The wagon headed east along the waterfront, following wheel-ruts left in the cobbles by centuries of traders. Tarrel tried to imagine what the place had looked like in its prime, with vessels from across Khorvaire crowding its docks, loading and unloading cargo from all over the world. All he could see were the results of war and neglect. The docks stood mostly empty. Instead of bustling merchants and stevedores, there were beggars huddled against the warehouse walls, taking what shelter they could beneath the overhanging roofs.
The farther east the wagon went, the worse everything looked. The cobbles became patchy and then ran out altogether; the warehouses became more ruinous, and the thoroughfare more choked with trash and debris. Finally, even the beggars disappeared, replaced by fat, greasy rats that skittered from cover to cover.
At last, the wagon reached a warehouse close to the gap-toothed city wall. A wooden jetty reached a little way into the water, with moss and mildew speckling the boards that were still there. Off the end of the jetty, a couple of pilings stuck a foot or so out of the gray, oily water, showing that the jetty had once been longer. Opposite the jetty stood a warehouse whose front had been almost demolished—whether by a wartime attack or by something that had crossed from the Mournland, it was impossible to tell—and patched up with canvas, broken timbers, and whatever else came to hand. A half-orc lounged on the nearest corner, obviously a lookout. The wagon was almost fifty yards ahead of him by now, and he slipped into an alley out of sight.
Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a small mirror. It was mounted at an angle on a slim iron handle, and allowed him to look around the corner without being seen. As he watched, the half-orc pulled a sheet of canvas aside, and the cart went into the crumbling warehouse. The lookout returned to his post on the corner.
Tarrel watched for a few moments, then put the mirror away and pulled out a wand. It was different from the one Mordan had returned to him: a smooth, featureless rod of something that looked like glass. Touching it to his chest, he muttered a few words, and vanished.
“I told you,” said Falko.
Mordan examined the sword. It was masterwork, but not cavalry pattern. With its asymmetric, spiked quillons and jagged blade, it was ugly but brutally effective, designed to be wielded with strength rather than skill. He looked at the crown and skull emblem stamped on the hilt.
“Undead?” he asked.
Falko nodded. “The armor and shields, too,” he said. “Standard issue for zombie units. It makes sense, I suppose. With the undead forces being demobilized. I expect I’ll be seeing a lot more of their surplus equipment. In fact, I’m surprised no one’s brought any in before.”
There were plenty of adventurers in Karrlakton who would be eager to get their hands on masterwork weapons. But Mordan was no closer to the Lancers.
“Did he tell you anything?” he asked.
Falko shook his head. “Cash only, no names, all business,” he replied. “I don’t suppose he came by these honestly.”
Despite the Treaty of Thronehold, Karrnath was still on a war footing—partly to counter the Valenar threat to the south and partly in case the fragile peace should break. The country’s notorious undead troops were being demobilized but not disbanded. The Ministry for the Dead had set up great mausolea to hold them in case of future need—and to act as a deterrent against outside aggression. Their equipment was supposed to go with them. The military would not be disposing of masterwork weapons at a time like this.
Mordan laid the sword back on the table. “Anything more on the badge?” he asked.
Falko looked blank. “Badge?” he asked.
Mordan frowned. It wasn’t like Falko to forget anything. “From yesterday,” Mordan said. “You said it was a Ministry pattern, but you couldn’t pin it down.”
Falko knit his brow in concentration, as if trying to remember something from a long time ago. “A badge,” he said, absently. “I think …” He mopped his brow with a large kerchief. He seemed unsteady on his feet.
“Are you ill, Falko?”
Falko sat down heavily on his camp stool.
“No,” he mumbled. “I—I’m fine. Just a headache. I should probably get some sleep. I’ll remember tomorrow …” his voice tailed off, and his head sagged toward the tabletop.
He didn’t even react to the splintering sound of the door being kicked down.
Tarrel approached the warehouse, mentally counting down the duration of the invisibility spell. He worked his way along the back alleys, taking care not to step in any puddles or give any other sign of his presence. He’d been an inquisitive too long to assume that being invisible was a guarantee of being unseen.
The back of the warehouse was more intact than the front, but no cleaner. Mold and moss grew in the cracks between the stones, and dark stains showed where more than a century of rain had washed down from the eaves. Another tough leaned against the wall beside the single back door, dressed in scuffed and filthy leather armor. Tarrel approached as near as he dared and examined the door. The lock was old and the hinges rusted, and his eye caught a stray glint from the door-jamb; looking closer, he saw that the doorway had been outlined in gold dust, magically securing it. It would be almost impossible to open quietly, even if he could overpower the guard.
He stopped and sniffed. Mixed in with the damp, rotting timber, and garbage that made up the smell of the waterfront, there was something else. It was a heavy smell, sweet and sharp in equal measure. It was a smell of decay, but stood out from the overall decay that marked the area. He couldn’t quite place it, but he knew it didn’t belong there.
Stepping softly past the lazing guard, he went down the side of the warehouse, trying to identify the smell. The smell got stronger as he came to the front of the building, and he guessed it came from inside. A few window-slits were set high up in the walls, allowing light inside but too high for him to see through, even with his mirror. The walls were just as damp and slippery here as at the back of the building, making climbing risky. He could hear something going on inside—a low conversation, a shuffling, and the occasional creak—but nothing that told him what was happening.
He had about a minute of invisibility left and decided to risk looking at the front. Maybe he would be able to see something through a gap in the makeshift repairs. Keeping an eye on the half-orc lookout, he moved as quietly as he could. Cautiously, he reached out a hand toward a loose flap of canvas—but it was flung back before he touched it.
Spinning round to face the door, Mordan caught a glimpse of two bulky figures rushing toward him. Behind them, another one was raising a wand, barking a command word. Instinctively, he threw himself aside, rolling behind a rack of pikes. Something pale and shapeless shot past the spot where he had been standing.
A second glance told him more about the intruders. There were four of them, all wearing the uniform of the Royal Swords. The wand-bearer had drawn a sword like his comrades, and they advanced cautiously into the warehouse. Mordan looked round at a muffled whine from Falko’s stool; he was struggling uselessly against a mass of sticky strands that enveloped him and anchored him to the table and floor. Mordan pulled his cloak over his head; it had come from the same place as his rapier, and blended with the shadows.
“Royal Swords!” announced the leader of the group. “Come out and keep your hands where we can see them!” He and one of the others edged toward Mordan’s hiding-place, while the other two set about cutting Falko loose from the web.
Peering between the pikestaffs, Mordan could see their heads move as they looked around. They hadn’t spotted him yet. He waited until they came closer, and then kicked the rack over, springing to his feet.
One of the Swords was quick enough to get out of the way, but the other was taken by surprise. He raised an arm to protect himself as the pikes clattered off his head and shoulders. Mordan ducked behind a stack of boxes and began to edge toward the door. He had no intention of fighting the Royal Swords if he could get away. King Kaius had kept Karrnath under martial law despite the peace, and royal justice was both harsh and summary—especially for those who killed the King’s officers.