Dragon Precinct

Sergeant Jonas shuffled through his parchments. “One of their informants said that two halflings, a barbarian, a priest, and three warrior-types—human, elf, and dwarf—all took rooms in the Dog and Duck and had dinner together.”

Danthres leaned back in her wooden chair and groaned. “Lord and Lady, not another heroic quest.”

“I’m afraid so,” Jonas said gravely.

Torin grinned and looked over to Danthres. “Two coppers says that our next call is from the Dog and Duck.”

“No bet,” Danthres said. “But three coppers says it’s a bar brawl.”

“You’re on.”

Almost as if on cue, a guard ran in. “We got a body.”

Danthres asked, “Where?”

“Dog and Duck, ma’am. One of the guests.”

With a look at Torin, she asked, “Bar brawl?”

The guard shook his head. “No, ma’am. Cleaning lady found a dead body in a room.”

Torin was grinning again. “That’ll be three coppers.”

Ignoring him, she said, “Let’s go.”

Special thanks to John J. Ordover, my editor, who took the chance; Lucienne Diver, my agent, who more than earned her percentage; Scott Shannon, the publisher, who gave support above and beyond; Elisa Kassin and Jessica McGivney, the in-house editorial folk, who kept the paperwork mills grinding as fast as they could; the Forebearance, for all the many many years of love and encouragement; CITH, my writers group, for making the work so much better; the Malibu gang and the Geek Patrol, for over a decade (and counting!) of overall goofiness; Laura Anne Gilman, for more reasons than I can count; and Marcus and Mittens, the cats, for the love that only a couple of fuzzy affection sluts can provide.

Thanks also to the multitude of writers, ranging from J.R.R. Tolkien to David Simon, who provided inspiration for this most peculiar tale.

But most of all, thanks to Terri Osborne, the love of my life, for all of everything.

G
an Brightblade’s last thoughts before his neck was broken were about how happy he was.

Dinner had been one of the most enjoyable experiences of recent times, even if the food itself was somewhat lacking. The Dog and Duck Inn may have suited his group’s needs in terms of accommodation during their brief layover in Cliff’s End, but its kitchen left much to be desired. The meat was bland, the drinks weak, and the vegetables limp.

But the company—ah, the company was what mattered.

For the past five weeks, he had traveled on horseback with the group of comrades-in-arms Brother Genero had gathered at the Temisan monastery in Velessa. The trip to Cliff’s End had been mostly uneventful, leavened only by brief encounters with the usual bandits and trolls, plus some young fool of a magic-user. He wasn’t even registered with the Brotherhood of Wizards, probably as much due to his lack of talent as anything. Defeating him was the work of a few minutes. Bogg had wanted to kill him, of course, and did cut off the top of the boy’s ear, but Genero insisted that he live, as he was more misguided than evil.

Typical priest,
Gan had thought. Besides, the Brotherhood didn’t tolerate unregistered magic-users for very long. They would deal with the boy in short order.

Upon arrival, they stabled their horses on the outskirts of town, then proceeded into the crowded city on foot. Cliff’s End had never been Gan’s favorite place to visit, though he was always impressed with the variety of people he found within its borders. Rich and poor, human and dwarf, mage and priest, elf and gnome—all you had to do was stand still on any of Cliff’s End’s numerous thoroughfares, and you’d encounter every type of person in Flingaria ere long. If, for some reason, one type didn’t pass you by, all you had to do was go to the docks, and one would likely be in on the next boat.

Gan and his friends checked into this dreary inn in the center of the city-state, for expediency’s sake as much as anything. It was large enough to accommodate them, ordinary enough to minimize the fuss that would be made over them, close enough to the docks so that securing sea passage the next day would be easy, but not so close to that part of town that they risked an infectious disease or six just by walking around. Bogg, of course, cared little for the latter, but Gan and Olthar insisted on at least a modicum of cleanliness.

They had dinner together, ostensibly to plan strategy, but they wound up whiling away the hours regaling the other patrons with tales of their exploits. Ubàrlig spoke of liberating the human slave camps of the western elves. Bogg told cruder tales of his fights against the trolls that menaced his village in the north, and the women who vied for his affections in the aftermath of that battle. Inevitably, and even though everyone knew the story, Olthar was asked to tell of his betrayal of his aunt, the Elf Queen, during the elven wars, which led to a permanent exile from his own people but victory for King Marcus and Queen Marta. Only Genero—out of typical priestly modesty—and the halfling twins—for fear of being incriminated in acts of dubious legality—kept quiet.

