Dragon Precinct (16 page)

“Well, well, well,” said a voice from behind the small desk in the back of the lobby area, which was otherwise appointed with several semi-comfortable-looking cushions. The room was empty aside from her and the two lieutenants, but it
was
still morning….

“Amelie.” Iaian nodded. “Long time, no see.”

“And whose fault is that?” Amelie asked in a purring voice. She rose from behind the desk. The owner of the establishment wore a scoop-necked, skintight blue dress that accentuated a figure that showed no evidence of age. Her large breasts were as firm, her hips as supple as they were when Iaian first saw her twenty years ago. Iaian suspected the work of glamours that functioned better than the ones her employees used. “We never see you around here anymore.”

“Sorry, not as partial to open sores as I used to be.”

“You frequented places like this?” Grovis asked, aghast. “But you’re a married man! That’s adultery!”

“It’s only adultery if you’re sleeping with someone in addition to your wife,” Iaian said, “which would require my sleeping with my wife in the first place.” He turned back to Amelie. “I need to talk to one of your employees—Connilee.”

“Connilee’s not available.”

Iaian smiled. “Right, ’cause her glamour went bad on her.”

Amelie put her hand to her heart, which necessitated her resting her hand on her ample chest. Grovis, Iaian noticed, was staring openly, and Iaian wondered if Ghanduhar would approve of what the boy was thinking just then. “None of my women use glamours, Lieutenant, and I am offended that you would think they did.”

“Cut the shit, Amelie. I’ve got a witness who says that Connilee was wearing a glamour that went bad on her right in the middle of sex.”

Now Amelie put her hands on her hips. “Obviously your witness is lying.”

Grovis found his tongue. “The witness in question is a member of the Cliff’s End Castle Guard, and is therefore above reproach—even if he was frequenting such a foul place as this.”

Amelie turned her gaze on Grovis. “Who are you?”

“This is my partner,” Iaian said, “Lieutenant Grovis.”

“Well, Lieutenant Grovis, I’ll have you know that my place is quite clean and completely legal.”

“One can be legal without being moral.”

“Or one can be neither,” Iaian put in, “especially if you’re buying cheap glamours after the Brotherhood raised their prices again.”

“That’s crazy. I said we don’t use—”

“Amelie, I can probably get the Brotherhood to give me receipts proving that they did sell glamours to you for the women. And then I can get them to investigate why they haven’t sold as many recently. Then they might find out that you’re using black-market glamours, and then they might get pissed. Or, should I say, more pissed. You heard about that bust last night?”

Amelie nodded.

“This bad-glamour ring has them livid as it is, and last night just made it worse. Trust me, you do
not
want to be in their scrying-pool range right now. So I suggest you produce Connilee so we can question her, find out where she got the glamour, and bust these guys, which’ll make everyone happy.”

Shaking her head, Amelie said, “You’re still a bastard, you know that, Iaian?”

Iaian grinned. “Women keep saying that to me.”

“Men, too,” Grovis muttered.

“Connilee’s really not here.” Amelie pursed her lips. “After what happened last night with your guard friend, I sent her away. Believe me, if I’d
known
he was a guard—”

“Where’d you send her, Amelie?” Iaian asked.

“I’d rather not say where. She got the glamour from me, and I got it from a man named Antonio Markov.”

Grovis asked, “And where can we find this Markov?”

“The docks, mostly. He has arrangements with a lot of ships.”

Iaian snorted. “I’ll bet. How’d you meet him?”

At that, Amelie smiled. “Same way I meet most men.” The smile fell. “You’ll probably find him on the north end of the Docklands, a small tavern called the Dancing Seagull. He always sits in the corner drinking coffee.”

“Who goes to a tavern for coffee?”

Amelie shrugged. “He does, apparently. I’ve never seen him drink alcohol.”

“Weird.” Iaian shook his head. “All right, Amelie, thanks. And just for that, I
won’t
tell the Brotherhood where I got my tip on where to find this guy.”

“Really?” Amelie blinked several times, and then the purr returned to her voice. “You mean that, Iaian?”

“Yeah. I figure you’re gonna have enough trouble, since you’re gonna need to go back to paying the Brotherhood full price for glamours that actually
work.”

