The Consuls of the Vicariate amob-2

by Brian Kittrell

  “Couldn’t tell,” Marac said.

  Believing the source of the sound to be close, Laedron knocked on the door opposite the dead guard, then listened intently. He heard the shuffling of feet against a wooden floor on the other side, but no one answered. He knocked again.

  A muffled, “Go away!” came from beyond the door.

  “I won’t go away. Open, in the name of the militia,” Laedron said, trying to sound serious and authoritative.

  The door creaked open only an inch or two. “What ye want?” The voice was that of an elderly male, probably crotchety and set in his ways, but little else.

  “Did you see what passed here not long ago?” Laedron asked, pointing over his shoulder.

  “No, and we don’t want any trouble. Go away.”

  Before the man could slam the door, Laedron forced it open just enough to lodge his boot in the crack. “We’re not done here. If you’ve seen anything, you need to tell us.”

  “What are you doing there?” a voice shouted from up the alley. The jingle of metal armor matched pace with footsteps, and Laedron recognized the newcomer as one of the younger militia guards.

  “Investigating a crime,” Laedron replied. “Go get more guards. The killer is up this street. Take the next right, then turn right again. There you shall find him in a puddle of his own blood. Go!”

  “You caught the one who did this?” the elderly man behind the door whispered, opening the door. “Is it true?”

  The man wore a long, white beard identical to his hair, both unkempt and dirty. He gave off a horrible odor reminiscent of sweat and spoiled milk, and his clothes were those of a beggar.

  “Yes,” Laedron said, trying to hide a grimace. “Now, will you tell me what you saw? Or do you insist on playing this game even still?”

  “Lower your voice, young man. There are ears that might overhear us. Come in, and I shall tell you what I saw.”

  Entering the cramped domicile, Laedron was thankful he hadn’t eaten anything recently because the smell and conditions within the pitiful house would have surely made him lose his stomach on the floor.

  “What in the hells is that smell?” Laedron asked, unable to contain his disgust. “Are you harboring the dead beneath your floors?”

  “My soup, young man. Sounds like you wouldn’t care for any.”

  “If it’s putting off a scent like that, I think I’ll pass,” Laedron said, and Marac waved his hand in agreement.

  “Well, have a seat, then.” The man gestured at a pair of rickety wooden chairs set around a matching table, then took a seat across from them. “Name’s Clarence.”

  Laedron sat and folded his arms. “Laedron, and this is Marac. What did you see?”

  “That young fellow there, the dead one, he was walking along and tapped another fellow on the back when he reached the barrels. They exchanged words too quiet for me to hear, then I saw a glimmer of light.”

  “A glimmer of light?” Laedron asked, his interest piqued. “What did it look like?”

  “Swirling, vibrant, and red. It wrapped around the guard, and only a few moments later, the militia man collapsed.”

  “The man who did this, he had symbols along the back of his garb? Red embroideries?”

  “Yes, and a scarf across his face.” Clarence paused. “Am I safe here?”

  “Worry not. That one will trouble you no more.” Laedron stood. “Anything else?”

  “That’s the best I can remember. What do you think this means, if you don’t mind me poking my nose around in it?”

  “We know not,” Marac said, “but we shall find out. Keep your doors secure and report anything else you remember to Master Greathis.”

  With a nod, the old man stood and let Laedron and Marac out. Laedron heard the slide of metal locking the door behind them once they reached the alley.

  Seeing more militia approaching, Laedron pointed at the dead guard. “Take this one back to the headquarters, and you’ll find his murderer on the next street. Bring that one’s body to Greathis, too. We’ll keep up the patrol in case there are more.”

  Once they had gotten farther up the alley and clear of the militia, Marac asked, “Do you mean to tell them about the stones?”

  “No, not yet.” Laedron patted the pocket containing the black pouch. “I mean to do a little investigating before I reveal that piece of information.”

  “What if Greathis could tell us more?”

