“My apologies, Marshal,” the soldier said. “This man has been granted immunity by the King.”
“What?” she spat.
Dalan smiled.
“My apologies, Master d’Cannith,” the soldier said.
“Not necessary,” Dalan said pleasantly. “You’re merely doing your duty. You are a tribute to your rank, country, and king.” The man smiled proudly. “Now if you would excuse us, we’re preparing to depart.”
The soldier nodded, saluted, and turned to leave. The others followed in his wake. Eraina remained where she was, scowling at Dalan.
“Let me see those papers,” she demanded.
“Why?” he asked, looking at her. “Your jurisdiction extends beyond any diplomatic immunities. You are still perfectly free to find non-Brelish troops to aid you, or arrest us on your own.” He looked at Omax and then smiled at her again. “If you believe you are able.”
“You know Boldrei grants me power to sense falsehood. You refuse to show me your papers because I will see them as the forgery they are.”
“How insulting,” Dalan said with a mocking grin. “Is this the diplomacy of House Deneith?”
“This is not over,” Eraina said. “You will not escape me. I will find allies and stop you.”
“Is that so?” Dalan asked. He looked past her for a moment.
She looked back just as Zed Arthen clubbed her across the temple with the hilt of his sheathed sword. She staggered, attempting to ready her spear.
“Sorry, Eraina,” he said, punching her across the jaw.
The paladin struck the deck with a thud. Seren looked at Dalan in shock, as did everyone else but Zed.
“Arthen what in Khyber have you done?” Tristam shouted. “You just assaulted a Sentinel Marshal!”
“She went down a little more easily than I expected, too,” Zed said, looking at her limp form with some surprise. “I thought Omax would have to help me for sure.”
“That Sentinel Marshal threatened to cause a great deal of trouble for us,” Dalan said, turning back toward his cabin. “Get us out of here, Captain. Zed, return the Marshal to her cell.”
Zed loaded the unconscious paladin over his shoulder and climbed below deck. As Karia Naille swiftly rose above the city of Cragwar, Seren wondered if staying here had been a mistake.
CHAPTER 16
Old Merkin pushed the battered shutter aside and looked outside again. The street was empty, as it usually was this time of day. Zed Arthen preferred things clean and quiet, so most of the Black Pit citizens avoided doing business here. Everyone feared Arthen, though Old Merkin wasn’t really sure why. Arthen had a way of turning up dirt, rooting out secrets, and in Black Pit most folks preferred secrets to stay right where they were. To Merkin, that just meant that Arthen was making waves. People who did that inevitably got put down. No one could stand alone forever.
Until then, of course, there was money to be made.
At the far end of the street, Old Merkin saw the familiar, stocky figure, leaving a trail of pipesmoke in his wake. The coat and clothes were new, but it was definitely Zed Arthen. Merkin waited for the inquisitive to walk down this way, past his window and approach his office. Arthen looked around warily, as he always did. He didn’t see Old Merkin, but of course he never did. Merkin chuckled quietly in self-satisfaction.
After Arthen’s door closed, Merkin left his home, shrugging into his thick canvas jacket as he walked. He rapped loudly on the door of the inquisitive’s office and waited, hands tucked in his pockets as he peered around, alert for any nosey passers-by.
The door opened after a moment. Zed Arthen looked at Merkin with a hawk-eyed gaze and stood quickly to one side. Merkin grinned and sauntered in.
“May I help you?” Arthen asked in a low voice.
“Perhaps you can,” Merkin said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I saw your little trip into the woods the other night, Arthen. Smart money says you were meeting someone from that Lyrandar charter ship. Care to share the secret?”
Zed did not answer immediately. Instead he moved to the window beside his door, looking curiously outside. “You came here alone?” he asked.
“Like I need any protection from you,” Merkin said. “I’m the one man in all of Black Pit that knows you’re all talk. Now tell me what you’re up to, Arthen.”
“I have a better idea,” Arthen said, locking the door. “Let me offer you a proposition.” He turned to face Merkin, but the man who faced Merkin was no longer Zed Arthen. His features were smooth and gray. The left cheek twisted with a swirling burn scar. He looked at Merkin with dead white eyes.
“Khyber,” Merkin swore, drawing a dagger from his belt. “Get away from me, faceless!”
“Please,” the changeling said. He backed away from the door, holding his hands out to show he held no weapons, only the key to the door pinched between the fingers of his right hand. “The term is ‘changeling,’ not ‘faceless.’ If you cannot call my race by a respectful name, then simply address me as Marth.”
“What are you doing here?” Merkin demanded. He glanced around for any escape route, but the changeling blocked the only unlocked door. “Did you kill the real Arthen?”
“That is what we do, isn’t it?” Marth said with a deep sigh. “Changelings come in the night. They murder the innocent and steal their lives, like parasites. Spies and assassins, all of us. No. I did not murder Arthen. He is alive and well, as far as I am aware, and far from here.”
“Oh,” Merkin said, not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. “Then what are you doing pretending to be him?”
“Zed Arthen is an old associate,” Marth said. “I came to him regarding a matter of some discretion. He left abruptly, leaving no clues as to his destination. Rather than dig randomly for information in a place like this, I thought that assuming his identity would lead me to those who knew him. And so it has.” Marth gestured broadly at Merkin.
“Arthen and I aren’t really friends,” Merkin said fearfully. “But it doesn’t surprise me that he runs with a diseased faceless.”
“I never said I was seeking his friends, nor that I was one of them,” Marth said. “I seek only information, and I am willing to pay.” Marth opened his left hand, palm out, to reveal a platinum coin.
“Well that’s different,” Merkin said, sheathing his dagger with a lewd smile. “How can I help you, Master Marth?”
“First of all, tell me who you are,” the changeling said. “What common ruffian speaks to Zed Arthen as boldly as you did when you entered?”
“I’m Merkin, a courier for some of the local businesses,” Merkin said. “I live next door.”
“An informant,” Marth corrected. “The local cartels pay you to spy on Arthen, to find out what he’s up to, to report which of them he may be investigating next?”
Merkin smiled. “A man has to make an honest living.”
“But that’s not all,” Marth said. “I wager you work for Arthen as well. He pays you to filter the information you pass on to your superiors. You came here hoping to perpetuate your web of blackmail.” He looked at Merkin seriously. “Have I hit the mark?”
“Pretty close,” Merkin said. “Impressive.”
“Arthen and I were friends once,” Marth said. He tucked the coin into his pocket, leaving his hand there. “I know the way the man thinks. I can assure you that any control you believe you maintain over him is an illusion. He is too clever for you by far. You believe you are blackmailing him, but I wonder how much he has learned about your superiors from your churlish thuggery. Look what I have already divined, Merkin, and I am not even trained as an inquisitive.”
Merkin’s face drooped into a worried frown. He began replaying earlier meetings with Arthen in his mind, trying to remember what he had said, and wondering how much he had accidentally revealed.
“The great irony is this, Merkin,” Marth said. He traced the fingers of his right hand along the edge of a nearby table as he paced slowly around it, his eyes on the floor. “You fear me. You distrust me. You call me faceless, for no doubt you have heard the legends. Every village spins the tale of the changeling killer who murders a noble son of the nation and slides effortlessly into his life. We are spies. We are demons. We are monsters unworthy of trust or respect.” He looked at Merkin intently. “Yet look at yourself. Every word you use to describe yourself is a lie. ‘Courier.’ ‘Honest living.’ At least my face is my only lie, Merkin. You lack the imagination to be truthful.”