Goblin Precinct (Dragon Precinct) (8 page)

Hobart generally made a good living on Jorbin’s Way selling an assortment of dry goods. Everything he sold was something easily packed up and moved elsewhere. Hobart had no interest in paying the exorbitant prices charged by the Brotherhood of Wizards for storage of perishable items. Better to just stick with something he could put in a box.

Lately, however, the crowds had diminished. Jorbin’s catered to Cliff’s End’s middle- and lower-classes, with goods that could be found at a cheaper price than places with full-on storefronts, who had to mark up in order to keep up with their rent. Besides, the merchants on Jorbin’s often could get items that weren’t entirely above-board—or which weren’t marked up due to tariffs, thanks to not having actually paid them.

One of the latter items was an entire bolt of linen from Saptor Isle that Hobart had from a shipmaster whose cousin’s family grew flax and wove it into linen on the island. Saptor linens were always softer and more comfortable than those from the mainland—the shipmaster in question said it had something to do with winds or sunlight or some such thing. Hobart didn’t give a goblin’s foot about the details. The flax farmer had a surplus of linen after his family sold to various merchants, and gave that surplus to his cousin the shipmaster, who sold them to Hobart at a rate that was considerably lower than what he’d pay on the open market, but which still gave the shipmaster a tidy profit on, well, nothing. Even with Hobart’s own mark up, he sold the best linen in Flingaria for less than half of what every other merchant charged.

And that, right there, was the crux of his problem, right there in that bolt of Saptor linen that sat, unpurchased, on his stand on the eastern end of Jorbin’s Way. In the past, every time he got a shipment of Saptor linen, it was gone by the end of the day.

Today, though, he’d only sold a few yards, and that was to a couple of tourists who were on their way to the docks for a sea voyage. His regulars were nowhere to be found.

Then he saw a sight that normally filled him with dread, but today suffused him with uncharacteristic joy: two Cloaks heading down the way.

Lieutenants Tresyllione and ban Wyvald were striding purposefully through Jorbin’s toward Haven’s Way (and why they’d be going to that shithole, Hobart had no idea). But if anybody could do anything about this scourge that had ravaged Jorbin’s, it was those two.

Happy to have an outlet, and only a little concerned that things had gotten so bad that he viewed the arrival of two Cloaks with anything other than annoyance, Hobart put out his cigar and jumped up and down to get their attention. “Oi! Lieutenants!”

They were, he noticed, walking with an armor-wearing elf who seemed more than a little perturbed.

Tresyllione looked down on him with her usual disdain. “We don’t have time for you, Hobart.”

“Look, I just need a moment, all right?”

The elf asked, “Who is this imbecile?”

“Hobart,” ban Wyvald said with a smile. “One of the merchants.”

“I know the type.” The elf’s mouth twisted in disgust. “I would prefer we not dally with him, as we have work to do, and he’ll have our money pouches before long.”

Smiling in that way that made her even uglier, Tresyllione said, “See, Hobart? He’s only just met you, and he already knows you!”

“Oh, real funny, Lieutenant. Look, I got information that might be’a use to ya.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Tresyllione asked.

“Oh, I believe it,” ban Wyvald said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Hobart inclined his head toward ban Wyvald. “Always knew you were the brains of the partnership.”

Continuing as if Hobart hadn’t spoken, the red-bearded Cloak went on: “What I don’t believe is that he’ll name a price for this information that we’ll be willing to pay.”

Hobart pointed an accusatory finger at ban Wyvald. “Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong, Lieutenant. Y’see, I ain’t chargin’ you nothin’ for this little piece’a info.”

“And I say again, you expect us to believe that?”

Snarling at Tresyllione, Hobart said, “Look, this is good stuff, an’ if you don’t want it—”

The big elf turned to leave. “I see no reason to continue to listen to this.”

Realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere if he didn’t provide at least one detail, and seeing that ban Wyvald and Tresyllione were starting to move to join the elf, Hobart said, “It’s about Bliss!”

Ban Wyvald stopped and whirled around. “What about Bliss?”

