by Rich Wulf
“Were you at this window the entire time?” she asked, studying the skyline.
“Y-yes,” the old man answered.
“Did you see the airship?” she asked. “Did you see the direction it came from?”
“Downriver,” the old man said, pointing out the window to the south.
“Boldrei walk beside you,” she said, bowing thankfully and stepping back outside.
Eraina’s horse waited patiently where she had left it. She climbed back into the saddle and rode toward the river. The crowd, slowly realizing that the fire was under control and there were unlikely to be any more airships swooping over the neighborhood, had begun to disperse, making passage a great deal easier. The farther south she went, the poorer the neighborhoods became. This was near the place that Jamus Roland had called home. Eraina scowled, pushing away thoughts of the old thief. She had hoped for a better life for him, but now there was no chance of that. He was a good man, despite his flaws. He had deserved better.
She would never forgive herself.
The sight of six towers looming above the fishermen’s district quickly drew her attention to the task at hand. The towers were four stories tall, double the size of the average surrounding buildings. Each tower had a swooping bridge at its height, leading to nothing, with a large wooden crane mounted on the end. They were airship towers, though they looked to be poorly maintained. It was hardly surprising to see the docking towers unused. The Last War had ground most nonmilitary travel to a standstill. The few privately airships that remained would surely seek to dock in safer areas of Wroat. The thugs, smugglers, and ruffians who frequented this part of town would find greater profits traveling by boat or by road. On the other hand, someone seeking to slip an airship in and out of the city relatively unnoticed could do so quite easily here. Few locals would pry too deeply if the ship was well guarded.
Eraina stopped, her brow furrowing as she saw two horses gathered outside one of the towers. She galloped in that direction, drawing a muttered curse from a drunken sailor as he stumbled out of the way. She vaulted to the ground, took her spear from the saddle, and ran toward the tower. A tall, blond man in armor and a tabard matching Eraina’s stepped out to greet her with a grim smile. A smaller, dark-haired man stepped out beside him, watching her without expression.
“Marshal Eraina,” the blond man said with a brief nod.
“Marshal Galas,” she said, striding toward him. “Marshal Killian.” She nodded to the other man.
“Fortuitous timing, Eraina,” Galas said. “I see the clues have led us to the same place. Let me spare you a great deal of wasted time. There is nothing here.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, looking past him into the tower. “I believe the airship containing the suspect came from one of these towers.”
“She did,” Galas said, tightening his gauntlets as he prepared to mount his steed. “Killian questioned what passes for a harbor master here. We drew him from his cups long enough to learn that an airship docked here last night, shortly before the debacle at the Friendly Buzzard. There were no symbols of ownership on the vessel. No crew wandered out to hit the taverns. No guards watched the tower door. A few nondescript figures boarded, followed by a girl who visited this morning. She matched the description of your friend Roland’s partner.”
Eraina looked at Galas. “Seren Morisse?” she asked.
“Whoever,” Galas said, looking at her with a frown. “Obviously the thief was not as reliable as Jamus believed and was somehow complicit in his death. It doesn’t matter, Eraina. Your friend failed. We are done here.”
“Done? How can we be done? This is the first real lead we’ve had!”
Galas turned to face her, placing one hand on her shoulder. His frown softened into a sympathetic smile. “Eraina, I understand your feelings on the matter,” he said. “It is always hard for a Marshal to lose one under her protection, and it must be harder still for you, with Roland having been involved. I have served House Deneith as a Marshal for twenty years, so understand that what I say next is not said out of callousness, but out of practicality. While it is important for a Marshal to have passion, it is also necessary to have clarity. We have made a mistake here. Best to let it go rather than compound the danger, Eraina. We should return to Korth to plan our next move.”
“Best to let it go?” Eraina said. “We have a duty to uphold, Galas!”
