“You’ve all heard about Freygaf,” Ondego said, his voice completely without sentiment. “Offerings and libations can be poured out at the Temple of the Gods of the Mount, just across the way. The crones there will see to Freygaf’s preparation and immolation. The fire should be lit midweek. Details to follow.
“That being said, we’ve still got jobs to do in the here and now. What happened to Freygaf—be it murder with intent or a simple accident of being in the wrong place at the wrong time—could happen to any one of us. Since it happened to him when he was alone, that’s all the more reason to remind yourselves why you’ve got partners, and why you need them. We can’t afford to lose anyone else off this watch, so believe me when I say you do not—I repeat, do not—have my permission to die.
“Now, if I may, I’d like to introduce a new member of the crew. Show yourself, lad.”
He looked to Rem and indicated that he should stand. Rem felt suddenly abashed, but managed to get to his feet anyway. He hated being the center of attention. The watchwardens all turned their hard, world-weary gazes on him. Not a one smiled or offered words or gestures of welcome.
“This is Rem,” Ondego continued. “Fresh in from the north.”
One burly northerner screwed up his face. “Didn’t I arrest him the other night?”
“That you did, Hildebran,” Ondego said. “But the lad and I had a talk while he was in the stir, and I decided he might make a fine addition to our iniquitous little band here. So, extend him every courtesy, make him feel like a brother, and try not to leave bruises or lacerations where they can be seen.”
They all smiled and chuckled at that. Rem didn’t like the way they were looking at him, like sailors who’d been at sea for months looking on the first maiden to cross their path—even the few females among them, whose gazes were just as vicious and predatory as the men’s.
“Now, then,” Ondego continued. “We have a special visitor, and I should like you all to extend him every grace as he treats with us.”
There were, indeed, people waiting in Ondego’s office. A small retinue emerged, led by a slender, sad-eyed, richly appointed elf. Accompanying the woodlander was a swarthy but handsome sort in much more modest apparel—probably a bodyguard, Estavari by the look of him—and a doughy, powdered eunuch that was, in all likelihood, the steward of this affluent elf’s household.
The elf’s expensive and showy attire struck Rem as rather bizarre. He imagined that city elves would, on occasion, enrobe themselves in fine silks and damasks, because they appreciated craftsmanship and comfort—but there was something in the elf’s ensemble that suggested to Rem something more than understated appreciation. It seemed actively showy: slightly crass, even. His robes were silk, of a bright, colorful crimson weave that might have been more at home on the body of a rich merchant or high-priced courtesan. Enriching the fine, well-spun silk garments were a deep purple sash hanging across his thin body from his right shoulder, a shiny ornamental leather belt cinched around his narrow waist and chased with both silver and gold filigree, and a heavy, glittering neck torque around his slender throat, offset by a gaggle of bejeweled rings on his long, elegant fingers. Had Rem not seen the high cheekbones, pointed ears, and vaguely enlarged eyes that marked all elves as elves, he would have assumed this was just the spoiled son of some first-generation merchant’s family enjoying a recent inheritance. Perhaps the sight was not such a strange one in a vibrant cosmopolitan city like Yenara, but it was utterly alien to Rem’s admittedly limited prior observations and assumptions about elves and how they might appear or behave in person.
“This,” Ondego said, introducing the grim and slender sylvan in his well-embroidered robes, “is Mykaas Masarda, an emissary of one of this city’s most prominent citizens, Kethren Dall, of the most ancient House of Dall. Citizen Dall has asked that his honorable emissary be given the privilege of addressing us directly, and I’ve granted it, so keep your ears open and your gobs shut. Citizen Masarda?”
The elf stepped forward. Rem was amazed at how familiar his bearing and countenance were: growing up in a noble court, he had seen a thousand men with that same stiff back, that same proud profile, the same grim set of mouth. It was as if all the rich and powerful folk of the world were, in some sense, the same—even if they were elves.
