The Malaise Falchion

by Paul Barrett

  The Malaise Falchion

  Spade Case Files Book 1

  Paul Barrett

  Dedicated to Ernest "Uncle Ernie" Coker, who helped me a lot of in my younger years and always made a tasty potato soup.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Acknowledgments

  Falstaff Books

  About the Author

  Also by Paul Barrett

  1

  There are a hundred thousand stories in Mage City. The best ones start with a woman. Or a fight. Mine starts with a fight about a woman.

  It happened on what passes for a quiet day in the North Rimside District; only two screams and one sword fight reached my ears. I sat in my second-story office, bleary-eyed, hot, and in need of a beard trimming. A half-empty bottle of Wizard Piss Grog sat on my cluttered desk. It dared me to finish it off. I accepted its challenge.

  The room grew more stifling. I considered opening the shutters. The thought of sunlight and the smell of fresh-gutted Rimbird from the nearby market made my stomach clench. The office already stank of unwashed laundry and smoked meat. The first courtesy of me. The second provided by the store below my office.

  I rubbed my hands across my hairy face and ran my tongue over my teeth. They felt as fuzzy as molded fruit.

  Two weeks had passed since my last case; it seemed unlikely any new business would wander in this late in the afternoon. I wasn’t in the mood to hit up my usual contacts. Time for a nap.

  I had just gathered a stack of unfiled parchments from my desk and rested my head on them when the office door swung open. I raised my head. Crizlyk stood in the doorway. Criz is a sauro, the smaller, dumber version of a Lizardman. I’ve always thought assistants should be shorter and less intelligent than their boss. Being a dwarf, I had few options. Gnomes are too damn smart and cheery. Halflings eat too much. Crizlyk listened well, didn’t mouth off too often, and had to look up at me. And he worked cheap, which was almost what I could afford.

  “What is it?” I croaked as my eyes focused on his ugly green, long-jawed face.

  “There’s an elf here to see you,” he yipped. “Says it’s important.”

  “Don’t they always,” I moaned. “Tell him I’m busy, I’ll talk to him later.”

  Before Criz could obey, a black leather boot punted all three feet of him to the wall. He hit with a squeak and bounced off. A broad-shouldered figure in a chain shirt and green clothing stepped in. Not an elf. An orc with chalky skin, piggish eyes, and short, gold-capped tusks. Another followed. They looked like twins, but who can tell with orcs? They took up positions on either side of the door and rested their large cudgels against their thick necks.

  I had seen the Dance of the Hired Goons enough to know the routine. Sure, they wore livery. A green tabard with a gilded fern leaf proclaimed to all that they worked for Clan Greenstreet, one of the five elf Clans in Mage City. Livery on an orc is like flowers on horse dung: the flowers make it look better, but take them away, and you’re left with shit. These two were nothing more than street thugs pretending to be bodyguards. There was a lot of that after the war. I couldn’t blame them for taking the work. It looked like they ate well, which was more than I could boast.

  I scratched my scalp as they scanned the room. Satisfied I didn’t have an army hidden behind my lone bookshelf, or under my threadbare rug, the grunt on the left leaned back through the door and grunted.

  An elf stepped into the room. Though they occasionally stumble on to making a decent bottle of wine, elves don’t rank high on my list of companions. They don’t even do much for me as clients. Getting proper pay from them is harder than pulling the wings off a gargoyle. All in all, they’re a half-step above useless.

  This one wore the fancy silk clothes and mincing ways of royalty, a class that’s the definition of pointless. An elf’s age is hard to guess. This one looked young, no more than a hundred years. Barely out of swaddling by their standards. “It smells like a troll pit in here,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I’ll take your word for that, having never been in one,” I stood and placed hands on my desk to keep steady. The Wizard’s Piss was doing its job, helped by the sweltering heat. Crizlyk scurried from the floor and stood beside me. His black eyes peered over the desktop in fright.

  “How can I help you, my Lord…” I paused for his name.

  He obliged. “Greenstreet. Quinitas Greenstreet. You are Spadenose?”

  I frowned. “My name is Snazdaggin Kundarik. My friends call me Spade. You can too if you hire me. Nobody calls me Spadenose.” I had the misfortune of being born with a nose shaped like a shovel, broad at the crown and tapering to a point where my nostrils met. The literal translation of Snazdaggin is “nose like a spade.” Yet another reason I had to dislike my parents.

  “Friends,” Quinitas said, his tone indicating the absurdity of me having companions. He was wrong. I had plenty of friends at the Wringed Rooster tavern. As long as I was buying the rounds.

  Quinitas studied me. His violet eyes brushed over me while his hands nattered at his green and gold tunic. Displeasure at my appearance scribed itself all over his thin face. I didn’t blame him. He saw uncombed red hair and a scraggly beard on a dirty face. Wrinkled brown tunic and unbuttoned blue doublet. Unbuttoned. That pretty much said it all. “You don’t look much like a war veteran.”

  The Goon twins snickered. The elf offered a malicious smile. Heat that had nothing to do with drink rose in my cheeks. “Don’t laugh too hard,” I told the orcs. “You lost, remember?” Their smiles disappeared. I looked at Quinitas. “That’s all in the past now. I don’t dwell on it.”

