“How did I get up here?” he said in a bewildered voice.
“You were dropped out of a fleeing airship,” she said. “Do you remember that?”
He stood up unsteadily, staring at the three-headed chimera crest on her tabard with some amazement. “A Sentinel Marshal?” he said. “What’s going on here?”
Eraina sighed. “Boldrei’s teachings advocate patience for those who have suffered,” she said, replacing her gauntlet and stretching her fingers within it. “However, as a Sentinel Marshal I am required to seek the truth efficiently. I called the Hearth-mother’s blessings upon you to heal you, Watchman Markus. Thus I would appreciate it if you finished gather your senses swiftly.” She fixed him with a stern expression.
“My apologies, Marshal,” the man said, flustered. “What would you like to know?”
“As much as you can remember before you awakened here,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.
The guardsman nodded. “I can’t remember much, to be honest,” he said. “We were pursuing a Lhazaarite who burned the Cannith estate and killed three watchmen last night. When the fire started I ran inside looking for anyone that might have been trapped.”
“What was this man’s name?” she asked.
The guardsman shrugged. “No name, only a description.”
Markus took a folded scrap of parchment from his pocket and offered it to Eraina. She unfolded it and studied it for a long moment. It was a hastily printed wanted poster, and the man in the illustration was unfamiliar.
“He was the last thing I saw,” the watchman said. “He and his warforged friend ran into the fire to rescue me.”
“The killer rescued you?” Eraina asked.
The man nodded, though he looked rather confused. “Seeing as how I’m here, Marshal, he must have.”
Eraina sighed. Somehow, after all that had happened, she had hoped that the clues would begin to fall together. She was not truly surprised; she had enough experience to know that the truth rarely fit together in a convenient way as it did in stories. More often, even after a crime was solved, she never knew the full truth. Sometimes she just wished that a mystery would come together cleanly, if only for variety.
When she spoke again, her voice was a great deal softer. “Thank you for your help, Watchman Markus.” She folded the poster and tucked it in one pocket. “I have nothing further. No doubt your superior officer will be eager to discover you are still alive.”
“Thank you again, Marshal …” he said, letting the end of the sentence hang as he hoped to catch her name.
Eraina merely gave a brief salute and turned, taking up her spear and heading back down the stairs. The elderly couple was just as she had left them, still huddled by the window in terror. Eraina stopped with her hand on the door.
She moved to the window beside them, looking out at the smoking building. They moved away as much as they dared.
“Were you at this window the entire time?” she asked, studying the skyline.
“Y-yes,” the old man answered.
“Did you see the airship?” she asked. “Did you see the direction it came from?”
“Downriver,” the old man said, pointing out the window to the south.
“Boldrei walk beside you,” she said, bowing thankfully and stepping back outside.
Eraina’s horse waited patiently where she had left it. She climbed back into the saddle and rode toward the river. The crowd, slowly realizing that the fire was under control and there were unlikely to be any more airships swooping over the neighborhood, had begun to disperse, making passage a great deal easier. The farther south she went, the poorer the neighborhoods became. This was near the place that Jamus Roland had called home. Eraina scowled, pushing away thoughts of the old thief. She had hoped for a better life for him, but now there was no chance of that. He was a good man, despite his flaws. He had deserved better.
She would never forgive herself.
The sight of six towers looming above the fishermen’s district quickly drew her attention to the task at hand. The towers were four stories tall, double the size of the average surrounding buildings. Each tower had a swooping bridge at its height, leading to nothing, with a large wooden crane mounted on the end. They were airship towers, though they looked to be poorly maintained. It was hardly surprising to see the docking towers unused. The Last War had ground most nonmilitary travel to a standstill. The few privately airships that remained would surely seek to dock in safer areas of Wroat. The thugs, smugglers, and ruffians who frequented this part of town would find greater profits traveling by boat or by road. On the other hand, someone seeking to slip an airship in and out of the city relatively unnoticed could do so quite easily here. Few locals would pry too deeply if the ship was well guarded.
Eraina stopped, her brow furrowing as she saw two horses gathered outside one of the towers. She galloped in that direction, drawing a muttered curse from a drunken sailor as he stumbled out of the way. She vaulted to the ground, took her spear from the saddle, and ran toward the tower. A tall, blond man in armor and a tabard matching Eraina’s stepped out to greet her with a grim smile. A smaller, dark-haired man stepped out beside him, watching her without expression.
“Marshal Eraina,” the blond man said with a brief nod.
“Marshal Galas,” she said, striding toward him. “Marshal Killian.” She nodded to the other man.
“Fortuitous timing, Eraina,” Galas said. “I see the clues have led us to the same place. Let me spare you a great deal of wasted time. There is nothing here.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, looking past him into the tower. “I believe the airship containing the suspect came from one of these towers.”
“She did,” Galas said, tightening his gauntlets as he prepared to mount his steed. “Killian questioned what passes for a harbor master here. We drew him from his cups long enough to learn that an airship docked here last night, shortly before the debacle at the Friendly Buzzard. There were no symbols of ownership on the vessel. No crew wandered out to hit the taverns. No guards watched the tower door. A few nondescript figures boarded, followed by a girl who visited this morning. She matched the description of your friend Roland’s partner.”
Eraina looked at Galas. “Seren Morisse?” she asked.
“Whoever,” Galas said, looking at her with a frown. “Obviously the thief was not as reliable as Jamus believed and was somehow complicit in his death. It doesn’t matter, Eraina. Your friend failed. We are done here.”
“Done? How can we be done? This is the first real lead we’ve had!”
Galas turned to face her, placing one hand on her shoulder. His frown softened into a sympathetic smile. “Eraina, I understand your feelings on the matter,” he said. “It is always hard for a Marshal to lose one under her protection, and it must be harder still for you, with Roland having been involved. I have served House Deneith as a Marshal for twenty years, so understand that what I say next is not said out of callousness, but out of practicality. While it is important for a Marshal to have passion, it is also necessary to have clarity. We have made a mistake here. Best to let it go rather than compound the danger, Eraina. We should return to Korth to plan our next move.”
“Best to let it go?” Eraina said. “We have a duty to uphold, Galas!”
Galas sighed. “You have an admirable thirst for justice, and I won’t deny that injustice has been done here, but remember that your first duty is to House Deneith. Consider the facts. Dalan d’Cannith is rumored to have discovered a lost journal penned by his famous uncle, the very same sort of prize our quarry seeks. We hurry here, believing that the killer may strike again. You discover your old friend, Jamus, has already been contacted about acquiring the volume for an anonymous client. Upon your urging, he takes the contract, hoping to draw the client out so we may learn more. Somewhere the deal goes bad. Dalan d’Cannith’s house burns down. Jamus Roland dies. Roland’s partner flees in an unidentified airship, pausing only long enough to hover over a burning building and load a wanted killer aboard before fleeing to Khyber knows where. Pardon my swearing.”