“Citizen Dall is my friend,” Mykaas Masarda began, his voice melodious and calm. “So long as I have made my home in this city, I have been welcome in his household, enjoyed the company of his wives and children, and supped at his table. Now, in his hour of need, my good friend has asked that I bring a message to you. His daughter, Telura Dall, just seventeen years old, seems to have disappeared, and Citizen Dall fears for her safety. She was last seen yestermorn, in their own home in the Second Ward, by her mother, her tutor, and a brace of family servants. She went out in the afternoon, and she has not been seen since. Because she is child of privilege and not well versed in the cruel and deceitful ways of the world, her father fears, to say the least, that something terrible has happened to her.”
Mykaas Masarda paused. Rem saw the vague glint of tears in his eyes, a barely perceptible trembling in his lower jaw. Clearly, he was a close family friend, for the girl’s disappearance seemed to trouble him as deeply as it might a blood relative. The men in the administrative chamber, if they noticed this subtle but clear display of emotion, all seemed to listen without judgment. So far as Rem could see, there was not a single sneer, nor any unkind whispered word in answer to the elf’s clear if covert grief.
“My good friend has asked this,” Masarda said, pressing on, “that I, and all of his business associates, visit all the watchkeeps of the city tonight to make it known that a great reward awaits the one among you who uncovers some news of our Telura’s whereabouts. Your reward will be greater still if she can be found and returned to her family alive and unharmed.”
Masarda then handed a hand-sized portrait to Ondego, who took a quick look at the portrait and passed it around. It was painted on a thin sheet of wood, no bigger than a quarto volume. When the picture arrived for Rem to study, he saw that it was a fine and realistic likeness of a young lady with dark hair, brown eyes, and a proud, aquiline profile. She was clearly a nobleman’s daughter—he saw patrician blood and manners in the extension of her long, graceful neck, the slight lift in her chin, and the challenging, even playful fire in her deep brown eyes. After committing the image to memory, Rem offered the portrait to Torval. The dwarf only gave it a summary glance, frowning as he did so, then passed it along.
The watchwardens rumbled, whether in answer to Telura’s plight or the promise of a reward, Rem could not tell. When the portrait had made the rounds, Hirk finally reclaimed it. He walked it to the wall of portraits that Rem had assumed to be a rogues’ gallery of fugitives and used an iron nail to affix it there.
Rem stared at Telura’s picture, one among hundreds—not part of a rogues’ gallery at all, but a portrait gallery for the missing and displaced. Staring at the wall now, he could finally see clearly what he had failed to notice before: how many of the most recently hung pictures and sketches were of beautiful youngsters, male and female.
Beautiful youngsters … just like Telura Dall.
“Find her,” Mykaas Masarda was saying when Rem finally returned his attentions to the elf’s address. “Return her to her family. Do so and you shall have the eternal gratitude of the House of Dall and all their compatriots, in addition to a fortune of your own.”
No one spoke. Not a sound came from the gathered watchwardens, nor from Mykaas Masarda’s embassy. After a long, pregnant silence, Ondego finally stepped forward, shook Citizen Masarda’s hand, and indicated that he could now be on his way. Masarda and his richly appointed companions nodded, whispered thanks, and took their leave. Ondego did not speak until they had left the administrative chamber.
“And with that,” Ondego said, “our evening’s business is complete. Carry on, gentlemen. Keep your eyes open, your fists clenched, and your back to the wall. Dismissed.”
The gathering broke. Men separated into small knots, all discussing Telura Dall and the possible reward for her safe return. Torval did not join any of the conversations, though. He broke from the group instead and went stalking off toward the armory at the back of the keep. Halfway there, he stopped and looked back at Rem.
“You coming?” he barked.
Rem leapt out of his seat and followed.
When Rem arrived at the armory, Torval was already conferring with Eriadus, ticking off requests on his fingers. Rem did not hear what Torval had asked for clearly, but he saw Eriadus nod agreeably, then bustle away to go rooting through a series of cells stuffed tight with scraps and scrolls.
Rem studied the many weapons on display. Torval stood silently, staring into the middle distance, a scowl on his broad little face.
“Is the maul always your weapon of choice?” Rem asked, by way of making conversation.
Torval glanced at him, seemingly annoyed that he’d broken his reverie. He grunted. Shrugged. “Mostly. Sometimes the ax. Handy with a short sword when necessary.”
“I’m best with the sword myself,” Rem said. “Used to practice all the time. Hours upon hours—”
“Sparring with the horses?” Torval asked.
