Peering out from underneath a set of barding on a horseshaped stand, Mordan saw three pairs of feet heading toward the door. The middle pair moved clumsily and still bore traces of the magical web; the other two were heavily booted. Falko was protesting feebly, but his captors ignored him. A sideways glance told Mordan that the other two Swords were still looking for him.
Carefully pulling a light mace from a barrel of weapons beside him, he threw it in a high arc across the warehouse. It came down with a crash on a stack of helmets, spilling them noisily across the floor. Falko’s captors continued half-dragging him toward the door, but the other two turned round and looked toward the source of the noise. He found a pouch of sling bullets under a table, and threw it after the mace as he moved into the cover of a group of barrels. It landed close by the helmets with a soft rattle. One of the officers took a step toward the sound.
Falko and his captors were outside now, leaving Mordan and the two others in the crowded warehouse. Chancing a glance over the barrels, he saw that one was moving toward the upset helmets, but he had lost sight of the other. He listened for footsteps but heard nothing.
He had a clear path to the door, and decided to run for it—but the other Royal Sword had anticipated his move. Stepping out from behind a rack of armor, he blocked Mordan’s way.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, raising his sword with a vicious smile.
As Mordan twisted away from the slashing blade, he heard the footsteps of the second officer approaching at a run. He backed away from the first, tipping over a barrel to slow him down, and snatched up a leather harness from a pile of horse-trappings beside him. Spinning round, he threw it at the second officer’s legs, tripping him. He only had a second to act before the officer regained his feet.
Mordan leaped over the prone body of the fallen officer and ran toward the back of the warehouse. Glancing up, he saw the pale square of a grimy skylight; he vaulted onto Falko’s table, and from there to the rafters. Holding his cloak over his head, he punched through the filthy glass with the stump of his left arm, then launched himself upward, through the skylight and onto the roof.
Without waiting to see if the Royal Swords followed, he ran along the roof and jumped across the narrow alley to an adjoining building. Crouching on the roof, he listened for sounds of pursuit, but heard nothing. The Royal Swords must have come for Falko; he just happened to be there at the wrong time, and they weren’t going to waste their effort chasing him—especially since he didn’t draw steel on them.
Dropping softly to the cobbles, Mordan headed back to the Black Dragon. He didn’t follow the Royal Swords, because he knew where they would be taking Falko—to the Palace of Justice in the city center. What he didn’t know, yet, was what he was going to do next.
Stifling a gasp, Tarrel stepped aside. Hintram had almost collided with him as he came out. He froze, certain that he must have been spotted, but the human simply exchanged a few words with his half-orc lookout and strode back into the city. Tarrel ducked between two warehouses and found a secluded spot where there was a large puddle. Crouching over it, he waited until he could see his own reflection in the scummy water. Then he set off after Hintram. He threaded his way through the back-alleys, roughly paralleling the man’s course and catching an occasional glimpse of him between buildings. As the street became busier at the western end of the waterfront, Tarrel felt safe to drop back and mingle with the crowd, keeping his quarry in sight.
The waterfront was not the only part of Karrlakton to have suffered destruction. As an industrial center and Karrnath’s second city, it had endured constant attacks from Cyran forces across the river. Karrnathi architecture was solid and imposing, but nearly every building in the city was either damaged, recently repaired, or in the process of being repaired. In some places, entire groups of buildings had been destroyed, leaving fragments of walls and chimneys standing out above piles of rubble. As he followed the wagon, Tarrel passed several sites that were being cleared of debris, and a number of new structures under construction. The laborers were a mixed bunch, and as well as native Karrns he saw Cyran exiles, warforged, and even an occasional hobgoblin from Darguun in the south.
Hintram led him to a large hostelry south of the city’s main square. Its gilded pillars and gaudy paintwork were meant to convey opulence, but they reminded Tarrel of some of the places in Firelight, Sharn’s infamous pleasure district. An ornately carved sign hung over the door, bearing the name Good As Gold picked out in gilt on a bright red background. The words stood on a bed of carved and painted gold coins.
Tarrel hung back as Hintram went inside, judging the lay of the land. The people entering and leaving the establishment were better dressed than he was in his laborer’s disguise, and he didn’t want to go in looking out of place and risk attracting attention. At the side of the building, down a dark and narrow passage, he saw an outside privy, obviously provided for the use of the establishment’s patrons. It appeared to be empty, so he ducked inside and closed the door.
He had hidden his Brelish clothes close to his lodgings, and by the time he had retrieved them, cleaned up and changed, his quarry might have moved on. If Mordan was right, Hintram was the only link he had to one of the badges his client’s daughter was hunting down. He couldn’t risk losing his only solid lead.
Rummaging inside his tunic, he pulled out the glassy wand again, then changed his mind. Invisibility had its uses, but the Good As Gold was a busy place, and he would be discovered right away if anyone bumped into him. Pulling on a leather strap under one arm, he unbuckled a scroll-case and thought for a moment. He murmured a single syllable, and the scroll-case opened. Taking out a scroll, he read aloud, still in a low voice. The air around him shimmered, and be became a slightly stout human dressed in the style of a Karrnathi merchant, rather than a grimy half-elf laborer. Stowing the scroll-case again, he stepped out of the privy, wrinkling his nose fastidiously and making a great show of dusting down his clothes. Then he went inside the hostelry.
The interior of the Good As Gold was as ostentatious as its street frontage. The tables and chairs were carved with vines and foliage, but were too solid in their construction to be entirely tasteful. The red and gold theme of the sign was carried on in the upholstery, with velvet and tassels everywhere. The serving staff, dressed in a uniform that suggested a noble livery, bustled between the kitchens and the tables. In addition to the large common room, several smaller private rooms ranged along the outside. Some had their doors closed.
Tarrel scanned the room but saw no sign of his quarry. He picked an unoccupied table with a clear view of the doorways to most of the private rooms, and ordered food and drink. It had been a long morning, and he was glad to take a break.
He suspected that Hintram was behind one of the closed doors, and took his time over his meal as he watched and waited. After ten minutes or so, a waiter knocked on one of the doors and took in a pitcher of wine. As the door opened. Tarrel caught a glimpse of his quarry, who was laughing and drinking with an older human man. This individual was well-dressed, in conservative but stylish Karrnathi clothes, and so fat that he occupied almost all of the small room by himself. He was making a point—or perhaps delivering the punchline of a joke—by waving a half-eaten joint of meat at his companion.