Tarrel nodded as he speared a pickled radish with his fork. “What do you think chased him?” he asked.
Mordan shrugged. “Something heavy, strong, and fast. Beyond that, I have no idea.”
Tarrel finished his meal and dropped some coins on the table. “We’re not at a dead end yet,” he said.
Several minutes later, the two of them stood in Tarrel’s rented lodgings in the merchant district. A large trunk lay open beside the heavy oak table in the center of the room, and Tarrel was assembling a spirit burner. On the table, a round glass flask stood on an iron tripod. In the flask was the cutting Tarrel had taken from Falko’s hair, containing the dark resin.
“I think this came from whatever killed him,” he said. “If we’re lucky, it’s some of the poison.”
Mordan stared at the alchemical apparatus, his arms folded. “And what will that tell us?” he asked. “Who killed him?”
“Maybe,” said Tarrel.
Mordan frowned. “But you don’t even know how the poison was delivered,” he said.
Tarrel looked up. “Not for sure,” he said, “but I’ve got some suspicions. I’m thinking it was a blowgun dart made of ice, with the poison frozen inside. The dart melts, leaving no evidence. Easy enough to make with a simple freezing spell. We’re looking for a professional.” He added a few drops of a blue liquid to the flask and started to heat it.
“Does that get either of us any closer to the people we’re looking for?” asked Mordan, a little peevishly.
“I don’t know yet,” answered Tarrel, “but it’s all we’ve got, so …”
He never finished the sentence. The windows imploded with a crash, and a dark shape flew in, knocking over the table and sending both of them sprawling. Mordan felt hands close on his shoulders in a vise-like grip, pinning his arms by his sides. He struggled but couldn’t break free. There was a blur of motion, and he found himself flying through the broken window, still in the thing’s grasp. They hit the ground outside …
An orange flare shredded the darkness. The creature released its grip on Mordan, and he struggled free, drawing his rapier. He found himself facing a tall woman, dressed in a ragged uniform under a dark cape. Her face was twisted in a mask of pain and rage, but he recognized her—she was the red-headed woman Solly had impersonated in the Black Dragon, just the day before.
She struck him with a back-handed blow, snapping his head around and throwing him backward. Dizzy and weak, he dragged himself to his feet and brought his rapier up to the guard position. Then Tarrel appeared in the doorway of the building; the night lit up orange again, and a beam of light struck the woman in the back. She staggered, and Mordan’s rapier caught her in the arm. Her skin smoked where the sword went home, and she howled in pain—not like a woman, but like a wounded animal. She turned and started to run, but Tarrel leaped on her back, one arm clamped round her throat as the other reached over her shoulder in a stabbing motion. She gasped and fell to the ground.
Mordan limped to where Tarrel stood over the fallen woman. He kept the length of his rapier between them, but she didn’t move. She didn’t even seem to be breathing—and then he saw the wooden stake sticking out of her chest.
“Now you know what that wand does,” said Tarrel. “Come on, help me get her inside!”
Along the street, faces were beginning to appear at windows. He put one of the woman’s arms over his shoulder, and Mordan took the other.
“What’s goin’ on?” A short, stocky woman stood in the doorway of the lodging house, dressed in a nightgown and cap. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the three suspiciously.
Tarrel gave her an apologetic smile. “Nothing,” he said. “These are friends of mine. They were out celebrating, you see, and it seems the young lady had a little too much to drink.”
The landlady glared at the woman’s sagging form. Her cloak had fallen forward, hiding the protruding stake.
The landlady stumped back to her apartment, muttering about foreign ways and some people’s lack of consideration. Tarrel ran back to his room and reappeared a few minutes later with a large bag.
“Well,” he whispered to Mordan, “it looks like we’re going to your place.”
“She’s secure,” Tarrel announced, standing up. Mordan had called in a favor with some business contacts and gained them the use of a waterfront basement. A trapdoor gave access to the river; it was normally used for smuggling.
The woman hung by her wrists over the trapdoor, with her feet tied together and the stake still in her chest. Tarrel had hung a silver chain around her neck, with a pendant in the form of a crescent moon. In one hand he held a holy symbol of the Silver Flame.
“Things are about to get noisy,” he said, “so I’ll make the introductions now. Allow me to present the Honorable Captain Brey ir’Mallon, of Flamekeep in the fair land of Thrane.”
Mordan raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle.
“So that’s why your client can afford expensive locating spells,” he said. “She’s related to the General?” General Valtar ir’Mallon was a war hero, respected even by his enemies.
Tarrel nodded. “Only child,” he said.
Mordan grimaced. “He’s not going to be happy, is he?”
Tarrel did not answer.
“Hold her steady,” he finally said. Mordan held his left arm across her chest, keeping the rapier in his right. Holding the symbol of the Silver Flame in front of the woman’s face, Tarrel reached forward with his free hand and pulled out the stake. Mordan released her and stepped back.
Her eyes flew open, and her mouth twisted in a snarl, revealing sharp white teeth. She struggled, and then saw the Silver Flame. A riot of emotions played across her face: rage, fear, despair, and finally anguish. She gave vent to a great howl that echoed off the earthen walls. Tarrel backed off a couple of paces, still holding the Silver Flame in front of him. Breathing heavily, the woman tested the strength of the ropes that bound her hands. Tarrel stood by the winch that secured the other end of the rope.
“Lady ir’Mallon,” he said, sounding a great deal more assured than Mordan felt, “you might like to look down before you do that.” The woman shot him a glance of unmitigated hate, snarling like a cornered animal.
“That’s the Cyre River under your feet,” Tarrel went on, slightly louder. “And with this winch I can drop you right into it. I know you don’t like running water.” To illustrate his point, he let the winch slip a little. The woman’s lower body dropped through the trapdoor, leaving her waist at floor level and her feet inches from the sluggish river. She continued snarling.
“Oh,” continued Tarrel, “I almost forgot. That amulet round your neck stops you shapechanging, which is probably the next thing you’ll think of. You’re stuck in human form for now.”
The woman looked down at the silver moon pendant for an instant, then closed her eyes in concentration. Nothing happened.
“Now,” said Tarrel, “I’m—”
The woman cut him off. “I know who you are,” she said, her voice rasping and heavy with loathing, “and I know what you want. That’s why you couldn’t find me. I’m not going home. Kill me if you want, but I won’t let my family see me—like this.”
“Your father had a spell cast,” Tarrel went on. “A very powerful, very expensive spell. He was trying to locate your body so he could have it brought back to Thrane for burial. Instead, the spell showed you were in Karrlakton. Whether you go back to Thrane or not, I’m going to have to tell your father something.”
“No!” Brey shouted. “You can’t! The truth would kill him! Just leave me alone!”
“Easy—easy!” said Tarrel. “Now, my guess is that you’re on the trail of whoever did this to you. We can help you with that. It’s not strictly the job I signed up for, but I think it’s what your father would want. If he knew.”