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Authors: Keith R. A. DeCandido
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to find you two if something happened related to the Brightblade murder, an’ Sergeant Kel takes them directives serious, ma’am.”
Running the words unlimited overtime through her head like a mantra, Danthres asked, “What happened?”
“Another body at the Dog and Duck, ma’am.”
The dead body this time was Olthar lothSirhans, the elf. Torin knew his story by heart—most everyone who lived under King Marcus and Queen Marta’s rule did. The nephew of the Elf Queen, Olthar was one of the heroes of the elven wars for betraying his aunt, which led to the humans’ victory. Without that sacrifice, it was quite likely that they’d all be speaking the elven tongue right now.
During his interview of Olthar following Brightblade’s murder, Torin was made quickly aware that the elf knew the importance of his role in that war, and that it made him above such petty concerns as answering questions about the death of one of his comrades. The uncharitable side of Torin thought that Olthar’s death was on his own head for being uncooperative.
The crime scene was more or less the equivalent of the last one: Olthar’s lodgings, in Room 13. This room was the mirror image of Brightblade’s—the desk on the north side instead of the south, the bed against the west wall rather than the east, and so on.
The other primary difference was the location of the body. Where Brightblade had fallen in the middle of the floor, the elf was seated, slumped over onto the desk, a quill in his left hand. His head—which, like Brightblade’s, was at an off angle from the rest of his body—rested on a piece of parchment. Torin peered in to see impeccable handwriting, in the flourish-heavy script of the eastern elves.
He looked over at his partner. “I don’t suppose you know Ra-Telvish?”
“Speak, yes—read, no. Literacy wasn’t exactly a prime concern when I was a child, and by the time I was old enough to teach myself, I stuck with Common.” She joined Torin at the table. “No finger marks on his neck, either. And the quill is near the end of a character.” She frowned. “I do know this much—that’s the middle of a word. Vrasheth, I think, or maybe vranth . Something like that—in any case, he was caught off-guard in midsentence.”
“Just like Brightblade.” Torin sighed. “It looks like it isn’t just a single murder—someone’s targeting this entire group.” He turned to the guard standing in the doorway. “Who found the body?”
“Dwarf,” the guard said.
He turned to Danthres. “I think we both should talk to him.”
Danthres nodded. “Definitely.” She looked over at the guard. “Where is he?”
“Who?”
Closing her eyes and sighing, Danthres said, “The dwarf.”
“Oh. Next door. His room.”
“Someone is watching him, I hope?” Torin asked.
The guard nodded.
“Good. Any word on when the M.E. will arrive?”
The guard shrugged.
Danthres stared at Torin. “He didn’t even send a mage-bird?”
“Well, it’s the middle of the night. We’ll be lucky if he even shows up.” Then he grinned. “Three coppers says he isn’t here until sunup.”
Snorting, Danthres said, “No bet. I’ll be stunned if he’s here before midday tomorrow. Come on, let’s talk to the dwarf.”
Ubàrlig was staying in Room 14, which had the same design as Brightblade’s. The dwarf, however, had added some personal touches, even though it was only supposed to be a short stay. His Fjorm axe was now hanging from one wall, and several poorly sculpted figurines of dwarves in assorted bizarre positions were festooned about the desk and on the nightstand beside the basin.
The dwarf himself sat on the floor next to the bed, mending a hole in his tunic. Tall by the standards of his race, Ubàrlig still only came up to Torin’s chest. His hairline had receded to the back of his head, but he still grew his light brown hair well past shoulder length in the back, with a beard of equivalent length in the same
Running the words unlimited overtime through her head like a mantra, Danthres asked, “What happened?”
“Another body at the Dog and Duck, ma’am.”
The dead body this time was Olthar lothSirhans, the elf. Torin knew his story by heart—most everyone who lived under King Marcus and Queen Marta’s rule did. The nephew of the Elf Queen, Olthar was one of the heroes of the elven wars for betraying his aunt, which led to the humans’ victory. Without that sacrifice, it was quite likely that they’d all be speaking the elven tongue right now.
During his interview of Olthar following Brightblade’s murder, Torin was made quickly aware that the elf knew the importance of his role in that war, and that it made him above such petty concerns as answering questions about the death of one of his comrades. The uncharitable side of Torin thought that Olthar’s death was on his own head for being uncooperative.
The crime scene was more or less the equivalent of the last one: Olthar’s lodgings, in Room 13. This room was the mirror image of Brightblade’s—the desk on the north side instead of the south, the bed against the west wall rather than the east, and so on.
The other primary difference was the location of the body. Where Brightblade had fallen in the middle of the floor, the elf was seated, slumped over onto the desk, a quill in his left hand. His head—which, like Brightblade’s, was at an off angle from the rest of his body—rested on a piece of parchment. Torin peered in to see impeccable handwriting, in the flourish-heavy script of the eastern elves.
He looked over at his partner. “I don’t suppose you know Ra-Telvish?”
“Speak, yes—read, no. Literacy wasn’t exactly a prime concern when I was a child, and by the time I was old enough to teach myself, I stuck with Common.” She joined Torin at the table. “No finger marks on his neck, either. And the quill is near the end of a character.” She frowned. “I do know this much—that’s the middle of a word. Vrasheth, I think, or maybe vranth . Something like that—in any case, he was caught off-guard in midsentence.”
“Just like Brightblade.” Torin sighed. “It looks like it isn’t just a single murder—someone’s targeting this entire group.” He turned to the guard standing in the doorway. “Who found the body?”
“Dwarf,” the guard said.
He turned to Danthres. “I think we both should talk to him.”
Danthres nodded. “Definitely.” She looked over at the guard. “Where is he?”
“Who?”
Closing her eyes and sighing, Danthres said, “The dwarf.”
“Oh. Next door. His room.”
“Someone is watching him, I hope?” Torin asked.
The guard nodded.
“Good. Any word on when the M.E. will arrive?”
The guard shrugged.
Danthres stared at Torin. “He didn’t even send a mage-bird?”
“Well, it’s the middle of the night. We’ll be lucky if he even shows up.” Then he grinned. “Three coppers says he isn’t here until sunup.”
Snorting, Danthres said, “No bet. I’ll be stunned if he’s here before midday tomorrow. Come on, let’s talk to the dwarf.”
Ubàrlig was staying in Room 14, which had the same design as Brightblade’s. The dwarf, however, had added some personal touches, even though it was only supposed to be a short stay. His Fjorm axe was now hanging from one wall, and several poorly sculpted figurines of dwarves in assorted bizarre positions were festooned about the desk and on the nightstand beside the basin.
The dwarf himself sat on the floor next to the bed, mending a hole in his tunic. Tall by the standards of his race, Ubàrlig still only came up to Torin’s chest. His hairline had receded to the back of his head, but he still grew his light brown hair well past shoulder length in the back, with a beard of equivalent length in the same
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