The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows (2 page)

He put Cutter in mind of a desert snake, watching its prey as it waited for the best moment to strike.

“The thing is,” said Tiel in his reasonable voice, “it’s not just me you’re letting down. When you don’t pay me what you owe, I can’t pay my people what I owe, and they tend to get upset. Isn’t that right, Cutter?”

“That’s right.”

Elian looked at Cutter. Cutter stared back, unblinking. Cutter was a big guy—over six-three, with a thick neck and dark hair so short it was barely stubble. A dragon tattoo crawled up his arms and around his neck, seeming to writhe whenever he tensed his muscles. He
knew
he looked scary. That was why he did what he did. He was good at it.

Cutter could see the fear in the elf’s eyes, the fear that he was going to die. That was how Tiel liked to work. Take everything away from them, then give something back. Gratitude alone usually made them cough up what they owed. But Cutter still had to work them over a bit. Just so they didn’t try it again.

“And Cutter here”—Tiel paused and slapped the elf’s foot—”look at me when I’m talking to you.”

The elf jerked his head back to look at the halfling.

“That’s better. As I was saying, Cutter needs his money.” Tiel leaned forward conspiratorially. “See, his woman’s a courtesan, and Cutter likes to give her money so she doesn’t have to work so much.” He rocked back on his haunches again. “Me, I could never be with someone who gets paid for sex, but that’s just me. I have my pride.”

This time Cutter didn’t meet the elf’s gaze. He looked away, uninterested in the conversation. He’d heard it all before. It used to annoy him, the way Tiel put him down, talking about him like he wasn’t there. But not anymore.

Bren, Tiel’s bodyguard, had approached him one of the first times Tiel talked like that, when Cutter was leaning against the bar trying to stop himself from shoving a knife into Tiel’s stomach.

“You respect him?” Bren had asked.

Cutter hadn’t moved. “What?”

“I said, do you respect him?”

Cutter turned his head to look at him. “Who? Tiel?”

Bren grinned and nodded. “Yeah, Tiel. Is he someone who’s opinion matters to you?”

Cutter thought for a moment. “Not in the slightest.”

“Then why do you act like what he says makes a difference? You don’t respect him. He knows that. So he takes shots at you. He wants to see how far he can push you. See, he knows he’s got me to watch over him.”

“And you’re good at what you do?”

“The best. So stop letting him get to you. You’re ugly enough without me having to rearrange your face.”

Just then, Bren was leaning in the shadows against the far wall, clenching and unclenching his new adamantine arm. He was about the same height as Cutter, with long, black hair, but his build was slimmer. That didn’t mean he was weak. Cutter had once seen him drop a half-orc with one well-placed punch. No. He definitely wasn’t weak. His strength was simply … more focused.

Cutter knew he was listening, even though it looked like he wasn’t. Cutter still didn’t know Bren’s story. Just that he’d been kicked out of his Dragonmarked House and ended up here. With all the rest of the rejects and outcasts.

“So what should I do?” asked Tiel. “What would
you
do?”

Elian licked his lips, trying to work up some moisture. “Uh … I’d—I’d let you go.”

“Would
you now? You hear that, boys? He’d let me go. How nice of you.”

“B-but with a warning.”

“With a
warning
. Well, why didn’t you say so? That seem fair to you, Bren?”

Bren glanced up. “Not really.”

“Well, it sounds fair to me. My friend, today is your lucky day.”

Elian’s face brightened with tentative hope. “You’re letting me go?”

Tiel smiled. “No. I’m not. Cutter? Do your job.”

Tiel got up and stretched, then backed away. He didn’t like getting blood on his clothes. Cutter sauntered forward, letting the fear build. There was an art to being a bruiser. It wasn’t just about beating a guy until he passed out. At least, not to Cutter. The aim was to scare him, to make sure he was healthy enough and willing enough to pay up next time.

The way Cutter did this, he caused head wounds. They bled a lot, scared the mark. A couple of punches to the face to add some real pain, and the guy was usually begging to pay Tiel.

