“She’s looking for the Vedykar Lancers,” said Mordan, “and so am I. You haven’t been able to track her down in Karrlakton?”
Tarrel shook his head. “Don’t believe everything you read about Sharn inquisitives,” he said. “We can only follow the evidence, and she’s not leaving any. My guess is that she has some scores to settle with these two units.”
“Well, she’s in the right place,” Mordan said. “Karrlakton was the main depot for our forces going into Cyre. If that’s where she encountered the Lancers, they should have come through here, and there should be a record of their deployment.”
“Should be?”
“Yes, but there isn’t.”
Tarrel clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “That’s not very Karrnathi,” he said. “I thought you people were serious about records and regulations.”
“I thought so too,” said Mordan, “until I started looking. The official story is that the Vedykar Lancers were deep inside Cyre on the Day of Mourning and were lost along with all the thousands of others. But there are no records of their movements for the previous six months.”
Tarrel’s ironic smile faded. “None?”
“Not in Korth, and not at the Lancer’s headquarters in Vedykar. They came back from a tour in Cyre, they were brought back up to strength and re-equipped—and then they vanished.”
“Interesting,” said Tarrel. “I know what that usually means in the Army of Breland.”
“Right,” said Mordan. “Some kind of secret mission.”
“What kind of cavalry were they?”
“The kind with shiny breastplates and bright plumes on their helmets, who ride behind the King’s coach in parades. Sons of the great and good, graduates of Rekkenmark, filled with honor and tradition.”
“The kind that might not want the War to end, like that General … Ervus?”
“Eschus. General Rolund Eschus, upholder of the Tradition of Victory,” said Mordan. “No, I don’t think they went renegade,” he continued. “They might not want to stop fighting, but they wouldn’t defy an order from the King. They’d obey it to the letter, all the while complaining loudly about the loss of honor to themselves and Karrnath. What was he last trace of your girl?”
Tarrel reached into his coat and pulled out a battered notebook. He leafed through it for a few moments, then stabbed at a page with his finger.
“She was with a ranger unit operating behind the lines in northern Cyre. They last reported back on seventh of Vult, 993.”
“Almost two months after the last official record of the Lancers’ movements.”
“Right.”
Mordan leaned back in his seat and thought. “Has your client gone to the gnomes?” he asked.
Tarrel shook his head. “They can’t. Money’s no object, but because of their rank several members of the family have access to Thrane’s military secrets. You know what the gnomes are like.”
Mordan nodded. The gnomes—particularly, though not exclusively, those of House Sivis—loved other people’s secrets, and the price they asked for their knowledge, though always high, was not always in cash. He had made inquiries himself with the few gnomes he trusted, and been unable to meet their price.
“So,” said Tarrel, “you’re the local expert. Where do you go in this town to find out about secret missions and missing units?”
“The same place I was going when you stopped me,” said Mordan. “Bald Falko’s.”
“Why?”
“Because if anyone can identify this badge, he can. And because when you stopped me. I was watching one of the Vedykar Lancers come out of his shop.”
Inside, the warehouse looked bigger than it really was. The clutter stretched away in all directions until it was swallowed by the darkness: spears and swords standing in barrels, piles of armor in every kind of condition, saddles, odd pieces of uniforms, belts, equipment pouches, and almost every other kind of item that an army could conceivably use. A single oil lamp cast a tiny pool of light over the center of the room, and there, like a spider in a web, sat Bald Falko, perched on a camp stool at a folding map table, scribbling in one of the many ledgers he used to keep track of his stock.
He looked up as Mordan and Tarrel entered—or at least, his eyes did. His head didn’t move. Squinting over the top of his battered spectacles, he made the sour face that he used as a greeting.
“Friend of yours, Mordan?” he asked, casting an unwelcoming glance over Tarrel.
“This is Tarrel,” Mordan replied. “He’s looking for some of the same things I am.”
Falko raised his eyes briefly to the ceiling.
“Then he’s as much out of luck as you are,” he said. “I told you I’d let you know if I found anything on the Vedykar Lancers.”
“Actually, we’ve got something for you,” said Mordan.
“I’m not buying today,” Falko replied, turning back to his ledger. “Now if you don’t mind …”
“We’re not selling,” said Mordan. “We need a unit badge identified.”
Falko closed his ledger and pushed it to one side. “Let’s see it,” he said, pushing his spectacles back up his nose.
Mordan handed over the sketch Solly had given him. Falko’s lip curled in disgust as he looked at it.
“Who drew this?”
“Solly,” Mordan replied.
Falko made a noise deep in his throat. “I should have known,” he said. “You might as well dip a spider in an inkwell and drop it on the paper. Where did he get the design?”
“From someone else who’s looking for the Vedykar Lancers,” said Mordan. “They have sketches of this and the badge….”
“And you want to know if the two are connected,” Falko finished the sentence for him. Mordan nodded.
“Well, I’ll do what I can,” said Falko, without much enthusiasm, “but working from a sketch of a sketch—I don’t know.” He peered at the sketch in silence. “It’s Karrnathi.” Falko said at last.
“You’re sure?” asked Mordan.
Falko fixed him with a glare. “Of course I’m sure! It’s a Karrnathi shoulder patch—look at the shape, and look at the style of the numbers! I can tell that, even with Solly’s penmanship. The skull looks like the D pattern, which would mean the unit was raised between Aryth 991 and Eyre 993. That’s when they went to the E pattern, which has a wreath around the skull—even Solly couldn’t have missed that.”
Falko pulled a book from a stack by his elbow, and started leafing through color illustrations of military badges. After a while he stopped, spun the book around to face his visitors, and pushed it across the table.
“See this one?” he asked, stabbing one design with a cracked and grimy fingernail. “That’s the closest there is in here.”
Kaz and Tarrel bent over the open book. “The number’s different,” Tarrel observed. “So’s the color.”
Falko snorted. “So it’s true what they say about Brelish inquisitives,” he said sarcastically. “I didn’t say this was the same badge—just the closest one.” He spun the book back around to face him, and flipped to the back pages.
“Six-twenty-nine,” he muttered to himself as he ran a finger down column after column of numbers.
“Ah, here it is,” he said after a moment. “Yes—this badge belonged to the Third Risen Patriots, before the undead troops were merged into the overall army command structure. They were initially commanded by the Ministry for the Dead, as you may know, but that arrangement created so many operational difficulties that it was abandoned after less than three months. Olarune 992, I think it was.”
“Help me out here, Falko,” said Mordan. “What does that badge tell us about the one in the sketch?”
“Tell us?” he echoed. “Nothing, on the face of it. No, you have to read between the lines. I’m thinking that your badge belonged to a unit raised by the Ministry—therefore, probably an undead unit—sometime in the winter of 991-992. The fact that it’s not on record makes it likely that the unit never saw action—or more likely, it was merged into the army command structure before it was deployed. The army would have changed the badge to conform to their own standards at that time …”