The sergeant paled at Garett’s tone, but quickly composed himself. “I know him,” he replied, somewhat offended as he drew back his shoulders and met Garett’s gaze. “He reads fortunes in the throws of the dice.”
Garett nodded as he took a second look at the young man before him. If he were bold enough to meet his captain’s gaze so defiantly, then perhaps there was something to him after all. “I wish to speak to him,” Garett continued.
“Alert the other patrols. I want Duncan here within the hour, Sergeant.”
The sergeant saluted again and led his men down Rat-water Way toward the Strip.
Garett and Burge moved up the five shallow stone stairs and into the watch house. Another patrol of six men nearly knocked them over as they prepared to exit on their rounds, and Garett and Burge quickly backed out again until the patrol passed. Garett doubted if the leader, a huge, longhaired Velunan, had even noted his superior rank. There was no puppy dog, seeking promotion or a better assignment. That one was all business.
When it was safe to enter again, Garett and Burge did so. The watch house was lit with smoking cressets, and the interior was stale with the odor of burning oil and men’s sweat. Only the narrowest of windows allowed any fresh air inside. The River Quarter watch house was the busiest post in Greyhawk, and scores of men moved about in the dim yellow light. The far side of the watch house was lined with steel-barred cells. Already they were jammed with the night’s catch of drunks and pickpockets and troublemakers, and still more were lined up before a desk to have their names inscribed in the arrest book. When that was done, they would join the rest in the cells.
The place was a barely controlled tumult. The prisoners shouted curses at the guards or at each other. Some whined for release, for food or water, or some other privilege. Watchmen hustled prisoners from the arrest line to the cells, or from one cell to another as they separated fighting prisoners. Another patrol formed and departed.
Garett shouldered his way to the arrest desk. “Where’s your commanding officer?” he demanded of the weary-looking lieutenant who sat there. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the din. Before the lieutenant could look up, however, someone grabbed Garett’s shoulder and spun him around.
“Please, your Honor!” begged a middle-aged man whose silken dress marked him as either a merchant or a noble. A dark bruise colored the left side of his face, and his eye was beginning to swell. He folded his hands in supplication under Garett’s nose as he screwed up his face and shed fat tears. “Tell them it’s a mistake! Don’t let them arrest me! Please!”
A pair of guards wrestled the man back into line.
“Well, at least he didn’t say he was innocent,” muttered the lieutenant behind the desk as he leaned back and looked up at Garett.
Burge continued to watch the poor man with a trace of amusement as the wretch offered a bribe to his guards. “What’d he do?”
The lieutenant set down his stylus and folded his arms behind his head. The arrest line came to a halt. “He beat up one of Quisti’s girls down at the Sea Willow,” came the answer. The lieutenant didn’t bother to hide a smirk. The Sea Willow was one of the finest pleasure houses on the Strip. Quisti, the owner, was renowned throughout the city for the quality of his staff. He hand-picked each girl himself, it was said, and woe to any man who abused one of them.
“My wife will kill me!” the man shrieked suddenly in despair as the guards twisted his arms up behind his back.
The lieutenant gave a sigh and leaned forward again. “What can I do for you, Captain?” he said. “As you can see, we’ve got a busy night down here. Everybody’s celebrating early, you see. Kentellen Mar comes home tomorrow.”
Garett raised an eyebrow at that piece of news. No word had been spoken of it at the Citadel. He glanced at Burge, but his friend was obviously as surprised as he was by the lieutenant’s pronouncement.
“Who told you this?” Garett demanded.
It was one of the prisoners who answered, leaning into the conversation. “Oh, it’s all over the city, it is,” he said, flashing a toothless smile. “Kentellen’s camped just a few miles outside the Duke’s Gate. He’ll be here tomorrow, all right.” His smile widened from ear to ear, revealing withered gums, but there was a twinkle in his merry eyes as he nodded toward the lieutenant. “You can take his word for it, you can, Cap’n.”
“Thanks, Perch,” the lieutenant answered with a wry yawn. To Garett, he explained, “Perch is one of our regulars.”
