The Consuls of the Vicariate (14 page)

L
aedron watched her walk down the hall until she was gone from sight. “It’s good to see her in higher spirits.”

“You call that ‘higher spirits’?” Marac scoffed.

“If you’d seen her mourning in the chapel, you’d agree with me.”

“If you say so.” Marac placed a shield on his arm and buckled it.

“Never thought I’d see you using one of those again.”

“I’d rather take a blow to this hunk of wood and iron than my fleshy bits, if I can help it.”

“You stand a good chance, I’d say. The thing’s more than half your height.”

“Let’s get on with it. My feet are begging to roam the cobbles for hours on end.”

“No need to be dry about it, Marac. At least now we have a useful purpose in the scheme of things.” Laedron gave him a good-natured poke. “Brice has seen more action than you in this city thus far.”

“Oh, so we’re competing now? Little thimble’s got a long way to catch up to Marac Reven.”

Laedron laughed, leading the way through the hall and into the street. He soon found the beginning of their appointed route, the mouth of a narrow back street near the western wall of the Ancient Quarter.
It couldn’t have been a well-lit street, now could it?
Laedron sighed.

Marac’s face radiated his concern. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, yes. I only wonder what we’ll find along this road.”

“This one’s as good as any other. We’ve been in tighter spots.”

“Let’s get to it, then. It’s not going to patrol itself.”

With the sun setting on the horizon, Laedron watched the lantern lighters scurry through the streets. The light posts gave off a dim ambient glow, just enough for him to make out important features, but not enough to clear the shadows that gave him anxiety.
How entertaining it will be for our assailants when I draw this dagger
.
I know more about fishing than wielding this thing, and that’s pathetic indeed
. He was glad to have Marac at his side; he knew the miller’s son had paid close attention to sword training.

Marac walked over to the first business they encountered, turned the knob, and jiggled the door in its frame.

“What are you doing?” Laedron asked.

“Making sure it’s secure. If we’re to be militia, we might as well do it right.”

Laedron checked the next door. “What do we do if they’re unlocked?”

“Reach in and lock it, I suppose. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a bit new to this whole patrolling thing.”

“We just have to stay close to Jurgen’s apartment. I’d die if anything happened to him.”

“Don’t you mean
to her
?” Marac asked.

“What? No, of course not. Don’t be silly.”

“What’s silly about it? Has your training made you cold to any possibilities other than the mission?”

“Now’s not the time. We have a war to stop.”

Marac gave him a cross glare. “All duty, eh? What will become of you when duty ends and all that remains is a tired old man?”

“I have some time before that, I should think. Plenty of time by my calculations.”

“Wait too long, and you’ll find things passing you by, my friend. Wait, yes, but no longer than you must.”

“We’re too different, and her father just passed. I don’t want to simply be a replacement for someone she’s lost.”

“No, she doesn’t strike me as that type. She’s willful, and she might even be as stubborn as you. From my limited experience, I could say that you two have several things in common—a love of books and knowledge, a quiet demeanor, all wrapped around a fiery, passionate center.”

“All of that aside, I doubt she’s interested in me. I’ve been in her embrace, but it was only to comfort her in her grief. Nothing more.”

“Then bring her back from the darkness, Lae. Give her hope. Won’t you at least try?”

Laedron stopped.

“Well, won’t you?” Marac took him by the shoulder. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sorry if I offended, but it’s—”

“Look. Just there,” Laedron said, pointing down an alley. In a wider part of the alleyway, a pair of shoes—clearly still worn by a body—lay exposed, and the person to whom they were attached wasn’t moving. Laedron could gather little detail since the body was mostly concealed behind a few barrels.

“Oh, probably a vagabond. We’re militia, right? Let’s check him out.” Marac approached, looked over the tops of the barrels, then turned back to Laedron. “It’s a militia guard, Lae. He’s not moving.”

Laedron walked around the barrels and crouched beside the man. Searching for wounds, he said, “There’s no blood. Nothing. He isn’t breathing.”

“Roll him over.” Marac walked to the other side of the man and hunched over him. “Check his back.”

