Dragon Precinct (8 page)

“TemisaTemisaTemisagetthisthingoffmeNOW!”

Smiling, Manfred rolled the creature off the woman, then offered her a hand up.

“Don’t you dare touch me! Do you see what that thing
did
to me! I’m going to report you to Lady Meerka! She’s my friend, you know, and she will boil you in oil for allowing this to happen to me! Ardra! Ardra! Where
is
that damned girl?
Ardra!
”

Manfred saw one of the girls’ heads peeking out from one of the mansion’s back doors. He assumed this was Ardra. “It’s all right,” he called out. “The hobgoblin’s dead. It’s safe.”

“There is nothing
safe
in this place until
you
are gone!”

Ignoring her, and leaving her on the ground, since she seemed unwilling to get up on her own or accept his help, Manfred turned—to see that the portal was gone.
I guess it did what it was supposed to do.
He also noted that a strip of grass right under where the portal had been was completely flattened.

All right, Manfred, think this through the way Lieutenant Tresyllione would. A magic portal that brings hobgoblins into backyards doesn’t happen naturally. Someone had to cast a spell. It obviously wasn’t the lady of the house. One of the servants?

He turned to Ardra, who was helping the ichor-stained Elmira to her feet. “Excuse me, Ardra? Can you or any of the other two servants here read?”

Before Ardra could answer, Elmira said, “What a ridiculous question! My handservants have no need to
read.”

That leaves them out,
he thought.
Magic requires literacy. Of course, one of them could secretly be reading on the side. I’ll need to talk to them out of the way of Madame Fansarri. So if it isn’t any of them…

Then he remembered that there was someone else in the house.

He caught up to Elmira and Ardra, who were now walking toward the house. “I need to talk to your son.”

“Whatever
for?
My dear Oswalt is an angel, but he’s also very sensitive. I don’t want a thug like you talking to him.”

“Perhaps, but he might have seen something. It’s procedure, ma’am. As I said before—”

Waving her arms about, Elmira said, “Of course, your
precious
procedure. If you
must
talk to my son, go ahead, but be
gentle
with him—not like you were with that hobgoblin. Honestly, such brutality.”

Again, Manfred had to bite back his instinctive answer.
I’m sorry you don’t like the way I killed the creature that was about to beat you to a bloody pulp, ma’am.

She cried out, “Willard!”

The boy who had brought Manfred to the house ran up to her, in his usual position of staring at the ground.

“Go fetch Oswalt, boy.”

“Yes’m.”

Before he could run off, Manfred said, “And Willard? When you’ve done that, I need you to go to Unicorn Precinct headquarters and speak to Sergeant Arron—tell him I sent for you and that we have a dead hobgoblin that needs to be disposed of. He’ll take care of things.”

“Yessir.” Then the boy ran off to the house to fetch the boy.

As Manfred, Elmira, and Ardra approached the mansion at a more leisurely pace, the lady of the house bellowed, “Stop right there! Talk to my son if you must, but I won’t have you tracking your filth into my home! You may speak to him
out here.”

The part of Manfred that was the son of an architect longed to see the inside of the dwarf-designed mansion, but the part that was a guard decided it was just as well, since he’d be separated from Elmira if he remained outdoors.

He also noted that she had no trouble tracking her
own
filth—which was of considerably greater quantity than his—into the house. But then, it was
her
house, and it had a bath that she no doubt intended to make use of. Manfred felt a temporary pang of jealousy.

Within a few minutes, a tall, gangly teenaged boy exited into the yard to join Manfred. He walked awkwardly, as if he wasn’t comfortable in his own skin, and he didn’t quite know what to do with his arms.
Probably just hit his growth spurt,
Manfred thought, again proud of his observational prowess. “You must be Oswalt.”

“Yeah.”

“My name’s Manfred. I’m with the Guard, and I need to ask you some questions.”

“ ’Kay.”

“Did you see what happened out here?”

He shrugged.

“Do you know who cast the spell that caused that portal to open?”

Another shrug.

“Any wizards sneaking around?”

“Wizards don’t sneak.”

Manfred frowned. “You know about wizards?”

“Some.”

“How?”

Yet another shrug. “Readin’.”

“You read a lot?”

“Some. An’ I hear stuff.”

“What kind of stuff do you hear?”

“Just stuff. ’Bout wizards.”

“Like what?”

A fifth shrug. “They’re nasty. Like Chalmraik.”

Manfred chuckled. “Chalmraik’s dead.”

“Maybe. Never know with wizards.”