Gan himself told of his days as a young soldier thirty years before, when he was among the forces who helped overthrow Chalmraik the Foul. What he did not say—nor did anyone else—was that Genero had gathered them all together because the priest had received a vision from Temisa that Chalmraik was about to rise again. The powerful wizard once ruled over half of Flingaria, and Genero could not let that happen again.

Unfortunately, his warnings to the Brotherhood had fallen on deaf ears. Instead, Genero brought together all his old comrades-in-arms. In the morning, Gan and Genero planned to hire a boat to take them to the island where Chalmraik was hatching his latest plan, so they could do what the Brotherhood would not.

Soon enough, the night’s revelry ended, and Gan trudged up the stairs to the decently furnished room the Dog and Duck had provided for him.

As he removed his mail, sword, and tunic and tossed them on the bed, Gan smiled. He was with good comrades who would soon join him in a noble quest to rid Flingaria of its greatest curse once and for all. In a lifetime filled with great deeds and greater triumphs, this would be the perfect capper.

One minute later, he lay dead on the floor of his room, his head at an impossible angle.

In the morning, his body was found by the Dog and Duck’s cleaning woman, who arrived early to tidy the room in the hopes of getting a glance at the great hero Gan Brightblade. It took half a minute for her to stop screaming—and by then, the Cliff’s End Castle Guard had been summoned.

“W
hat are you doing here?”

Lieutenant Danthres Tresyllione of the Cliff’s End Castle Guard asked the question of her partner, Lieutenant Torin ban Wyvald. She was being confronted by a sight she’d never seen in their ten years of partnership: Torin arriving in the office before her. The only times he’d ever even gotten in at the same time as her was when they came together. Otherwise, he was always late for their twelve-hour shift.

“I work here,” Torin said in reply, the white teeth of his wide grin shining through his thick red beard. The beard obscured most of Torin’s face, as did his mane of red hair, which extended past his shoulders. All Danthres could truly see were his long, aquiline nose and his twinkling green eyes. Early on in their partnership, she had realized that, no matter what Torin’s mood might have been, his eyes always had an amused look, as if he knew a joke that he wasn’t quite ready to share with the rest of the world.

“That is the rumor, yes.”

As Danthres spoke, a seven-peal chime rang all around them in the air, marking the time as seven in the morning, and the official start of the day shift, which would last until nineteen. The Brotherhood of Wizards had set up the timekeeping system, as well as the spell that rang out each hour with what everyone referred to as the “time-chimes.” Danthres had never understood why they codified it so that the day began in the middle of the night—sunup made much more sense to her, especially since their shifts were concurrent with the rise and fall of the sun. She had added that to the ever-growing list of things that annoyed her about the practice of magic.

While the chimes rang, the other four detectives in their shift entered from either the west-wall door, which connected the squad room to the rest of the castle, or from the pantry. Danthres gave Lieutenants Dru, Hawk, and Iaian a nod each. She didn’t bother to acknowledge Iaian’s partner, Amilar Grovis, as doing so might lead to actual conversation with the young lieutenant, something that was guaranteed to turn her stomach.

Torin said, “I had to deal with a domestic.”

Danthres frowned. “You got a call? Why wasn’t I—?”

“I didn’t say I got a call, I said I had to
deal with
a domestic. The couple downstairs have taken their arguments to a new level—and a new time frame. I was woken out of a sound sleep three hours before sunup by their fighting, which involved both screaming and the throwing of breakable objects.”

Smiling, Danthres asked, “Did you bring them in?”

“No, but I made several threats along those lines should they ever wake me up again.”

“Given what you’re like first thing in the morning, that probably included a great deal of growling.”

“Indeed.” Torin’s grin returned. “Let’s hope it works.”

“You know, you could just move in with me and be done with it. I certainly have the space.” As she spoke, Danthres removed her brown cloak and hung it on a peg between the one holding Torin’s own cloak and the empty one that Hawk never used, preferring to drape his cloak on his chair. The earth color symbolized their rank, with the gryphon crest of Lord Albin and Lady Meerka showing that they were assigned to the headquarters of the Guard, located in the eastern wing of the castle at the outskirts of Cliff’s End, the city-state that constituted the Lord and Lady’s demesne. Danthres liked the color, as it held dirt well.

“Danthres, we see each other
at least
twelve hours a day. I like the idea of having a place of my own.”

“Well, at least come home with me tonight, spare yourself the bickering neighbors.”

Torin laughed his hearty laugh. “I think I’ve sufficiently intimidated them into quiet for a few days, at least. But I may still take you up on that offer.” He stood up from the large wooden desk that the partners shared, gathering up a dozen or so scrolls. “In any event, I thought I would take advantage of the opportunity to finish off some paperwork.”

