It didn’t make any sense.
She had to know more.
Norra returned to the beginning of Markhelm’s journal and started reading.
EIGHT
Zed moved to the mouth of the alley and peered carefully around the corner. The mortuary was calm and quiet. Only a few passersby walked the streets. Most of them casually avoided the darkened building. The cart still waited outside the offices, hitched to a pair of horses.
“Must be delivering that cart soon,” Zed said.
“No sense in waiting any longer, then,” Eraina said. She waited a safe distance behind him, out of sight.
Zed nodded. “If things go wrong, I’ll try to signal you somehow.”
“I’ll look for screaming, random violence, and possibly fire,” Eraina said.
He gave her a hurt look. “I was thinking more of a whistle, you know?” he said, “Maybe pulling up one of the window shades and waving-but keep an eye out for those other things. Just in case.”
“I will,” she said. “Are you certain you wish to do this? It’s already fairly obvious they are working for Marth. We could approach this more directly.”
“But we don’t know how many there are or where their larger base is,” Zed said. “Let’s try diplomacy first. We might learn something.”
Eraina nodded. “Boldrei watch over you, Arthen.”
Zed looked at the paladin for a long, silent moment. “Thank you, Eraina,” he said finally.
He set out across the street, shrugging into his coat as he adjusted the weight of his sword across his shoulders. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to fight. His sword bore the markings of a Knight of the Silver Flame. As a war veteran, it lent him a certain air of legitimacy. Plus, the fact that it was one of the deadliest weapons in Eberron didn’t hurt-just in case diplomacy was insufficient.
Zed knocked on the door. A slit opened, and a curious eye stared out. “Are you Master Arthen?” a gruff voice demanded.
“I am,” Zed said, giving a short bow. “I am here to speak to Niam Kenrickson.”
The slit closed. The sound of a rattling lock followed. The door opened, and a large man waved Zed inside. The inquisitive strode into the mortuary, looking over one shoulder warily as the door slammed shut and bolted behind him. The doorman was nearly a foot taller than Zed and dressed in thick leather armor. A shortsword hung from a loop on his belt.
“Kind of thorough for an undertaker’s doorman, aren’t you?” Zed asked.
The guard stared at Zed with the bored, sullen stare shared by hired muscle the world over. He folded his arms and stood with his back to the door. Zed studied his surroundings. The mortuary lobby was sparse. The walls were of bare wood, with a floor to match. The boards were loose in several places. A single glowing stone hung from a cheap glass fixture on the ceiling. Black shades had been drawn over every window. In one corner, a rather incongruous looking vase of roses rested on a tall, crooked table. The sickly scent of chemicals and rotten meat hung in the air. A pair of double doors at the far side of the room led deeper into the mortuary. This place had been constructed cheaply, and the occupants apparently didn’t care.
The opposite doors opened and Niam Kenrickson entered, alongside six other men. One was dressed nearly identically to Niam, in a dark coat and cloak. He was short and squat where Niam was thin. The other five men resembled the guard, burly men in cheap armor. Zed noticed that Niam looked nervous while his counterpart looked angry. This was going to be bad.
“Yarold, you are overreacting,” Niam said, punctuating his remark with a nervous laugh. “This is unnecessary.”
“First the Lyrandar embargo against us and now this,” the shorter man said. He looked up at Zed. There was obvious anger in his eyes. “We shall see if I am overreacting. You are the Thrane war hero?”
“I don’t think too many people who knew me in the Last War would call me a hero,” Zed said, “but I was a Knight of the Silver Flame.”
“Indeed,” Yarold said. “How convenient for you to appear when you did.”
Zed blinked. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but it looks like you’re upset. I got into a fight with some guards, and Niam bailed me out of prison. He said I could pay back the favor if I came here. If that’s not the case, I’ll go.” Zed turned around but the guard had not moved from the door. The man rested one hand absently on his sword as his beady eyes flicked in Zed’s direction.
“I apologize for this, Master Arthen,” Niam said. “My brother is short-tempered and we are in the midst of an important transaction.”
“Do not apologize to the Thrane cur!” Yarold said, pointing one pudgy finger in his brother’s face.
“Niam, there is no need to be insulting,” Niam said. “The Thrane have often proven worthy allies.”
“Of worth in your eyes, perhaps,” Yarold said. He looked up at Zed again. “Master Arthen, if you are truly as harmless as you claim, then you will surrender your weapon and submit to my questions.”
Zed sighed. Fighting his way out of this could be rough, especially if he couldn’t signal Eraina. At least compliance might buy some time. Maybe he could even learn something. He unslung the sword from his shoulder. He held it out in both hands to show that it was safely sheathed before walking to the corner and leaning it against the small table with exaggerated care. He paced his way back along the wall to the corner of the room, hands buried deep in his pockets. One of the thugs moved between Zed and his sword. Yarold watched the inquisitive suspiciously, but at least his seething rage had been replaced with simmering anger.
“Ask your questions,” Zed said.
“Why are you in Nathyrr?” Yarold demanded.
“I was desperate for work,” Zed said. “I’ve been moving from place to place since the war ended. Somehow I always make a bad impression on the authorities when I stay in town for too long.” He reached into his coat, causing the guards to go for their swords. He froze, gave what he hoped would be a soothing smile, and slowly drew his pipe and smoking pouch from his pocket.
“Picking fights with knights is an odd way to look for work,” Yarold said.
“Yeah, well.” Zed shrugged, striking a tindertwig and lighting his pipe.
“If you disapprove of the Knights so highly, why not try Breland?” Yarold said.
“Tried that already,” Zed said. “Didn’t like the climate. It was time to come back home.”
“Listen to him, Yarold,” Niam said. “Look at his clothing. Obviously someone in such a state isn’t a threat. He’s just an old soldier desperate for work.”
“Hm,” Yarold said. “He certainly looks like a vagabond. I’ll admit that.”
Mildly surprised, Zed looked down at himself. He hadn’t noticed how dirty and ragged his coat had become in the last few weeks. He really did look like a desperate vagrant. It wasn’t intentional; this was just his favorite coat. He felt relieved and mildly insulted at the same time.
“I’m not quite certain what to do with you, Master Arthen,” Yarold said, eyeing the inquisitive meticulously.
Zed realized he was going to have to take control of this situation fast, or Yarold’s paranoia was going to get the better of him. He glanced at the men surrounding him, looking for clues to what they were thinking. Yarold cracked his fingers, one at a time, eyeing Zed all the while. Niam looked embarrassed. His gaze was locked soundly on his own feet. The other guards were all tense, as if they were expecting him to attack at any moment. The inquisitive breathed a long plume of smoke into the air.
“Listen,” Zed said. “First, I’m sorry I came at a bad time. Last thing I want to do is interfere. I keep getting the feeling that someone screwed up, badly. My guess is that someone threw you off whatever schedule you’re trying to keep. What’s more, I bet it has something to do with that cart outside. You want to get that shipment out of here before the locals start wondering what could be inside so many coffins, but something is getting in the way. Either something got lost, or somebody died. Which is it?”