Mordan guessed that someone at Fort Zombie was diverting undead troops from demobilization and Hintram was selling them on the black market, along with their equipment. The question Mordan couldn’t answer was how Hintram, the wealthy son and fashionable Lancer, had become mixed up in this business. Were any of the other Lancers involved? Was Gali?
He had become so used to the magical silence that when the spell wore off, the sudden return of everyday sounds made him jump. Opening the canvas a little, he peered out the back of the wagon and saw that the fog had dissipated as well. They were away from the waterfront now, heading toward the center of Karrlakton, and dusk was falling.
At last, the wagon came to a construction site that was surrounded by high wooden fences. Hiding everything but the tip of a lone chimney-stack, they concealed everything that was going on inside. Hintram slid down from the driver’s seat and knocked on a makeshift gate set into the fence. After a few moments it opened, and there was a brief conversation with someone inside.
Mordan took the opportunity to slip out of the wagon and into the gathering shadows. He would capture Hintram later, when he wasn’t surrounded by zombies. Even unarmed, they could be dangerous, and Hintram could easily escape in the time it would take Mordan to dispose of them.
The gate opened, and the cart went inside. While he waited, Mordan examined the outside of the site with a tactician’s eye. The fence was not unusual; postwar reconstruction efforts fed a lively trade in cheap building materials of indeterminate origin. But a glance confirmed that it was unusually well-built, without any gaps or holes that might allow a glimpse of the inside. It was more than would be needed to keep thieves out, or guard animals in.
Several minutes later, the gate opened again and the wagon came out, noticeably lighter on its axles. Mordan followed it on its return journey to the waterfront. At last it turned down Chandler’s Alley, a narrow thoroughfare on the western end of the docks. It was perfect for what he had in mind; he glanced around, and there was no one in sight.
A short sprint brought him to the back of the wagon, which could neither turn nor back up in the narrow lane. Drawing his rapier, he vaulted through the open canvas, landing with a thump inside the cart. Before Hintram had time to react, Mordan cut through the canvas and placed the tip of his rapier lightly on the back of the man’s neck.
“Keep driving,” he said, “and do as I tell you.”
“Damn,” muttered Tarrel. He and Solly—still in his half-orc guise—stared through the bars of the cell. Falko lay on the floor like a rag doll, staring at the ceiling with sightless eyes.
“Is he dead?” asked Solly.
Tarrel didn’t answer. Instead, he fished a small leather pouch out of his clothing, and unrolled it to reveal a set of lockpicks. “Keep a lookout,” he said.
Solly went to the corner, where he could see both Tarrel and the entrance to the holding area. Tarrel bent over the lock in the cell door for a few moments, and it opened with a click. He gestured to Solly to stay where he was, and went inside.
Tarrel had seen plenty of dead bodies in his career as an inquisitive, and he could tell at a glance that Falko was dead; he had to establish how he died, and if possible, when. With the practiced ease of a master inquisitive, he set about examining the body. The limbs were stiff, indicating that he had been dead for at least a few hours, but there was no obvious sign of any wounds, or even bruises. At last Tarrel found what he was looking for—a small puncture mark behind Falko’s right ear. There was no sign of what had caused it, but he noticed a trace of a resinous substance sticking to Falko’s hair close to the wound. Tarrel cut the hair off with a small knife and wrapped it in a handkerchief. There would be time to identify it later.
He stood up and looked at the body, glancing back and forth at the cell door and at the barred window set high up in the wall. Judging by the wound, the dart—or whatever it was—had struck Falko from behind and slightly above; from the way the body had fallen, it probably came from the window. The window was too high for Tarrel to reach, but his mirror showed him that it led directly outside, with nothing but a sheer wall. Standing where he judged Falko had been, he looked out of the window along the most likely path of the projectile. There was nothing in sight, as he expected.
A cursory glance around the cell turned up nothing else. Tarrel put his tools away and peered out of the cell to where Solly stood on the corner. Everything seemed quiet. He left the cell, locking it again behind him, and quickly repacked his tools.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said to Solly.
“But I just talked us in past all those people.” said the changeling. “What do we tell them on the way out?”
“Easy,” replied Tarrel. “The high-ups took one look at me and decided I’m the wrong guy. Now, you’ve got to take me all the way back to the Palace of Justice.”
Solly groaned. “They’ll never believe it,” he said.
Tarrel chuckled. “If I know bureaucracy, they will.”
“Stop here.” Mordan kept his rapier pressed against Hintram’s neck. He brought the wagon to a halt in a darkened alley. There was no one about.
“What do you want?” he asked. His voice still had the nasal whine that Mordan had known as a child.
“I want you to talk to a friend of mine,” Mordan said, “about the Vedykar Lancers.”
Hintram tried to conceal a start of surprise. “Never heard of them,” he said. Mordan chuckled unpleasantly.
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “Though I must say, you’re looking pretty good, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering you’re supposed to be dead in the Mournland.” Hintram twitched his neck uncomfortably. A trickle of blood was running down from where the rapier made contact.
“I’m telling you,” he protested, “you’ve got me mixed up with someone else!”
“Of course I have,” said Mordan, in a low and dangerous voice. “You’re just an honest dealer in stolen zombies and equipment, trying to make a living in our brave new age of peace. You can talk to me, or I can take you to the Ministry for a little chat. I’m sure they’d love to know about your little arrangement with Dabo. Your choice.”
Hintram shifted uncomfortably on the driver’s bench.
“Just get that thing out of my neck,” he said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
“I think I’ll leave it there for now,” replied Mordan. “Do you know where the Black Dragon is?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Drive there, and don’t attract any attention. Oh, and you know the friend I want you to talk to? He’s a cleric of the Blood of Vol, and he can talk to the dead. So the only one who needs you alive—is you.” It was a lie, but it would keep Hintram co-operative.
Hintram flicked the reins, and the horse walked on. The rapier-point pricked his neck as the wagon jerked into motion, and he flinched.
Something heavy landed on top of the wagon. The canvas cover ripped from its frame, enveloping Mordan. As he struggled to free himself, he caught a glimpse of Hintram running down the street with a speed born of sheer panic. Behind him, and gaining fast, was a dark shape—vaguely humanoid but impossible to identify in the darkness. Hintram ran down an alley, and the shape followed. A second later there was a scream, and then silence.
Wrestling himself free of the canvas, Mordan jumped down from the wagon and ran after the two. When he got to the alley, it was deserted.
“Well, that was a good day’s work,” said Mordan. “Falko’s dead, his warehouse has burned down, and I caught Hintram and then lost him.”
He and Tarrel were sitting over dinner in his usual booth at the Black Dragon. Solly had left, saying that he had to attend to some other business.