Garett waved a hand under his nose as he turned away. Perch’s breath was nearly a lethal weapon. But if what he said was true, the celebration in the streets would go on at least until Kentellen Mar entered the city, and not just in the River Quarter, either. It would spread to all the other quarters. The man was immensely popular with the citizens of Greyhawk. More so even than the new mayor.
Garett drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of the city slowly settling onto his shoulders. “Who’s the commanding watch officer, lieutenant?” he repeated again.
The lieutenant stuck out a hand without rising from his chair. “I’m afraid I’m it, sir,” he said. “Soja’s the name.” He shook hands with Garett. As he did so, he called out, “Hey, Graybo! Get over here and take charge of this line. Now, man!”
A heavyset sergeant with a permanent scowl carved into his face ambled wordlessly over and took the lieutenant’s place behind the desk. With a grunt, he picked up the stylus, dipped it in the inkwell, and looked up unpleasantly. The arrest line began to move again.
“Let’s see if we can’t find a little quiet, Captain Starlen,” Soja suggested, indicating a door just to the right of the row of cells. Garett and Burge followed him as he cleared a path through the crowded watch room.
“Hey, you back there!” a guard shouted suddenly. He raked a heavy cudgel along the bars of one cell in a menacing manner, setting up a considerable clatter as the prisoners snatched their fingers clear. “You mess up my floor, an’ I’ll come in there an cut that thing off!”
Soja opened the door to his office and beckoned Garett and Burge inside. When he closed it, the sounds from the outer watch room were muffled only a little. Still, that little was a grateful relief.
“I gather it’s been some time since you’ve visited us,” Soja said, walking to a cabinet that stood in one corner, opening it, and taking out a bottle of local Greyhawk wine. He offered each of them small, thimble-sized cups and poured.
Usually Garett shied away from wine, but the taste of the honeyed melon cake was still in his mouth, and he welcomed anything that would wash it down. “Most of my duties keep me in the Citadel,” he admitted. It had, in fact, been some months since he’d visited any of the watch houses. He intended to correct that quickly. “Recent events, however, have compelled me to take a personal hand in an investigation.”
“The murders of the seers?” Soja interrupted over the rim of his cup. He nodded briskly. “Nasty business, especially old Kathenor. I’ll bet his followers are foaming at the mouth.”
Burge downed his thimble cup in a quick swallow and held it out for a refill. “It’s another seer we’re interested in tonight,” he said.
“His name is Duncan,” Garett added. “He works the streets around here.” He raised his cup and took a delicate sip. The taste of cinnamon warmed the inside of his mouth. An instant later, the alcohol warmed the inside of his belly. “I want him found.”
A knock sounded on the office door. “Come in, damn it! ” Soja shouted impatiently.
The door swung open. In walked the junior sergeant Garett had encountered outside the watch house. At his side stood a frightened-looking young woman. Her clothes were an amazing collection of color. Green skirts were layered on red skirts, which were layered on orange. Her blouse was purple and blue and yellow, as if it had once been three garments sewn into one. Her left arm was covered with jingling bracelets from wrist to elbow, and cheap, gaudy rings bedecked each of her fingers and thumbs. A yellow scarf tied ba
ck her night-black hair, which spilled almost to her waist. She was not pretty at all, yet there was something appealing about her. Her black eyes sparkled in the light from the cressets.
“Well, don’t say we’re not efficient in the River Quarter,” Soja said with a sardonic gesture. “Come on in, Kael. Bring her with you.”
Burge tossed off his drink and set the cup on Soja’s desk. “This is Duncan?”
The young woman moved nervously into the center of the room. She clutched her hands together just under her bosom, but her gaze darted to each of their faces. She trembled visibly. “My father had quite a sense of humor,” she explained in a meek, apologetic voice.
