Authors: David Lee Stone
It wasn’t a bad day, by Dullitch standards, and the sun glinted off the highly polished paintwork of
The Mostark
, the viscount’s supreme galleon. Modeset wondered if he’d ever own such a ship again. Considering his current finances, a rowing boat seemed the more likely option, if they hired them out.
Heading along the quay, he came upon a small platform where two dwarfs were unloading a heavy crate of Legrash Ale. They tried to lift the crate, failed, and then proceeded to drag it off the platform, accompanied by an orchestra of grunts and groans. Modeset asked if he could lend a hand, expecting them to decline.
“You’re on,” said the older of the two, a dwarf with a beard almost down to his ankles. “Get at the side and guide us in.”
Reluctantly, Modeset did as he was told. The dwarfs took a breath, lifted again, and set off, remarking on how the ale seemed even heavier than before. They were right, too; Modeset didn’t like to admit it, but after the first few feet, they were actually carrying him as well. Some of these dockers, he reflected, had more sinews than sense.
At length, the crate was set down and the dwarf with the beard consulted a tattered scroll fastened to the lid.
“I’m done believin’ it,” he said. “What kind of grizzled nut am I?”
His colleague waited for the bad news.
Modeset, sensing the possibility of further involvement, had already taken a step back.
“This is supposed to go on to Spittle,” the first dwarf said.
“So?” said the other docker moodily.
“So, it’s the Day of Storms, right? Day of Storms cargo for Spittle. See any connection there? We should be in Warehouse Five, not Warehouse Six. Let’s move it out. C’mon.”
The second dwarf prepared to lift the crate, then stopped and looked about.
“Where’s the bloke who was helpin’ us?” he said.
“Dunno,” said the first. “Maybe he fell under the crate.”
They burst into a roaring, gut-rooted laughter and, after four attempts, carried the crate over to Warehouse Five.
Meanwhile, Modeset hunkered down in the shadows. Either through fate or fortune, he’d found himself in the warehouse that the scroll had mentioned. What harm could it do to take a look around?
Apart from an aging hill troll unpacking barrels in the northwest corner, the warehouse was deserted. Crates of various shapes and sizes, piled haphazardly with barely an inch between stacks, reached almost to the rafters in every direction. The trick, he decided, was to know where to start in such a maze of merchandise.
Stay away from Warehouse Six
. The words rang in his ears, but they offered no clue. Still, he suspected he’d recognize something to stay well away from as soon as he got on top of it.
Time passed.
Modeset squeezed between row upon row of crates, studying the little scrolls attached to each one.
As it turned out, the cargo came from all over Illmoor and included unmarked stock from Legrash, Spittle, the Gleaming Mountains, the Twelve, Shadewell, Carafat, Grinswood, and Sporring.
More time passed.
Modeset stalked the aisles. It was beginning to dawn on him that there was a lot more to this investigating lark than met the eye, when a voice interrupted his train of thought.
“S’cuse me,” it said. “This is private prop’ty and you’re a trusspisser.”
Modeset had his answer all worked out. Unfortunately, when he turned around to supply it, the troll head-butted him.
As a red mist drifted over Modeset’s field of vision, his hulking attacker stomped off to look for a crate winch.
E
LSEWHERE, MORNING FOUND MIXER
in a quiet corner of Mudsen Mill, the city’s premier café. When the stout (but not unpleasant-looking) waitress had delivered two squares of charred toast, he peered around for any obvious signs of attention before producing a tattered notebook from the recesses of his jerkin.
Flipping open the top leaf, he ran a grubby finger down the hastily scribbled list of names. Then, plucking a tiny length of lead from behind his ear, he put a neat line through the last two.
That was the inventor
and
the thief out of the way. Now there were only a few loose ends to worry about.
He studied the remaining list and considered his options. As far as he could see, there was one “urgent” and a possible “pending.”
The loftwing wouldn’t wait much longer. In fact, Mixer had already decided that the next time he was followed, the investigator would get what was coming to him, indubitably. Then there was the boy: Dafisful
had
spent a long time talking to the young wastrel in the Ferret. He might have told him anything; hell, he might have told him
everything
. So: another one to add to the list. If only there were a little more time! Still, needs must …
First things first, he told himself. Breakfast—the most important meal of the day.
