“Simple,” said Mordan. “We just watch the place and wait till he leaves. I know of a few quiet little spots where we can talk without being disturbed.”
“I don’t know,” said Tarrel. “It’s risky.”
“Have you got a better idea?” asked Mordan.
“Well, answer me this,” said Tarrel. “Suppose we do manage to capture him without attracting attention, and suppose I can get him to tell us what he knows. What happens next? Your fat crime boss isn’t going to be too pleased about us messing with one of his business associates.”
Mordan shrugged. “Once I’ve got what I want, I won’t be staying around,” he said. “I didn’t come to Karrlakton for my health.”
“That’s fine for you,” said Tarrel, “but what’s in it for me? I still haven’t picked up the trail I’m looking for.”
“Well,” said Mordan, “your redhead is looking for the Vedykar Lancers just like I am. If we find them, you might find her.”
“Except she doesn’t know about your friend Hintram,” he said. “I wouldn’t either, if you hadn’t spotted him and I hadn’t stopped you.”
Before Mordan could answer, Solly appeared at their table, looking very pleased with himself.
“Who’s buying?” he asked brightly.
Mordan scowled. “Buying what?” he asked.
Solly’s grin widened. “I found Falko,” he said. “They didn’t take him to the Palace of Justice after all. Guess where he’s being held?” He signaled a barmaid. “Harika, how about some service over here?”
“Where?”
“Go on, guess,” he said. Then, turning to the newly-arrived barmaid, he said, “A large Cyran brandy and another of whatever these two are drinking.” He jerked a thumb in Mordan’s direction. “He’s paying.”
The barmaid looked at Mordan, who nodded. “This had better be good, Solly,” he said as she went back to the bar.
“I’ll give you a clue,” said the changeling, shifting his face into the shape of a fleshless skull.
Tarrel shrugged, and Mordan just glared. With a sigh, Solly’s face went back to normal.
“The Ministry of the Dead,” he said, unable to resist adding a deep, sinister timbre to his voice. The waitress, who had just returned with the drinks, gave him a sideways look but said nothing.
“The Ministry?” echoed Mordan. “Why would they want him?”
“How about those swords?” ventured Tarrel. “Weren’t they from undead troops? They probably want to know where he’s getting them.”
Mordan cursed under his breath. “He’ll tell them about Hintram,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”
“Who’s Hintram?” asked Solly. The other two ignored him.
“Not so fast,” said Tarrel. “Falko doesn’t know where to find Hintram, and we do. Besides, we don’t know that he’s told them anything.”
“I don’t want to take the risk,” said Mordan. “We’re going after Hintram now.” He drained his mug and got up to leave.
“We?” asked Tarrel. “You speak for yourself. I’m not doing anything till I know what he’s told them. And, if possible, what they’ve been asking him.”
Solly finished his brandy and smacked his lips with a grin. “I can help you there,” he said.
Mordan raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“You two do what you want,” he said, and left.
“Don’t ask me, mate,” said the huge, scarred half-orc in the Royal Swords uniform. “I’m just following orders—and orders were to bring him here.”
The Ministry guard looked at the officer and his prisoner suspiciously. The prisoner was a half-elf, dressed in the rough clothing of a laborer.
“Whose orders?” he asked.
The half-orc shrugged. “My sergeant didn’t say,” he replied. “All I know is, he’s something to do with that one who was brought in from the waterfront this morning. He’s the one that got away.”
“Oh, right,” said the guard. “I did hear something about that. In you go.”
“Where d’you want him?” asked the half-orc. “I wasn’t told who to take him to.”
“Typical,” said the guard, grimacing in sympathetic acknowledgment at the incompetence of superiors. “Hold on—I’ll find out.”
He pushed the door partway open, beckoned someone from inside, and a muttered exchange took place. After a few moments, he turned back to the visitors.
“You go with Detlev here,” he said. “He’ll see you right.”
The half-orc gave a curt nod of thanks as he half-dragged his prisoner inside the building. They followed the Ministry clerk up several flights of stairs and along a long, narrow passage, finally reaching a stout-looking door of iron-bound oak. Taking a ring of keys from his belt, he unlocked it. As he did so, the half-orc officer released his prisoner, who pulled a scroll from inside his shirt, muttered a few words, and made a swift gesture. The clerk turned at the sound.
“I need you to do me a favor,” said Tarrel in a friendly voice.
The clerk blinked a couple of times, looking from the half-elf to the half-orc, who stood by silently. “What?” he asked uncertainly.
“Nothing much,” answered Tarrel. “I just want you to show me where you’re keeping Falko. You know, the man who was brought in this morning.”
The clerk blinked again, as if trying to clear his head. Then his mouth opened, and he started to run. He didn’t get far; the half-orc tripped him and his head hit the stone floor hard. The two wrestled him through the door, and closed it behind them.
“I thought you said this would work?” said the half-orc, in Solly’s voice. He had one hand over the clerk’s mouth.
“Magic isn’t infallible,” Tarrel replied, quickly tying the clerk’s hands and feet. “Sometimes people can resist it.” He pulled a rag out of his breeches and stuffed it in the man’s mouth.
“See if there’s somewhere we can hide him,” he added. Solly nodded, and trotted ahead, listening at doors and looking through keyholes. After a few moments, he opened one of the doors and beckoned.
“Broom closet,” he said. Tarrel half-carried the groaning clerk into the small room and leaned him against one wall. Closing the door behind them, the two carried on.
“What now?” asked Solly.
“Same plan,” said Tarrel. “I’m your prisoner, and you have orders to put me in with Falko.” He offered his wrists to Solly, who tied them loosely with a short length of cord, and they walked on.
Mordan hurried along the waterfront, hoping he would reach Hintram before the authorities did. If they caught him, if they realized that he was one of the officially dead Vedykar Lancers, if there was a cover-up—Mordan would lose the only lead he had to show for six months of searching. That all depended on how quickly they made the connection from Falko to Hintram.
He wondered how much Falko had told his captors—how much he really knew. With luck, it was no more than he had already told Mordan: an anonymous seller and no questions asked. But he knew the Ministry of the Dead had magical resources. Maybe they would be able to track Hintram through the swords, or by some other means. There was no shortage of rumors about the necromantic power wielded by the Ministry, and only the Ministry itself knew for sure how much was true.
He wondered, too, why Hintram was trading stolen undead weapons in Karrlakton. It was a far cry from the proud tradition of the Lancers, and further still from any kind of secret mission. What if the official line was true, and the Lancers had really been wiped out on the Day of Mourning? Perhaps Hintram had left the regiment before their final posting—deserted, or even been thrown out? Mordan decided he would worry about that when he heard it from Hintram himself. At least Hintram should be able to shed some light on the Lancers’ fate.
As Mordan walked, he became aware of a commotion coming from a few streets away. Looking up, he saw a column of dense black smoke rising into the air. People were running toward it—some were carrying buckets. Falko’s warehouse was in that direction, and his heart sank. Quickening his pace, he headed towards the smoke, and his fears were realized. Falko’s warehouse was on fire.