Jerenn waved a handful of leather thongs around. "I was looking for Taravail," he said in a voice considerably higher-pitched than his normal one. "These are for Old Mother Grishin. I can't find where she's gone, and I can't find him either."
"Wharra they?" the ork demanded to know, attempting to focus his eyes on the waving strands of leather.
"For making boots," Jerenn said sweetly.
"Oh yer, I 'urd she was doing that," the ork said with his best impression of thoughtfulness. It wasn't a very accurate impression. "Well, you can forgit 'im. They took 'im away."
"The soldiers? Oh dear," Jerenn said sadly. Taravail had, after all, never done him any harm, and had possibly saved him from a distinctly unpleasant fate on at least one occasion. Jerenn knew that people taken away from the Broken Quarter by the soldiers rarely came back. If they did, they had bits of them missing.
"Dunno 'baht Grishin," the ork said, the last syllable vanishing into a gut-rumbling belch. "They say she ran off when the soldiers went down. They say she's down with the Deadwalkers now." He grinned evilly. "Anyway, bugger 'er. Silly old fool. Come and sit on me knee and 'ave a drink." He raised his eyebrows in what was supposed to be a suggestive gesture, but since he went rather cross-eyed at the same time the effect was much more comical than offensive. Jerenn could not help but laugh, and had to beat a hasty retreat before the ork's ire roused itself to violence.
A hundred yards or so safely out of the way, Jerenn looked about him. He was really unsure of what to do. If Grishin had fled down beneath the upper tunnels it would be a desperate risk to follow her. Soldiers, vengeful vestiges of the tunnel-builders, the remnants of tomb occupants, and worse might be waiting for him there. There seemed little he could do now.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw two figures disappear through the doorway of a dwarf's hut to his left. That the building had been made for dwarfs was obvious to him from its height; but the figures were not dwarfs, that much was evident from the way they had to bend almost double to enter. One was a conspicuously well-dressed male elf, young and strong in appearance, dark-skinned and lithe; the other a dark-haired young woman, clad in black and brown. Something about them reminded Jerenn of someone or something, though he had no idea what or who it was. Yet something told him it was important. He also knew that, in broad daylight, he could hardly just walk over and try to hear what they were saying.
If I want to know more I'll have to stay until dusk, he thought miserably. Cassian will kill me if I stay out late again.
No he won't, his curiosity said. It's only two days and a night since I saved him from those orks. He'll let me off this one time. Really he will. After all, he's not going to go without his supper, is he?
Jerenn grinned and began to look around for a position from which he could keep watch until he could risk creeping closer, or until the pair emerged and he could follow them. He still had no idea why it was important, only that he had to do it.
Within ten minutes he'd found a perfect spot, a wedge in the corner between two mostly demolished walls, from which he could watch the house while remaining inconspicuous. If anyone noticed him, they would assume he—or rather "she"—was claiming early a warm corner for the night to come. He did not know that there was already no one left alive within the small house's shadow-stained walls.
30
Cassian had grown used to the fact that it took some minutes of knocking at the door to gain admittance. He waited patiently, and at length the same unhappy-looking slave appeared to answer his loud rapping. The man looked even more apprehensive than usual.
"I don't wish to be told that your master isn't at home' Cassian told him.
"Well, he is not," the man replied sulkily, "but my mistress is. I suppose you had better come in."
The elf walked straight past him and found Shusala in the sitting room, gazing absent-mindedly at a portrait of a young male elf. He was dark-skinned, handsome, with a willowy frame and a fine facial bone structure. The resemblance to her was clear. Cassian cleared his throat to announce his entry.
"I was hoping to see your husband," he said politely.
"He's not here," she replied slightly vacantly, not turning to look at him.
"What were you doing at Sky Point today?" Cassian asked bluntly. "I see no sign of any arrivals in the household." That made her turn to face him. Her eyes were sad, her posture slightly slumped.
"Looking for my son," she said unhappily.
"He's gone away?"