Mixer took one last glance at the notebook before returning it to his jerkin pocket. Then he ordered a coffee to go with his charcoal.
J
IMMY QUICKSTINT, HALF BAREFOOT
on the cold cobbles of the alley in which he’d spent the night, was livid. Of course, he’d enjoyed himself at first. Everybody did. This was because, for sheer incredible logic, gambling was hard to beat. You came in off the street with bugger-all except three acorns and a foot infection, and in less than fifteen minutes you had a bag of gold, six illegitimate children, and a couple of empty cottages in lower Dullitch with rental possibilities. That, of course, was if you were endowed with luck, knew how to play, and carried loaded dice.
Jimmy wasn’t, didn’t, and hadn’t. He’d been carried from the pits of Primo Don barely three hours after he went in, having parted with two shoes, one sock, and his left eyebrow. The latter, he’d been assured, he could claim back at a later date in exchange for the seventeen crowns he owed Logoff the Merchant. Additionally, to form a nice creamy topping on his elephantine disaster of a day, he now found himself hungry and alone in a part of the city he had hitherto only seen on the secondhand maps outside the cartography school.
He was about to make a move, when a frighteningly familiar voice said: “You’re up, then?”
Jimmy turned slowly on his heels and found himself staring into the beak of the barrowbird.
“Leave me
alone
!”
“Shan’t.”
“Damn you!”
“Nice.”
“No, I mean it! Damn you to hell.”
“Colorful; do you blaspheme professionally or are you still on the amateur circuit?”
Jimmy extended a finger to support his annoyance. “Stuff this in your beak and curse you, you emaciated feathered twit.”
“Listen, you can damn me all you like. I told you last night that I wouldn’t be easy to shake off.”
“Yes, but what do you want?”
“Your friend with the limp.”
“But I don’t know where he is!”
“Then find him, and I’d be pretty sharpish if I were you. I’m not a patient bird.”
Jimmy fell against the alley wall and allowed himself to slide down. “This is ridiculous!” he gasped. “Do you have any idea how big Dullitch is? He could be anywhere!”
“He’
s your
friend. You must know where he hangs out.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Thieves aren’t like that,” he said. “They only come to you when they need something, and I’ve already done Grab a favor, remember?”
The barrowbird flapped a bit, then appeared to reach a decision. “You’ll have to go back to the tavern,” it squawked.
Jimmy shrugged. “It’s a long shot.”
“Do you know any short ones?”
“No.”
“Then get movin’!”
V
ISCOUNT CURFEW SIGHED DEEPLY
. “I take it you have some bad news, Spires?”
His royal secretary paused in the doorway, unsure of whether he should risk an entrance. “Wh-why do you say that, lord?”
“You only come to see me on such occasions.”
“Oh, I …”
Curfew raised an eyebrow. “Well? Do go on.”
“Um, right, er, the fact is, that, in fact, the point being …”
“Quickly, please. Before one of us dies.”
“Yes, sir. Of course. What would you like first? The atrocious end of the news or its abysmal beginnings?”
“Start with the atrocious and work your way backward. That way you have at least a thirty percent chance of survival.”
Spires closed the door to the chamber behind him and took a seat on the base of a marble plinth, clearing his throat in the process.
“A short while ago I fired one of the scribes, a young lady by the name of Lauris.”
“On what grounds?”
“Um … the palace grounds, sir.”
“No, you idiot,
what grounds did you have to fire her
?”
“Oh right, I see. Well, our people were watching her for some time, and I knew, at second hand, of at least three activities that she could have been fired for, but I actually
caught
her signing import orders.”
“
Import orders
? For what?”
Spires scratched nervously at his arm. “Machinery, sir. Tin, iron; some enchanted bronze too, if I recall; all sorts of nonsense. Unfortunately, she burnt the paperwork shortly before we confronted her, and now we can’t find out where she stored these …
supplies
. Wherever it was, they’ve probably been moved on by now.”
“And the girl?”