Danthres took her own seat, which was on the opposite side of the desk from Torin’s. She watched as he walked past the other two desks in the squad room, one occupied by Dru and Hawk, the other by Iaian and Grovis, to the window that took up most of the north wall.

“The Marvilk case.” In response to Torin’s words, the window shimmered and twisted, changing from a view of the Forest of Nimvale that Danthres had long since grown bored with to that of a bearded male face. This was Ep, the imp in charge of the extradimensional storage area where all the Guard’s files were stored, and Danthres’s least favorite Guard employee.

“You know, you really don’t need to tell me where the files are supposed to go,” Ep said in his reedy voice. “Just send the scrolls through, I’ll figure out which file to put them in by reading them.”

“I thought I’d save you the trouble,” Torin said politely. “After all, you’re a busy imp.” He placed the scrolls in the imp’s beard, which also served as the gateway to the file room.

Ep sighed, an odd action coming from a face-shaped window. “I do appreciate the consideration, I suppose. At least you’re nice about it, unlike your partner.”

“I heard that,” Danthres said.

“You were meant to.”

Before Danthres could reply, the face reshaped itself back into an ordinary window. She shook her head. “Little bastard. He’ll probably put them in with the triple murder.”

Torin shrugged. “Probably, but at least I made the effort.”

He crossed the room to the south wall, which was free of interdimensional portals, sticking with more mundane doors that Danthres, and the other detectives, had far greater use for: the three interrogation rooms and the pantry.

The latter room was Torin’s destination. “I’m going to see if any good pastries are left.” Sergeant Jonas’s wife always baked for the day shift, but usually only the soggiest fare was left by the time Torin arrived, so Danthres couldn’t blame him for wanting to take advantage of this rare opportunity. “Want any?”

“No thanks. I passed Corin’s stand on the way in, and he’s
still
grateful to us for catching that thief, so I’m laden with biscuits.” She grinned. “Consider it another incentive to come home with me tonight.”

Laughing, Torin continued to the pantry.

“It’s disgusting, you know,” said a nasal voice from behind her.

Scowling, Danthres turned to look at Grovis, who was walking over from the desk he shared with Iaian. His goggle-eyed face framed by mousy brown hair, Grovis looked even stupider than usual by virtue of the pastry crumbs around his mouth.

Danthres snarled. “What is?”

“You two associating—fornicating like that. That sort of behavior is an affront to Ghandurha.” He made several hand gestures that Ghandurha-worshipers used to ward off evil. “Especially a human with an elf—disgusting.”

“I’ll have to find some way to live with your god’s disappointment, Grovis.” Danthres turned her attention to the piles of parchment on her half of the desk. Torin’s actions this morning reminded her of how far behind she herself was on her own paperwork. The alternative was to remind Grovis that her very existence was due to a liaison between an elven man and a human woman.
I’d rather drive a wooden stake through my tongue than talk to him any more than necessary.

Before Grovis could continue his own thoughts on the subject of Ghandurha’s views on sex, Sergeant Jonas entered the room from the west-wall door. Grovis sat back down at his desk.

Jonas shuffled half a dozen parchments, his green cloak billowing behind him. The gray-haired veteran always seemed to be moving about one and a half times as fast as everyone else. Dru once speculated that he’d purchased a Speed Spell from the Brotherhood of Wizards, but Hawk pointed out that he could never afford such a spell on a sergeant’s salary.

The sergeant surveyed the three desks and six chairs, noting that one of the latter was empty. “I see everyone’s here except ban Wyvald, as usual.”

“Wrong, I’m afraid.” Torin reentered from the pantry as he spoke those words, powdered sugar adding white to the red of his beard.

“This is why you’re not a detective, Jonas,” Grovis said archly. “Never come to conclusions without all the facts.”

Danthres noticed Iaian, sitting across from Grovis, rolling his rheumy eyes to the heavens, as he often did when his young partner opened his mouth.

Not even sparing Grovis a glance, Jonas turned to Dru and Hawk. “Any luck with our rapist?”

Hawk shook his head, causing his waist-length dreadlocks to bounce. “Boneen give us a better description this time, and we give it to all’a sergeants at all’a precincts, but ain’t nothin’ yet.”

Torin asked, “Why was this one better?”

“Gettin’ overconfident—didn’t wear a mask this time.”

“That was foolish.”

Angrily, Danthres said, “He’s gotten away with six rapes.”

Scratching his pale cheek, Dru said, “Well, c’mon, I mean, being able to walk through walls makes him
real
hard to capture.”

Hawk added, “We lookin’ into the local shops, seein’ if anyone’s sellin’ Walk Through Walls Spells. Nothin’ so far.”

Jonas dipped his quill in the inkwell on Dru and Hawk’s desk and made a note on his parchment. “What about the Brotherhood?” he asked, which prompted several snorts of derision.

