The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows

by Crilley, Paul

  Gaia led them to Warden Tower, a soaring white monolith that stood on the edge of the cliffs and overlooked Clifftop. Wren counted the windows that dotted the pitted surface and reckoned the structure was twenty floors high.

  “Do you live here?” he asked.

  “Yes. All the Wardens do.”

  “And how many of you are there?”

  “Oh, just me. The powers that be think one cleric is sufficient.” She stopped and turned to them. “But they’re all fools! Don’t they know how dangerous it is here? I’m beset! Beset from all sides!”

  Wren glanced warily to the right and left of the deserted concourse. “By what exactly?” he asked.

  “By them! Necromancers, worshipers of the Keeper.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Creatures of evil!” She smiled and straightened up again. “The last Warden couldn’t handle it,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “What happened to him?” asked Torin.

  Gaia pointed to the top floor. “He threw himself out of that window.” She turned and pointed to the spot where Wren stood. “And he landed right there.”

  Wren took a step to the side.

  “He made quite a mess, I can tell you.”

  “I can imagine,” said Wren.

  She hurried ahead and disappeared into the tower. A moment later she appeared at a window one floor up. “Come, then. If you want to know what happened to your box.”

  The three looked at each other. Cutter shrugged and started forward. The others joined him and they walked through the open door into the tower.

  It was dark, but enough light filtered in from outside to reveal that they stood in a small anteroom. A door stood closed directly opposite them. Wren pushed it open and paused as a wave of warmth and golden light spilled out, catching him by surprise. The room beyond was lit by a massive fire almost as high as Torin. The flames roared in a huge, ornately carved grate, the smoke disappearing up the chimney. Wren wondered where the chimney led. He hadn’t seen any smoke coming from the tower outside.

  They stepped into the room.

  “Up here,” called Gaia.

  A staircase started at the base of a dark archway and curved around the inside of the tower. They followed it all the way to the top and emerged into an untidy attic room. Windows were all around, affording a panoramic view of the City of the Dead. Gaia sat on a small stool at one of the windows, waiting for them.

  Cutter looked around. “So where’s the box?”

  “Hmm? Oh, it’s not here.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said I know where it is. And I do.” She turned to the window and pointed outside. “It’s there.”

  The three crowded to the window and stared out. There were no lights among the crypts. The streets and tiny square buildings were shrouded in darkness.

  Except for one spot.

  Far away, close to the outskirts of the city, they could see twinkling lights.

  “And what is that?” asked Torin.

  “The Mausoleum of Gath.”

  “Oh. And who is Gath?”

  “Gath is the lich. Haven’t you been listening?”

  “Are you saying the lich stole the box?” asked the dwarf, turning to face the cleric.

  “Not the lich. He’s not there. His priests did.”

  “Why?”

  Gaia shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  “She’s lying,” said Wren, glancing over his shoulder.

  “What?” said Torin.

  “She’s lying.” Wren turned and stared at Gaia. “See, we inquisitives have a few tricks up our sleeves. One of them is a little infusion that tells us when we’re being lied to.”

  “And?” whispered Gaia.

  “And I activated it when I entered this room. Now, why don’t you tell us where the box really is?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s hidden safely away. That’s all you need to know. If you want it back, you have to do something for me.”

  “Like what?” asked Torin.

  “The lich stole something from me—a chest with scrolls in it—ancient teachings. I want you to retrieve them for me. If you do, I’ll give you your box.”

  Wren looked at the others. “What do you think?”

  Torin shrugged. “Your call.”

  “Why is it his call?” asked Cutter. The others looked at him. “What? I mean, do we even need to get it back?”

  Wren looked surprised. “But it has the dreamlily in it.”

  Cutter shrugged. “So?”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted Gaia. “What are you talking about? What dreamlily?”

  “The dreamlily in the box. We’re trying to return it to someone.”

  “Who told you it contained dreamlily?”

  “What are you talking about?” snapped Cutter, his patience giving out. “We know it contains dreamlily.”

  Gaia shrugged. “Don’t get angry with me. It’s just … I happened to open the box and look inside. It’s not dreamlily.”

  “Well?” prompted Wren. “What is it?”

  “A Khyber dragonshard.”

  Wren, Cutter, and Torin sat on chairs around the fire on the lowest level of the tower.

  “So what are we thinking?” asked Wren.

  “That this has suddenly gotten a lot more complicated and a lot more dangerous,” said Torin.

  “Agreed. But it explains why they’re so desperate to get the package back. Now that we know it’s a Khyber shard, that opens up a lot of possibilities. Maybe we’ve walked into a fight for ownership.”

  Cutter leaned forward. “The guy who was supposed to pick up the package …”

  “Salkith?”

  “Right. He said he was supposed to deliver it to someone at an inn in Khyber’s Gate.”

  Wren leaned back in his chair. “Interesting.” He glanced over at Torin. “Torin, my friend, what am I thinking?”

  Torin scowled. “If you’re not thinking about women, then you’re probably thinking we should sneak into this mausoleum and steal her precious chest of scrolls, get back the shard, then deliver it to the contact in Khyber’s Gate and follow him.”

