Torval used the little brass whistle that all watchwardens carried. The shrill note it sounded seemed to ring far and wide through the close quarters of the Fifth Ward. In no time, Rem heard the sound of bootheels slapping walk boards and cobbles as any watchwardens within hearing of the whistle came running. Likewise, many a sleeping resident woke to the urgent call and cursed the watchwardens for the bloody noise they made. Torval did not even have the belligerence left in him to dress these complainers down and urge them back to their beds. He simply stood by the canal bank and waited. Rem, meanwhile, took the opportunity to examine the site where Freygaf’s body had been discovered.
He lay in a wide-open sewer outlet, a broad, dark passage that led back into the bowels of the city at a vaguely sloped angle, no doubt to allow the outflowing water to run downward and gain momentum before joining the flow of the great canal. Rem, trying to heed Torval’s warning about lingering too close to the open sewer passages, only leaned forward to study the interior of the outlet at one point, and when he did so, he was careful to keep his torch well ahead of him, so that its flickering orange-gold light filled the passage for a few spear lengths. That, at least, would allow him to see anything that might come scurrying out of the dark at him.
There was very little to see in the immediate vicinity of the corpse save the normal detritus that one might find at a sewer outflow: old branches and refuse, a few drowned rat carcasses, and soft piles of who-knew-what droppings. Rem imagined that after a heavy rain, or during the spring thaw, when the river that fed Yenara’s sewers was swollen with meltwater from the distant mountains to the east, the outflow down here could be quite heavy, washing just about anything caught in its flow down into the canal, and along the canal’s final length into the harbor, the bay, and the sea beyond. But presently, there was only a trickle, meaning the waters that flowed under Yenara’s streets and washed away her piss and shit and secrets were at low ebb. That could work to their advantage, he supposed, because the runoff would not have washed away all the clues they could find.
His search of the inner mouth of the outflow tunnel completed, Rem stepped over Freygaf’s body and lowered his torch to the ground. He began a slow, laborious search of the stone drainage trough that led from the mouth of the tunnel down the bank to the canal, and the damp gray mud that stretched away on either side. Almost at once, he saw his own tracks and Torval’s approaching from the south along the bank, still freshly depressed in the mud. But as he studied the soft bank, he realized that he saw something else as well.
There were other tracks that his and Torval’s had crossed and, in one spot, trampled. There were two sets, one close to the mouth of the tunnel, the other set apart slightly. The tracks set apart were clearly human—leather boot of a good make, with solid heels and soles, the sort that only a well-to-do dandy or proud soldier on holiday might wear. The other set of tracks were pressed deeper into the mud, indicating a person or creature of greater mass. These tracks were barefoot, and, if Rem was not mistaken, not human.
The dwarf, lost in a grieving reverie no doubt, grunted from his vigil at the canal bank. Rem caught Torval’s gaze, and jerked his head sideward to urge him nearer.
“You might want to see this,” he said. Rem was fairly sure that he knew what he was looking at. He’d spent ample time hunting in the forests near his home ever since he was a child, both from horseback and on foot. He might not have many useful skills outside of a royal court, but he knew spoor, sign, and tracking like a lifelong ranger. However, he was still new here, and new to Torval. He wanted Torval to reach the same conclusion he had so there was no chance of the dwarf dismissing his observations through the fog of his grief, or out of pride.
Torval dragged his way over to the mouth of the tunnel. He studied the tracks in the mud that Rem indicated. Rem pointed at the outer set.
“Those are clearly human,” Rem said. “But these—”
Torval’s face was red. His broad, muscular little body seemed to be shaking with a rising internal fury. “Orc,” the dwarf grunted.
“That’s what I thought,” Rem said. “Barefoot, too, so probably not a well-to-do sort.”
“Some of ’em wear boots,” Torval said, “but not all. Many prefer to go barefoot when they can—bloody savages.”
Rem heard a definite tone of bitterness in Torval’s already raspy voice. It was the voice of a man fighting a flood of emotions, most of them unpleasant and totally beyond his control. Rem thought he would continue with his surmises so that Torval could concentrate on information and not his feelings.
“Look here,” Rem said, pointing to the place where the tracks turned and moved away from the mouth of the sewer outlet. “The orc tracks are deeper over there, upon approach, then shallower here, as they move away.”
“The orc was heavier on approach,” Torval said, nodding in understanding. “The orc was carrying something?”
“That’d be my guess,” Rem said, standing.
Torval studied him for a moment. His expression of grief and fury never changed, but his eyes narrowed and he seemed to appraise Rem anew.
“Not bad for a horse groomer’s son,” Torval said.
Rem shrugged. “I’ve done a lot of hunting in my time. Read a lot of sign. I’ve never seen orc tracks in the wild before, but we were shown casts when we were young—me and the other house brats—so that we would know when to call off a hunt and come home.”
“Good work,” Torval said, then turned and wandered away again.
It was, Rem thought, feeling a dull glow of pride despite the grim circumstances. It was, at that.
It wasn’t long before they heard heavy feet moving on the bridge above them. Rem and Torval looked upward, toward the sound, and someone up there leaned over the railing and peered down through the fog into the cut of the canal.
“Who’s that?” the newcomer called. “Is that Torval down there?”
“Get down here!” Torval barked. “Double-time!”
The newcomer only nodded, then Rem heard the thump of pounding feet again. In a few more moments, the new arrival and a companion were hurrying down the stone stairs that led from the street above to the canal bank below. One of the new arrivals was a tall, well-made fellow with the dark skin of a Maswari native, while his companion was as pale as Rem, shorter than the tall fellow, but still well-muscled. These two hurried to join Torval and Rem where they stood by the great outflow passage from the sewers. Both of them slowed when they were finally close enough to see the body that lay in the mud.