Holding up a piece of parchment from his desk, Dru read from it. “ ‘The Brotherhood of Wizards has sold no such spells within the period requested.’ Like that means a damn thing.”

Earnestly, Grovis said, “The Brotherhood is a noble and august organization that has regulated the use of magic since the days of Chalmraik the Foul. They deserve our respect.”

Dru made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a snort. “If they were
really
so shit-hot at regulating, our caseload’d be cut in half. It’s harder to find a good whore in this town than black-market magic.”

Primly, Grovis said, “I’m sure that you’re wrong about that.”

“Speaking of black-market magic,” Jonas said to Grovis before Dru could reply, “where are we on our fake-glamour ring?”

“We’re on the cusp of an arrest, I’m sure of it,” Grovis said with a confidence that didn’t extend to the expression on Iaian’s face.

The older lieutenant said, “We’ve got some leads, nothing solid.”

Jonas pursed his lips. “Captain’s getting pressure from the Brotherhood on this one. It should’ve been put down days ago.”

Iaian shrugged. “They’re better than we thought. If the Brotherhood has a problem, let
them
deal with it. They’re supposed to be the ones who regulate the use of magic, after all,” he added with a withering gaze at his partner.

Ignoring the jab, Grovis said, “We will close the case,
Sergeant,
and I’ll thank you not to take such a tone.”

“You’re welcome,” Jonas said dryly. He turned to Torin and Danthres. “You two are up next, right?”

Danthres nodded. “Unless the magistrate needs more for that triple murder.”

“Good.” Jonas shuffled through his parchments. “We got a note from Dragon Precinct. One of their informants said that two halflings, a barbarian, a priest, and three warrior types—one human, one elven, one dwarven—all took rooms in the Dog and Duck and had dinner together.”

Danthres leaned back in her wooden chair and groaned. “Lord and Lady, not another heroic quest.”

“I’m afraid so,” Jonas said gravely. “Dragon’s been told to keep a special eye on them. Those types
always
get into brawls.”

“Or worse,” Iaian said. “I remember that group that wiped out the Boar’s Head Inn.”

“I don’t know that inn,” Grovis said.

“You wouldn’t, boy.” Iaian chuckled. “Even if someone like you would be caught dead in a place like that, it got burned to the ground before you were born.”

Jonas said, “Last thing we want is a repeat of last year.”

“What happened last year?” Grovis asked.

Patiently, Iaian explained. “Someone started a rumor about a dragon in the cliffs. We had a run of men with boiling blood and shit for brains coming through Cliff’s End, each thinking
he’d
be the one to take it down.” Iaian let loose with a rare, gap-toothed smile. “I think we set a record for assault calls that year.”

Torin grinned, and he looked at Danthres. “Two coppers says that our next call is from the Dog and Duck.”

“No bet,” Danthres said. “But three coppers says it’s a bar brawl.”

“You’re on.”

Almost as if on cue, a guard ran in. He wore no cloak, but he was clad in the same leather armor emblazoned with the gryphon crest as the rest of them. “We got a body.”

Jonas looked at Danthres and Torin. “All yours.”

“Joy of joys,” Torin said as he got up and moved toward the pegs that held his and Danthres’s cloaks.

Danthres asked the guard, “Where?”

“Dog and Duck, ma’am. One of the guests.”

With a look at Torin, she asked, “Bar brawl?”

The guard shook his head. “Not according to the informant, ma’am. Said the cleaning lady found a dead body in a room.”

Torin was grinning again as he handed Danthres her brown cloak. “That’ll be three coppers.”

Ignoring him, she said, “Let’s go.”

Danthres and Torin traveled on foot to the Dog and Duck, located in the heart of Dragon Precinct, the business district and middle-class region of town. Danthres, who had never gotten along with any horse she’d attempted to ride, had no problem with this. There really wasn’t any other way to traverse the city-state, particularly once you got out of the mansion-laden portions of Unicorn Precinct. Horse-drawn supply wagons did come through, but at a slug’s pace.

The previous Guard captain, an idiot named Brisban, did have a problem with it, unlike Danthres. Then again, he also had a problem with Danthres, but that solved itself when the captain died of a lung infection. Before his death, he had tried having the patrol guards do so on horseback so they could, as Brisban put it, “pursue malefactors more efficiently.” However, the horses were only able to move as fast as the slowest pedestrians without the risk of trampling, which pretty much defeated the whole point of the exercise. Walking had remained the primary mode of travel within the Cliff’s End city limits. Besides Danthres, this state of affairs also pleased the owners of the dozens of stables on the outskirts of the city-state.