Tresyllione looked at her partner. “What difference does it make? He’s not worth the time.”

“Let’s hear him out,” ban Wyvald said. “What about Bliss?”

Hobart smiled. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I knew I could count on you to—”

“Get on with it, please, Hobart,” ban Wyvald said sharply.

“Right. Well, first of all, the stuff’s a menace, all right? You know that profits on Jorbin’s are down since midsummer? It’s all ’cause’a Bliss. People’re buyin’ Bliss and that ain’t leavin’ them with enough silver left to buy something nice for themselves or nothin’ like that. I mean, truly, it’s so a merchant can’t make an honest living in this town no more.”

Tresyllione smiled that damned smile again. “And how would you know that?”

“You gonna keep makin’ jokes, or you gonna let me provide my information?”

“Thus far,” ban Wyvald said, “you haven’t provided any information, merely complained about how Bliss has affected your business.”

“Which,” Tresyllione added, “is not something that falls within the Castle Guard’s purview. And even if it did, I wouldn’t care. Unless, of course, you were the one selling it, in which case, I doubt you’d be this helpful. So kindly get to it.”

Hobart had to admit that Tresyllione was right on that score, though he’d never admit it to her. If he had the Bliss concession, he’d be happier than a gnome with a stepstool. “Look, I’m just buildin’ to it, okay? Settin’ the stage so that you’ll be understandin’ the context and such-like.”

Glancing at Tresyllione, ban Wyvald smiled. “He’s a bard now, it seems.”

“It ain’t just me, okay?” Hobart held out a hand, taking in all the other merchants on Jorbin’s—many of whom were staring at this tableau with open-mouthed stupefaction to see Hobart willingly talk to Cloaks, but that was a sign of how desperate times were. Also, the fact that they had the ability to look at Hobart rather than deal with the throngs of customers spoke volumes, he hoped, to the two Cloaks. “Every merchant on the way’s feelin’ it. Bliss’s a damn scourge, is what it is.”

Tresyllione rolled her eyes. “Hobart, Bliss isn’t illegal, so unless—”

“Wait.” That was the elf, who now pushed past the two Cloaks and gazed down upon Hobart. “Tell me, merchant—are you familiar with who is providing this drug to the citizenry?”

“Who cares?” Tresyllione asked.

Whirling on the Cloak, the elf said, “I do. LothSerra died of an overdose of this Bliss substance. Perhaps he was indeed a beggar on Haven’s Way as you claim, but someone gave him this drug. If we find the creators of it, we may find out who killed him.”

“Oh, Lord and Lady,” Tresyllione said, “for the twelfth time, he killed
himself
.”

“That has not been proven to my satisfaction.”

Hobart had no idea what the dynamic was between the half-elf and the full-blooded elf, but he had a feeling it had something to do with Tresyllione being her usual bitchy self.

Either way, he was going to take advantage. “You wanna know who’s makin’ Bliss, do you?”

The elf turned back to Hobart. “Yes. Tell me,” he pulled a longsword out of a back scabbard with a metallic scratch, “or I will run you through where you stand.”

“Oh, please,” Tresyllione said with mock-enthusiasm, “don’t tell him anything, Hobart. Then he’ll kill you, and we can arrest him for murder. It would make my day.”

“Wouldn’t make mine,” Hobart muttered. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another cigar. He held it toward the elf. “Can I interest you in—”

He put the tip of the sword near Hobart’s neck. “Tell me what you know.”

Hobart was seriously starting to reconsider this entire notion of talking to the Cloaks. Then again, this shitbrain wasn’t a Cloak. “All right, all right, just put the sword down, okay?”

Slowly, the elf lowered the sword, but did not re-sheathe it.

Rubbing his neck, Hobart said, “All right, look, I don’t know who exactly the Bliss pusher is—”

Tresyllione threw up her hands. “I knew it. He doesn’t know shit!”

“Wait a second!” Hobart cried quickly, trying to forestall the re-raising of the elf’s sword. “Thing is, there’s one fella’s been spendin’ way more gold than he used to. Matter of fact, he never even used t’
have
gold. Was strictly silver an’ copper, he was. But lately, he’s spendin’ like he’s the owner of the blessed bank.”