Garett felt suddenly sorry for her. Obviously, she was terrified, though she struggled to hide the fact. Who knew what the junior sergeant, Kael, had told her when he picked her up? She didn’t know what she was doing here, or why the watch would want her. “Don’t be frightened, girl,” he said, going forward, taking both her hands reassuringly in his. He pulled her around Soja’s desk and held the chair for her. “Sit down,” he urged. “I just want to talk to you.”
“I haven’t done anything,” she insisted quietly.
Garett put on a gentle smile. “I know that,” he said. On an impulse, he poured a dollop of cinnamon wine into Burge’s cup and offered it to her. She’d probably never tasted cinnamon wine. “There’s no charge against you,” he continued. “I just want to talk to you.”
Like a timid mouse eyeing the cheese in a trap, she stared at the cinnamon wine. Finally she lifted it in a trembling hand and raised it to drink. Her lower lip was like a flower petal unfolding to catch a drop of dew. When she lowered the cup, she put three fingers of her other hand shyly to her lips, bent her head almost to her chest, and swallowed. It was all an act of great delicacy.
“I’m told that you can see the future,” Garett said slowly, keeping his voice low and soothing.
Duncan nodded without saying anything. She glanced at all their faces again, as if searching for some cue to the proper responses.
“I’m also told,” Garett continued, “that you’re a fake.” He studied her expression for some reaction. “Are you?”
Again she studied all their faces. Slowly, she nodded. Then she sipped quickly from the cup, as if she expected the wine to be taken from her as punishment.
Garett didn’t want to frighten her. She had a precious quality, something that reached out to him and touched him somehow. He had seen street waifs in many cities and many lands. He knew how hard a life it was, especially for a female. His heart went out to this one. Yet he still needed answers. “Which is it, Duncan?” he persisted quietly. “Can you see the future? Or are you a fake?”
She hung her head, and tears welled up in her eyes. “You are going to arrest me,” she whispered.
Garett took the cup of cinnamon wine from her hand, refilled it, and offered it to her again, ignoring the look of consternation on Soja’s face. “I’m not going to arrest you,” he assured her. “If you wish to, you may walk out of here right now.”
Duncan rolled moist eyes up at him. “I can go?” she said with a mixture of hope and surprise.
Garett nodded, looking at the others, who moved away from the door at his silent command.
Her way out was unobstructed, but she hesitated. “It is very difficult,” she said at last, clinging to the small cup as if it were a lifeline. “Sometimes, I can see true visions. But sometimes, I must lie or go hungry.” She looked up at Garett again, and though there was shame in her face, there was also determination. “I don’t like to go hungry,” she told him.
Burge came closer to the desk. “How do you do it, girl?” he inquired. “What method?”
Setting aside the cup, Duncan reached down the front of her blouse and pulled a small leather purse from her cleavage. Carefully, she loosened the purse strings and turned it upside down over her hand. Five glimmering amethysts tumbled into her palm, each cut into the shape of an octahedron.
“They’re beautiful!” Kael exclaimed, coming closer to see the stones. “She couldn’t afford those! She must have stolen them!”
Duncan recoiled, clutching the amethysts to her breasts with both hands. “I didn’t,” she whispered tensely. “They’re mine! My father gave them to me!”
Kael snorted derisively. “Father! She probably doesn’t even know who he was! ”
Garett whirled on the young officer. “Get out!” he ordered savagely. “You found her, and I’m grateful. But my gratitude has its limits, and so does my patience!”
Anger and hurt flared in Kael’s eyes for an instant. Then he saluted smartly, turned, and exited the office. The noise from the outer area surged in for a brief moment before the door slammed shut again.
Garett turned back to the cowering young woman in the chair. “It’s all right, Duncan,” he told her. “It’s all right.” He got up and paced back and forth before the desk. Burge went to lean against the door. Soja moved into a corner near his liquor cabinet, out of the way.
Duncan relaxed a bit. After a moment, she leaned forward and took up the cup of cinnamon wine and sipped it again. She opened her left fist slowly, and the amethysts gently slid onto the desk. The lamplight glittered and glimmered upon them. Splinters of purple lanced across the desktop.
