Goblin Precinct (Dragon Precinct) (10 page)

“Really?” Danthres gave Fanthral the same malicious smile that she gave to people in the interview room when she was about to nail them to the proverbial wall. “Did you not say to Torin earlier today that you were forced to mistreat human prisoners by the Elf Queen and that to do otherwise would be to court punishment of your own?”

Fanthral shot Torin a glance, which Torin pointedly ignored in his attempt to walk faster. He had nothing to add, and the only reason he didn’t say what Danthres was saying now was because she’d beaten him to it.

Looking back at Danthres as they passed into Unicorn Precinct, Fanthral said, “I did say that to
Lieutenant ban Wyvald
, yes.”

Realizing that he wasn’t going to be able to stay out of it, Torin said, “The conversation was in a public place among three people. I was unaware that its contents were meant to be private.”

“So,” Danthres asked, “why aren’t
you
being hauled up before this tribunal or whatever it is?”

“That is not your concern.” Fanthral started walking even faster, passing Torin by.

Danthres called after him. “It is if we’re supposed to be hauling ourselves all over the city-state on this pointless quest to find the nonexistent person who killed your elf lord!”

Fanthral said nothing in response.

“Leave it alone, Danthres,” Torin said, just as she was about to open her mouth to say something else.

“Why should I?”

Torin smiled. “Because constantly antagonizing him is a poor way of getting him to tell you more about Sorlin.”

She shook her head in disgust. “He doesn’t know any more than he’s telling me. It’s not something he gave a shit about—no ‘proper’ elf ever did give a shit about Sorlin. He only gave a shit because a couple of his stupid elf lords wound up there and died like they should have.”

“Well, then, why not do as he suggested?”

She looked down at him curiously. “Do what?”

“Send a message to a friend from there to see if you can get a more complete story.”

That resulted in a scowl that would have done Osric proud. “That would require me to actually have a friend to contact.”

With that, Danthres also strode ahead. Torin was now three strides behind his partner, and five behind Fanthral. Plus neither of them was talking anymore, so Torin supposed that he had gotten what he wanted, more or less.

They reached the castle after another few minutes, and Fanthral actually led the way to the winding staircase. Torin had to admit to being impressed with the elf’s recollection of the castle’s sometimes confusing corridors. Prior to coming to Cliff’s End and working for the Castle Guard, Torin had spent his life living in the wide-open spaces and modest houses of Myverin, outdoors (occasionally, if he was very fortunate, under a tent) both after leaving Myverin and when he joined the army to fight the elven wars, and in the occasional inn during his other travels. None of that had adequately prepared Torin for the labyrinthine halls of the castle that served as the seat of Cliff’s End. By now, of course, he knew his way around easily, but in the first year, he often got lost on his way from the squadroom to the privy.

Fanthral was the first one to arrive at the bottom of the stairs, where the large wooden door with the gryphon door knocker was wide open.

Boneen was standing over lothSerra’s body when they arrived, and he looked up at Fanthral. “You must be the elven emissary.”

“I am Fanthral. I am here to—”

“I am not interested in why you are here. Suffice it to say that this case has implications that are far more important than whatever witch hunt you might be on.”

Fanthral snarled. “It is
not
a witch hunt!”

Torin, however, was more interested in Boneen himself. His white hair, normally wild and flying in all directions, was trimmed to a simple monk’s fringe, and his white beard now only went as far as his throat instead of his chest. He wore the same drab, ill-fitting clothes he always wore, of course.

“I wasn’t aware, Boneen,” he said with a grin, “that meetings with the brotherhood had a dress code.”

Boneen just gave Torin one of his trademark annoyed looks. “Bravo, ban Wyvald, you noticed that I cut my hair. That puts you one up on your captain.”

“Well, I
am
a detective.”

“Bravo for your ability to detect, then.”

Fanthral looked as if he was about to crawl out of his skin. “May we please get back to Elthor lothSerra?”

“Ah, yes.” Boneen waddled over to a stool and sat down. “Whew. That’s better. It has been a very long and difficult day, and this elven corpse has increased that difficulty by a great deal.”

Danthres was leaning against one of the lab’s walls. “What did you find, Boneen?”

“This is my first examination of a body that has overdosed on this ‘Bliss’ substance. Indeed, it is my first examination of Bliss in any form. There was no need, really, since I have absolutely no interest in the myriad substances that people choose to eat, drink, inhale, or ingest in the name of briefly feeling better.”

Torin smiled. “Which is why you don’t generally accompany us to the Chain.”

Fanthral shot Torin a look. “The what?”

“The Old Ball and Chain,” Torin said. “It’s a tavern where we tend to congregate after work.”

“I see. If I may ask, what does any of this have to do with lothSerra?”

Boneen regarded Fanthral with irritation. “I’m getting to that, if you’ll just give me a moment. Now, where was I?”

Danthres said, “Eating, drinking, inhaling, and ingesting.”

Boneen snapped his fingers. “Yes, of course. Now then, the first thing I did when confronted with this body—”

Holding up a hand, Fanthral said, “Wait, you examined the body first?”

“Yes. If I may continue—”

“Why did you not meet us in Haven’s Way? You were to perform a peel-back—”

“Which I will perform in due course,” Boneen snapped. “However, I have already cast a Teleport Spell today that brought me from Barlin to here. Inanimate Residue is a complex spell, and Teleport is a powerful one, with the power increasing with distance. To cast both in one day is simply beyond my means.”

Torin decided not to point out that Boneen had teleported to many a crime scene, performed the peel-back, and then teleported away. Besides, that was generally within the boundaries of the demesne, whereas Barlin was a two-week journey, so it wasn’t really the same thing.