Galas sighed. “You have an admirable thirst for justice, and I won’t deny that injustice has been done here, but remember that your first duty is to House Deneith. Consider the facts. Dalan d’Cannith is rumored to have discovered a lost journal penned by his famous uncle, the very same sort of prize our quarry seeks. We hurry here, believing that the killer may strike again. You discover your old friend, Jamus, has already been contacted about acquiring the volume for an anonymous client. Upon your urging, he takes the contract, hoping to draw the client out so we may learn more. Somewhere the deal goes bad. Dalan d’Cannith’s house burns down. Jamus Roland dies. Roland’s partner flees in an unidentified airship, pausing only long enough to hover over a burning building and load a wanted killer aboard before fleeing to Khyber knows where. Pardon my swearing.”
Eraina frowned at him.
“You can’t deny how it looks, Eraina,” he said. “We’ve become entangled in something that is no longer our affair.”
“None of our affair? We came seeking a killer, and we found one! The trail is still warm. Llaine Grove died for what he knew about Ashrem d’Cannith’s work. This is obviously the same suspect. Why would we return to Korth now that things are only beginning to make sense?”
“Because nothing makes sense, Eraina!” Galas snapped, gesturing wildly as he turned away from her. “Your desperate need for vengeance is forming patterns where there are none. If you wish to hunt random murderers, we could spend the rest of our lives in Wroat and find our fill of them, but I’ve seen nothing to prove that this is the suspect we seek. Perhaps your friend Jamus discovered the book wasn’t what we wanted, tried to fence it, and died when the deal went bad. Perhaps his partner turned on him. Perhaps d’Cannith killed Roland himself and burned his own house down to cover his tracks. We could speculate forever, Eraina, but it’s all too random. You dealt with a thief, and things went poorly. Roland’s death was regrettable, but it is not our concern.”
“Jamus Roland was not just a thief. He deserves better than to be abandoned by us.”
“Jamus Roland,” Galas said, “was not our client. We owe him nothing. Baron d’Deneith will be upset enough that we became involved with the Canniths without his knowledge. Best that we cut our losses, withdraw before our involvement is detected, and wait for another opportunity for justice.”
“An opportunity which may never come,” Eraina said. “I cannot believe after two years that you would give up so easily. Do you forget your vows so easily, Marshal? Or does your fear that we will fail again cripple you from any decisive action?”
Galas turned to face Eraina again. His mouth opened, then closed with a click. His face grew dark red as his temper began to build.
“Perhaps a compromise is not out of the question,” Killian said, stepping between them.
“What?” Galas demanded, too filled with rage to say anything else.
“You have already determined that this investigation has struck an impasse,” Killian answered. “We are to return to Korth and continue our research into the case. In the meantime, with no other leads, what harm could it do to allow Eraina to investigate her friend’s murder? If, by chance, she should be correct and it somehow bears connection to our investigation, then we can only benefit. If there is no connection, we can at least foster good relations with Wroat for aiding them in resolving what must appear to be a truly baffling crime.”
“A Sentinel Marshal does not take leave to conduct independent investigations,” Galas said.
“Why?” Eraina demanded. “Is justice our cause only so long as there is profit?”
“Galas, Eraina, please!” Killian said, holding restraining hands toward them both. “We are friends! Comrades in arms. Such arguments accomplish nothing. Galas, I realize our duties to House Deneith are your primary concern, but recognize Eraina’s position as well. She is a Spear of Boldrei. You cannot possibly expect that she would leave a comrade’s murder to the City Watch when she has it within her power to put things right.”
Galas closed his eyes and did not speak for a long moment. When he regained his composure, he looked at Eraina sternly. “Eraina, I cannot spare the resources to aid you,” he said. “I do not intend to send you into such a dangerous investigation alone. You … are worth too much to us.”
“I am never alone, Galas,” she said, one hand moving to the amulet about her throat.
“Stubborn paladins,” Galas said. He grumbled a chain of curses under his breath. “So be it! I hope you give the Hearth-mother as many headaches as you’ve given me.”
Eraina smiled wryly. “Thank you,” she said.