  His eyes flicked to the empty bottle of Wizard Piss. “I think all you do is dwell on exactly where your life went wrong.”

  He studied my office, taking in the littered floor, rolled-up bedding in the corner, and empty bottles on the shelf where books or war trophies should be. “Your Clan must be so proud.”

  My eyes quivered under the pressure of my anger.

  He snapped his fingers. “I’m mistaken. Kundarik isn’t your birth name. Kundarik means ‘Dwarf with no Clan’ doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “I guess they aren’t so proud.”

  My hands came off the desk and balled into fists. I had thought that particular wolf too old to nip at me anymore. Coming from the mouth of this pampered shit, it bit deep. Rage chased away some of the Wizard Piss. “State your business. If you’ve come to hire me, my rate is half a gold Gosley a day plus expenses. If you’ve come to insult me, the price is much higher than I think you’re willing to pay.” I cracked my knuckles for emphasis.

  My empty threats brought a laugh from the elf. “I wouldn’t hire you if you paid me two silver a day. However, there is a young woman who will be along shortly to offer you work. Refuse it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking you nicely, as one Clan member to another.”

  My fists balled tighter. “I don’t have a Clan anymore, remember?”

  The elf sighed. “Fine. Then I’m telling you to refuse it for your own safety...”

  Ears hot enough to light parchment, I stepped from behind my desk. I must have had the dangerous look Crizlyk had seen before. The glare that promised imminent violence. He cowered behind the des
k and whimpered. “I don’t know who you think you are,” I growled, “but nobody comes into my office and threat-”

  The elf’s arms dropped to his sides. The orcs stepped forward and bristled with menace. “I’ll tell you exactly who I am.”

  He pulled up his shirt to reveal his tight, hairless stomach. An intricate tattoo of fern leaves covered his abdomen, a mass of foliage in green and yellow. That was his Clan symbol. No big deal. Lots of Clan members got them.

  The tattoo in the center of the Clan emblem was a different matter. A dagger with a single drop of blood on the tip. A shiver racked through me at the sight of it.

  “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

  I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of naming it or showing fear. “Nice drawing. Did your mommy do it for you?”

  Quinitas released his silk shirt. His eyes turned dark as he marched around the desk and looked down on me. The Goons dropped their clubs into swinging position. Crizlyk howled in fear. “I am the Clanmage of Clan Greenstreet. I’m certain even a fetid piece of shoe mud like you is smart enough to know exactly what that means.”

  That meant he could wipe the streets with me and not muss his clothing. What he didn’t say was that he was more than a Clanmage. Much more. The bloodied dagger marked him as a member of the Assassins’ Covenant. A magical assassin is a doubly dangerous enemy.

  “When the girl comes, turn her away,” he said. “Don’t, and suffer the consequences.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him that I had no problem refusing her, whoever she was. I wasn’t brave or stupid enough to want the AC visiting me some dark night.

  Then he showed me a smile cold as a frost giant’s handshake. “Consider what it cost you the last time you made a bad decision.”

  The kid should have stopped with the smile. But he had to offer that last haughty remark to rub my face into the dung pile of my past. My vision turned red as my hair. The anger washed away the last effects of the drink. I dimly heard Criz bark out a “No!”

  Too late. I caught the elf off-guard. He was tall, so my meaty fist swung in an uppercut to connect with his nuts. He groaned and dropped to his knees. That put his face level with mine, so my other fist flew out to meet his jaw. The clack as his teeth slammed together and head snapped back was most satisfying. He dropped toward the floor, only to be replaced by the Goon twins. I landed a punch to the stomach of the first one. He staggered a moment, even though his chain shirt deflected most of the hit and cut my fingers. The second orc swung on me with his cudgel. Red turned to black.

  I awoke to Crizlyk’s warm, dead-rat-scented breath blowing on my face. “Wake up, boss,” he whined. “You can’t be dead. No one else will hire me.”

  “I’m awake,” I told him, although I wasn’t too sure. I sat up. My head pounded like a goblin war drum. I reached up where the club had connected. I winced as my fingers touched a knot that rivaled the size of Criz’s head. The movement of my arm made me realize my ribs hurt, too. “I need a-”

  Crizlyk put a bottle in my hand. I pulled the cork out with my teeth and downed several gulps of my sour friend. The pain in my head lessened. “How long have I been out?”

  “Almost half an hour,” Criz answered. “When you fell, one of them started kicking you. I bit him on the leg, and he kicked me, then they left. Pointy ears wrote something for you.” The sauro held out a parchment in his scaly hand. I took it and only then noticed his right eye puffed shut.

  “Thanks for defending me,” I said, glad I had hired the scaly runt. A halfling certainly wouldn’t have bitten someone’s leg for me, unless it was covered in mustard.

  “Sure, boss.”

  I opened the parchment and worked to make my eyes focus on the spindly writing. Criz couldn’t read, so I read it aloud for his sake.

  “Dirt dweller that you are, you’re not worth the effort to kill, much as my boys would like to. You have been marked. You are being watched. Refuse the girl or suffer.”

