A crowd had gathered round the building. Some were trying to put the fire out, using everything from magic to buckets of river water, while others were risking the smoke and flames to save what they could. The front door had either been broken down or burned off its hinges, and people were throwing weapons and armor into the street, or running off with arms full of whatever they could salvage. Knowing the waterfront district, it was unlikely that anyone was acting out of neighborly concern, but—as Mordan observed with a wry smile—most of it had already been stolen at least once before Falko acquired it.
He headed east again. The fire probably wasn’t a coincidence, and he suspected that Hintram had something to do with it. If he knew that Falko had been questioned by the Ministry of the Dead, he was probably as nervous about them finding him as Mordan was. The fire could have been set to destroy anything linking the two of them. Mordan remembered what Tarrel had seen in the Good As Gold; perhaps the messenger had been one of Dabo’s men bringing the news that Falko had been picked up.
The evening fog was rolling in off the river, and Mordan began to worry about finding the half-ruined warehouse that Tarrel had described. A bank of especially thick fog was moving steadily toward him along the waterfront, so thick it obscured all vision. Everything was quiet.
As he walked. Mordan tried to put himself in Hintram’s shoes, to anticipate what he would do next. If the authorities in Karrlakton were onto his weapon-smuggling scheme, he might leave town and try his luck somewhere else. But there was still the question of his business with Dabo. Whatever it was, it might be enough to keep him here, at least until it was concluded.
A rat skittered out of the fog, almost running into his feet. Mordan knew the waterfront rats, and they were usually quite fearless. What had panicked this one? He stopped and listened, scanning the fog for any sign of danger, but there was nothing—except a smell.
It was vaguely familiar, but Mordan couldn’t place it. Blindly, he took a few steps into the fog, and the smell became stronger. Then he saw a vague shape, half-hidden in the mist: a horse, harnessed to a wagon that was still invisible in the fog. It was coming toward him, but it made no sound. The horse’s hooves, the wheels of the cart he supposed it was pulling, even the sound of the river—all were gone. There was complete silence.
Mordan backed out of the mist, and as he did so the sound of the river returned. He had experienced silence spells before, fighting the Valenar elves with the Company of the Skull. Casting the spell on an arrow and shooting it into the midst of the enemy—or even better, into the body of the enemy commander—was a favorite ambush technique. It prevented orders from being heard, and the hapless victims of the ambush couldn’t hear their attackers coming. He had seen inexperienced troops massacred in the ensuing confusion.
As he stood back, the patch of dense fog rolled slowly by him, and he guessed that it, too, was magical rather than natural. Someone wanted to make sure they were neither seen nor heard. Mordan watched the fog recede, and then walked toward its center.
Again, all sound ceased, and the fog became so dense he couldn’t even see his own feet. Moving cautiously forward, he began to make out a shape—the back of a covered wagon. As he got closer, he realized it was the same one he and Tarrel had watched Hintram drive up to Falko’s warehouse that morning, carrying the stolen swords. This delivery, Mordan guessed, was probably for Dabo.
He undid the back flap of the canvas wagon cover and pulled himself inside, moving carefully. He might not have to worry about noise, but the driver would still notice a sudden jolt. Securing the flap behind him, he peered through the dimness to see what the wagon was carrying. The fog was as thick inside the cart as outside, and the canvas blocked whatever little light came in from outside. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he suddenly remembered why the smell was familiar.
All around him, standing close together and rocking slightly with the motion of the cart, were a dozen zombies.
Interlude
“Master, I have news.”
The old, white-haired elf on the carved throne leaned forward a little.
“We intercepted a communication to the Ministry of the Dead from their office in Karrlakton,” the messenger continued. “Two enquiries have been made about Unit 61 in that city. One was by an arms dealer, now deceased under unclear circumstances, and the other by a female vampire, who apparently questioned a Ministry clerk under magical domination. Both had a copy of the unit badge and suspected a link with the Ministry, but apparently they knew little else. The message from the Ministry branch office notes that Unit 61 is officially posted as missing, and asks for instructions. That is all.”
The messenger winked out of existence, and the elf sat back, absently stroking the skull at the end of the left arm-rest. His silver-blue, almost colorless eyes half-closed in thought.
After a moment, he turned to the pallid, robed lackey who stood by his side.
“Tell Rolund I wish to see him,” he said.
A few minutes later, the lackey returned with another. This individual was tall and wiry, with fierce eyes and features that had once been human. On the shoulder of his worn and besmirched uniform was a patch bearing the image of a skull and the number 61. He made a brief obeisance before the throne.
“Rolund,” said the elf, “I have work for you. There is a vampire loose in Karrlakton—one of ours, if I’m not mistaken. Female for certain; I suspect she may possibly be a Thrane with red hair. Her activities are becoming inconvenient. I want you to find her, observe until you have identified all her associates—and then destroy them all. Take Aeren, and leave immediately.”
“With pleasure, master,” the creature’s voice was like the grating of a mausoleum door.
“Oh—and Rolund?”
The figure stopped and looked questioningly back at the elf.
“After that, visit our agent in the Ministry. Explain to him the necessity for more complete information in his future reports.”
The assassin grinned and left the chamber.
Chapter 7
Complications
Mordan froze and held his breath, but the zombies didn’t move. Their eyes glittered in the dim light, and they shifted occasionally to keep their balance, but they gave no indication that they even knew he was there. The canvas was closed at the front as well as the back, so he couldn’t see the driver. He guessed it would be Hintram, on his way to sell the undead owners of the weapons he had offered Falko.
As the cart went on its way, he sat and stared at them. Each one had been someone’s son or daughter, brother or sister—had laughed with family and friends and played with children—but now they were just nameless corpses. Propaganda called them the Risen Patriots; having given their lives once in the War, they were re-animated by the Ministry of the Dead to fight again.
Now the war was over, they were supposed to be going to their well-deserved rest. Mordan had fought with undead troops on the Talenta Plains. Despite its name, the Company of the Skull was composed of living mercenaries, but they were headquartered in Fort Bones alongside regiments of skeletons. He had seen them on the battlefield, striding relentlessly forward until they were destroyed or the enemy broke, and he knew the fear they inspired. He knew, too, that Karrnath’s decision to use undead troops in battle had been controversial and placed Karrnath beyond the pale of civilized nations in many eyes. Although it didn’t appear in the Treaty of Thronehold, the demobilization of the undead forces was vital to the new peace.