by Ty Johnston
“I am not saying Darkbow was not responsible for the fire,” Gris said, weighing each word carefully, “but there is no clear evidence I can use in an official capacity.”
Belgad’s white eyebrows furrowed above his steel gaze. “It was my understanding you personally knew the Asylum guard in question.”
The sergeant’s eyes locked onto those of Belgad. The Dartague knew much. After a brief hesitation, Gris decided it was not in his best interest to lie. Lucius was dead. There was no need to hide what little he knew.
He gave a short nod. “I knew the man.”
Belgad traded a glance with Lalo that told Gris much. Whatever Belgad knew, or thought he knew, had been proven by Gris’s admission.
The big man looked back to the sergeant. “How did you know him?”
“We were border wardens in the Prisonlands,” Gris explained. “I hadn’t seen Lucius in several years, since I left the service. He appeared in town about a month ago. He asked me to help him find work, so I put in a word at the Asylum.”
“What do you know about him?”
Gris thought back on his days in the Lands. He was nearly a decade older than Lucius, and the younger man had been little more than a boy most of the days they had spent together. Still, Gris supposed he knew quite a lot about Lucius Tallerus.
“He hailed from here in Bond originally, but was raised by his uncle near the Lands. He was practically raised to be a border warden, and he was one of the best.”
Lalo stepped around to face the sergeant. “In what manner?”
Gris did not turn his head to speak directly to the Finder, but kept his gaze on Belgad. “He was one of the most talented wardens. He spent most of his days studying with whomever would give him their time. The wardens hail from all nations, because that was part of the original treaty. Lucius picked up skills from all lands, all peoples. He could climb, track, fight. He even studied different languages and picked up some alchemical and healing skills.”
Belgad leaned forward once more. “You said he was raised by his uncle. Why not his parents?”
“They died when he was young.”
“That’s all you know of them?”
“I don’t know the circumstances of their deaths, if that’s what you mean. I just know Lucius’s father was brother to the uncle who raised him.”
Lalo moved around beside his employer so both faced the sergeant. “Was the uncle’s name Kuthius?”
Gris’s face grew pale. He nodded in the affirmative.
Belgad planted his elbows again and leaned his chin onto his fisted hands. “Was this Asylum guard’s full name Lucius Tallerus?”
“Yes.”
Belgad’s gaze narrowed. “Do you know where he was residing before this morning?”
“He had a room at the Rusty Scabbard.”
The Dartague looked up at Lalo and snapped a finger. The Finder strode past the seated sergeant. Gris could hear the door squeak open behind him and the patter of Lalo exiting.
The tension in the room was building, and Gris needed to calm that feeling, to assuage his own fears. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what is the meaning of these questions? Usually I’m the one doing the interrogating.”
Belgad’s eyes fell upon the guard sergeant and they did not look pleased. “Whatever you might believe about your friend, I strongly suspect he was Kron Darkbow. It’s time for you to tell me more.”
The sergeant gulped, feeling a need for air. “I’m not sure I know any more, sir.”
“I’m sure you can come up with something.”
***
Finding a cloak was a simpler matter than Kron would have thought. Not far from the North River he found a pair of bodies, one a guard from the Asylum and the other one of Belgad’s men. The Asylum guard must have been preparing to leave for home when the basement had flooded because a dark green cloak was still clasped around his neck.
Kron gave the bodies a nod, all he could spare for last rites, then slung the soggy cloak over his shoulders and pulled the hood up to cover his face.
Winding his way around the Asylum, Kron noted he was not far from Belgad’s mansion. He grinned at the thought of the northerner lounging on a couch with his head on silk pillows, believing Kron Darkbow was dead.
Kron eased between an empty storage building and a closed bakery while working his way into the depths of the Swamps. He knew he was lucky the flooding had not been worse or he would be swimming instead of walking right now.
Soon he found himself in another alley next to an apothecary shop. Kron worked his way to the end of the alley and glanced up and down the street in front of him. The weather was working to his advantage. There was no one on the street and the torches were dark from the wet.
Across from the alley was the three-story house with a hanging sign out front proclaiming it The Frog’s Bottom.
Kron knelt, grimacing at the pain the movement caused his ribs, and waited. He couldn’t risk going inside the brothel in case he was recognized, so he would have to be patient.
Soon the front door of the Bottom opened to reveal dim light from inside. Kron could see a man and woman silhouetted in the open doorway, the man leaning toward the woman for a kiss before tromping out into the wet road. The woman stood in the doorway watching the man wander down the street.
Kron saw a chance and jumped to his feet, again wincing. He hobbled across the road as fast as his tired, bruised legs would carry him, all the while keeping the hood of his cloak close to his face. His natural impatience had gotten the best of him, and he did not think he was well enough to wait all night for the boy.
The woman in the doorway turned as if to go back inside.
“M’lady!” Kron blurted, still limping toward her.
Beneath the street lamps, Kron could not make out her face, but he could tell she paused and turned in his direction.
She did not sound happy. “You look like a drowned rat.”
Kron stopped near the bottom of wooden stairs leading up to the woman. “I apologize for my attire, but the rains have drenched me.”