  Wren grinned and glanced at Cutter. “He’s very good, you know. I trained him myself.”

  Cutter stared at Wren a moment before speaking. “I can see why I need to do this. It’s the only way I’ll find out who was responsible for Rowen’s death.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “And I want to know why you’re so interested.”

  Wren looked surprised. “It’s part of my case. Larrien asked us to find out why the professor was killed. The shard is part of that reason. If we trace the shard to the top of the chain, we find out who ordered his death. And Rowen’s. Our goals are the same, Cutter.”

  Gath’s Mausoleum wasn’t like any of the other buildings in the City of the Dead. It was a proper temple, a structure the size of a mansion that sat at one side of a huge courtyard. A doorway wide enough for five horses to walk through stood open and gaping, lit by torches mounted in metal stands.

  “It goes underground, as well,” whispered Gaia from their position behind a crumbling crypt. “That’s where the chest is located. It’s a huge hall on the very bottom floor. The chest is black, with silver clasps.”

  “And what about this lich you keep talking about?” asked Wren.

  “He’s not there. I keep an eye on his comings and goings. He left a few days ago and hasn’t returned.”

  “Then why haven’t you gone to get it?”

  “I can’t. He has laid warding spells against my entry.”

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Torin.

  “We have only one suit of shiftweave,” said Wren, “and I happen to be wearing it. So I think only I should go in.” Torin opened his mouth to protest, but Wren held up a hand before he could say anything. “This is one of those times when stealth is more beneficial than strength, Torin.”

  “It’s not a complicated layout,” said Gaia.
“There are rooms above ground and a few shrines. You need to take the stairs down. You’ll know you’re in the right place when your breathing starts to echo.”

  “Big, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Then why—”

  “It’s massive.”

  “Ah. I see.” Wren stood up and muttered something under his breath. The colors of the shiftweave clothing ran into each other and darkened to a deep black. But it wasn’t simply black. It was the color of night. The color of shadow. Wren pulled the hood up and lowered it over his face.

  “That won’t help if someone looks straight at you,” said Torin.

  “I know. I plan to kill one of the clerics and steal his clothing.”

  “What about weapons?” asked Cutter.

  “What about them?”

  “Well … do you have any?”

  Wren gave Cutter the look he usually reserved for banking clerks and junior politicians. “Of course I do. What kind of an imbecile do you take me for?”

  Cutter looked at Wren in surprise. “Then why didn’t you use them when you were breaking me out of jail?”

  “Didn’t need to. Everything was under control.”

  “Stick around,” muttered Torin. “It’ll come.”

  Wren patted the shiftweave over his wands and took a deep breath. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be off.”

  “Try not to die,” said Torin.

  “I’ll definitely do my best.”

  Wren slipped out from behind the crumbling crypt and skirted around the wide concourse. He took his time, keeping to the shadows, pausing every time he had to cross open spaces to make sure no one was around.

  The half-elf was partway across one of these empty spaces when he glimpsed movement in the periphery of his vision. He froze in mid stride, then slowly turned his head. A black-robed priest walked across the square, heading for the entrance to the temple.

  Wren waited until the priest was about to leave the square—a square, Wren noticed, that was covered in black stains that looked suspiciously like blood—and pulled out the last of his specially made bloodspikes. He quickened his pace until he was no more than half an arm’s length away. The cleric must have sensed him, because he paused and started to turn around. Wren wasn’t expecting that, and almost walked straight into his back. He stopped and quickly jabbed the spike into the priest’s neck. He caught the priest as he fell and dragged him away from the open space and behind a low wall. He stripped the robes from the unconscious body—an old man, as it turned out—and slipped them over his head.

  Wren straightened up, wrinkling his nose as he took a deep breath. The robes had a strange smell to them—the intoxicating Kaarnathi spice, riek, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  “Naughty evil cleric,” he whispered to the old man. He straightened his back, folding his arms into his sleeves in the same manner as the cleric, then stepped into the open once again.

  A wide colonnade fronted the temple, the high ceiling supported by huge pillars engraved with brutal scenes of sacrifice and death. Wren walked past them, trying not to look too closely at the carvings, and entered the temple.

  The first thing he noticed was the cold. It was like walking into a meat cellar. His breath clouded the air before him. Couldn’t they light a fire? Was the Keeper against heat or something? No wonder he didn’t have more of a following.

  He stood in a circular room that had four arches leading into complete darkness. Oily torches flickered and spat in iron wall sconces.

  Wren belatedly realized that he made the perfect target to anyone standing beyond the arches, so he hurried through the closest one into a darkened corridor. With nowhere else to go, he followed it as it sloped gently downward. The flagstones were slippery, so he kept close to the wall in case he needed to steady himself. On closer inspection, he realized it probably wouldn’t do him much good, as the walls were coated with moss and slime.

  The hall ended at a low doorway. The lintel that supported it was made of old rocks that had been jammed together. He prodded it with his finger, setting off a cascade of dust and loose stones. He didn’t like the look of that.