She laughed. “Probably, yes. But still, I guess you’re not a complete bastard after all.” She walked forward and stroked his cheek. Her hand felt nice and smooth. Too smooth, truth be told.
Hell, she’s probably not just wearing a glamour, she’s probably got a potion.

Then Amelie turned to Grovis. “You aren’t related to Branik Grovis, are you?”

“He’s my brother.” Grovis frowned. “Why?”

“Tell him that he still owes me three silver for that statuette he broke last week. He won’t get to sleep with Maria again until he pays up.”

The look on Grovis’s face at this particular revelation was, to Iaian’s mind, worth the entire trip.

The same could not be said for the trip to the Dancing Seagull, which, to Iaian’s chagrin, meant going to the Docklands. Iaian hated the entirety of Mermaid Precinct with a fiery passion, mainly because the sight, smell, and taste of fish made him sick to his stomach.

As he and Grovis crossed into Mermaid, the time-chimes rang twelve, and the fish smell was
everywhere
. The boats were all coming in with the morning catch and transferring their piscine cargo to the market for the afternoon shoppers to buy for the evening meal. The routine was the lifeblood of daily life on the docks, and midday was the smelliest part of it. Everywhere they turned, there were wheelbarrows full of fish passing, or crates of fish being carried, or bags of fish being exchanged. It was an orgy of seawater and scales, and Iaian thought he was going to throw up right there on the planks.

“Are you
quite
all right?” Grovis asked. “You look rather—green.”

“I’m fine. Just don’t like fish.”

Grovis goggled at him, giving him an expression remarkably similar to that of the animal in question. “Don’t like fish? How can you not like fish?”

“I just don’t, all right?”

“For Ghandurha’s sake, Iaian, you live in a port town.”

Iaian gritted his teeth. On those rare occasions when she spoke to him, his wife often asked him why he chose to remain in a port town if he hated fish so much.
It just figures that this jackass would be parroting her.
Aloud, he said, “I was born in Cliff’s End.”

“So? Danthres was born in Sorlin, Osric was born in Iaron, and Torin was born in Myverin. They were able to move elsewhere.”

“Because the one thing I hate more than fish is traveling.”

“That strikes me as a very limited attitude,” Grovis said with a sniff.

“Keep it up, and that’s not the only thing that’s gonna strike you.” He peered up the docks, and saw a ramshackle wooden structure at the far northern end, on which perched several dozen seagulls, including three on the wooden sign that hung from a rusty metal rod that jutted from over the door. The words
DANCING SEAGULL
on the sign were mostly legible, obscured somewhat by splotches of seagull dung. Iaian wasn’t sure whose sense of humor this said more about, the tavern owner’s or the seagulls’.

The pair went inside, and it took Iaian’s eyes a moment to adjust. The midday sun reflecting off the water made it unusually bright outside. Iaian hadn’t really noticed until they went into the near darkness of the interior of the Dancing Seagull.

Like most taverns in Mermaid, the place was all but empty during the day. One customer sat at the far end of the bar; Iaian could smell the whiskey the man had been consuming from the doorway. A couple of dwarven sailors sat at the other end of the bar, their small legs dangling from the bar stools, engaged in conversation in their tongue, which Iaian had never mastered. A man stood behind the bar, cleaning glasses.

Sitting in a corner booth, a human was reading a piece of parchment, and sipping from a large mug of coffee.

“There’s our man,” Grovis said, indicating the corner booth.

“I was wondering what that wood-burning smell was,” Iaian said as they walked to the corner.

“I beg your pardon?”

Iaian grinned. “It was you making an actual deductive process.” Before Grovis could say anything, they arrived at the booth. The occupant took no notice of them, continuing to sip his coffee and read his parchment—which, Iaian noticed, was written in Ra-Telvish.
Pretty impressive—not many dock rats can even read Common, much less any other language.
“You Antonio Markov?”

“Depends.”

Iaian frowned. “On?”

Markov took a long sip of his coffee. “Who’s askin’?”

“I’m Lieutenant Iaian, this is my partner, Lieutenant Grovis.”

“You’re Guard.”

“And your powers of observation are stunning. We have some questions for you about some merchandise you sold to—”

“Don’t sell merchandise.” Markov had yet to look up from his parchment.

Grovis stepped in. “We have it on excellent authority that you sold substandard glamours to one of the houses of ill repute on Sandy Brook Way. Now you will inform us—”

Now he looked up. “Talk to Gaffni.”