“Nothing there, either. No blood, nothing.” Laedron scanned the distance when something made a noise in the next alley, a sound much like a pan hitting the ground. “What was that?”

Across from them, a man cowled in black robes took off down the opposite street. Laedron caught a glimpse of red symbols on the back of the man’s cloak, small, indistinguishable characters written in two vertical rows from his shoulders to the hem.

“A killer? Marac!” Laedron sprang to his feet. With Marac’s heavy footsteps on his heels, Laedron pursued the shadowy figure through the alley. Laedron turned the next corner and heard the sound of a sword being drawn behind him—Marac readying himself for a fight. He drew his dagger.
Better this than nothing, I guess
.

Rounding the next corner, Laedron felt a sting on his throat and recoiled out of reflex. He remembered that same feeling when Heidrik, Gustav’s minion who had tortured Marac and Mikal, had lashed him in the face. The feeling was unmistakable and familiar, the warmth of blood flowing across his skin. He turned and plunged the dagger into the cloaked man as hard as he could. Laedron’s breathing hastened while his target’s slowed and became shallow. From the amount of blood on his hands, Laedron knew that he had hit his mark and hit it well.

The man’s dagger dropped from his left hand, and a bit of wood from his right, as he collapsed. A pool of blood spread slowly and soaked his garments.

Laedron took a step back to keep his boots from getting drenched. Laedron’s eyes widened when he realized that the length of wood was, in fact, a wand. “It’s a mage, Marac! Have I killed one of our countrymen?”

“Keep your voice down, Lae.” Marac leaned down and removed the cloth covering the man’s face. “Doesn’t look like any Sorbian I’ve ever seen.”

“We haven’t seen them all. What if he’s like us? What if he was on a mission, too?”

“If he was on a mission, I doubt it came from the same people we serve. Look, a tattoo on his neck. Unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

Laedron turned the man’s head to the side, and the tattoo on his neck was illuminated by the lantern light. “It’s a word.”

“A word? What does it say?”

“
Kivesh
.”

“Kivesh?” Marac asked. “Well, what does that mean?”

“Nothing. It’s a name.”

“How can you read it?”

“It’s written in an old language. Zyvdredi.”

Marac’s face twisted with apparent shock and fear. “Zyvdredi? Here?”

“It would seem so.” Laedron rummaged through the man’s pockets. In the belt, he found a black cloth pouch.

“What’s that?” Marac asked.

Without responding, Laedron opened the purse and pulled out a handful of black stones, each etched with a runic symbol that he couldn’t place, symbols similar to the ones along the back of the man’s cloak. A few of the stones sparkled with an artificial glow as if reverberating with energy. The others only reflected the light of the lantern posts.

“What are those, Lae? What does all this mean?”

“I don’t know.” Laedron returned the stones to the bag and put it in his pocket. “I’m going to hold on to them until we know for sure.”

“What do we do now?”

Laedron retrieved the man’s wand and tucked it into his other boot. “Back to the dead guard. I need to see what I can discover about the body. It may lend a clue.”

Marac led the way back to the militiaman’s body, and Laedron searched the area for any sign of onyx stones.

“Nothing here. Nothing more than we already know, which isn’t much.”

Laedron reached for his wand, but Marac grabbed his hand before he could draw it.

“If we’re to do this, we’d better try the old-fashioned way—find witnesses and look around. If you’re discovered, we’d be in deep water.”

Laedron stood with a sigh, then turned when he heard a door close behind him. “Where was that?”

“Couldn’t tell,” Marac said.

Believing the source of the sound to be close, Laedron knocked on the door opposite the dead guard, then listened intently. He heard the shuffling of feet against a wooden floor on the other side, but no one answered. He knocked again.

A muffled, “Go away!” came from beyond the door.

“I won’t go away. Open, in the name of the militia,” Laedron said, trying to sound serious and authoritative.

The door creaked open only an inch or two. “What ye want?” The voice was that of an elderly male, probably crotchety and set in his ways, but little else.

“Did you see what passed here not long ago?” Laedron asked, pointing over his shoulder.

“No, and we don’t want any trouble. Go away.”

Before the man could slam the door, Laedron forced it open just enough to lodge his boot in the crack. “We’re not done here. If you’ve seen anything, you need to tell us.”