“How do they work?” Garett asked, stopping to stare at the stones. They were no bigger than dice, but with eight smooth sides.
Duncan leaned over them. Setting her cup down again, she set her hands on either side of the dice, swept them together, and covered them with her cupped palms. “These are amethysts,” she began with greater enthusiasm. “If they were garnets, then my visions would always be true, and they would come easier, for garnets are my birthstone.” She took her hands away, and the lamplight reflected upon the dice again, and the splinters of purple took on a new pattern. “But I cannot afford such stones. These belonged to my grandmother. Amethysts were her birthstone. Still, there is a blood connection between us, and I can use these somewhat.”
“I’ve heard somethin’ of this custom, Cap’n,” Burge said from the doorway. “It’s practiced in the Bone March, far from here.”
“Go on,” Garett said, turning back to Duncan.
She picked up the amethyst dice and cast them over the desktop. “I roll them,” she explained, “and sometimes, fragments of the future reveal themselves in the facets. But it takes great concentration. It does not always work.” Garett extracted his purse from its resting place under his belt, opened it, and took out a silver noble. He laid the coin before the young girl. “I want you to try,” he said. “I want you to try to see who killed Acton Kathenor. If you succeed, I’ll give you another noble.”
Duncan stared at the coin. She reached out and touched it with the tip of one finger and ran the tip in small circles around its circumference. Finally, she drew her hand back and looked up. “I will try,” she said. Then she smiled for the first time, a very shy, nervous smile. “If I may have one more cup of that wonderful beverage.”
Garett looked at Soja, who trudged over to the desk and lifted the bottle. “Well, then we might as well all have one,” he muttered. He refilled Duncan’s cup, then Garett’s, and gave his own to Burge. There might have been another cup in the cabinet, Garett thought. Three was an odd number. But Soja instead claimed the bottle and lilted it toward his mouth, swallowing noisily. “It’s been a wretched night, anyhow,” he said, capping the bottle and returning it to a shelf in the cabinet. It was a not too subtle way of saving what was left.
Duncan took a sip of the cinnamon wine and set her cup aside. A tiny drop of the red liquid clung to her lip as she leaned forward and gathered the amethyst dice between her hands. She licked the drop away with a delicate flick of her tongue and let the crystals fall. They scattered upon the desk and came to rest in small pools of reflected purple. Duncan studied them carefully, then gathered them up and cast them once more.
Garett went to the far side of the room to watch
and wait. Over and over, Duncan cast the dice. The clatter they made on the wooden desk began to grate, and he felt his patience wearing away. Outside, the noise in the watch room grew louder than ever. Garett paced toward the desk, picked up his own cup of wine, which he had left sitting there, and downed it in a gulp. Burge slipped out for a moment. When he returned, the racket from the watch room had lessened somewhat, and he nodded toward Garett.
The dice clattered on the desk again. “I told you,” Duncan said without being addressed. “It’s difficult.” She picked up the dice and cupped them to her breasts. “Perhaps, if you ask a specific question?” she suggested, looking to Garett. “It’s easier to see for someone else.”
Garett went to the desk. Inwardly he cursed Ellon Thigpen. If the common-pinching fool had just allowed him to approach the Wizards’ Guild, this lengthy business might not be necessary. He might have some answers already. “What do I do?” he said.
She handed him the dice. “Hold them,” she instructed. “Warm them with your body heat and concentrate on your question.”
Garett cast a glance at Burge, who watched wordlessly, and wrapped his hands around the amethysts. He closed his eyes and drew a picture of Acton Kathenor into his mind, recalling the copper cauldron and the blood, the bits of broken mirror, all the details of the room in which the priest had died. Then he did the same for each of the other murdered seers, one by one, lingering on the visions as he rolled the dice between his cupped palms. Who killed them? he questioned silently. Who is the murderer? He called up an image of a figure, a face cloaked in shadow, and willed features to appear—a nose, a mouth, eyes that would become the face of the killer. The shadows persisted, though. It was not truly his job to lift them. He wasn’t the seer. It was only for him to shape the question.
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