Iaian frowned. Gaffni was the name of the new day-shift sergeant in Mermaid. He got the job after Sergeant Rai Victro was busted for several dozen counts of graft. This being Mermaid, Iaian’s opinion was that the biggest crime Victro committed was being sloppy enough to get caught. “What about him?”

“He’ll tell you. Don’t sell merchandise. Gaffni knows all about me.”

And Gaffni’s picking right up where Victro left off.

Grovis stepped forward and leaned over Markov in a manner the young jackass probably thought was intimidating. “We’re not talking to Gaffni, my good man, we’re talking to you.”

“Talk to Gaffni.” Markov’s voice was now getting insistent.

“ ’Fraid it doesn’t work like that, Mr. Markov,” Iaian said. He sat down across from the man. “See, we’re not with Mermaid Precinct. We work back at the castle. We report straight to Captain Osric.”

Markov took another sip of coffee. “I don’t know him. Know Gaffni. Gaffni told me, any problem with any of you Guard, I send ’em to him. So I’m sending you to him.”

Iaian repeated, “It doesn’t work like that. We’re detectives. We’ve got a major crime ring, and we think you’re supplying it.”

“Don’t supply nothin’. Talk to Gaffni.”

Grovis slammed a hand down on the wooden table hard enough to make the dwarven sailors and the drunk at the bar jump. “I believe we informed you that we won’t be speaking to Sergeant Gaffni, as we have no need. Now you will tell us what we wish to know, or I can assure you, my good man, that the consequences will be dire—most dire indeed.”

“Talk to Gaffni.”

Iaian was starting to get a headache, though how much of it was from Markov’s repetition and how much from Grovis’s stupidity he wouldn’t venture to guess. “Mr. Markov, we need you to come with us.”

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere. Talk to Gaffni.”

“Is there a problem here?”

Iaian turned around to see that a burly guard had entered the tavern. He barely fit in his leather armor, which was emblazoned with the crest of Mermaid Precinct.

“No problem, Guard,” Grovis said. “We are simply questioning a witness in a very important case. There’s no need for you to concern yourself.”

Grovis turned his back on the guard, who had now reached the corner booth and was looming over the young lieutenant.
Oh shit,
Iaian thought as the guard grabbed Grovis by the shoulder and violently turned him around.

“If you’re talkin’ to Antonio, then I’m concerned, shitbrain. Whatever you got, ain’t got nothin’ to do with him, all right?”

“See here, Guard, I am Lieutenant Amilar Grovis. My partner and I are working on a case of critical import, and you—”

“I don’t give a troll’s ass what you’re workin’ on, Antonio ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

“We have a witness who disagrees with you. Now kindly be on your way before we—
whoulff!
”

Iaian rolled his eyes. The guard had punched Grovis in the stomach.
I guess I’m going to have to defend him,
Iaian thought as his partner doubled over onto the filthy floor of the Dancing Seagull.

Standing, Iaian noticed that the two dwarves had departed the premises and the bartender was now on the far end of the bar from Markov’s booth. The drunk hadn’t moved, probably oblivious of all save the contents of his whiskey glass.

“You wanna piece’a this, too, old man?” The guard made a fist out of one meaty hand.

“Look, kid, I think you’d better lay off.”

“I ain’t no ‘kid.’ M’name’s Paol Victro. Nobody harasses Antonio here without goin’ through me.”

I don’t believe it,
Iaian thought. He knew that Victro had several sons, but had no idea that any of them were guards. He shrugged and started toward the door. “All right, fine. We’ll be on our way, then. C’mon, Grovis, let’s go get the folks from the Brotherhood in, let them deal with it.”

“Waitasec, what brotherhood?”

Holding back a smile, Iaian stopped in his tracks and turned around. “What Brotherhood do you think?”

“What, the damn magicians?”

“That would be them, yeah. See, Mr. Markov here’s our best lead on a bunch of bad glamours that’ve been showing up all over Dragon Precinct. The Brotherhood’s
real
interested in who’s muscling in on their territory. But hey, if you’re willing to speak for Mr. Markov here, we’ll just send the Brotherhood over to you.”

But Paol Victro was no longer even paying attention to Iaian, having instead decided to loom over Markov who, for his part, continued to calmly sip his coffee and read his Ra-Telvish parchment.