This was getting Manfred nowhere. “That hobgoblin beat up your mother pretty good.”

A sixth shrug.

Not filled with love for Mother. Hardly surprising, given the mother in question.

Then, suddenly, it all fell together for Manfred.

“You cast the spell, didn’t you?”

Up until Manfred asked that question, Oswalt had been competing with Willard for first prize in the stare-at-the-ground competition. At that query, however, his head shot up. “I—I can’t cast no spells. I—I ain’t no wizard! Honest! I can’t do nothin’ like that!”

Manfred almost jumped with glee.
Did it! Hah! Case solved!

True, he still had to go through the motions. He had to search the boy’s room to find the scrolls—
if he’s anything like I was as a teenager, he’s got them under his bed
—and then arrest him, and then listen to Elmira wail on about how her little boy couldn’t
possibly
be mixed up in this, there must be some mistake, I’m going to talk to my
good friend
Lady Meerka about this shabby treatment.

But it would be worth it. He’d solved a case. All by himself.

Can’t wait to tell the guys about this at the Chain tonight. And maybe I’ll get to tell Lieutenant Tresyllione, too….

“T
resyllione, ban Wyvald, my office!”

Torin looked at Danthres with bleary eyes as they hung their cloaks on the wall pegs. The words that echoed throughout the squad room came from Osric, who was standing in the doorway to the east-wall door. His stubble had grown in a bit, and his perpetual scowl was now deep enough to be visible on the back of his head.

Casting a longing glance at the pantry—he’d been hoping for some food, since he hadn’t eaten anything in hours—Torin trudged toward the captain’s office, Danthres right alongside him.

They had come in together after catching a couple of hours’ sleep at Torin’s apartment, the location of that sleep determined solely by virtue of it being closer to the Dog and Duck than Danthres’s. Mercifully, the couple downstairs remained quiet—whether due to fear of Torin’s wrath or a pause in their endless battle, Torin neither knew nor cared.

When the detectives entered the office, Osric was sitting in his chair. Torin found that he wasn’t in the least bit encouraged by the fact that the captain wasn’t sharpening his dagger. Based on the expression on his face, Torin fully expected flames to come shooting out of his good eye.

“Do you know what I had to do this morning?”

“Compose an honor guard for Sir Rommett to escort the remaining members of Brightblade’s party to—”

Osric waved a hand at Torin. “After that. First I had to sit and listen to the chamberlain carry on at great length on the subject of you, Tresyllione.”

“Sir,” Danthres began.

“Shut up, Tresyllione, I don’t want to hear it. Right now, you still have a job. The reason why you still have a job is because I told Sir Rommett that you would offer a full apology for your appalling behavior.”

Danthres’s eyes widened. “Apology? That jackass barged into the middle of an interrogation!”

“He’s the chamberlain, Tresyllione, he can barge in wherever he wants.”

“No, sir, he can’t—the law clearly states that the investigating officer has supreme authority at a crime scene, and—”

Osric slammed his fist down on the desk, which startled the sleep-deprived Torin enough to make him almost fall out of his chair. He hadn’t seen Osric let loose with such a display since the old days on the elven front. “Dammit, Tresyllione, you’ve been working here for over ten years, you should know better than to think that the rules actually apply to anyone who has the word
sir
in front of his name!”

“How are we supposed to question someone if the chamberlain’s going to just take him away and hole him up in the castle?”

“Danthres,” Torin said, trying to make it a warning.

“Listen to your own words, Tresyllione.
They’re in the castle.
That means you have easy access to them any time you want, and they aren’t going anywhere. Yes, it’s for their protection as much as anything, but it also means that Ubàrlig, Brother Genero, those two halflings, and their barbarian friend are all right here where you can talk to them any time you want.”

Looking down at her feet, Danthres muttered something.

“What was that, Tresyllione? I didn’t hear you,” Osric asked angrily.

“I said, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Of course you hadn’t. After all, you’re only a detective, it’s not like thinking is something that’s expected of you.”

Sarcasm now,
Torin thought.
He really
is
furious.

Fixing his one-eyed gaze so firmly on Danthres that Torin half-expected to see a hole appear in her forehead, Osric continued: “Now, when we’re done here, you’re going to go to Sir Rommett, and you’re going to apologize. It will be a sincere and groveling apology. You will continue to apologize until such a time as Sir Rommett believes and accepts it. Failure to do so will result in your immediate termination, which would be bad for everyone, as I doubt that ban Wyvald will be able to solve this without you.”

Torin blinked. “Wait a moment!”