  “At worst, he might know exactly what they mean and not tell us anything because he works for the same people. He is Falacoran, after all. At best, he would know and tell us, but the risk far outweighs the good that might come of it.”

  “You’re right. So, you think it’s not an isolated incident? A lone murderer on the prowl?”

  “No, not from what we saw. A name tattooed on his neck written in Zyvdredi, these stones, and magic-no, he’s working for someone else, but I don’t know the purpose. We’ve come upon the identity of the killer and the reason guards have come up missing, but it creates even more questions.”

  “Let’s keep searching. Perhaps there are more clues around here that we’re not seeing.”

  Laedron shrugged. “Maybe. It’s worth a shot. If we don’t find anything, we should go see Greathis to feel him out and see what he can tell us.”

  They continued patrolling for over an hour. Nothing seemed unusual or out of the ordinary, as best he could tell. He decided they should go visit Master Greathis, and Marac agreed.

  * * *

  When they arrived at the militia headquarters, Laedron took in the spectacle in front of the building. A squad of guards, with Greathis among them, were gathered around the dead body Laedron had found and the one he had caused. Several dozen regular citizens crowded the streets, craning their necks to see.

  “Shouldn’t we take this inside?” Laedron asked. “It would appear a crowd is gathering.”

  “Sergeant Wilkans just informed me of what happened, as I only just arrived myself,” Greathis replied. “Yes, bring the bodies inside and bar the doors. The rest of you, get on with your duties. Half of the city remains unwatched with you all here.”

  Once inside, Laedron recounted everything that had happened, being careful to leave out the parts about the stones and the magical occurrences.

  “No wounds. Not even bruising from strangulation,” Greathis said, searching the dead guard’s body. “He was too young to die of anything natural. How did he die?”

  “I wish I knew.” Laedron shrugged. “We found him like this in the alley, and we searched for weapons or a cause of death. None could be found.”

  Greathis turned to the other body. “Looks as if you are skilled with a dagger after all, young man. These symbols on his cloak, do they mean anything to you?”

  Laedron swallowed deeply. “No, Master Greathis. I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

  “I fear we may have mages afoot,” Greathis said, tracing the embroidery with a fingertip. “I haven’t seen runes like these in a long time.”

  “You’ve seen them before?”

  “Not exactly like these, no, but the style reminds me of mage writing.” Greathis rubbed his scruffy chin. “The Sorbian army is in Balfan, and we now have what seems to be a dead mage before us. Infiltration?”

  Laedron had some difficulty keeping the details sorted in his mind. The war, in the minds of the Heraldans, had been started by Sorbia, but he knew Gustav and his hired hands had made a sneak attack to cause it-the academy burned and toppled by their torches and incantations. If nothing else, Greathis seemed either not to know what had actually passed or refused to reveal his knowledge of those events. The former would be good news for Laedron, proof that Greathis was not part of the scheme, but the possibility of the latter gave him pause and reason not to trust the militia commander. For now, I’ll need to keep some things secret.

  “How long since the first militia guard went missing?” Marac asked. “Didn’t Sergeant Wilkans say two months or so?” />
  Greathis sighed. “Yes. It began just prior to the opening of the war, and that is why I feel the Sorbian mages had something to do with this.”

  If only he knew he was speaking in the presence of a Sorbian mage. He’s ready to lay the blame on us, though, regardless of the fact that he’s probably never met or even seen a Sorbian sorcerer. Well, knowingly seen one.

  “Sorbian or not, we should be on the lookout for others such as this,” Greathis said. “I thank you for bringing this to my attention. Should you find anything else, let me know. Of course, I can only hope that it was an isolated incident and that we’ll see no more murders of my men.”

  “Yes, Master Greathis. We’ll return to our patrol.” Laedron gave Marac a nudge, then walked out the door and down the street.

  Marac glanced around when they were by themselves. “Quick to blame the Sorbians, isn’t he?”

  “He has nothing else to go on,” Laedron said. “It looks awfully suspicious, and for a Heraldan, it’s not a far stretch to believe the Circle could have done this.”