“What are you doing there?” a voice shouted from up the alley. The jingle of metal armor matched pace with footsteps, and Laedron recognized the newcomer as one of the younger militia guards.

“Investigating a crime,” Laedron replied. “Go get more guards. The killer is up this street. Take the next right, then turn right again. There you shall find him in a puddle of his own blood. Go!”

“You caught the one who did this?” the elderly man behind the door whispered, opening the door. “Is it true?”

The man wore a long, white beard identical to his hair, both unkempt and dirty. He gave off a horrible odor reminiscent of sweat and spoiled milk, and his clothes were those of a beggar.

“Yes,” Laedron said, trying to hide a grimace. “Now, will you tell me what you saw? Or do you insist on playing this game even still?”

“Lower your voice, young man. There are ears that might overhear us. Come in, and I shall tell you what I saw.”

Entering the cramped domicile, Laedron was thankful he hadn’t eaten anything recently because the smell and conditions within the pitiful house would have surely made him lose his stomach on the floor.

“What in the hells is that smell?” Laedron asked, unable to contain his disgust. “Are you harboring the dead beneath your floors?”

“My soup, young man. Sounds like you wouldn’t care for any.”

“If it’s putting off a scent like that, I think I’ll pass,” Laedron said, and Marac waved his hand in agreement.

“Well, have a seat, then.” The man gestured at a pair of rickety wooden chairs set around a matching table, then took a seat across from them. “Name’s Clarence.”

Laedron sat and folded his arms. “Laedron, and this is Marac. What did you see?”

“That young fellow there, the dead one, he was walking along and tapped another fellow on the back when he reached the barrels. They exchanged words too quiet for me to hear, then I saw a glimmer of light.”

“A glimmer of light?” Laedron asked, his interest piqued. “What did it look like?”

“Swirling, vibrant, and red. It wrapped around the guard, and only a few moments later, the militia man collapsed.”

“The man who did this, he had symbols along the back of his garb? Red embroideries?”

“Yes, and a scarf across his face.” Clarence paused. “Am I safe here?”

“Worry not. That one will trouble you no more.” Laedron stood. “Anything else?”

“That’s the best I can remember. What do you think this means, if you don’t mind me poking my nose around in it?”

“We know not,” Marac said, “but we shall find out. Keep your doors secure and report anything else you remember to Master Greathis.”

With a nod, the old man stood and let Laedron and Marac out. Laedron heard the slide of metal locking the door behind them once they reached the alley.

Seeing more militia approaching, Laedron pointed at the dead guard. “Take this one back to the headquarters, and you’ll find his murderer on the next street. Bring that one’s body to Greathis, too. We’ll keep up the patrol in case there are more.”

Once they had gotten farther up the alley and clear of the militia, Marac asked, “Do you mean to tell them about the stones?”

“No, not yet.” Laedron patted the pocket containing the black pouch. “I mean to do a little investigating before I reveal that piece of information.”

“What if Greathis could tell us more?”

“At worst, he might know exactly what they mean and not tell us anything because he works for the same people. He is Falacoran, after all. At best, he would know and tell us, but the risk far outweighs the good that might come of it.”

“You’re right. So, you think it’s not an isolated incident? A lone murderer on the prowl?”

“No, not from what we saw. A name tattooed on his neck written in Zyvdredi, these stones, and magic—no, he’s working for someone else, but I don’t know the purpose. We’ve come upon the identity of the killer and the reason guards have come up missing, but it creates even more questions.”

“Let’s keep searching. Perhaps there are more clues around here that we’re not seeing.”

Laedron shrugged. “Maybe. It’s worth a shot. If we don’t find anything, we should go see Greathis to feel him out and see what he can tell us.”

They continued patrolling for over an hour. Nothing seemed unusual or out of the ordinary, as best he could tell. He decided they should go visit Master Greathis, and Marac agreed.

* * *

When they arrived at the militia headquarters, Laedron took in the spectacle in front of the building. A squad of guards, with Greathis among them, were gathered around the dead body Laedron had found and the one he had caused. Several dozen regular citizens crowded the streets, craning their necks to see.