“Shut up, ban Wyvald,” Osric said without even looking at him. “Now then, what did you learn last night?”

“Well,” Torin said, “Boneen finally showed up after we sent someone to drag him over. The results were the same as Brightblade’s: His neck snapped from no apparent cause. In this case, it happened while he was composing a letter to someone named Efthran. No evidence of magic of any kind—nor any of a murderer. The dwarf found the body when he came up to fetch him for dinner with him and Brother Genero. He claimed the door was unlocked, but that’s hardly unusual, all things considered. According to Ubàrlig, Olthar never outgrew that particular elven habit.”

“Any other witnesses?”

Torin shook his head. “Last person to see him alive was an old man staying at the inn who saw him go upstairs to his room, then later saw Ubàrlig go up after him.”

“Before Rommett blundered in,” Danthres added, “the dwarf threw a ridiculous theory at us.”

“Actually, it wasn’t that ridiculous,” Torin said. “Both Brightblade and lothSirhans were particular enemies of the Elf Queen.”

Osric snorted. “An attack from beyond the grave?”

“Unlikely, given the lack of magic,” Torin said. “But she prompted fierce loyalty in her people. There’s the possibility that one of her devotees wants revenge. At the very least, we should have Dragon round up any elves in the area so we can talk to them.”

Nodding, Osric said, “All right, I’ll have Grint do a sweep. You can talk to them at Dragon—by the time Tresyllione’s done with her apology, they should’ve gathered up at least enough for you to get started.” Then he turned his fierce gaze on Torin. “Tell me that isn’t all you have.”

“No, we still have the others and the real reason why they’re in Cliff’s End.”

“Which,” Danthres said, “is the lead we should be pursuing instead of chasing elves around.”

“I fought against the Elf Queen’s troops, Tresyllione,” Osric said. “I wouldn’t put it past one of those fanatics to go after Brightblade and especially lothSirhans. Besides, if that’s a lead that Ubàrlig gave you, then you
will
pursue it.”

“Why?” Danthres asked. She had, Torin noticed, regained her acerbic tone, as if Osric had never read her the riot act. “We know that they’re trying to deflect us. This is obviously part of that.”

“Because, Tresyllione,” Osric said slowly, “they’re staying in the castle as the guests of Lord Albin and Lady Meerka.
You
remember Lord Albin and Lady Meerka—they run the place. They’re also pissed off that Olthar lothSirhans died in their city-state under mysterious circumstances. After getting one ear filled with Sir Rommett’s bitching and moaning about the thuggish behavior of my lieutenants, the other ear was then filled with more bitching and moaning from Lord Albin about letting war heroes die on my watch.” He leaned forward again. “The only thing I want filling my ears from now on is you two telling me how far you’re coming with the case.”

“You won’t get that as long as we’re wasting time with this ‘lead’ of Ubàrlig’s.”

“Perhaps, but the Lord and Lady
will
view it as progress, which is what matters at the moment. Besides, I think it’s best that both of you stay away from that group until tomorrow. Give Sir Rommett a chance to cool down.”

“So we’re supposed to let our only real witnesses sit for two days, while—”

Osric leaned back again. “They’re not going anywhere, Tresyllione. If they are conspiring, you’ll have your shot at them tomorrow. If they’re being targeted, they’re safer in the castle than they would be at the Dog and Duck.”

Torin put a hand on Danthres’s shoulder before she could speak further. “We’ll talk to the elves this afternoon, sir.” He stood up. “Come on, Danthres, let’s get to work.”

“No, ban Wyvald,
you’ll
get to work. Tresyllione’s on her way to meet with Sir Rommett.”

Through clenched teeth, Danthres said, “No, I’m not.”

Osric spoke in a low, quiet, menacing tone. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I’m not. I will not apologize to that imbecile. If it costs me my job, so be it.” With that, she got up and left Osric’s office.

The captain turned to Torin. “Ban Wyvald—”

Holding up a hand, Torin said, “I know, I know, I’ll talk her into it.” He got up and looked at the door. “Somehow.”

He found Danthres gathering up some material on her desk. Aside from the pair of them, the squad room was empty. Dru, Hawk, Iaian, and Grovis were all out, presumably following leads in their own cases.

Torin stared at her from his side of their desk for several seconds. “So this is it? After ten years, you’re just going to abandon the job because you don’t want to make an apology?”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

“Why?”

“Because I won’t let bastards like Rommett win.”

Torin slammed his hand down on the desk. “It’s not a battle, Danthres!”

Pursing her lips, Danthres asked, “Isn’t it?”