"He said that he had. Or, rather, he left a note. We went looking for him. He didn't give any real reason for it, you see."
Cassian hadn't expected this. "I'm sorry," he said, rather embarrassed. "I would still like to see Ziraldesh, though. Where is he to be found?"
"Somewhere in the city," she said, waving a hand ineffectually. "He's gone to ask some friends if they know anything about Ladamair. Where he might have gone, anything, any sort of clue. He won't be back until the early hours, I shouldn't think."
"Is that him?" Cassian inquired, pointing to the portrait. She nodded her head. "He's a handsome young man. You must be very proud of him."
Shusala said nothing, but Cassian's gaze slipped past the portrait, which was encased in what was clearly a new frame and recumbent against the wall, awaiting hanging. Next to it was another, showing two young elves, one male and one female. The resemblance between them was astounding. Both had long, dark hair braided in almost identical fashion, and the young male was slightly effeminate, with a gracefulness that mirrored what had to be his sister.
"Who are they, may I ask?"
"Parinth and Insensora. Their mother and I are friends. After the tragedy, she did not want to have this portrait. It was too painful to her. She was going to throw it away, but I asked for it. I thought that, perhaps, when time has healed her wound she might be grateful if she could have it back as a keepsake."
"She is fortunate to have such a thoughtful and compassionate friend/' Cassian said sincerely. "These are finely rendered portraits. I would have expected only an elven artist to create them. But somehow the workmanship doesn't appear to be elven. The fine detail isn't what I'd have expected from such hands. Who is the artist?"
"Lyn. Tarlanth's son. He was a pupil of my husband's for a short time, until it became apparent that he had no gift. Then, after one of his bouts of illness my husband was not called upon to tutor him again."
"They were all Ziraldesh's pupils?"
"Not really. As I say, my husband only tutored Lyn for a short time." Her tone of voice changed. "I worry about that boy Lyn. You must have heard about Tarlanth, of course."
"I have only just returned to the city," Cassian replied. "But I imagine he's been taken away?"
"The city is buzzing with rumors about it," she confirmed. "No one knows, of course, but after Mordain's suicide there are a thousand tales on the tips of wagging tongues."
"I dare say," Cassian said with a wry smile. "Well, I do wish to see Ziraldesh. He has nothing to fear from my queries, I assure you. I regret that he's always felt obliged to be so much on the defensive when I've talked with him."
"Not surprising when a man who blackmailed us for so long and could have ruined our lives suffered a sudden death/' Shusala pointed out.
"Indeed. Well, I have no reason to think Ziraldesh had anything to do with that," Cassian told her. "I have no actual firm purpose, as such, for my conversation with him. I just have a strong intuition that he can be of help to me. I'd be grateful if he could send a message to me upon his return. If he is very tired and the hour is late, tomorrow will be soon enough. I hope you have news of your son. Has there been trouble?"
"No, that's what surprised me," Shusala said. "He lias seemed rather highly-strung of late, but he never spoke to me of anything special. That's why I'm worried."
"I'm sure he'll be safe," Cassian wished he could have sounded more convincing. "Good night to you. Thank you for your help."
Dusk was beginning to approac
h, the sun dipping between the crenellations of the distant city wall. Jerenn was tired and bored now. No one had entered or left the small house, and there had been nothing out of the ordinary to see. Though he would have liked better cover of darkness to sneak closer, a diversion some little distance .t way gave him hope of evading scrutiny if he did so. Two Irolls had disagreed violently over some trifling matter and, with drink fueling their tempers, were rolling in the dirt, fighting furiously. A crowd had begun to gather .1 round them, with voices yelling encouragement to each to rip the other into tiny pieces. All eyes were on the vicious fight, so Jerenn decided to risk sidling up to the house.
The front door was shut and it looked solid and firm. So many homes in the Broken Quarter had broken or warped doors or frames, but this looked stout enough. A very gentle prod did not suggest that it would give easily. the windows were shuttered, and Jerenn could see nothing through them. Flicking his eyes around to make sure no one was watching, he drew his knife and pushed the door hard.