“Why don’t you come inside, then?” Happy or not, she was a working girl. “I’ll find you a room with a nice, warm fire.”
“My apologies, good lady, but I have no coin available for your services tonight.”
The woman grunted and Kron could imagine the look of disgust on her face.
“Be off with you, then.” She turned back to the door.
“I’m looking for the boy Wyck.”
The woman hesitated, watching him over her shoulder. “He don’t do those kind of services, you filth. Now get out of here before I call the guard on you.”
“I’m his uncle.” Kron hoped he sounded reassuring. “And yes, I’m down on my luck. I was hoping the boy might be able to help me.”
The woman chuckled. “Didn’t know the runt had family.”
“If you would be so kind to tell him his uncle Lucius is waiting for him,” Kron said, holding his sore side.
The woman snickered again. “I’ll tell him, but good luck getting any coin out of him. He’s a tight-fisted one, that boy.”
With that the woman was gone, the closed door announcing her departure.
Kron stood in the rain as the pains of his body nearly overcame him. He would have to sit soon, probably lie down, but first he needed a safe place to do so.
As silent, wet seconds swept passed, Kron wondered if he had convinced the woman to find Wyck. He guessed the boy would be at The Frog’s Bottom this late at night, especially with the streets full of mud and the rain still coming down.
He was positive the woman did not know him, though he supposed Wyck might have mentioned him by name to some of the Bottom’s whores. If so, Kron only hoped none of them linked his name to what had happened that day at the Asylum. Word spread fast in the Swamps, and Kron was sure news of what had transpired would have already reached the Bottom and Wyck.
The front door swung open again. A short, thin f
igure in rags was revealed by the weak light from inside.
“Wyck?”
The boy came running down the stairs, stopping in front of Kron as the rain mixed with tears on his cheeks. Wyck looked up, beneath the hood of Kron’s cloak, and smiled.
“It is you.”
Kron nodded.
The boy sprang forward and hugged the man around the waist. “Ashal, I thought you were dead.”
“I nearly am,” Kron said, drawing back in pain but wrapping one arm around the boy. “I need a place to stay.”
“Follow me.” Wyck stepped into the street.
Kron waved for the boy to go on.
Wyck ran away from The Frog’s Bottom down the muddy street.
Kron sighed. He would not be able to keep up with the lad and hoped Wyck would not lose him in the dark, wet night.
***
Belgad raised a mug of wine to his lips and sipped, all the while his eyes locked on those of Sergeant Gris.
The sergeant did not care for that stare, but there was little he could do about it. “I don’t know what more I could tell you, my lord.”
“Can we agree magic was involved at the Asylum today?”
“Yes, sir.” Gris was nervous about the continuing questions, especially since Lalo had left the room. The sergeant did not like being alone with Belgad, and Gris was not a man who was easily worried or frightened.
“Good. Then we can also surmise there must have been a wizard present.”
Gris did not know where the man was going. “Of course, sir. Trelvigor was there.”
A sharp smile grew across Belgad’s lips. “But there was another wizard.”
Gris was stunned for a moment. Who could Belgad have meant? Markwood was known to be a powerful wizard, one of twelve who had fought against the East years ago in the last war, but plenty of witnesses had stated the professor had shown at the Asylum only after the water geyser had exploded.
“The healer, Randall Tendbones,” Belgad finally said to end the sergeant’s questioning look.
“Randall? I know the young man only by reputation, and I know Fortisquo suggested him as a possible candidate for Kron Darkbow, but I find it unlikely he is powerful enough to cause what happened today. He’s a healer. My understanding is they do not perform destructive magics.”
“I told you a while back that Randall was Kobalan, but what you do not know is that the man has access to a ring bearing the official seal of the Kobalan royal family.”
Gris’s eyes grew wide.
“I’m not saying he is a royal,” Belgad went on, “but somehow he has acquired this ring. A ring like that, especially one belonging to Lord Verkain, would have much power. Used by a mage, the ring could have the power to cause the destruction at the Asylum.”
Gris did not know what to say. A member of a royal family from another nation hiding in Bond would create a diplomatic situation beyond the bounds of the sergeant’s authority and experience. Like Belgad, he could not know for sure if Randall was royalty, but otherwise the healer must have acquired the ring in a dubious manner. Either way, Lord Verkain of Kobalos would presumably like to know about the ring. Gris did not know what to do. He did not know Randall Tendbones, but had heard good things about him and did not want to cause the young man any grief. On the other hand, Gris did not know what Randall was doing in Bond, other than fulfilling the role of a healer. The sergeant would have to talk to Markwood, the healer’s friend. First he would have to discover what Belgad wanted from all of this, as the Dartague showed no signs of letting the matter drop.
Belgad lifted his goblet. “I still don’t believe the healer is Kron Darkbow, but that’s in large part due to the discovery of Lucius Tallerus. Still, the ring could have been responsible for the Asylum mishap.”
Gris so no reason not to be direct. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.” Belgad took a sip of wine. “That’s not why you are here.”
“Then why?”
“To answer questions about Kron Darkbow.”