“Sundry hells,” the dark-skinned one muttered.
“Is that—” the other one began.
Torval nodded, turned, and wandered away from the corpse. “Aye,” he said. “It is.”
Torval was clearly going to make no introductions. Rem stepped forward to make his own. He offered his hand to the two watchwardens. “I’m Rem,” he said, “new to the force. Tonight’s my first night.”
“Djubal,” the dark one said. “I remember you. We saw you following Ondego around the keep like a pup earlier. Didn’t we, Klutch?”
The light-skinned fellow, Klutch, nodded and offered his hand to Rem. “We did, indeed. And here we thought you were just some nobleman’s son, posting bail and begging the prefect to keep your arrest quiet.”
Rem smiled. Perhaps that wasn’t too far from the truth—but these two didn’t need to know that. Now, with introductions made, Djubal and Klutch both drifted nearer. Each knelt beside the body and examined it. Rem made them quietly aware of his observations—especially the orc footprints in the mud—then withdrew, content to let them make their own examinations and surmises.
“Well, now,” Djubal muttered as Rem withdrew. “This is a rank state of affairs …”
Rem looked to his partner. Torval now stood beside the lapping waters of the canal, lost in thought, his back to the rest of them. Rem noted that the wind seemed to have been knocked out of the dwarf: this was the first time all evening that he had not been dominating the conversation, barking orders, or laying out combative challenges. A grave silence and air of distraction hung on him like a pall. Finding his partner dead on the canal bank had turned him inward. Rem didn’t know the dwarf well, but what experience he’d had of him in the last twelve hours suggested that this was anything but normal behavior for him. Granted, he understood the why of it—he just didn’t care to be a witness to it. No doubt, somewhere deep inside himself, Torval would resent Rem—a stranger—seeing him so vulnerable.
“You should go,” Klutch offered from his place beside the corpse. “Both of you. Your watch is finished for the night.”
“We can stay,” Torval said halfheartedly.
“No need,” Djubal answered him, getting to his feet and daring an approach. “We’ve got him now, Torval. We’ll see him handed over to the crones, with all due respect.”
Torval turned. He was still arguing, but Rem noted that the dwarf’s heart didn’t seem to be in it. He simply could not tear himself away, perhaps felt that he would somehow betray Freygaf if he left him. “What about—”
The dark-skinned watchwarden, Djubal, did something then that surprised Rem: he laid a hand on Torval’s shoulder. It was a friendly gesture—a brotherly one.
“We’ll take good care of him,” Djubal promised. “On my honor.”
“Mine as well,” Klutch offered.
“You have none,” Djubal said to his pale partner, his neutral expression curling into a wry half smile. His eyes never left Torval’s. “Go,” he said again. “Give Ondego the news, then call it a night.”
Torval had no argument left. He simply nodded and trudged away from the corpse. Rem followed. They did not share a word all the way back to the watchkeep.
The brothers of the Great Temple of Aemon were ringing five bells when they arrived back at the watchkeep. It was Torval himself who gave Ondego and Hirk the news. Both men, prefect and master sergeant, were still on the premises, still “in character” even now, so early in the morning. Rem idly wondered if the two slept at all, or if they had chambers in the keep itself. Both seemed genuinely saddened by the news of Freygaf’s demise, but Rem noticed that, strangely, neither seemed surprised.
“Now I guess we know why he didn’t show up last night,” Torval said hollowly. He threw a strange, accusatory look at Rem, then went back to moping.
Rem didn’t care for that look. It told him he was a poor substitute for a good man. It told him he was a thief and a vulture, for taking that man’s place without realizing that the man in question wasn’t just sleeping off a drunk or late for work … he was dead beside a Fifth Ward canal.
“Go home,” Ondego said to Torval. “Take tomorrow night off. We’ll partner Rem here with someone else. Pour out some libations for Freygaf and make offerings, if need be. He prayed to the Gods of the Mount, yes?”
“When he prayed,” Torval said. “Which wasn’t often.”
“Still,” Ondego said, “best to keep with custom. The gods of the dead get prayers for their dead. I know you’ll see to it.”
“I’ll see to it,” Torval said, sounding hollow again.
A long silence fell. Torval lingered there in Ondego’s office. Rem didn’t want to leave until Torval did. Ondego stared at them both, awaiting their departure.
“Go home, Torval,” he said.
Torval nodded, rose, and wandered out of the little office. Rem threw a worried look at the prefect, then followed the dwarf out of the chamber.
Outside the keep, first light was bleeding into the world and the people of the Fifth seemed to be slowly yet surely retaking the streets they’d abandoned a few hours before. Rem called to Torval and struggled to catch up, but the dwarf trudged on, slumped shoulders swinging, as though he didn’t hear. Rem finally drew abreast.
“I’m sorry,” Rem said.
Torval grunted.
“I mean it. I can tell he was a good mate and that he meant a lot to you.”
Torval grunted again.
“I could help you, if you needed assistance.”
Torval glanced at him—glared really. “What assistance?”
“I know you’re thinking you should find his killers. Bring them to justice. I could help—”
“No, you couldn’t!” Torval suddenly exploded. He stopped, swung into Rem’s path, and leveled one thick finger at him. “You couldn’t help even if you wanted to, and I know you don’t want to. You just feel guilty. Obligated. As though we share something. Well, listen to me, you northern ponce: we don’t share anything. The very fact that you’re getting all sentimental about me after one lousy night of walking the ward tells me this isn’t the job for you. There’s no room for sentiment here. There’s only the job, and getting it done. Now get away from me and don’t even flap your gums in my direction again!”