  “Do you believe it, Lae?”

  “Of course not, don’t be silly. I can’t even tell you if anyone from the Circle is still alive, aside from those taken into the Shimmering Dawn.”

  “What if it is Circle mages, though? Ones that you don’t know? Maybe they’ve come here for revenge.”

  Laedron stopped and gave Marac a long stare. “I can’t discount the possibility. It’s out of character for a Circle mage, though; we don’t go around killing random people.”

  “He wasn’t a random person, though,” Marac said, turning a corner into an alley. “He was a militia guard, a symbol of Heraldan authority, and the closest thing they have to a military.”

  “Yes, but why? Why kill militia guards just before a major attack on your own academy?”

  “I don’t know. What are you getting at?”

  “I mean to say that we’re clearly not privy to every piece of the puzzle. What if some act by the Circle mages did cause the war? What if it wasn’t a preemptive sneak attack? Instead, what if the attack was merely a response to some other grievance?”

  “We can speculate about the reasons, but it will do us no good. For now, we’re walking a thin line between reality and what we can prove, and falling on either side puts us in grave danger.”

  Marac turned. “Do you hear that?”

  Stopping, Laedron closed his eyes. “A whistle. From the Ancient Quarter… Jurgen!”

  9

  Trouble in the Ancient Quarter

  Valyrie brushed a concoction of butter and seasonings onto the goose, turning it on the spit to ensure each side had a liberal application. Night had fallen over the city, and with Jurgen’s missives delivered to each recipient, she had been given the task of making a meal for them. Her first night in the house had left her with an unsettled feeling, much like the one she’d had the night her father died, a feeling of homesickness and a longing to return to something familiar.

  “Smells delightful,” Jurgen said, looking up from his papers at the writing desk. “I wasn’t aware the house came stocked with all manner of spices.”

  “It didn’t.” Valyrie wiped her hands on a scrap of cloth. “To cover my steps, I visited the market and purchased some spices before going to the headquarters. If anyone had been following me, I don’t see how they could have kept up after that.”

  “A wise move.”

  “A few more minutes on the goose, and we’ll be ready to dine.” She sliced a carrot and dropped it into the bowl with the rest of the greens. “I’ve made a salad, too. I saw how eagerly you ate the one at that restaurant.”

  “The Refined Palate?” Jurgen stood and joined her at the counter. “Since Griffenwold paid, I thought it would be disrespectful not to indulge.”

  “Then, I made it for nothing?”

  “No, no. I only mean to say that I didn’t favor the one from earlier. Yours, however, looks splendid. Yes, I think I shall enjoy every bit of what you’ve made. Thank you, Valyrie.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was lying to make her feel better. “I hope so.” She sighed, leaning against the counter.

  “Is everything all right?” Jurgen asked.

  She nodded. “Just tired. I haven’t had much sleep lately-the moving around from place to place, the nightmares, the fear.”

  “Nightmares? Your father?”

  “Sometimes, sometimes not. In one of them, I find myself locked in my cell in the basement of the Shimmering Dawn. That’s the one I have the most.” She paused. “I hear your anguish as they beat you, and I’m waiting for my turn, for whatever they have in store for me. Every time I see Piers’s face, it reminds me of the terror I felt.”

  “Our dreams have a strange way of reminding us of our deepest fears.” Jurgen took the salad bowl and sat at the small dining table. “They also have a way of showing us our greatest hopes, despite the darkness.”

  “It’s silly to indulge in dreams,” she said, sitting next to him. “The bright or the dark, they’re all the same-not real and fleeting.”

  “The same way it’s nonsensical to deal in fables and tales untrue?” Jurgen gave her a grin. “I know someone who fancies doing just that. Don’t allow yourself to grow bitter from this.”

  “Perhaps Da was right about the whole thing. Had I become a seneschal, I’d be far removed from any of this plight.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” Jurgen said. “But what sort of life would you have as a bookkeeper for some noble? Living is something not done from writing desks and with your nose deep in ledgers. Not at all.”

