro’s briefing ever could.”
He moved to stand in front of Zoden, pointing at the bag half-hidden by the bard’s scarlet cloak.
“I can smell the Fire on your breath. It has a distinctive odor that’s released the moment the seal is cracked and becomes more acrid the longer it’s exposed to air. There’s also an undercurrent of ironspice in it that gets stronger the more you drink. Someone familiar with the spirit—a dwarf originally from the Mror Holds, say—can pinpoint exactly when a bottle was opened and how much has been consumed. Two fingers, as I said, and only within the last quarter bell or so. And it would have to be in your bag, given the size of the typical bottle, since that’s the only place both big and inconspicuous enough for you to carry it. And it’s obviously stolen, since there’s no way you could afford it—probably from the lightning rail, since you were riding first class.”
He leaned forward to tap Zoden’s cheek. Twice. Hard.
“Finally, you’ve got a bit of blood on your lip and a bruise forming on your face. Either you ran into a door, or someone whopped you upside the head, probably with the flat of their blade, given the size and shape of the bruise. With your history, I’m betting on a fight, and since the only blood on you is your own—or the old stains on your cloak—you must’ve run.”
The dwarf crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk.
“Any other questions?”
Zoden had only one.
“When can you start?”
Chapter
FIVE
Zol, Therendor 17, 998 YK
If you’ll just take a seat there, Captain Entarro will be with you shortly.”
Andri nodded and sat where the guard indicated. They were in the Sigilstar station’s private lounge, reserved for members of House Orien and the Wayfinder Foundation. The lounge was spacious and every bit as luxurious as the first-class cart they’d just left. Its amenities included a fireplace, bookshelves packed with everything from histories of Xen’drik to old copies of the Sharn Inquisitive, a bar, and a string quartet. The musicians had been practicing the popular Aundairian ballad The Epic of the Valiant and the Vigilant, a tale of two lovers trapped in the besieged twin towers, each thinking the other safe when both, in fact, were doomed. It was one of Andri’s personal favorites, and he’d hoped to hear the musicians’ interpretation of it, but when they saw the Orien guards leading him and Irulan in, they gathered up their instruments and made a hasty exit. Given their disheveled state and the blood that stood out stark and red on Irulan’s tunic, Andri couldn’t blame them.
“This is ridiculous!” Irulan growled, falling into the chair next to him so heavily that her braids jumped. She crossed her arms across her chest. “Can’t you just tell them we’re on the Keeper’s business and get us out of here? We’re not the ones who were masquerading as Orien waiters and trying to rob people in the first class cart. If anything, they should be giving us some sort of reward for coming to that man’s rescue, not interrogating us!”
“Considering that neither the victim nor the perpetrators are present to corroborate our story, what choice do they have but to question us?” Andri replied. “Just let them do their jobs, and we’ll soon be on our way.”
Irulan snorted. “Spoken like a man who’s never had dealings with House Orien security. We’ll be lucky if we don’t wind up in a cell. At the very least, they’re going to keep us here for hours, and we’ll miss the next run to Aruldusk.”
“There will be other runs. Patience is the most valuable weapon in a hunter’s arsenal,” he reminded her, only to be rewarded with a glare.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “It’s not your brother rotting in the Bishop’s dungeons.”
Andri resisted the urge to point out that Bishop Maellas did not have dungeons. Prelates were forbidden to own property beyond their own homes, and he seriously doubted that the Bishop had a group of murder suspects cooling their heels in his wine cellar. Still, the shifter woman did have a point—he had no personal stake in the outcome of this investigation, and so perhaps did not feel quite the same sense of urgency she did.
He was about to apologize when Captain Entarro, a harried-looking elf with a stern face and incongruously curly blond hair, entered the lounge. As Andri made to stand, the elf waved him back into his seat.
“I don’t have time for that. I just got word that Baron Kwanti himself may be coming from Passage to look into this mess. That’s all I need, the House patriarch breathing down my neck while I try to conduct an investigation.” Entarro ran a shaky hand through his curls. “So I want your story again, from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”
“This is ridiculous—” Irulan began again, but Andri silenced her with a look.