“Unlike you, I’ve actually
been
a soldier. Trust me, this isn’t war—this is politics.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Yes.” Torin smiled. “Wars have more clearly defined rules. But in politics, you can’t treat everyone as if they’re an enemy the way you
always
do.”

“I don’t always do that.”

“Yes, you do. You go into
every
situation with your sword up, whether or not you actually need it. The problem with that is, it usually just forces other people’s hands and they take out their sword when they might not otherwise.”

“And why not? It saves time. All my life, Torin, I’ve had to deal with people who think I’m an abomination at best. When I left Sorlin, I discovered just how rare it was for someone of my particular parentage to live beyond the age of one day. I came here—”

“You came here because Cliff’s End isn’t like that,” Torin said. “I know all this already.”

Danthres let out a long breath. “Then you should also know why I won’t put up with shit from people like Rommett.”

“What I know, Danthres, is that you’ve been living here for a decade. Isn’t it time you lowered your sword at least once to someone other than me?”

“My way is safer.”

“You’re about to lose your
job,
Danthres. How is that ‘safer’?”

Danthres snarled. “Better that than to turn into a smiling, naïve idiot like—” She cut herself off.

Torin walked over to her and looked her straight in the eye. “Like me? I thought
you
knew
me
better than that.”

She stared into his eyes for several seconds before looking away. Torin was grateful to see that she at least had the good graces to look abashed. “You’re a good man, Torin ban Wyvald,” she said, “and remarkably good-natured for someone who’s lived the life you’ve lived. But sometimes I think you’re still too much the philosopher and not enough the soldier.” Again, she faced him. “I wish I could live as you do, Torin, truly I do, but the world isn’t populated by people like you, or even Osric. There are many more Rommetts and Grovises and Nultis and Manfreds.”

Torin frowned. “Manfred?”

She shook her head. “That one at the Chain last night who thought I was ‘exotic.’ ”

“Oh, him.” Torin grinned. “Well, he’s right, you
are
exotic. And I think I know that particular guard—he’s one of the good ones. He’s working Unicorn, and if he’s the one I’m thinking of, Arron’s grooming him for a promotion. Has the makings of a detective.”

“Great. He can be your new partner, then. You’ll get more respect from everyone else now that you’re not partnered up with the ugly bitch.”

Torin shook his head. “Funny. You’ve always told me that you don’t give a damn about anything but justice, and seeing the right thing done.”

“Exactly. There’s no ‘right’ in whining for an apology to an aristocratic—”

“What about Gan Brightblade? And Olthar lothSirhans?”

“What
about
them? Their own friends don’t seem to give a troll’s ass whether or not we find their killer.”

“So you don’t, either?” Torin grabbed her by the shoulders. “I don’t believe that. I don’t believe that you would walk away from this just because your pride is hurt. Do you know why I don’t believe it?”

“No,” she muttered, “but I believe you’ll tell me.”

“Because that’s what Sir Rommett would do.”

That got her attention and she looked him in the eyes again. “What?”

“What you’re doing now is exactly what politicians like Sir Rommett do—choose the way that saves face over the way that does the right thing. Apologizing to him won’t cost you anything. You don’t even have to
mean
it—his kind is easily taken in by shallow flattery, and I’m sure any flattery you provide will be shallow indeed.”

Danthres barked a laugh at that, one that Torin knew was all but involuntary.

“It will get the job done, though. How many times have you said that the main thing we do here is speak for those who can’t speak for themselves? Well, Brightblade and lothSirhans need
both
of us to speak for them.”

Torin stared intently into Danthres’s gray eyes. The half-elf inhaled deeply through her nose, then let out a long breath through her mouth.

Finally, she said, “All right. I suppose I can give it a try. Besides,” she added with a small smile, “Osric’s right, you’ll never solve this without me.”

As Danthres turned and headed toward the west-wall doorway, Torin just shook his head. He then spoke to Jonas, who would deal with Dragon on getting the local elf population rounded up. The more Torin thought about it, the more he shared Danthres’s feeling that this was probably a waste of time, but it was also good to eliminate the possibility.

When he was done giving those instructions to Jonas, the sergeant looked after the door through which Danthres had left. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Put up with her.”

Torin shrugged. “Years of practice.”

“How’d you do it ten years ago?”

This time he grinned. “Osric made it clear that partnering with her was the only way I’d get to join the Guard. Just as he made it clear to her that partnering with me was the only way she’d get to
stay
with the Guard. She’d already gone through seven partners in six months when I signed on.”