  “What do you suppose, then? After all of this is said and done, what is to become of me? I have no trade and no money, and I won’t go to my uncle. I can’t.”

  “I know not, but if I survive this, I wouldn’t see you cast out in the streets. Your choice will become clear to you in time.”

  “Thank you.” She went over to the goose, carved a few pieces, and gathered them on a dish. “Just right. The outside is crispy while the inside is tender and juicy.”

  “Wonderful, thank you,” Jurgen said when she returned to the table. “Shall we pray?”

  Pray? She remembered the practice, but prayers had rarely been said in her home. “Yes, that would be fine.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes.

  “Azura, protect us in this dire time and show us the way. Give peace to Valyrie, for she suffers greatly outside of your grace. Pass your blessings unto her that she might have satisfaction in your name. Bless our meal that it might provide sustenance and resolve against those who would not do your will in all things. Be it so.”

  Valyrie repeated, “Be it so,” and opened her eyes. She took a portion of meat and a bit of salad.

  After a while, Jurgen broke the silence. “You were right.”

  “About what?”

  “The goose. Perfectly cooked. I applaud your efforts.”

  She smiled. “It was rare that we’d have a goose, but I managed. Cooked it about the same as I used to prepare roast duck.”

  “Quite fine.” Jurgen turned his head. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Yelling, perhaps?” He stood and approached the window. Valyrie got up to stand at his side.

  On the street below stood four men, three militiamen and a fourth man opposite them, some twenty paces away. The guard in the front was pointing at the fourth, a man clad in black from head to foot. Valyrie spied red markings along the back of the man’s cloak, but she couldn’t derive their meaning or purpose. All she knew for certain was that she had never seen such markings.

  The guard leader stepped closer to the man, and the unknown man held up his hand. Valyrie was left breathless when she recognized what he held in that hand-a wand. “Mages? Here?”

  Jurgen took a deep breath, his eyes widening. “They’ve come for us, Valyrie.”

  “Who? Who are they?”

  “I do not know. Go to my room and retrieve the weapons.”


  “Weapons? What weapons?” she asked, trying to control her panicked breathing.

  “I procured two swords.” Jurgen pointed. “Get them. It seems we shall need them in due course.”

  Bursting through the door, she searched the room and found the swords leaning against the bed. I wonder if Jurgen’s ever used these. No matter. Fighting gives us a better chance than doing nothing.

  She crept to the window when she heard a loud noise outside, and she caught a glimpse of a bolt of lightning before it fizzled out of existence. One of the militiamen lay dead, smoke rising from his chest. Trembling, she watched the two remaining guards rush the man in black. One of the militiamen blew hard on his whistle. The chirp echoed off the buildings and into the night air.

  Please, take him down. She eyed the swords in her arms. If left to us, we’ll fare no better than the dead man. A blast of swirling flames took one of the militiamen to the ground. The other grappled with the man in black, trying to wrest control of the wand. In the chaos of the struggle, a stream of fire shot from the wand, igniting the roof of a house across the street. The flames quickly swept across the roof, and people ran out screaming.

  With apparently all of the strength he could muster, the militia man pulled the mage’s hand to his right. Valyrie saw the tip of the wand pointing her way, and she took a few steps backward. An explosion deafened her and incinerated half of the room in a flash of light. She felt the floor give way, and she reached out through the smoke and debris flying through the air, catching a plank before she fell through to the first floor.

  A haze came over her, and she felt the prickles of wood splinters lodged in her skin. If you can feel that, you’re still alive. Pull yourself up before the next spell! With all her might, she tried to lift her body onto the landing, but it was no use. She looked below, and though she thought she would survive the fall, landing in a pile of broken wood, nails, and bricks made her think twice about letting go. Glancing up, she saw a hand close to her face, and she grabbed it.

  Jurgen pulled her up, then brought her into the common room. “The swords, where are they?”