Cutter didn’t bother untying the elf. He picked up the chair by the arms and threw it against the wall. The elf cried out as his head slammed against the uneven plaster. He fell to the floor, the chair breaking apart beneath him. Cutter hung back a second, letting the elf feel his head for the wound, his hand coming away covered in blood. Then Cutter picked him up by his shirt. Two sharp jabs. One to the nose. Another to the jaw. Blood flowing now from the scalp wound, dripping from his eyebrows, blood from the nose sliding warmly down the back of his throat. He knew exactly what the elf was feeling.

“That was by way of introduction,” said Cutter. “Now, here’s how it goes. You tell me where Boromar can get his money, and
you get to keep your teeth. You don’t talk, we keep doing this until you do.” Cutter pulled the elf closer. He could smell the sweat and fear on him. “And believe me, they always talk. It’s just a matter of how long they can hold out.”

Elian looked at Cutter in confusion. “Boromar?” he mumbled. “He’s not a Boromar.”

Cutter stared at the elf, not really believing what he had just heard. Could someone
actually
be that stupid?

“What did he say?” demanded Tiel.

“I’d keep your mouth shut if I were you,” said Cutter in a low voice.

“But he’s not. I know Saidan Boromar. You hear that?” He pushed himself away from Cutter and looked at Tiel. “I know Saidan. He doesn’t have any sons.” Elian staggered, then steadied himself against the wall.

Cutter wondered if maybe he’d hit the elf too hard, because he certainly wasn’t thinking straight. Nobody said that to Tiel. What the truth of the matter was, Cutter didn’t know. All Bren had told him was that Tiel claimed to be the son of Saidan Boromar, head of one of the biggest crime families in Sharn. But Boromar had never acknowledged Tiel as blood, a fact that Tiel couldn’t accept. Bren said the halfling was trying to work his way up the chain in the hope that his father would name him heir.

Cutter didn’t think that would ever happen. He didn’t think Tiel really thought so either, which was probably why he went shifter on anyone who was stupid enough to say anything about it.

He glanced at Tiel. The halfling just stood there, staring at Elian. He didn’t look angry. Maybe he wasn’t going to—

Then he lunged forward and punched Elian hard in the stomach. Tiel was strong for a halfling. Cutter had seen him beat
a man almost as big as Cutter until he was unconscious. Elian was no match.

The elf flew back against the wall and Tiel charged after him, throwing punches to his chest and stomach. When the elf sagged to his knees, Tiel focused on his head, raining blow after blow on him until his face looked like it had been dipped in a bucket of red paint. Cutter glanced at Bren, eyebrows raised. Tiel’s bodyguard nodded slightly and walked forward.

“Tiel,” he said.

The halfling ignored him. Elian collapsed to the floor. Tiel traded his punches for kicks. Elian groaned every time a boot connected.

“Tiel, we need him alive,” said Bren. “He needs to tell us where the money is.”

Tiel stopped his attack, breathing heavily. He looked at Bren, then down at the elf. He wiped his brow with his forearm and squatted in front of the moaning figure. He grabbed Elian’s face, pulling him up so he had no choice but to look Tiel in the eyes. “Who is my father?” he asked.

Elian mumbled something unintelligible.

Tiel shook the elf. “Who is my father?” he shouted.

“Sa … Saidan Boromar,” mumbled Elian.

“And don’t you forget it.”

Tiel pushed the elf back to the floor and stood. He looked at the blood that spattered his shirt and trousers.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said. “My clothes are ruined.”

Some time later, Cutter walked through the streets of Dragoneyes, the hood of his oiled cloak pulled low over his
forehead. The rain drummed a steady tattoo on the leather, almost drowning out the sounds of the night life around him.

And there was plenty of that, thought Cutter, holding the edge of his hood and looking around. The three days of Long Shadows were upon the city. It was only the first night of the festival and already things were getting more dangerous than usual.

It was said that when the Sovereign Lord Aureon brought magic into the world, he created a creature of darkness that stole his shadow to use as its vessel. The Shadow fed on death and despair, granting power to those who pursued dark magic. The monsters of Droaam, even those that had relocated to Sharn, bowed down before this dark god. As did anyone who followed the black paths of magic.

