The Consuls of the Vicariate

by Brian Kittrell

  Laedron stopped.

  “Well, won’t you?” Marac took him by the shoulder. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sorry if I offended, but it’s—”

  “Look. Just there,” Laedron said, pointing down an alley. In a wider part of the alleyway, a pair of shoes—clearly still worn by a body—lay exposed, and the person to whom they were attached wasn’t moving. Laedron could gather little detail since the body was mostly concealed behind a few barrels.

  “Oh, probably a vagabond. We’re militia, right? Let’s check him out.” Marac approached, looked over the tops of the barrels, then turned back to Laedron. “It’s a militia guard, Lae. He’s not moving.”

  Laedron walked around the barrels and crouched beside the man. Searching for wounds, he said, “There’s no blood. Nothing. He isn’t breathing.”

  “Roll him over.” Marac walked to the other side of the man and hunched over him. “Check his back.”

  “Nothing there, either. No blood, nothing.” Laedron scanned the distance when something made a noise in the next alley, a sound much like a pan hitting the ground. “What was that?”

  Across from them, a man cowled in black robes took off down the opposite street. Laedron caught a glimpse of red symbols on the back of the man’s cloak, small, indistinguishable characters written in two vertical rows from his shoulders to the hem.

  “A killer? Marac!” Laedron sprang to his feet. With Marac’s heavy footsteps on his heels, Laedron pursued the shadowy figure through the alley. Laedron turned the next corner and heard the sound of a sword being drawn behind him—Marac readying himself for a fight. He drew his dagger. Better this than nothing, I guess.

  Rounding the next corner, Laedron felt a sting on his throat and recoiled out of reflex. He remembered that same feeling when Heidrik, Gustav’s minion who had tortured Marac and Mikal, had lashed him in the face. The feeling was unmistakable and familiar, the warmth of blood flowing across his skin. He turned and plunged the dagger into the cloaked man as hard as he could. Laedron’s breathing hastened while his target’s slowed and became shallow. From the amount of blood on his hands, Laedron knew that he had hit his mark and hit it well.

  The man’s dagger dropped from his left hand, and a bit of wood from his right, as he collapsed. A pool of blood spread slowly and soaked his garments.

  Laedron took a step back to keep his boots from getting drenched. Laedron’s eyes widened when he realized that the length of wood was, in fact, a wand. “It’s a mage, Marac! Have I killed one of our countrymen?”

  “Keep your voice down, Lae.” Marac leaned down and removed the cloth covering the man’s face. “Doesn’t look like any Sorbian I’ve ever seen.”

  “We haven’t seen them all. What if he’s like us? What if he was on a mission, too?”

  “If he was on a mission, I doubt it came from the same people we serve. Look, a tattoo on his neck. Unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

  Laedron turned the man’s head to the side, and the tattoo on his neck was illuminated by the lantern light. “It’s a word.”

  “A word? What does it say?”

  “Kivesh.”

  “Kivesh?” Marac asked. “Well, what does that mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s a name.”

  “How can you read it?”

  “It’s written in an old language. Zyvdredi.”

  Marac’s face twisted with apparent shock and fear. “Zyvdredi? Here?”

  “It would seem so.” Laedron rummaged through the man’s pockets. In the belt, he found a black cloth pouch.

  “What’s that?” Marac asked.

  Without responding, Laedron opened the purse and pulled out a handful of black stones, each etched with a runic symbol that he couldn’t place, symbols similar to the ones along the back of the man’s cloak. A few of the stones sparkled with an artificial glow as if reverberating with energy. The others only reflected the light of the lantern posts.

  “What are those, Lae? What does all this mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Laedron returned the stones to the bag and put it in his pocket. “I’m going to hold on to them until we know for sure.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Laedron retrieved the man’s wand and tucked it into his other boot. “Back to the dead guard. I need to see what I can discover about the body. It may lend a clue.”

  Marac led the way back to the militiaman’s body, and Laedron searched the area for any sign of onyx stones.

  “Nothing here. Nothing more than we already know, which isn’t much.”

  Laedron reached for his wand, but Marac grabbed his hand before he could draw it.

  “If we’re to do this, we’d better try the old-fashioned way—find witnesses and look around. If you’re discovered, we’d be in deep water.”

  Laedron stood with a sigh, then turned when he heard a door close behind him. “Where was that?”

  “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!”

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  ← Chapter Eight | Chapter Ten →

  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 sai
d, 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.”