He could have tapped into the ethereal and walked through the barrier, but he preferred to reserve his powers for an escape, if necessary.
As Gylther'yel had done, Walker questioned the timing of his attacks. He was not worried about one of his targets overwhelming him, but fighting more than one was risky. His success depended, to an extent, on surprise, but his foes would become increasingly paranoid as they died one by one. It seemed like a tactical error, allowing them to build defenses as they grew suspicious, and as time passed…
Perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps he wanted to show them that all their paranoia and preparation would not save them from cold vengeance. Or perhaps he wanted them to stop him. For in the end, what could be awaiting him but the logical conclusion of his task?
He looked over at the mute spirit of his father, Tarm, who hovered three paces to the right. The man was wearing a sad, distant expression unsuited to his face. Why was he always so sad? Walker wondered. Did he hold a secret of some kind, something he could not share?
Walker doubted the spirit would aid him in his struggle, considering how deeply Tarm seemed to disapprove of his task. And, besides, for all Walker knew, Tarm might not be able to speak. Pity, since he would have appreciated scouting before he walked into potential ambushes.
Walker found a rear entrance, which was, of course, locked. Not a thief by trade, Walker had no skill in opening locks, but he had come prepared. Opening a belt pouch, he carefully extracted the contents-a small leather-wrapped bundle: a gift from Gylther'yel. Delicately, he unfolded the wrapping until an orange-red acorn stood out against the black leather of his glove.
He pondered it for a moment-a beautiful piece of nature, to be used in such an unnatural thing as murder. Gylther'yel had taught him all his skills and abilities, true, but was his course in keeping with what she held sacred? The Ethereal was as much a part of the world as the physical, but was he going too far? Was his talent, his very existence, unnatural?
For that matter, would that not make her unnatural as well?
Again, Walker looked at Tarm but, as always, the spirit gave him no answers, merely the chance for Walker to ask questions of himself.
Was Walker an abomination?
After a moment, he found that he did not know and, when he was honest with himself, he found he did not much care. In a few days, it would no longer matter at all.
Walker held the acorn against the lock and handle on the door. "Eat away the works of man," he rasped quietly in Elvish.
In response, the acorn shuddered and sank into the metal. Where it touched, ripples of red spread outward, rusting and corroding the lock and handle. The metal groaned in helpless protest, but the rust did its work.
The handle was red dust before it hit the mud.
The hinges creaked only slightly. He saw no guards or servants in the dark house. Walker calmly walked inside.
His nonchalance was, of course, an act. Walker had to assume that Torlic was ready for him; his task was too important to risk carelessly.
Walker heard a faint ringing, as of swords clashing far away, and he fell into readiness. The differences in Walker's carriage were subtle, such that only a skilled swordsman could detect them; to the rest of the world, he remained relaxed.
Walker found himself in a rear entry hall, with benches around the walls and hooks for cloaks and other garments. The place was sparse. There was little furniture to sit upon and the walls were stark. A few cloaks, mostly the black ones with the green lining of the Quaervarr guard, but that was it. The tapestries that usually adorned the homes of the wealthy were absent. Torlic's home was simple, with small, uncomfortable rooms-that of a soldier.
In the entrance room, Walker saw double doors leading deeper into the house and a pair of doors on either side. He explored the side doors first, opening them a crack to peer through. One led to a kitchen, the other to a storeroom, and neither was occupied. A pot sat over a long-cooled fire in the kitchen, and knives and small cleavers hung overhead where servants could reach them. Bundles-most likely containing bread and other slow-perishing items-sat on wooden shelves, untouched. There was a larder in the corner of the kitchen as well. The storeroom contained weapons, armor, saddles, and part of a wagon.
The door to the main room beckoned and Walker answered the call. He listened at it briefly, long enough to ascertain that the noises of the swords were coming from behind it, and put his hand on the latch. Tarm fixed him with a supplicating gaze, as though begging him to turn back, but when Walker met those eyes, the spirit turned away and walked through the wall.
Walker nodded.
His father may never speak, but his guidance was still there.
Greyt was startled as Meris stormed into his study, throwing the doors wide. He tore a black cloak from his shoulders.
"Back so soon, son?" Greyt asked, looking up from the scroll upon which he was inscribing his latest ballad. Next to him rested some neglected correspondence he had meant to send to Stonar's desk when he got around to it-perhaps sometime later this year. "Claudir hadn't announced your presence, but I see time was of the essence."
"He didn't get the chance," Meris said curtly. Behind him, the gaunt steward rushed in, red-faced, apologizing over and over for the intrusion.
Greyt waved him away. "A bad day?" he asked. "Didn't find sport to your liking, eh?"
Meris stomped over to the Singer's desk and slammed down a black leather bundle. It clattered on the thick oak. "Tell me he's just a shadow now," he said angrily. Then he whirled and strode out, his feet pounding the creaking wood under the carpet.
"I need to get that fixed, it seems," Greyt said of the floor as the door slammed.
The words trailed off as he looked at the leather pouch Meris had deposited on his desk. He wasn't about to touch it, but it consumed a moment of his attention.
He went back to making notes, but the rhymes would not come. He was forcing the ballad and, like all art, it could not be demanded. Greyt threw the ink quill down on the desk.
A disgusted frown twisted his face and he seized the bundle, wincing when something within scratched him. Ignoring the blood that welled from his finger, he ripped it open, threw the contents down on the desk, and drew back in shock.
It was the snapped blade of Drex Redgill's wood axe. There was a bit of blood on it, where the jagged edge had torn through the leather and cut his finger.
Torlic spun back and around, bringing his rapier singing up to parry his opponent's blade. The glittering blade snapped down and thrust under Torlic's guard, but the nimble half-elf simply twisted his rapier around and sent the thrust out harmlessly wide.
The blond watchman Narb, Torlic's opponent, slashed right to left, and the half-elf picked off the attack with a neat, almost casual parry. An attack high followed by a thrust low met similar fates, parried with quick flicks of Torlic's wrist. Narb lunged-a strike Torlic easily dodged-and faltered. Torlic sidestepped Narb and slapped him twice on the backside with the flat of his blade, making a "tsk" sound in his throat. Torlic covered his yawning mouth with one dainty hand.
Angry, the youthful watchman lunged at Torlic, but the half-elf leaped back, spinning to land on his toes. The dancing half-elf flicked his sword back and forth, tempting his opponent.
"Try harder, Narb," Torlic said. "I haven't broken a sweat yet."
The two fought in Torlic's training room. It was a wide, open square with walls lined with weapons and practice dummies. Members of Quaervarr's Watch used this training arena for dueling and for working on their sword skills. Most of them took instruction from Torlic himself, whose sword's sharpness was surpassed only by his tongue. If fencing was his hobby, criticism was his habit.