“I fail to see how—” Fanthral started.

Danthres pushed herself off from the wall and stood between Boneen and Fanthral. “Ignore this idiot, Boneen.”

“Excuse me—” Fanthral started again.

However, Danthres just interrupted again. “What did you find?”

“Bliss is not a natural narcotic. It was created with magic.”

Fanthral squinted with apparent confusion. “Aren’t most recreational drugs of this sort enhanced by magic?”

“You’re not listening!” Boneen was so agitated he almost fell off his stool. Torin moved to hold his arm so he could steady himself. “Thank you, ban Wyvald. In any case, my point is that it hasn’t been
enhanced
by magic, it’s been
created
by magic. Bliss is the creation of a wizard. And that’s a problem.”

“Who cares who created it?” Fanthral asked. “What matters is who gave it to lothSerra!”

“That matters to
you
,” Boneen said tersely, “but of far more import to myself, and to everyone who is taking this drug in Cliff’s End is who made it in the first place.”

“Why is that, Boneen?” Torin asked.

“If a member of the brotherhood created something like this—in fact, if
any
wizard wished to create this—they would need sanction from the brotherhood, and I know for a fact that they don’t have it.”

Snidely, Fanthral asked, “How can you be so sure?”

Boneen closed his eyes and sighed. “As I was forcibly reminded recently, the brotherhood manages everything via committee. The sanction I mentioned comes from one of those committees, and I’m a member of it. So I’d know if something like this was submitted to the brotherhood. I’m afraid that Bliss is unlicensed magic, and it must be stopped.”

Danthres closed her eyes and started rubbing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. “Please, Boneen, tell me you didn’t alert Gunderson to—”

“I sent him a mage-bird shortly after I sent the one to you lot.”

“Dammit!” Danthres pounded on the nearest surface, which happened to be the table lothSerra was on. “Now the brotherhood will stick their noses—”

Holding up both hands, Boneen said, “No, they won’t. I’ve already spoken to Gunderson, and he assures me that he will not be inserting himself into the investigation. His exact words were that he prefers that those who were trained for such things handle it.” He smiled. “I can only assume he meant you two.”

Torin sighed. “That’s something, at least.”

“You must discover the source of this drug,” Boneen said forcefully.

“As it happens,” Torin said, “we have a lead on that, which we had just received when you summoned us.”

Danthres nodded. “So it’s back to Goblin to find Kempog and see if he’s really the distributor.”

“What if he isn’t?” Fanthral asked.

Torin grinned. “Oh, worry not. We’ll find
something
we can detain Kempog for, and then he’ll either talk, or send one of his cohorts to find out what we need to know.”

Fanthral moved toward the exit. “Then let us be off. I wish to find lothSerra’s murderer once and for all!”

Danthres shook her head. “Idiot. And now we have this lovely new wrinkle.”

“Here it comes,” Torin muttered.

“I
hate
magic!”

Torin shook his head as he followed her out the door and up the staircase. His partner was eminently predictable. Sometimes that was even part of her charm.

TEN

ON OCCASION, KEMPOG WISHED HIS FATHER WAS STILL ALIVE SOHE could see how completely wrong he was about his son.

Those occasions were usually when he was drunk, of course. When he sobered up, he remembered that the happiest day in his life was when that old bastard finally drank himself into a well- deserved grave. After that wonderful day, Kempog no longer had to suffer his abuse, both verbal and physical—though the latter had waned somewhat since Kempog grew to his full height, which was exactly the same as that of his father.

The former, however, continued unabated until the day the old man finally died: “Y’shouldn’t be around those people.” “Getcher self a real job.” “That ain’t honest work.” “Your mother woulda cried herself t’sleep, she saw you makin’ a mess’a your life.” And so on.

Plus, of course, Kempog’s favorite: “Whyn’tcha go into construction like a
sensible
person?”

That was the worst part of all, once Kempog got big enough to no longer be beaten, his father’s insistence that Kempog be like
every other dwarf in Cliff’s End
and go into construction.

Kempog
hated
construction. Hated building things, hated carrying heavy things, hated physical labor, and, most of all, hated the risk of suffering the same fate as his father.

When Kempog had come of age, his father had been the victim of an on-the-job accident: a large piece of lumber fell off a wheelbarrow and crushed his leg. A healer had been called, and he managed to keep the old man from losing his leg, but he walked with a limp and could no longer do the job. They let him do some administrative stuff, at which he proved so awful that they let him go, but he’d been there long enough to earn a pension.

After which, he sat around and put that entire pension into ale. Mother was long dead by then, and Kempog had been working on the streets of Goblin Precinct.

“Go into construction,” his father had said over and over again. “S’always gonna be good work. New people’re movin’ t’Cliff’s End all’a time. An’ it ain’t like we’re gonna run outta room—just cut down more forest.”

That last part was something he always added after the one time Kempog made the mistake of saying, “Of course they’re gonna run out of room, Father—there’s only so much space between the castle and the docks!”

“Gumfingers!” his father would cry, his favorite interjection. “There’s plenty’a room t’the west—jus’ cut down more’a Nimvale. Ain’t like nobody cares about no trees, and ’sides which, we need the lumber for more buildings!” That was followed by an open-handed slap to the back of Kempog’s head.

He stopped questioning his father after that.

Meanwhile, Kempog started working as a runner for the various criminals who dealt in illegal spells and smuggling and so on. Eventually he worked his way up to a position of relative importance.

And then his father died. The last thing the old man ever said to him was a drunken slur: “Y’ve wasted y’r life, Kempog. Wasted it.” Then he passed out, and never woke up.