And the festival of Long Shadows was the one time during the year when the Shadow’s influence waxed strong enough that his worshipers dared to leave their hidden sanctuaries to take advantage of their god’s expanded influence.

And take advantage they did.

Cutter slowed as two orcs emerged from an alley ahead of him and lumbered across the street. Humans and dwarves scattered out of their path, staring after them in fear. Orcs were common enough in the city, but during Long Shadows they seemed to lose their thin veneer of civilization and regress to the primitive creatures they were before leaving Droaam. It was a dangerous time for the people of Sharn. No one knew what the orcs were going to do next.

A group of goblins emerged from a building, laughing and shouting at the top of their lungs. They passed some kind of vessel between them, something that pumped out thick, greasy smoke whenever they put it to their lips.

Cutter turned off the street. He didn’t have time to get
caught up in anything tonight. Tiel wanted his money back at the tavern as soon as Cutter could get his hands on it. He was surprised Elian had been able to remember where it was after all their persuasion.

He stepped aboard a lift at the northern edge of Dragoneyes, the once silvery disc turned black and tarnished, its waist-high railing green with mold. Nobody bothered cleaning the lifts in the lower wards. It was a battle that couldn’t be won.

The lift rose quickly through the rain. Cutter watched as Lower Menthis expanded below him, the bright, chaotic lights of Firelight clashing with the ordered lines of everbright lanterns that marked the residential districts of Center Bridge and Forgelight Towers.

He looked to the west of Center Bridge, where the district of Downstairs lay. Rowen would be there, probably getting ready for her appointment. Cutter gripped the railing and squinted through the rain, almost as if he could see her if he willed it hard enough. They’d had another fight before he left earlier that night. About the same thing they always fought over—money. Or rather, getting enough money for them to get away from Sharn, to start somewhere fresh.

The lift rose through a circular hole and came to a jerky halt level with the street of Middle Menthis. Cutter disembarked and walked until he found Fountain Boulevard. Then he searched for the house with the petrified worgs standing guard. Cutter stood and examined them. They looked fake to him, crudely carved creatures that resembled massive wolves. He wondered how much the elf had paid for them.

Cutter took a quartz crystal from his pocket and held it over the lock on the gate. The elf had given it to him, saying Cutter needed it to disarm the magical traps he’d placed throughout the grounds. The lock clicked quietly and the gates swung inward.
Cutter waited a moment, surveying the garden and the gravel path that led to the three-story house. What if the elf had lied about the stone disarming the traps? Nothing moved, but that didn’t mean anything.

Only one way to find out. Cutter stepped into the garden and walked up the path to the front door. The house lay in darkness, which made sense since the owner had been tied up in a back room of a tavern since the early afternoon.

Cutter opened the door and stepped into the hall. Cold fire lamps flared to life, revealing a corridor carpeted with imported Sarlonan rugs, some of the most expensive hand-woven carpets in the marketplace. Someone had told Cutter that each rug was woven by three generations of women, the youngest generation learning the craft from her elders as they worked side by side. Each rug took as long as five years to produce.

Paintings of famous battles adorned the walls. Cutter glanced at them. Elian was obviously an enthusiast for the War. Cutter bet he wasn’t involved in any of the fighting.

The elf said the gold was hidden beneath a floorboard in his study on the second floor. Cutter checked the rooms on the ground level just to make sure no surprises were lurking unseen, then climbed the wide staircase. The study was at the far end of the corridor, through a set of ornately carved double doors. Cutter pushed them open.

A huge darkwood desk dominated the room beyond. It sat in the middle of a deep red and green carpet, the colors forming a picture of a grassland plain on fire. Cutter shook his head in bemusement. How rich was this guy? Or rather, how rich had he
been?
His luck must have turned sour if he was borrowing money from Tiel. A single everbright lantern stood on the desk, its stand designed to look like a dragon clutching the sun. A hemisphere of metal surrounded the globe, so that the light
could be turned in different directions.