“Sorry to interrupt,” said Tarrel, “but the original sketch came from a military source in Thrane. That implies …”
“It could imply all sorts of things.” said Falko. “Faulty observation and reporting of a different badge, obsolete information obtained by espionage—or even deliberate misinformation put out by our military counter-intelligence bureau.”
“Or an encounter in the field,” said Mordan.
Falko shot him a despairing look. “No,” he said firmly, “not with this badge. Quite impossible. No undead forces engaged Thrane troops until Nymm of 992 at the Battle of Asken Ford, and by that time they were all under army command—with army-style badges.”
“All of them?” asked Mordan.
“All of the units on record.”
“And if this unit isn’t on record and was still under Ministry command?”
Falko took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Then it would have to have been some kind of short-lived experimental unit like the Ghoul Corps …”
“Or a secret unit,” said Mordan. “That would fit with the Vedykar Lancers dropping out of sight, if our Thrane source met both of them at the same time.”
Falko shot a nervous glance at Tarrel. “In that case, we’re talking about official secrets,” Falko said. “And as Karrnath is still under martial law, it would be dangerous to go poking into them. Especially in front of a Brelander. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Tarrel.
Mordan broke the awkward silence. “Someone was here a couple of hours ago. Human, male, dark hair with a slight curl, scar on the left side of his chin. I’m guessing he wore a Rekkenmark ring.”
Falko looked up at him sharply. “None of your business.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Mordan. “He used to be in the Vedykar Lancers.”
Falko’s eyes widened a little. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Fairly sure,” said Mordan.
“Probably a chance resemblance,” said Falko. “Everyone’s been looking for someone since the War ended. It’s easy to make mistakes.”
“Maybe,” said Mordan, “maybe not. What did he want?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” said Falko. “I’m not in the habit of discussing my business dealings.”
“I don’t think he’d be very talkative,” said Mordan. “Since the government says the Lancers were wiped out in the Mournland, one of the heroic dead wouldn’t want to be identified walking about here in Karrlakton. And since I’m paying you for information about the Lancers …” he let his voice trail off significantly.
Falko sighed. “He’s looking to sell some surplus equipment. I told him I wasn’t buying, and he said he was expecting a shipment of masterwork longswords, plus some armor and shields. I said I’d look at the swords, but I wasn’t interested in the other stuff. Happy now?”
Mordan thought for a moment. “Longswords,” he said, half to himself. “Did he say what kind of armor and shields?”
“Half-plate and light shields.” Falko replied. “I know what you’re thinking, but that mix of equipment is far too common to be conclusive. And he didn’t mention any lances, saddles, barding—nothing to suggest a cavalry regiment. I’d guess medium infantry, but I’ll be able to tell you when he brings the swords in tomorrow. Assuming you’re right about him, I’d say he either transferred to the infantry before the Lancers’ last posting, or the whole regiment was dismounted for some reason.”
“I doubt that,” said Mordan. “Not with their long and glorious history on horseback. They’d mutiny first.”
“I thought you said they’d never disobey an order,” said Tarrel.
“Stopping the war without a clear victory is one thing,” Mordan replied, “but dismounting the Vedykar Lancers is another.”
Tarrel shook his head. “I’ll never understand you Karrns,” he said.
Mordan turned back to Falko. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “Save me one of those swords and tell him you might have a buyer for the rest. I’d like to see the shields, as well.”
Falko raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to pay for them this time?” he asked.
Mordan flashed him a grin. “Of course,” he said. “I’m thinking of putting together an expedition.”
Falko raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“Well, thanks, Falko,” Mordan said. “If we find out any more, I’ll let you know.”
“Mordan?” said Falko as they turned to leave.
“What?”
“If you find an original of that badge … ?”
Mordan smiled. “I’ll get you one if I can.”
“And anything else with that insignia. It must be very rare.”
“Good night, Falko.”
“He’s quite a character,” said Tarrel, once the two were out of the warehouse. Dusk had given way to night, and it was as dark outside as inside.
Mordan nodded. “He knows a lot about the military, though.”
“I can tell,” said Tarrel with a chuckle. “It looks like he has most of their gear.”
“He’s a collector,” said Mordan. “Swords or facts, he doesn’t care. I’m not sure he even wants to sell most of what he’s got.”
“So who’s your mysterious Lancer?”
“Name’s Berend Hintram,” Mordan said. “He was at Rekkenmark with the one I’m looking for, class of 991.”
“Your boy have a name?” asked Tarrel.
“Does your client?” Mordan shot back.
Tarrel held up his hands in mock surrender. “I was just thinking, if I come across anything while I’m looking for my client’s daughter …”
“Galifar ir’Dramon,” said Mordan. “Last known rank was first lieutenant.”
Tarrel raised an eyebrow. “Ir’Dramon,” he repeated. “That sounds like a good family.”
Mordan shrugged. “They used to be,” he said, “but times have been tough lately. They don’t pay as much as your client, I’m sure of that.”
“So why are you working for them? Karrnathi loyalty?”
“You could say.”
A distant bell boomed through the fog, striking the hour.
“It’s late,” said Mordan. “I’m going to get some sleep. I’ll meet you outside Falko’s at noon. With luck, Hintram will have made his delivery by then.”
Inside the warehouse, Falko rummaged through another stack of books, pausing occasionally to glance back at Solly’s sketch of the mysterious badge. There was a soft sound behind him, and he turned round with a start. A pair of eyes bored into his, and a gentle voice told him to be still.
Chapter 5
Military Surplus
Karrlakton’s waterfront looked little better by day than it did by night. The fog was gone, but everything was still gray. Looking across the river, it was impossible to tell where the grayness of the overcast skies ended and the grayness of the Mournland mist began. The walls and roofs of the warehouses were a darker shade of gray, relieved only by the occasional splash of green where moss or some other plant had found a foothold between the stones.
Tarrel turned up his collar and wondered what Mordan was learning from Falko. They had seen Hintram arrive by wagon, unload several bundles into Falko’s warehouse, and drive away a few minutes later. Mordan had gone inside while Tarrel followed the wagon. He had changed out of his Brelish clothes, which would have made him too conspicuous on the waterfront, and into some rough laborer’s clothing provided by one of Mordan’s contacts. He kept a safe distance from his quarry, but the driver seemed to have no idea he was being followed.