Rem didn’t know what to say to that. Truth be told, he probably shouldn’t let on to Torval just how good he actually was with a blade. He was supposed to be just a groom’s son, after all. Never mind that he had won any number of planting and harvest festival tourneys since turning fifteen, the youngest age of competition. He would just have to keep his skill with a blade—just like his aristocratic origins—quiet until such time as they were called for.
Eriadus returned. He had an armload of scrolls and he offered them to Torval. Torval indicated that Eriadus should hand them to Rem, and Rem dutifully took them, nearly losing the whole load in the transfer. There were quite a few, and none seemed of uniform size.
“What’s all this?” Rem asked.
“Arrest records,” Torval said. “Six months’ worth.”
Rem raised an eyebrow.
“You can read, can’t you?” Torval asked.
“I can,” Rem confirmed.
“Then come on. You can read them to me.” Torval turned and led the way back out of the armory.
“And why are we doing that?” Rem asked, trailing after him. He didn’t need to ask whether the dwarf was capable of reading them himself or not; he clearly wasn’t.
“Looking for suspects,” Torval answered without even turning back. “There’s a good chance that whoever offed Freygaf is someone that he and I have dealt with on the streets before. Thought a perusal of the records might jog my memory a bit.”
They set up at an unused desk in a quiet corner of the room, lit a number of lamps and candles to provide good light, then dove in. Rem’s eyes nearly crossed when he studied the first scroll he unrolled—the crabbed script, the lines upon lines of simple entries, the many columns illuminating the nature of each arrest, its date, its particulars, and the like. Rem’s momentary, slack-jawed disbelief and squinty perusal of the records made Torval impatient.
“What’s the problem?” the dwarf snarled. “I thought you said you could read?”
“I can,” Rem said. “I’m just trying to orient myself. There’s a lot going on here.”
“Well, hurry up,” Torval said, shifting on his chair. “We’ve got a lot to go through and I don’t want to spend all night doing it.”
Rem looked at the dwarf. He could tell now that the little fellow wasn’t upset with him—he was simply impatient, and still a little angry over his partner’s ignominious end. More than anything, he looked worried and preoccupied. Rem wanted to broach the subject of Indilen with Torval, to discuss the strange lie that he’d caught Cupp in at the Pickled Albatross—but he could see that this moment was the wrong one. He licked his lips, studied the pages before him.
“Do you have any solid ideas?” Rem asked quietly. “Someone the two of you brought in? Or an accomplice?”
“None,” Torval said. “So, let’s get started.”
“All right, then,” Rem said, and dove into the scrolls.
It took close to three hours to comb through the arrest records, neatly arrayed in chronological rows upon the scrolls like monetary entries in a ledger. Torval sat beside Rem and stared off into the middle distance, listening with a frowning, implacable face, occasionally telling Rem to make a note of one of the arrestees before urging him to carry on with this peculiar trip down memory lane. Finally, when they’d made it back seven or eight months, Torval bade Rem stop reading from the scrolls and reread the list of suspects they’d compiled.
Rem did as he was told, mumbling the names and their attendant crimes: Grummon, trading in stolen goods; Larga, illegal blood sport; Valek, burglary; Haerken, pickpocketing and purse-snatching; Eldred, illegal trade in narcotics; Nerva, prostitution and theft. Once more, Torval revealed little of what he thought. His mouth remained in that unmoving frown; his eyes kept staring off into the distance. Rem waited silently for a definitive response.
He waited for quite some time. He got none.
“Well?” he prodded. “What now? Do we go roust them out?”
“Three names on that list have one thing in common,” Torval said, almost to himself.
“And what’s that?” Rem asked.
Torval finally looked at him, a frown on his face. “They all pay tribute to the same guild master.” With that pronouncement, Torval leapt onto his feet and swaggered across the administrative chamber toward the door.
Annoyed, Rem stood as well. “Where are we going? Do I return these to Eriadus?”
“Leave them,” Torval called back over his swinging shoulder. “Eriadus will take them back or we can return them later. We’ve got places to go now.”