“Thank Killian,” he answered, climbing into his saddle. Galas looked pointedly away from her, studying the road north intently.
Eraina bowed to Killian. The soft-spoken marshal returned the gesture silently and mounted beside his commanding officer.
“We’ll be expecting regular reports, Eraina,” Galas said, still looking at the road. “Weekly ciphered speaker posts.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Come back to us alive, Eraina,” he said softly, still looking away. “May your goddess take good care of you.”
“And you as well, sir,” she answered.
Galas gave a final sharp salute and rode away. Killian did the same, though he shared an apologetic smile before he left. Eraina watched them go in silence. Then, with a heavy sigh, she returned to the matter at hand. She looked back at the looming airship tower and ran through the facts in her mind.
Jamus Roland was no saint, but he was a man of his word and he knew better than to lie to a paladin. He had promised Eraina that he would help her trap the killer she had been following. He would not betray her. Of Jamus’s partner, Seren, she knew little. It was possible that Seren might have betrayed Jamus and fled with the book.
But why burn Dalan d’Cannith’s home? Why did the Lhazaarite stranger murder three guards and let another escape? It was obviously sloppy and hardly seemed to fit the pattern she and her fellow Marshals had been following thus far. Either Galas was right and this entire messy affair was entirely unrelated to their quarry, or all of this was a distraction. She frowned as she turned over the details. It wasn’t entirely inconceivable that Roland would have invited a potential killer into his tutelage. The old thief had always been a rather spotty judge of character, especially where pretty young girls were concerned.
Such thoughts began to draw back memories, and with memories came undesired emotion. Eraina cast such distractions aside. She needed answers. She stepped into the tower, seeking focus as she searched for clues. She saw little other than dust. The stairs were well-traveled; she counted several sets of footprints beside those of Galas and Killian. The rest of the tower had fallen into disrepair. She moved to the top of the winding spiral staircase, the butt of her short spear thumping the stairs ahead of her. Her right hand rested on the hilt of her sword out of habit, though she was fairly certain the other two Marshals would have left no threats behind. She stepped out onto the bridge atop the tower, wind whipping around her with a low, keening whistle. Eraina extended one hand to steady herself as she looked down at the river. She wobbled on her feet and prayed to Boldrei for strength. Paladins were said to be without fear. For the most part that was true, but heights made her a little nervous.
Eraina stepped out farther onto the bridge. The cargo crane hung at an odd angle, and upon closer inspection she saw that it was long broken. Whoever came here had not been smuggling or taking on supplies, at least not in any great volume. They came specifically for their passengers and left just as quickly. She stepped back toward the safety of the doorway and pondered. Far below, she saw her steed had shied away from the door. The animal tossed its head and shifted weight from foot to foot. Eraina frowned at the horse’s odd behavior. She cocked her head, listening more closely. A faint wooden creak sounded on the stairs below.
Eraina drew her sword and whispered a brief prayer to Boldrei. A sensation of quiet strength issued through her arm and into her spear. She slid her mailed sleeve up over her left forearm, revealing the swirling dragonmark pattern that extended from her wrist to elbow. She concentrated and felt its power flare as well, surrounding her body with a shimmering protective aura that quickly faded from view. Thus strengthened by her goddess and protected by her House, Eraina d’Deneith stepped into the stairwell.
“Who goes there?” she demanded, holding out her spear and shortsword. Brilliant light shone from the spear’s head, filling the stairs below.
The twang of three crossbows issued in reply. Eraina did not flinch. The bolts struck her chest harmlessly and fell on the stairs with a clatter. Three gruff-looking men stood on the stairs beneath, staring up at her in awe. Each now held an unloaded crossbow.
“Khyber,” one swore and reached for the knife at his belt.
