“How long have we been here?” Mordan asked.
Decker swiveled his head to look at the human. “A couple of hours,” he replied. “I didn’t wake you because I thought you needed to sleep. You were a bit erratic before. Your lady friend came back before dawn—she’s asleep in her box now. Oh, and I looked at your friend’s wand. I couldn’t do anything with it, but I think I know someone who can.”
There was a pause as Mordan absorbed the stream of information. “Where is Tarrel?” he asked.
“He went off into town as soon as we got here. Didn’t say where he was going.”
“Thanks,” said Mordan. His stomach grumbled. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any food on board?” he asked.
Decker looked at him blankly. “Food?” he said. “No, no food.”
Mordan headed down the gangplank. “If Tarrel comes back before I do, tell him to wait,” he said.
Decker went back to staring at Fang.
Like Karrlakton, Flumakton had seen better days. During the war, it had been a base for the powerful fleet that protected the Karrnathi side of the Cyre River, as well as the main river port serving Fort Zombie and the rest of the southern frontier. The river fleet was still here, although much reduced in strength. Its purpose now was to patrol the river and deal with anything that came out of the Mournland. The massive fortifications of the fleet harbor still dominated the southern end of the town, showing the marks of a century of war, but the boats moored there were fewer and smaller. The stormships had been moved north to Scion’s Sound and Karrn Bay, to deter any future attacks from Thrane and Aundair if the fragile peace should fail.
The commercial port, at the northern end of the waterfront, was better kept up than its counterpart in Karrlakton, but this had more to do with civic pride than economic reality. Flumakton had been hit just as hard by the collapse of river trade, but its citizens held on stubbornly in the hope of better times to come. Even so, some of the wharves were abandoned, and grass grew up in the cracks between the cobblestones.
Most traffic to Fort Zombie used the lightning rail from Korth and Atur in the west. However, the single road out of Flumakton led to the fort, almost fifty miles away, and was still used for those goods that were too bulky or too unimportant to travel by lightning rail.
Mordan kept an eye out for Tarrel as he made his way through the commercial district, but he had other business in mind. A few minute’s walk from the waterfront, he came to a large two-story building with a large pair of wooden gates. Hanging over the gates was an oversized wagon wheel, painted bright yellow. Opening a door set into one of the gates, he went inside.
The building was constructed around a large courtyard. Built lean-to fashion around the yard were a stable-block, coach-house and smithy, along with tack stores and the other facilities required by a coaching line. The only thing missing were feed bins; this was because the Golden Wheel Coach Company used undead horses, skeletal beasts decommissioned from the Karrnathi armed forces.
As Mordan entered the courtyard, a burly dwarf in a leather apron came trotting out of the smithy, wiping his hands on a rag. His smile faded as he recognized his visitor.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s you.”
Mordan gave him a broad smile.
“It’s good to see you too, Balnark,” he said. The dwarf held up a stubby hand.
“You needn’t think I’m giving you another wagon to take across the river,” he said. “Not until you’ve paid for the last one.” Mordan held out his empty hands in a gesture of innocence.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “All I’m looking for is a ride to the fort, for two passengers, one large crate, and a few pieces of luggage. And if this job goes well, I just might be able to settle up with you over that other business.”
The dwarf looked at him with distrust, his narrowed eyes almost invisible behind his lowered eyebrows.
“I’ll believe that when I’m counting the gold.” he snorted. “It’ll cost you twelve galifars each to the fort, plus ten for the crate. In advance.”
“I only need one way,” said Mordan.
“And that’s what you’ll get,” retorted the dwarf. “But I’ve still got to bring the coach back from the fort, whether you’re on it or not. Besides, you’re a bad risk. Thirty-four galifars, take it or leave it.”
Mordan considered.
“I should haggle you down to twenty,” he said, “but I haven’t got all day. I’ll give you thirty, plus two hundred for the wagon and horses I lost in Metrol. All in House Kundarak bearer bonds. What do you say?”
Balnark’s eyebrows twitched—it was the first time Mordan had ever seen him surprised.
“In advance,” he said. “And I’ll know if they’re forged.”
“In advance,” Mordan conceded. “And they’re genuine. Let me just round up my associate.”
The dwarf snorted again and stumped off toward the smithy.
It was dusk when they arrived at Fort Zombie. Although living horses could trot faster for a short time, the undead animals pulling the coach were tireless and kept up a pace that would have killed a normal team. Their driver said nothing all the way to the fort, but his eyes were never far from his two passengers; evidently Balnark had told him to be careful of them.
Mordan and Tarrel rarely spoke on the way, either. They were still uncomfortable after their last conversation on the boat, and to make things worse, Tarrel had refused to cover the debt that Mordan owed Balnark. It had taken him almost an hour to bargain the dwarf down to forty galifars—six more than the price he had quoted Mordan—plus a refundable deposit of ten as a surety of the Karrn’s good behavior. They cooperated to load the crate holding Brey’s coffin onto the roof of the coach but ignored each other for most of the journey.
At last, the fort’s ramparts became visible on the horizon. The fort was a rambling structure with a high wall linking many towers. A sleek airship was moored to the top of one of them. As the coach came closer to the fort, they could see the collection of buildings that surrounded it: the lightning rail station, the small Ghallanda inn, and a number of small stores and taverns selling goods shipped in from Korth and Vedykar at inflated prices. Over everything lay the smell of death—the same smell they had noticed on the waterfront at Karrlakton, but stronger and all-pervading. Tarrel booked them into the guest-house, and after their luggage was unloaded they watched the coach pick up another load of passengers and head back toward Flumakton.
Inside the inn, braziers of incense and bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters, somewhat masking the smell of the zombies. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate, and the halfling staff was friendly and welcoming. When they had finished a helping of spiced hardhead stew accompanied by Plains flatbread still warm from the oven and several mugs of warming tal, they were both in a considerably better mood.
“So,” said Tarrel, laying down his spoon, “now we’re here, what do you plan to do?”
“Look for more Vedykar Lancers,” Mordan replied, “and find out who Hintram was doing business with. You?”
“I’m going to see what happens to undead who come here for demobilization,” said Tarrel. “If I know the procedures, I can figure out the most likely way that the smugglers are skimming them off.”
“Isn’t anyone going to ask me what I’m going to do?”
They jumped at the sound of Brey’s voice. Neither one had noticed her approach.
“I’m not sure I want to know,” said Tarrel.
Brey laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I won’t kill anyone. Unless they truly deserve it.” A halfling waiter brought a chair for her, and she sat, graciously declining the offer of food.
“Just remember,” said Mordan, “the fort is still an active military establishment. They’re not going to let just anybody in.” Tarrel produced a sheaf of documents with a grin and spread them out on the table.