The reek inside was dreadful. Befouled air was drawn into his nose and mouth and bit at the back of his throat. The stench was acrid and acidic, mixed with the unmistakable smell of blood. It was dark inside, with only the remains of daylight filtering in through the shutters.
Jerenn could see almost nothing, even with the chink of light from the door he'd almost closed behind him. Having no lantern with him, he risked pushing the door open to see what the room contained.
An elf lay on the floor. His shirt had been ripped apart to reveal his chest, and the veins on his exposed torso, face, and arms bulged beneath his skin. A very precise cut had been made in his throat, from ear to ear, with a secondary cut made with equal precision from forehead to windpipe. His throat had been laid open, and the head lay in a pool of blood like some expanded scarlet halo. The hands of the corpse seemed to be clutching at something, and Jerenn saw shards of crystal apparently hammered into his palms and even beneath his fingernails. His face bore an expression of piteous horror and fear rather than the agonies of a painful death.
Consumed with terror, Jerenn's senses returned and screamed to him to get out of there. He could not see all of the room, and it was possible the killer still lurked within or beyond the door opposite him. Closing the door firmly behind him, he began to walk away as fast as he could without running. When he was some twenty yards away, he threw caution to the wind and ran like crazy, caring not whether anyone noticed him. He would just be some girl fleeing from a rapacious or overeager pursuer, after all; that was an everyday sight. Not that such a reasoned thought crossed his panic-filled mind. He made for the gates at full pelt.
Tarlanth's house was crawling with soldiers searching everything. They'd already begun to pile vast stacks of books and papers into crates to be examined by Ilfaralek's legions of functionaries at their leisure. As Cassian entered, he heard desperate pleadings from upstairs. Striding swiftly up the marbled steps, he found a tearful youth pleading with two dwarf soldiers whose faces showed malicious pleasure. Lyn gave Cassian a look of desperate appeal.
"Please, they're trying to take everything I have," he cried pitifully.
"For heaven's sake," Cassian said firmly to the dwarfs, "this boy is all but an invalid. He is ill and he is distressed. You have no warrant to persecute him and, indeed, you should be placing him under your protection. Or haven't you noticed that the sons of certain city nobles have been murdered lately?"
"Yes, and we know who did it too," one of the dwarfs snarled back.
"You think that you do. I would remind you that nothing has been proven. Leave this boy alone. He has absolutely nothing that you need to take. You've already ransacked enough things to provide material for a dozen trials by conclave, let alone one—if you know what you're doing," Cassian shot back. The dwarfs scowled but finally retreated, grumbling as they did so.
Afterwards, Cassian did not know why his reaction had been so strong. Some intuition told him that Shusala's son was probably already dead, and Lyn might be next. By some strange emotional logic, he rebelled at the notion that the boy would have to face death so wretched and alone.
Lyn slumped into a chair, rocking slightly to and fro. In a shocking gesture, he actually began to suck his thumb. Part of Cassian felt angry with him for behaving so childishly, but mostly he felt pity for the wretched youth.
"I will speak with Ilfaralek," the elf said firmly. "I will make sure you have rooms to yourself and that the soldiers will leave you alone."
"Thank you," the boy said with infinite weariness and sadness. He looked crushed.
"Do you have someone to take care of you?" the elf inquired. "You should not be here all alone."
"I have a nurse," the boy said uncertainly.
"I was thinking of family," the elf said. "Your father's cousin perhaps? I'm sure you would be better cared for in Patracheus's household."
"Not judging by what I overheard from some of them," the boy said, pointing a thumb back in the direction of the soldiers outside. Ah, so Ilfaralek has been really ambitious, Cassian thought. Dear me, but this is a mess indeed.
"Well," he said slowly, "there must be someone."
"Not really," Lyn said. "I will be all right with my nurse. As long as they leave me alone."
"They will," Cassian replied firmly. "Leave them to me."