Eraina did not hesitate. Planting her spear against the stairs for balance, she lunged forward and planted her foot in the nearest man’s chest. He yelped and rolled backward, seizing the railing in time but sending his friend tumbling into the void. He landed on the ground floor with a crack. The third man leapt over his fallen friend and charged Eraina with a stout pipe, rushing inside her reach before she could swing. She punched him sharply in the throat with the hilt of her sword and he fell backward. She swung her spear in a deadly arc, leaving a trail of red across his chest. He fell backward, screaming, down the stairs. The surviving thief clung to the railing as his dead friend rolled past. He held his knife in his free hand, looking up at Eraina in terror.
“Stay back,” he said, though he could barely force the words out for his terror.
Eraina sneered and struck out with her sword, viciously slapping the man’s wrist with the flat of the blade and sending his dagger flying into the depths. She sheathed her blade and seized his collar in a twisting grip, dragging him to his feet. She held the point of her broad-bladed spear an inch from his eye.
“Who sent you?” she demanded.
The man looked up at her, terrified. “Nobody sent us!” he said. “Three against one seemed like an easy mark is all! Please don’t kill me!”
“I walk a path of compassion,” Eraina said. “I kill only to defend myself or my charge. You are no threat to me.”
“Thank the Host,” the man whimpered.
“You should,” Eraina said. “Boldrei has given you mercy, but I have no time to spare you kindness.” She leaned her spear against the wall and punched him hard in the temple with a mailed fist. Taking her spear back, she left him lying in an unconscious heap on the stairs. She frowned uncomfortably at the two corpses as she reached the bottom of the stairs. As usual, the rush of combat took all certainty with it. Now that the battle was over, her doubts returned, little by little. These men had been wicked, but could there have been another way? Was redemption beyond them? Now there was no chance for them and she was to blame—again. She could not bring herself to pray for forgiveness; she suspected she deserved none.
But doubt could wait till later. Eraina peered out of the tower, wary of any more accomplices that might lay in wait. Either there were none or they had wisely fled when the screams began. As the excitement of the battle faded, something stuck in Eraina’s mind. She looked back at the tower door. It hung wide open. The doorknob and lock were missing, probably scavenged by some enterprising local decades ago. Eraina frowned.
An airship was a highly valuable piece of prop
erty. Only a fool would land one unguarded in a neighborhood such as this, yet Galas said that there were no guards or obvious crew. It had taken only a matter of minutes for a band of thugs to follow her in here. An airship would not have survived docked to an unlocked tower without incident, not even for one night, unless other precautions were taken.
Eraina stepped back inside the tower and looked at the door frame. There, where the door’s lock used to be, she saw a strange pattern etched into the wood. She prayed to her goddess, drawing upon Boldrei’s wisdom to grant her insight. The pattern glowed blue to her eyes, displaying an intricate pattern of magical energy. It was a ward, intended to seal the door against outside entry until the proper command was given. It was inactive now, but that was not what truly interested Eraina. Like any form of art, magic was given to particular styles. To the trained eye such things quickly became recognizable. She noticed a looping curve in the runes here, a signature flare there, and the particular pigment of the ink was also noteworthy.
This ward was made by a Cannith, or someone who had been trained by them.
Many possibilities ran through Eraina’s mind. Could one of Cannith’s underlings have made plans with Seren to obtain the book, kill Jamus, and burn his master’s house to conceal the crime? Other than Dalan, there were no members of House Cannith in Wroat who were wealthy enough to possess such an airship, and any who had such holdings would probably be so highly ranked in their house they could have simply demanded that Dalan surrender the book. That left only Dalan d’Cannith. Could he still be alive? Why would Seren betray and kill Jamus only to turn the book over to the man she had stolen it from? Who had burned Dalan’s home? Who was the mysterious Lhazaarite who had murdered the guards, and why was Dalan consorting with him?
Too many questions, but at least this was a beginning. Now Eraina knew what to do. Once she had alerted the Watch to the thief and two corpses she had left behind, she could pursue the matter in earnest.
Marshal Eraina d’Deneith climbed into her saddle and galloped away through the streets of Wroat.