“Of course,” he answered smoothly. “We’d be happy to help.” He ignored Irulan’s indelicate snort and began to relate—again—the events of the past night. This was the third time he’d had to recite them, but he tried not to let the redundant effort or wasted time bother him. Everything would unfold when and as the Fl
ame decreed, and impatience with that unfolding would serve no purpose. “My companion and I boarded the lightning rail at Flamekeep at the ninth bell, on our way to Aruldusk. We entered our compartment to find another passenger already there, asleep on one of the couches. A blond man in a scarlet cloak. There was a wine glass on the floor next to him, so I assume he’d been drinking.”
“Could he have been passed out, not just sleeping?”
Andri paused, considering. “That’s possible. However, without knowing how long he’d been on the rail before we boarded, or how much he might have had to drink, there’s no way to say for certain.”
Entarro nodded. He’d pulled a thin book out from some hidden pocket and was busy scribbling down notes. “Go on.”
“Since it was late, we retired to our sleeping quarters. I—”
“Separate quarters?”
“Of course!” Irulan snapped, clearly affronted.
“Yes,” Andri replied, trying to curb his own annoyance. How their sleeping arrangements had any bearing on the case at hand was beyond him, but he knew the captain was just trying to do his job—and a difficult, thankless one at that—so he was bound to continue answering Entarro’s questions. For now.
Entarro wrote something else.
“So you went to your separate sleeping quarters. What did you do there?”
Irulan heaved a long-suffering sigh. “We slept.”
Andri nodded his agreement. “Yes, though I did rise before dawn to perform my morning devotions. I was just finishing my recitation of the Fourth Miracle when I heard the call from the compartment.”
“Ah, yes. The call. What were the exact words you heard, and how did you know their source?”
“ ‘Your armor is being stolen.’ Since my armor was in the compartment across the hall, it was reasonable to assume that the call originated from there.”
“And why did you leave this armor in another compartment, if it was so valuable?”
Andri allowed a hint of irritation to creep into his voice. “Because I knew the compartment was in the hands of House Orien security, so I had no reason to fear for the safety of my belongings.”
Entarro looked up from his book, raising an eyebrow at the tone, but he let the challenge pass without comment.
“And then what happened?”
“I grabbed my sword, woke Irulan, and crossed over to the other compartment. A food cart was parked just inside the door, blocking the entrance. Inside I could see two men in House Orien uniforms menacing the man who had been sleeping there. Realizing that he must have sent the call that summoned me, I went to his aid.”
“Can you describe the two men?”
Irulan had finally had enough of being interrogated. She stood.
“We’ve already been through this—twice now. We’ve given your men their descriptions and told you everything we know. Is there a reason we’re still here?”
Then she gave a small gasp and sat down again slowly, shaking her head. She looked at Andri, her eyes incredulous. “Don’t you understand? We’re suspects.”
Andri’s eyes narrowed, and he looked up at Entarro. “Is that true?” he demanded. “Is that why you’ve been detaining us here?”
It made sense. No one else had seen the two Orien imposters—except for the man they’d tried to rescue, who had fled the compartment and disappeared during the fight. Until they found some other witnesses who’d seen the two would-be waiters—not likely, given that it was a night run and most of the passengers had been asleep—or found the two members of the House Orien wait staff who’d been divested of their uniforms—preferably alive—all Entarro and his men had to go on was a broken window, a lot of blood, and Irulan and him. And with Baron Kwanti d’Orien’s arrival imminent, dubious suspects were better than none. In the captain’s shoes, he might well do the same.
But he wasn’t in the captain’s shoes, and he didn’t have time for this. Entarro would have to sort it out on his own.
“I’m truly sorry, Captain, but we’ve given you all the help we can.”
With that, Andri rose and pulled Cardinal Riathan’s letter from out of his tabard. He passed it over to Entarro, who took it after a brief hesitation. When he unfolded it and saw the crest of the Diet of Cardinals, his lips compressed into a thin line. They got thinner and thinner as he read through the letter, which instructed the reader to confer the same rights on its bearer as they would a member of the Diet, up to and including financial, military, and diplomatic support. By the time Entarro had carefully folded the letter and handed it back to Andri, his lips had practically vanished.
“Your pardon for the delay, sir,” he said, his words so stiff and brittle that Andri thought he must be choking on them. He almost felt sorry for the elf captain. Almost. “You and your companion are free to go.”
