The thought brought him up short. When he’d first encountered her in Sigilstar, the bounty hunter had been accompanied by a muscle-bound human who had done most of the talking. That is, until Greddark had used his blasting chime to send the brute hurtling over the railing of his balcony.
“Where’s your friend?” he asked with studied nonchalance as the woman pressed the spikard into his back. She pulled his short sword from his scabbard and tossed it aside, then patted him down, discovering the pocketful of bloodspikes in short order.
“Maybe he’s still in the Jorasco house, recovering from our last meeting. Or maybe he’s watching from a window or a rooftop, waiting for one wrong move from you to pay you back with a little blast of his own.” As she spoke, she pulled the spikes from his pocket and dropped them onto the ground. The crunch of breaking glass and the shuff-shuff of a heel in the dirt told the sorry tale of their fate. Damn. Those had been expensive.
Despite her bravado, Greddark could tell she was lying. Wherever her former partner was, she was alone now. Good. It would be three against one. He liked those odds.
And he didn’t really need inquisitive skills to figure out who had sent her. House Medani didn’t have a lot of bounty hunters, and her partner in Sigilstar had worn boots of a style only popular in Korth.
She was here about Yaradala. Wonderful.
Where were that damned shifter and her sanctimonious paladin?
He heard the clink of iron on iron.
“Lower your right arm behind your back. Slowly.”
As he did so, he felt the cold kiss of metal on his wrist.
Manacles.
“Now your left.”
Onatar’s empty chest! If those two didn’t show up within the next few seconds, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands. Make that, hand.
“Move it, dwarf! I want to be out of this accursed graveyard before nightfall.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Irulan’s voice rang out from somewhere behind them.
Finally.
He couldn’t see, but it sounded as if d’Medani turned to glance over her shoulder. The spikard never wavered from its spot pressed up against the middle of his back, though, so he couldn’t risk trying to break free just yet.
“You’ll never get that arrow off before mine impales your friend through the heart,” d’Medani said.
Greddark could imagine Irulan’s lazy shrug.
“So? You hurt him, we’ll just heal him up again. We have a paladin. What have you got?”
Hopefully not a teleportation spell. But then, if she’d had that, she wouldn’t still be debating an answer.
Finally, he felt the grip on his manacled arm go slack and the spikard move away from his back. He stepped forward, expecting to feel the fire of a crossbow bolt burying itself in his flesh at any moment. When he’d put his horse between d’Medani’s weapon and his backside, he turned to survey the scene.
The bounty hunter had lowered her spikard to the ground and was standing with her arms up, facing Irulan, who had an arrow trained at the half-elf’s heart.
But d’Medani wasn’t looking at the shifter. Instead, her gaze was focused on Andri, who had dismounted and stood close to the half-elf, his sword drawn and ready. Greddark could feel the charm pouring off the woman like fine perfume.
“If you’re a paladin of the Silver Flame, then truth and justice are as sacred to you as they are to me,” she said, her lilting voice going husky and her violet eyes luminous. If Andri was reacting to the enchantment, he didn’t show it. “This dwarf,” d’Medani inclined her head-just slightly; her charm wasn’t aimed at Irulan, and the shifter might take any movement as an excuse to let her arrow fly-to indicate Greddark, “is wanted in Karrnath for murder.”
Andri turned his own dark gaze on Greddark.
“Is that true?” he asked. The warning was unspoken, but the paladin’s tone was clear: don’t lie to me.
Greddark reached up to pat his horse’s rump, one open manacle still dangling from his wrist. He briefly considering jumping on the mare’s back and riding away, but he discarded the idea as soon as it occurred to him. He’d never be able to outride Irulan’s arrows.
The inquisitive sighed. Perhaps he’d be able to reason with Andri. If not, and worse came to worst, he still had his wand bracelet and its chimes. Much as he’d hate to hurt an erstwhile partner, if that’s what it took to keep from going back to the Tower to face Yaradala’s father, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
“It’s true,” he replied, bracing himself. “I’m wanted for murder.” Before d’Medani could crow her triumph, he continued. “But I didn’t do it.”
Greddark and d’Medani sat on the edge of the merman fountain, their arms bound behind them-he in the bounty hunter’s iron manacles and the half-elf in Andri’s silver ones.
The paladin stood before them looking righteous, his sword alight with argent fire. Irulan stood not far away, an arrow still nocked, just waiting for a target. From the glare she gave d’Medani, it was clear to Greddark who she’d rather choose.
“Let’s get to the bottom of this,” Andri said. “You first.”
To Greddark’s surprise, Andri pointed the tip of his sword at the bounty hunter. Perhaps the young man was not as immune to her ensorcellment as he appeared.
She batted her lashes at him, and Irulan sniffed in disdain. Ignoring the shifter, d’Medani launched into her story.
“It’s a simple tale, really. Eight years ago, Greddark d’Kundarak was a student of the Twelve with a knack for creating unusual items. He gave one of those items to Yaradala d’Medani, the daughter of Committee member Helanth d’Medani, in exchange for securing him an interview with her father for a position within the House Medani enclave, since he was out of favor with his own House. While using the item-a doorway of some kind, meant to help her escape from rooms warded for her protection-Yaradala was killed in a most gruesome fashion. The lower half of her body materialized in a stone wall while the upper part triggered wards that burned her alive as she screamed for help. The damage was so severe that she could not be raised. She was Helanth’s only child. He hired me to help bring her killer to justice.”
Andri’s eyes had gone cold at the description of Yaradala’s death. Greddark didn’t blame the paladin-he’d seen the girl’s body shortly after she died. The sight and the smell still haunted his dreams.
Andri pointed his sword at him.
“Is that what happened?”
Greddark shook himself to dislodge the image of the young woman’s charred corpse partially imbedded in the wall of her own chambers. “More or less. The device opened a doorway into Syrania. If Yaradala had followed my instructions, she would not have been hurt, but she must have become frightened or disoriented during the passage. Her death was horrible and tragic, but it was entirely avoidable.”
D’Medani harrumphed at that and opened her mouth to contradict him, but Greddark raised his voice and kept talking.
“Ultimately, the Committee agreed with me, though I was expelled from the Twelve, and my own family cut me off, fearing the political fallout. The murder charges came after-when Helanth d’Medani could not convince the Committee to do more than censure me, he appealed to the Karrnathi government, which was more than happy to oblige him and his coffers.” He looked right into Andri’s eyes, letting the paladin read the pain he still carried in his soul. “I’m sorry she died. I truly am. But it wasn’t my fault.”
Some days, he even believed that.
D’Medani had had enough. “The item was clearly defective! And according to Karrnathi law, the burden for any death resulting from the use of such an item falls on its maker. Whether you intended it to happen or not, Yaradala died, and you are responsible!”