"His flipskirt, I wager," another, deeper voice called.
Bilgren, wild black mane flowing around his shoulders, huge gyrspike on his back, and rage on his face, dragged in a struggling half-elf maid who was clad only in a torn shift. Her face was bruised and spattered with congealed blood, some of it her own.
Bilgren threw the half-elf down and spat on her. The maid cringed.
"Th' wench was caught fleeing from 'is house in th' middle o' the night. No knife, but bloodied up."
With a flourish of his scarlet cape, Torlic glided in behind Bilgren. He disdained to touch the barbarian, and weaved a path around him, heading to the wall. He leaned against it. Greyt supposed he should have expected Torlic to appear-he, Bilgren, and the late Drex, in addition to Greyt himself, had once been members of the Raven Claw band.
"She didn't put up much of a fight." Torlic sneered and ran his hand over the handle of the rapier sheathed at his belt. "Typical, for a wench."
The half-elf knelt before Greyt's chair and table and looked up with teary eyes. While her condition no doubt had been poor the night in question-Greyt knew well the late Drex's propensity for violence coupled with pleasure-he was sure she hadn't been caught in quite this poor a condition. Greyt was certain his son or perhaps Bilgren had interrogated her in his own way; another reason for the troublesome delay in information.
The Lord Singer rose and unfurled his violet cape, which trailed from his shoulders. "Leave us," he said to the guards and Bilgren. "Meris, you may stay."
Bilgren shot him a look. His azure eyes were burning with dim-witted anger. "What about me, Greyt?" he spat. "Let me help ye 'persuade' this little…"
Greyt did not flinch as he looked up at the Uthgardt barbarian, who was a foot taller and almost twice his weight. Even Bilgren's gyrspike-a wicked sword with a flail on the end that was about the size of Greyt's head-did not move the Lord Singer.
"Begone," Greyt said without blinking. Cutting off any objection, Greyt added, "It wouldn't do for you to be seen here after this incident. People might suspect."
"Drex was me friend, don't ye forget!" Bilgren bellowed. He took the opportunity to shoot the half-elf woman another angry glare and to take a menacing step toward her. "An' just ye wait, little flipskirt-" She cringed and tried to fold herself into a tighter ball. Then Bilgren stormed out. From the way the girl's face relaxed when Bilgren left, Greyt could tell his guess had been correct.
"What about you?" Greyt asked Torlic, who had been standing impassively.
Torlic squinted bright blue eyes and gave a shrug. "Drex was swine. At least, I always thought so." He turned abruptly on his heel and followed Bilgren.
The half-elf woman was noticeably less nervous. Apparently, Meris hadn't touched her, or she would have scurried away from him as well. That helped. Greyt removed a rich crimson blanket from the back of his chair and draped it around her shivering shoulders. "Have no fear, child. You are quite safe."
She looked up at Greyt through blurry eyes and a smile spread across her face. "Oh, good Lord Singer!" she stammered, her voice broken with sobs. "Th-those men-"
"I know, I know," Greyt replied. He reached down to help her up. "Have no fear, they will be dealt with. They are servants of Sir Drex. They're a bit unhappy, eh? Don't worry-you're safe now." Most of that was a lie, but Dharan Greyt had always been glib and persuasive.
"Thank you, oh, thank you!" she said. She took his hand and kissed it several times. "I was so afraid."
"There is no need for you to fear, fair lady," he said silkily, lifting her gently by the hand. His words sounded almost lyrical. "But I am afraid, maid-"
"Tillee," she said quickly, filling in the gap his words left.
"Maid Tillee," Greyt repeated. "I'm afraid you will have to help me. You see, I need to know what happened that night. The faster you tell me, the safer you will be."
Tillee paled, but she managed to speak. She unfolded the story as she had seen it, about the man appearing out of the shadows, the vicious fight, and the bloody outcome of the duel. She even described, in detail, the rasping of the ghostly warrior's voice, so filled with darkness and hate. By the end of her story, she was shuddering with remembered fear.
Greyt shook his head. Such a feat as she described would take a powerful wizard, and he knew without a doubt that no wizards had been active in Quaervarr that night. Neither had he heard of a wizard who possessed such blade skill.
Greyt walked to Meris. "What do you think?" he asked softly. No affectionate name. No "son." Not even "boy."
Meris shrugged. "Maybe she really is an innocent victim of circumstance."
"Or a whore trying to save her neck," Greyt said. "Who else is there? Jarthon hasn't sent any killers into Quaervarr in a long while, and this kind of murder isn't like him anyway."
"The killing wounds are too precise for a woman suffering Drex's attentions," Meris said. "The attacks must have come from a trained hand, perhaps someone like the assassin she describes. And there's something else besides-"
"You said you were convinced it was her," Greyt argued. "Bilgren certainly thought so."
"That was in front of the men," Meris replied. "And Bilgren's skills don't exactly run to thinking. It wouldn't do to share my real suspicions in the hearing of possibly disloyal ears, and all the remaining ears in this mansion are yours." He gestured toward the tapestry behind Greyt, where both knew of a secret passage perfect for just such spying.
With a disarming smile, Greyt nodded. How little Meris knew about his "ears."
"I think she speaks the truth," said Meris.
Greyt raised an eyebrow. "Go on," he invited.
"Two of Drex's guards mentioned a man in black," Meris said. "Who swept out of the shadows and attacked them at their posts. They killed him on instinct, but decided afterward that he had been just a drunk. We examined the alley where they swore they had dumped the body, but there was nothing there. An assassin, perhaps?"
"A man in black." Greyt stopped. A flash of memory came to him, but he pushed it aside. "Ludicrous. If those guards killed a man, his body would still be there. And there are no assassins in Quaervarr. Whose death is worth the expense?" He shrugged dismissively. "Pay it no mind."
"They said he was a demon," Meris said. His voice was calm but his tone was intent.
"I said to pay it no mind," Greyt said again. "I'll not have you chasing after a shadow or a dream, like all the other young fools in the Marches."
The youth shrugged. "As you say." The look on his face, though, told Greyt that Meris was not so pleased.
Let the boy fume for a while-it would teach him proper respect.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Meris's hand dropped to his sword hilt, but Greyt waved at him. "Enter," he called.
The Greyt family steward-a gaunt man by the name of Claudir-entered with a neutral expression on his face. Greyt was unsurprised and from his son's scowl, he reasoned that Meris was wondering how he had known the knock would be Claudir.
Greyt smiled.
"Your niece, the Lady Knight Arya Venkyr of Everlund, begs an audience with your lordship," the steward said. "With her are her two companions, Sirs Bars Hartwine and Derst Goldtook of the Knights in Silver. Shall I show them in, Lord Singer?"
His niece? A knight? Greyt had not been in contact with Rom Venkyr of Everlund, his brother-in-law, for some time. Rom's daughter?
"A moment, please," Greyt said. "I shall receive them in the sitting room."
Claudir offered a half-bow and left without a word.
Meris and Greyt regarded one another, silently. The only sound was the half-elf Tillee's sobs. Finally, the Lord Singer spoke.
"Aught else?" Greyt prompted.
Meris nodded and shrugged noncommittally.