“She disappeared, sir. The spies observed that several palace-stamped scrolls disappeared at around the same time.”
“Why on earth wasn’t she fired before?”
“Well, the fact is, Excellency, she did a lot of very positive things for us.”
“Such as?”
“Well, um, trade deals and the like. In fact, it was Lauris who found out about your new statue and suggested that we have it moved down from Spittle to put in the cit—Why are you looking at me like that, Excellency?”
“Never mind. It just seems curious then that she made such a nuisance of herself. It doesn’t really add up, does it?”
“No, Excellency. Not at all.”
“And now she’s probably up to something dodgy with our stamped scrolls, no doubt. What use would they be?”
The servant took a deep breath. “No use whatsoever
inside the city
, Excellency. As for foreign powers, well, I expect she could send a few bogus war declarations, but nothing any of the major cities would take seriously without a herald to back it up.”
“So no threat there, then. How long since she vacated the palace?”
Spires fidgeted nervously on the little platform. “Approximately two weeks, give or take a day,” he said.
Curfew shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “And you only thought to tell me about it now?”
“Um, I didn’t want to alarm you, Excellency.”
“Is that right? I’m assuming you’ve taken steps to find this girl?”
“Of course, Excellency. We hired an investigator to track her down; we thought it might be better to work quietly so as not to attract undue attention.”
“Has he turned up anything?”
“Yes and no, Excellency, yes and no. He called at her house on North Street, aiming to search for some clue as to her whereabouts, but when he arrived, he found a gnome torching the place.”
Curfew’s expression twisted into the half smirk of the intrigued. “A gnome.”
“Yes, Excellency, a gnome.”
“And did he capture this gnome?”
“No, the report says that he made no attempt to do so. He suspected that if he followed this
gnome
, then maybe it would lead him to Lauris herself.”
“Hmm… a fair conclusion, I suppose. Is that all?”
“No, milord. The whole thing has become quite a bit more complicated. Mr. Obegarde, that’s the investigator, he’s been asking questions up at City Hall, and they say that this gnome is the caretaker at Karuim’s.”
Curfew’s expression suddenly froze. “That’s a Yowler building, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Excellency, which is why I thought it best to tell you about all this in the first place. We might have a real problem, here.”
“I see.” The viscount rose from his chair and, marching over to the window, stared out at the steeples of the great church. “This girl, this … Lauris. You must talk to everyone in the palace who worked with her, Spires,” he said. “Friends, enemies, rivals, I don’t care who they are, I want a complete report of her history. We need to know if she has or had any connection with the Yowler Brotherhood. Leave no stone unturned!”
The secretary bowed low and hurriedly vacated the chamber, leaving the viscount to his thoughts.
M
ODESET AWOKE TO FIND
himself in a crate. His eyes ached, and drums beat a steady rhythm inside his head. He moaned, brought a hand to his chin, and wiped away a crusted mixture of blood and spittle.
I’m a duke, he thought. I’m royalty! They can’t get away with treating me like this! I’m off to the palace, and Curfew will
have
to listen this time because I’m family and because I’m of the blood! Someone’s going to have to pay; someone like that elf, someone who, someone … SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF THIS BLOODY CRATE!
He aimed both feet at the lid and kicked frantically, elbowing the sides for good measure. Just when he was beginning to make some headway, he heard the faintest hint of a whisper. At first, he thought it might be the wind, but then, ever so slightly, the volume increased.
“Stpt.”
Modeset strained to listen.
“Opit—”
“What? Is someone out there?”
The next time the voice spoke, it was clearly audible. “Stop it,” it said. “Stop wriggling. Don’t move another inch.”
“What do you mean, ‘Don’t move another inch’?” screamed Modeset. “Help! Get me out of here!”
“Quieten down!” said the voice, increasing in urgency. “The dockers are patrolling tonight and I can’t handle all of ’em. Stay quiet and they’ll pass.”
“Tonight? You mean I’ve been in here all day? Damn that troll!”
“Shh! Listen, you don’t know where you are.”
Modeset fidgeted inside his prison. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m in a crate.”
“Okay,” the voice continued. “Let’s put it another way. You don’t know where the crate is.”