Cassian should have returned to the Rose Villa, for it was growing late and his stomach was protesting his failure to consider its needs. But he was a little on edge, excited, feeling that matters were coming to a head now and almost that he could not afford to waste time on luxuries like eating or sleeping. For no good reason, and indeed it was somewhat impolite to do so, he had his coachman take him back to Ziraldesh's house. Shusala had not budged from the sitting room.
"I apologize for another visit, most unwarranted," Cassian said. "I shall not trouble you again." His eyes settled on the portraits once more. His intuitions were working overtime and he felt in the mood to run with them.
"I know this is most unreasonable, but could I borrow this?" he requested, picking up the portrait of the elven twins. "I will return it tomorrow. It will be absolutely safe with me, I assure you."
Shusala looked up blankly. "What do you want it for?"
"I'm not truly certain," he said. Then, again for no good reason, he laid a hand on her son's portrait. "This also. I realize its importance to you. I can only beg your indulgence. I have no real right to ask and I shall not be at all offended if you tell me to mind my manners and not make such unreasonable and foolish requests."
She smiled wearily at him. "By all means, though I cannot see what good it will do anyone. Please take care of the portrait of my son. I have only one other."
"Thank you," Cassian said, divesting himself of his cloak and wrapping the portraits very carefully in it. He carried them as if they were a newborn child. "They will be returned to you by dawn tomorrow."
"It does not have to be so early," she said.
"Somehow I feel as if I shall not see sleep between now and then." Cassian smiled wanly. "I can see myself out. Thank you again."
At last he gave the weary coachman the order to take him home. The man yawned and mumbled something about supper. Cassian laid the wrapped portraits down inside the coach and fished into a pocket, handing the man a golden coin. The coachman looked startled and very grateful.
"You've been the most reasonable and polite servant anyone could have wished for," Cassian told him. "And I have been most inconsiderate, asking you to drive me this way and that without notice and at all hours of the day and night. And I suddenly realize I don't even know your name."
"Kendreck, sir."
"Well, Kendreck, that is but little recompense, but it is all I have with me at the moment. Now let us be off home and I shall make sure you get some wine with your supper."
The coachman smiled happily. "That would go down awfully well, sir."
"Indeed it will," Cassian said with feeling.
Jerenn took som
e time to arrive when Cassian called for him. By the time the boy appeared the elf had almost finished unwrapping the portraits he'd brought back with him.
"Where have you been, lad? I told you I'd want supper and I'm late anyway, so—" He paused in mid-sen-tence. Jerenn was pale and had a fine tremor in his hands. He looked distinctly unwell.
"Do you have a fever again?" the elf asked solicitously.
"No, sir, I am quite well," Jerenn lied. He had no wish to speak of what he'd seen, nor to recount the trials and tribulations of having to talk his way past some extremely uncooperative guards at the gates to get back into the city. He was glad the elf had been delayed.
"Hmmm," Cassian said suspiciously. "Well, anyway," as he unwrapped the portraits and held one of them up to look at it in better light, "is my bath ready?"
There was a noise behind him. The elf turned around to find Jerenn lying on the floor, having fainted clean away.
31
A bowl of iced water brought Jerenn back to the land of the living. He coughed and sputtered, his gaze swimming into focus to reveal a very concerned elf standing over him.
"You are ill, foolish boy," Cassian said, not unkindly. "Why didn't you say? You had best get to bed now."
"It isn't that, sir." Light-headed and giddy, Jerenn looked uncertainly around him.
"Then what is it?"
"That picture, sir."
The elf abandoned any hope of getting Jerenn not to call him "sir". "What of it? It's Ladamair, Ziraldesh's son. Do you know him?"
"No, sir."
"You've seen him visiting Tarlanth's household, then?"
"No, no." Still trying to focus his thoughts, Jerenn waved a hand feebly to stop Cassian's presumptions getting in the way of his attempts to answer and explain.
Shadowrun - [Earthdawn 05] - Shroud of Madness Page 23