Rem hurried after the dwarf, only catching up to him on the far side of the room, nearer the entrance. Already there was the nightly flock of petitioners in the vestibule outside, awaiting audience with watchwardens or Ondego himself. Torval bypassed the vestibule and crowds of citizens and made for a side entrance that allowed easy exit.
“Do you have your stick?” Torval asked.
Rem checked his belt. “No, I seem to have forgotten it, seeing as you’re in such a blasted hurry—”
“Well, go get it,” Torval growled. “You’ll need it.”
Rem doubled back to the armory, snatched up one of the many nightsticks lying around there, then hightailed it into the street. Torval was waiting in the square outside, maul in hand, smoldering and impatient. He didn’t say a word when Rem approached. He simply started off again, leading them out of the square and deeper into the Fifth Ward.
“Do you mind telling me where we’re headed?” Rem asked.
“While there are all sorts of criminal lordlings in this city, great and petty,” Torval answered, “there are five primaries, each controlling a different ward. We arrest them when we can, but generally, we look to them to keep some semblance of order among the pickpockets, mollies, and gambling hounds that pay them tribute. Most of the time, we manage an uneasy peace of sorts—but every now and again, when we’ve pinched their earners once too often or these thief lordlings feel unduly targeted, they might try to retaliate.”
“So you and Freygaf, you rousted this fellow you’re speaking of, or people who worked for him, once too often?”
Torval nodded grimly. “He’s a proud sort. Takes wardwatch interference in his affairs as a personal slight. We’ve always maintained an uneasy peace with him, but it’s not beyond the bastard to suddenly decide a lesson needed to be taught.”
“Wait a minute,” Rem said, suddenly realizing that Torval was probably leading him into a very dangerous situation. “Is this stick really all I get to protect myself? Or do I need something else? Something a bit more … persuasive?”
“No,” Torval spat. “If you walk into this place armed, you’ll be dead before you take three steps or get your sword from its sheath.”
“But you’ve got your maul.”
“They know me,” Torval said.
That didn’t fill Rem with any confidence. Where the hell were they off to?
Torval led them deep into the labyrinthine streets of the Fifth Ward, closer and closer to the waterfront. Finally, after taking so many corners that Rem thought they were walking in circles, they came at last to a boisterous tavern bleeding acrid poppy smoke and the sounds of rumbling revelry into the night. Beyond a dooryard arrayed with modest gardens, a pair of burly bouncers flanked a single narrow door under the dusky light of a tarnished old tin lamp. As Torval approached, both sentinels drew upright, their shoulders squaring, their faces growing dark with belligerence.
Torval was barely half the size of either, but he stared them down nonetheless. “I’m here for a chat with your boss,” he said. “Stand aside.”
“You’re not on the list,” one bouncer said. He was a thick-necked Hasturman, with greasy hair the color of fresh-churned mud.
“Turn around and march your stunted little arse back to ward headquarters,” the other urged. He was thinner but still muscular: a swordsman perhaps, muscles corded, eyes aloof.
Torval sighed, looking deferential. For a moment, Rem thought the dwarf might just turn around and go back the way they’d come. Then Torval struck.
Using his bald head as a battering ram, Torval drove his body into the belly of the whipcord bouncer on his left. The strike stole the man’s breath and doubled him over. Before his fellow could leap to his aid and yank Torval aside, the dwarf had seized the thick-necked bouncer’s scrotum through his filthy breeks and squeezed. The Hasturman dropped to his knees, howling in agony. When he was down, Torval hit him with a powerful uppercut and sent him reeling. By that time, the slender bouncer was recovering from being head-rammed in the belly, but he was still too slow. Torval grabbed his tunic and head-butted the thin-but-muscular bouncer so soundly that the man’s nose exploded with a sickening crack, cartilage crumpling and blood squirting out of either nostril. Down he went in a heap atop his companion.
Torval still had his maul in hand, but he had never employed it. A broad splash of blood from the bouncer’s exploded nose lay on Torval’s forehead. Rivulets of the red stuff cut tracks down his broad, flat face.
The entrance to the house of ill repute lay open and unguarded before them.
Rem stared at the bloody-faced Torval. Torval just cocked his head toward the door. “What are you waiting for?” he said, and pushed through. Rem followed.