  He leaned through the opening to have a look. Stairs led down into darkness. The air was even colder here, a miasma that seemed to seep into his body like the chill of a midwinter morning.

  Wren felt a sudden wave of regret. Maybe strength in numbers was the best bet after all.

  He decided to go back for the others, then heard voices coming from behind him. Wren looked back and saw torchlight approaching in the distance, the faint glow glistening on the damp walls. He looked around the featureless hallway and found no options. There was nowhere for him to go.

  He ducked under the lintel. The steps were concave, the passage of feet over the centuries forming smooth depressions in the stone. The walls leaned in on him, giving him no more than a hand’s breadth of space to either side of his shoulders. Water trickled freely down the walls and gathered in the shallow bowls at the center of each step.

  He hurried down, praying that he wouldn’t meet anyone coming from the opposite direction. Not only did he not wish to encounter any of the Keeper’s priests, but he also didn’t think two people could fit in the confined space without one of them having to back up.

  And sure as Khyber, it wasn’t going to be him.

  As Wren descended, he found the light slowly increasing, an orange glow that reached up the stairs so gradually that he noticed it only when he could see his feet as they tentatively felt their way on each step. He ducked down and peered ahead. A short distance away he saw an opening, and beyond that the source of the light. Wren slid along the damp wall, grimacing at how easily his back skated across the rock.

  He paused at the entrance and looked around. It led into what could only be the massive room that Gaia described. The far walls were lit by flickering torches, but they were so far away he could barely see the flames. Thick pillars supported the ceiling every few feet. They extended the breadth and width of the cavernous room, hundreds of them.

  He waited as long as he dared but didn’t see any signs of life. He slipped inside and moved to the wall. He didn’t run, even though every fiber in his body was telling him to. He walked calmly, trying to keep to the shadows as much as possible.

  Gaia had said that the clerics performed their rites and worshiped in this room. As he walked, Wren could see an open, circular area in the center. An altar stood in the middle of the circle, and some kind of large cage hung above it, held by a rusting chain.

  She’d said there was a room directly opposite this circle and altar. Wren saw that it could open off any of the walls, and it was difficult to see across with the pillars blocking his view.

  Wren studied the chamber, then decided to walk the perimeter of the room. He turned when he reached a wall, walking opposite the entrance to the stairs. Wren picked up his pace until he could once again see the altar and cage.

  He found the door a few moments later, a solid slab of stone set flush with the wall. The only hint of it was a faint black crack outlining the shape. He almost walked right past it.

  Wren lifted his hands to the stone, searching for some kind of release. As soon as his palms touched the granite, he heard a faint click and the door swung open with a loud grinding noise.

  The half-elf winced and looked over his shoulder. The sound echoed horribly in the huge chamber. A waft of even colder air puffed out, carrying the smell of mustiness and mold. The torches all around the room flickered as if touched by the breeze.

  Wren paused, took a look around, then stepped into the room.

  He saw the chest Gaia had described. It rested on a small, yellowish table to his left. It wasn’t large, only about the length of his forearm. A row of small everbright globes set into the wall above the chest cast a dim light.

  Something bothered him, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He shook off the feeling of disquiet and hurried to the table. No time to wait around. He muttered an infusion t
hat checked the chest for hidden traps. The box was clean.

  He reached out and tentatively touched the lid.

  As his fingertips grazed the black wood, the room plunged into darkness as if someone had dropped a sack over his head.

  He heard a noise behind him. It was a soft, dry sound, like the hiss of sand over stone.

  It wasn’t that, though. It was the sound of something laughing.

  Cutter peered out from behind the crypt, watching as Wren disappeared through the door. He turned to Torin.

  “I don’t get it. What’s with all the ‘I’m going in alone’ stuff? Strength lies in numbers. In having someone to watch your back. Am I wrong?”

  “No.”

  “So … what? Does he have some kind of death wish? Or a hero complex?”

  “Death wish, no. Hero complex—only when women are around.”

  They both paused, then turned slowly to face Gaia.

  “What?” she said, looking between them.

  “Nothing.” Cutter stood. “I’m not waiting here. We’ve got more of a chance of getting the shard with two people searching.”

  “And what about me?” asked Torin.

  Cutter looked down at him. “Do you think they have many dwarf clerics?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Neither do I. You want to head in? That’s fine, but keep away from me. You draw attention to yourself, you deal with it.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Cutter turned and sprinted through the night, heading for the huge doorway. He pulled his blades out, holding them flush against his forearms.

  He flattened his back against the wall and ducked his head around to see what lay beyond. His eyes flicked around, then he pulled back and paused. A circular room. Torches lighting it. Arches leading to darkness. Perfect place to ambush someone.

  He took a few deep breaths then bent low, trying to make himself as small a target as possible, and slipped inside. He moved to the right and ducked beneath the first arch.

  It opened into a short corridor. Two doors opened off either side and a spiral staircase stood at the end, leading up to the second floor of the temple. Cutter crept forward and listened at the nearest door. He couldn’t hear anything, so he opened it and had a quick look inside.