They reached Aruldusk just after sunset. As porters wrested Andri’s trunk onto a waiting carriage, he asked Irulan for directions to the Cathedral. She looked at him curiously.
“Why? There’s no way you’ll get in to see the Bishop tonight.”
“I have no intention of disturbing His Excellency this evening, but I do need a room.”
“You’re going to stay there?” she asked, surprised.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s common practice for visiting warriors of the faith to abide at the local house of worship.”
“Even when you’re investigating the owner of that house?”
“Bishop Maellas does not own the Cathedral,” he said, somewhat impatiently, then caught himself. It was a common enough view among the laity, and not the part of her question that truly needed addressing. He waited until the porters were finished with his trunk, paid each of them a sovereign, and asked the driver to wait for a moment. Then he turned back to Irulan, took her arm and guided her a few paces away from the carriage. She shook his hand off. “What?”
“Irulan, there’s one thing you need to understand before we go any further,” he said quietly, choosing his words with care. “I am here to investigate the murders, not the Bishop. So far, the only thing Bishop Maellas stands accused of is not liking shifters—which, while it is an unfortunate prejudice, especially in a leader of the Church, is not a crime.” He pitched his next words low, so they would travel no further than her ears. “Maligning the Bishop in public, however, is. I would suggest you refrain from doing so.”
Her eyes had been narrowing to brown slits as he spoke, and now her lip curled back to reveal sharp teeth.
“Are you even here to help me? Or are you just—”
“I’m trying to help you!” Andri broke in, frustrated. “I’m trying to keep you from landing in a cell next to your brother’s!”
Irulan stared at him for several long heartbeats, hands flexing, and Andri wondered for a moment if she was going to hit him. Then she took a deep, calming breath.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just … this is my brother’s life we’re talking about. It makes me a little … emotional.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “Peace?”
“Peace.” Andri nodded, relieved. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she had decided to hit him. He was glad he wouldn’t have to find out.
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay at the Cathedral. You could be putting yourself in danger. Why not come stay out at the shifter camp with me? It’s not glamorous, but the tents are clean and the food is good.” She glanced appraisingly at his silvercloth shirt and her lips twisted. “On second thought, there’s an inn not far from here that might be more to your taste.”
“Perhaps that’s best. I’ll meet with His Excellency in the morning, then—”
“You’ll meet with him? What about me?”
Her smile had disappeared, replaced once more by narrowed eyes and her habitual snarl.
“Bishop Maellas is already … unkindly disposed towards you. I think our investigation might be better served if he didn’t realize we were working together just yet.”
Irulan l
ooked skeptical.
“You’re going to lie? You? A paladin?”
Andri shrugged.
“I am a defender of the Flame and a servant of its Keeper, and truth is but one of many weapons at my disposal. Sometimes it is most effective when kept sheathed.”
The inn was, in fact, rather garish for Andri’s taste, but as he followed the halfling host down the gold-leafed hall to his rooms, he had a feeling the shifter had been quite aware of that when she made her recommendation, and was having a bit of fun at his expense. Literally.
The Golden Galifar was owned and operated by House Ghallanda, and the source of its name was twofold—nothing here cost less than a galifar, and virtually everything was covered in gilt, from the walls to the furniture to the employees, whose cloth-of-gold uniforms could feed a small family of dwarves for a month. He was just grateful that the sun had already set. Even thinking of the blinding reflections that would be bouncing through this place come morning gave him a headache.
His trunk was already in the sitting room, along with a “light snack” consisting of three courses. A fire crackled in the fireplace, steam rose from a hot bath, and the bed had been turned down, all in the time it had taken him to let the room and climb two flights of stairs.
“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” the halfling asked, bowing low.
“This is more than adequate, thank you,” Andri replied, and meant it. He could have used the Cardinal’s letter to secure his rooms here, but he’d chosen to pay himself. He had no great qualms about using Riathan’s coin instead of his own, though he could easily afford the cost. Andri simply didn’t want anyone to know why he was here until he’d had a chance to speak to Bishop Maellas, and flashing a letter with the Diet crest on it was not exactly the best way to keep a low profile.
“Excellent.” The halfling straightened with a wide smile. “Breakfast is served in the main dining room beginning at dawn. Late risers may take advantage of our brunch at the tenth bell.”
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 7