“The name, please, Hobart.”

“Kempog.”

“Oh, please.” Tresyllione rolled her eyes again.

Looking at her, the elf asked, “You know this Kempog?”

Ban Wyvald nodded. “He’s a dwarf, and a small-time thug. Works as an enforcer and a runner for various criminals. As Hobart said, he’s always been fairly low-level.”

“An’ that’s what’s so weird. He ain’t usually the type to go ’round in silks an’ the like. But he is now.”

Ban Wyvald exchanged a look with Tresyllione. Hobart had seen the two of them do this before—it was like they communicated via Thought Spell.

“All right, we’ll take a look at Kempog.” Every word came out of Tresyllione’s mouth as if she was forcing it out. “Even if he isn’t the one dealing Bliss, if he’s throwing gold around now, we should find out what’s changed.”

“Agreed,” ban Wyvald said with a firm nod.

“Yes,” the elf said, “but first we shall investigate Haven’s Way to see if we can learn anything.”

“We’ll learn nothing,” Tresyllione said tightly. “The scene is days old, and—”

Before Hobart could take pleasure in watching the elf and Tresyllione go at it again—if they kept it up, he was going to sell tickets—a glowing white bird appeared before them.

The glow expanded to the point that Hobart had to shield his eyes. From seemingly all around them came words in a high-pitched voice: “Boneen requests that you return to the castle immediately. It is regarding Elthor lothSerra’s body.”

The glow grew even brighter, and then dimmed to nothing. The mage bird was gone.

“Dunno why they can’t be sendin’ messengers like everyone else,” Hobart muttered as he blinked the spots out of his eyes.

“Boneen’s back, it seems,” ban Wyvald said dryly.

“And he’s examined the body,” Tresyllione added. “Let’s go.”

The Cloaks started back the way they came. The elf muttered something in Ra-Telvish that Hobart didn’t recognize—his facility for the elven tongue was poor at best, and he was out of practice—and then went after them.

Hobart lit his cigar, took a puff on it, feeling the pleasant aroma of the smoke enter his lungs. “You’re welcome!” he called after the Cloaks. “Bloody ingrates.”

He headed back to his stand, hoping that he might actually sell something today.

EIGHT

“HEY, BOY, YOU COMIN’ IN, OR WHAT?”

“Hm?” Grovis looked up and around at Iaian’s entreaty, and realized that he hadn’t the foggiest idea where he was or what he was doing. He was too busy wondering what was going on at his father’s bank, and wondering why he hadn’t yet gotten a message from Daddy or from Dru and Hawk or from
somebody
.

He couldn’t believe that anyone would do such a thing. The Cliff’s End Bank was a sacred trust with the citizenry, and if that was violated, the entire system fell apart and people would be back to hiding their gold in their mattresses.

So worried had he been, he had completely forgotten that he and Iaian had a case. Shortly after Torin and Danthres and that elven general had left for the body shop, a member of the youth squad had come running in to tell them that there had been a murder in Goblin Precinct.

Iaian had been talking to the guard from Goblin who was at the series of hovels on Orphan’s Lane where the murder took place, while Grovis was pacing up and down the lane wondering why in Ghandurha’s name nobody had
told
him anything yet!

“You mind getting your ass in here?” Iaian spoke with even more testiness in his voice than usual. “Y’know, to solve a murder?”

Grovis shook his head. “Yes, yes, of course, my apologies, I’m a bit—a bit distracted, I’m afraid.”

“Well, cut it out. We got work to do.”

They went into the tiny hovel, where there was the body of a human on the floor, head at an odd angle to the rest of him.

Seated on a small crate, which was all the furniture the residents had, was a crying woman. Another guard from Goblin was standing near her.

Iaian looked down at the woman. “You the victim’s wife?”

She shook her head. “Elko and me, we ain’t, well, married, exactly.”

Then Iaian turned to look at Grovis, who looked around, confused. “What?”