“I’ve done that. Am I free to go, sir?”
Belgad’s slammed his wine cup onto the table. “No, you may not leave. I have further questions.”
“Then ask them.” The sergeant feared Belgad, but he was growing weary of their conversation. He had other things to do, including writing a final report for the day’s events and checking Lucius’s room at the Rusty Scabbard. Perhaps, by some miracle, his friend had survived the Asylum; Belgad had lived through the waters, after all.
The northerner composed himself, sliding his drink out of the way and leaning forward to hover over his desk. “I noticed at the Asylum there were a good number of dead who would not have been affected by the water geyser.”
Gris said nothing, not knowing where the man was going.
“There were some guards and a good number of inmates on higher levels of the building who would not have been drowned and who were relatively safe from the geyser. This strikes of low magic, the most powerful of low magics.”
Gris blinked. “I’m not familiar with the intricacies of magedom.”
“I am no practitioner, myself, but I have picked up some rudimentary knowledge. There are basically two types of magic, low and high. High magic is the most common, practiced by nearly every mage; high magics utilize the power of the caster’s own soul. Low magic uses the souls of others. Low magic is extremely rare, outlawed even in lands where magic is legal, such as our West Ursia.”
Gris frowned. “None of this means anything to me.”
“Low magic was used today at the Asylum, and while that ring of Randall’s might use low magic, I still find it curious Kron Darkbow had such a Kobalan ... flair ... about him.”
“Lucius was no mage.”
“Possibly true, but it still doesn’t explain why he used a northern name and why he dressed in black.”
“Lucius was an expert at stealth,” Gris explained to a man he was quickly growing to hate. “It was simple necessity that would have made him dress in black. If memory serves, Kron Darkbow only struck at night.”
“That is true, but what about the name? Kron Darkbow. That definitely has a northern ring to it, but too dark for Jorsica or possibly even my homeland. It stinks of Kobalos.”
Gris did not like where this was going. “We used code names as wardens in the Lands. The practice was adopted after ... after your release, sir, to be direct. It was to protect our families and ourselves when we should retire. Darkbow was Lucius’s code name, adopted from his mother’s family. Where the name Kron came from, I do not know. Perhaps Lucius simply liked it, or thought it fit well with the last name.”
“Now we are getting nearer my point.”
“Which is?”
“That you know quite a bit about Lucius Tallerus and Kron Darkbow. As soon as you heard the name Darkbow, you must have known it was your friend from the Prisonlands.”
Gris gulped again. “I had my suspicions.”
“Yet you did nothing about them.”
Gris hesitated. The conversation had turned dark for him. He still did not know where it was going, but he didn’t like it.
Belgad leaned forward further, seeming to loom across his desk and over the sergeant. “You did nothing, didn’t you?”
“I confronted Lucius about this Darkbow business. He did not admit to being your enemy, and I could find no evidence against him.”
“Or perhaps you wanted your friend to run wild against me, or worse, perhaps you were working with him. Maybe you and your precious Lucius and Randall were working together against me, Kobalan agents out to destroy me.”
***
As Kron squatted on the cold floor of the mausoleum, he had to admit Wyck knew how to choose a good hiding spot. He leaned back against a stone sarcophagus as moonlight beamed through the bars of a window in the large building’s single door, revealing half a dozen more sarcophagi. It was not likely anyone would think to look for him among the dead, and he had a place to stay, a
t least for a night or two. Now he needed food, warmth and healing.
“Can you build a fire?”
Wyck thought in silence for a moment before he shrugged. “I don’t have a flint or tinder, but I can get some. Maybe some twigs or paper, too.”
“Good lad, but I’ll need some other things, also. Some food would be a good start. And a healer.”
“That’ll cost money, and I don’t have enough.”
Kron closed his eyes as he leaned his head back against the stone and listened to the patter of the rain slapping on the stone roof. “Healers are free.”
“Not outside of the towers, especially if there are circumstances.”
Kron grinned. “I suppose this would qualify.”
“Yeah, it would. Even at the towers, they ask for donations.”
Kron’s grin faded. The boy could likely find fire-building material, but Wyck was right that coin would be needed for food and to fetch a healer during a rainy night. Especially with the Swamps soggy and flooded, food and a healer would be hard to find and costly. Kron had some coin at his apartment in the Rusty Scabbard, but he didn’t dare send the boy there. Or did he? Wyck had already dared much and proven himself resourceful.
Kron opened his eyes to stare at the lad. “There’s some coin in my room at the Scabbard.”
“I’ll get it,” the boy said, turning to leave.
“Not so fast.”
Wyck turned back to the man.
Kron held up a hand as if there were something missing from it. “ have lost the key to my room.”
A smile grew on Wyck’s face. “I can get around that.”
Kron would have smiled too if a sudden pain hadn’t shot through his ribs. He grimaced before being able to speak again. “Can you do it without getting caught?”
“Who’s going to catch me?”
“The city guard, or maybe Belgad. They might have some men watching my room. Or maybe they will be going through my belongings.”
“It’s true, then? All the stuff I heard today about the Asylum? You’re Kron Darkbow?”