  It was signed in Elvish, which I don’t read, but I didn’t have to.

  “Dirt dweller,” I muttered. “Guy’s a real charmer.”

  “I thought he was kind of a dick,” Criz said. sauros are literal creatures. Criz has never caught on to sarcasm, even after three years around me.

  I found it interesting Quinitas would leave such an incriminating document. Then I set the parchment on the floor. It burst into flames. Within seconds the only evidence was wisps of fine ash. I grunted, not at all surprised.

  “Is this a bad time?” a soft voice asked from the doorway. I hadn’t heard anyone approach. Crizlyk yelped in fright. I merely looked up from where I sat.

  And clapped my eyes the most beautiful elfette I’d ever seen. Elves have many shortcomings; lack of good looks isn’t one of them. Even the males are enough to give a guy second thoughts about where he might sheath his sword. But compared to the flutter in my doorway, every other elf and elfette resembled a mule’s ass.

  Her hair shone gold like the sun, but more radiant. It draped over a thin silver circlet that sat on her forehead. A blood red ruby descended from the center, resting above and between her eyes. Soft purple, those eyes reminded me of the crag lilacs that bloom in my mountain home. They studied me with such cool intensity I immediately felt I had been judged and found lacking. She had more curves than a hydra and in all the right places. Her outfit, blue and gauzy, clung to those curves in ways that would make a harlot blush. This one was no street tramp, though. Her bearing, posture, and fashion screamed pure Clan. She was trouble incarnate. My instincts would have warned me even if a club to my skull hadn’t already done so.

  She walked into my office and offered her hand. It was a fine, delicate object the color of alabaster. I waved her away, strangely embarrassed that she would offer such a thing of beauty to the chance of being mauled by my clumsy mitts. I forced myself to stand, bottle in hand, and straightened my still unbuttoned doublet.

  “And that’s how you execute a killing elbow blow to a downed opponent,” I said to Crizlyk, who had the sense to keep quiet. I looked at the elf. She offered an amused smile that almost made my heart explode even as it told me she didn’t believe my ruse for a moment. “Sorry, I’m closed.”

  She sniffed at the air. I steeled myself, waiting for some rude remark that would destroy her beauty. Instead, her smile dropped. She glanced at Crizlyk, saw his swollen eye. “Quinitas has been here, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes.” I walked to my desk to get some distance. Being close to her had my head dancing like a fairy high on maple syrup. “And he was most persuasive. You’ll have to look elsewhere for service.”

  “There is nowhere else,” she said. Her violet eyes glistened. “I’ve tried all the other investigators in town. They’re all afraid. You’re my last resort.”

  I couldn’t even muster the energy to be insulted that she had left me for last. “Then it looks like you’re out of luck, sweetheart, because I’m scared too. Something about the Assassin’s Covenant that takes the iron out of your spine.”

  She cried. A delicate snuffling sound. If she counted on tears to loosen my resolve, she was crawling in the wrong cave. Better her tears than my blood. I took a drink as she blubbered.

  “You have to help me. We can’t let my brother get away with it.”

  I lowered the bottle. Brother? I gave her a closer inspection. Seeing past her beauty--no easy feat--I spotted the family resemblance. It revealed itself in the set of her jaw, the crescent sweep and lilac color of her eyes. I thought about asking to see the Clan Mark on her chest, but figured it would only get me hit again. “I think you should leave now.”

  She wiped at her eyes and brought her bawling under control. “Don’t you even want to know what my brother is trying to do?”

  “No. I’m sure it involves people dying and assassins in the night. I’d rather not be on the list.”

  “I can pay you.”

  “Is that all you think dwarves are interested in, sister? If I wanted money, I’d
work in a mine.”

  She walked to my desk and placed her hands on its beaten top. She leaned over, accenting the curves of her upper body. “I could pay you in gold and…other things,” she purred.

  So maybe she was a bit of a whore. It didn’t detract from her beauty or regal bearing. I forced my gaze up from her overflowing display and stared into her eyes. “Tempting, but still not worth my life.”

  “From what I’ve heard, your life isn’t worth that much.” Coming from her brother, it would have been an insult. Hearing it from her delicate lips and honey voice, it sounded like nothing short of the truth. “I could offer you something to make it better.”

  “Like what?”

  “I know that what happened at the Battle of Pastrik Forest wasn’t your fault. I have proof. I could get you reinstated to your Clan.”

  I hesitated for about two seconds. “I’m listening.”

  What can I say? I’m a sucker for a beautiful girl with evidence of extenuating circumstances.

  2

  She closed the door. “May I have a seat?”

  “At your own risk,” I pointed to the rickety wooden client chair that sat in front of my desk. “I never got around to fixing it after the troll sat in it.”

  “You could offer me yours,” she said as if that wasn’t the most obvious thing.

  “It’s not much better,” I walked back around the desk and jumped into the chair. It groaned and creaked as I shifted on the pillow that let me see over the desk. The furniture had been made for a human. I couldn’t afford anything custom-built. These had come into my possession because someone had thrown them out. “I’d offer you something to drink, but all I have is grog.”