… skin of a chameleon, whole …
… diamond dust, two pin-
… severed finger of a wer-
… under the light of a fu-
Ingredients for some sort of potion? An attached note from Margil indicated that it had been found near the body of one of the victims, a Flamer named Desekane. The files indicated that Desekane’s body had been so badly mutilated that he could only be identified by a birthmark on his ankle.
“How do you do that?”
Greddark glanced up from the papers, startled. “Do what?”
“Figure the odds like that, so quickly? Olladra’s purse, but what I wouldn’t give to be able to do that in a gambling hall!”
Like your father? Greddark wanted to ask, but he forbore. Zoden truly was like a little child, naïve and oblivious. Greddark couldn’t decide if the bard’s enthusiasm was charming or pathetic.
“Being able to calculate the odds only helps you if your hand is playable.”
“Is that why you’re in Thrane, instead of the Mror Holds? Because your hand wasn’t playable?”
Damn! Not so oblivious as all that, apparently. Well, the lad deserved an honest answer, especially after witnessing the latest group of bounty hunters to have tracked him down.
“I was living in Korth, not the Holds. Let’s just say that if you’re wanted in Karrnath, Thrane’s not a bad place to take up residence.”
He could see that the tow-headed bard was bursting with more questions, but wisely contented himself with a knowing, “Ah.”
Ah, indeed.
Greddark scribbled a quick note then pulled a metal bird from his pack.
“What’s that?”
“My messenger service,” Greddark replied. He’d fashioned the little bird himself, to resemble a pigeon-or, as his father would have called it, a rat with wings. From even a few feet away, it looked like the real thing, and only a closer inspection would reveal its body was fashioned of steel and its feathers meticulously painted on. Since most people hated the disease-carrying birds, such an inspection was highly unlikely. Which made it the ideal vessel for sending messages when he couldn’t afford to be gouged by the gnomes of House Sivis and their infernally expensive speaking stones.
He thumbed a hidden latch on the bird’s chest and a small door swung open to reveal a hollow perfect for sending notes or small bits of evidence. He folded the note in half and placed it inside, along with the torn bit of paper. With any luck, his wizard friend back in Sigilstar would be able to tell him what the silver substance was and what sort of potion-or spell-the recipe was for.
Greddark set the bird aside. He’d release it when they left the house. He pulled his map of the city from his pocket and spread it out on the table. Then he began lightly marking the addresses of those he wanted to question. Most of them resided in the same area as ir’Marktaros-the Garden District, a neighborhood whose eponymous parks had fallen into neglect, as had the homes-and lives-of its inhabitants.
“What are you doing?”
“Mapping a path.”
“You’re going to go to their houses and question them? Won’t that take a while?”
The bard obviously thought he had a better plan. As Greddark mused whether or not to let the overeager human divulge it, he scratched his short beard. At least a sovereign’s width longer than the tight half-inch length he preferred, it was itchy and scraggly and sorely in need of a trim. He hoped this case didn’t take too long to solve. He doubted there were any dwarf barbers in Aruldusk, and his last attempt to do the job himself had left him with an embarrassing scar. There was a reason barbers heated your face first and then shaved you, as opposed to trying to do both at once.
“If you’re thinking I should question them all at some secret Throneholder gathering, there are several reasons why that’s not a good idea. First, there’s a good chance you’re being tailed. If the Church does have anything to do with all this-beyond just using it to their advantage to get rid of some pain-in-the-ass shifters-then you would be leading them right to the group of people they would most like to destroy. Second, witnesses tend to influence each other, even if they don’t mean to. Get a whole group of them together and we’re about as likely to get the truth as we are to hear “Light the Way” sung in a Karrn brothel. Same thing applies to bringing them here, with the added complication that if they’re being followed and your return has somehow escaped detection, then you’re basically waving a giant red flag and screaming, ‘Here I am!’ to anyone who might want you dead.” The dwarf stopped scratching and looked up at the bard, who had deflated considerably during the course of his speech. “So, unless you have some other idea, then, yes, I’m planning on questioning them all at their homes.”
Greddark paused, waiting for Zoden to jump in with a suggestion, but the bard remained sullenly silent.
“No? Very well, then. We’ll start with ir’Sarhain.”
Arrun ir’Sarhain the elder was a taciturn old man who responded to Greddark’s questions in gruff monosyllables and didn’t offer any information beyond those terse replies. Not even Zoden’s bardic cajoling could get the old man to open up to them, but it didn’t take Greddark long to realize that the aging Throneholder likely had little of value to tell them, at least in regards to this case. However, if he had wanted to know about the activities of the Throneholders in Aruldusk and much of northern Thrane, ir’Sarhain was definitely the man he’d go to for answers. The shelves of his study were lined with political texts, histories of Thrane and old Galifar, and even a leather-bound copy of The Wyvern Reborn by Kievan Helmworth. Originally from Breland, Helmworth had been a seditionist and prolific author whose writings had gotten him burned at the stake by Archbishop Dariznu of Thaliost, ostensibly for heresy. Considering that Helmworth had just written a rather unflattering biography of the theocratic tyrant, the actual reason for his execution remained much in doubt. Most of Helmworth’s books had been banned in Thrane. The Wyvern Reborn, whose treasonous messages were couched in courtly verse, had thus far escaped burning.
An ir’Wynarn banner hung over ir’Sarhain’s mantle, its rampant black wyvern lit from above by a floating everbright lantern. Below it, and only slightly smaller, was the ir’Sarhain crest, a split field of green and purple behind a crossed set of golden spears, the heads of each having been formed into miniature wyverns, wings back and sharp snouts extended. The mantle itself was lined with nine marble figurines-statues depicting the various deities of the Sovereign Host. This man was clearly no friend of the Silver Flame, and he didn’t bother to hide it. Greddark wondered how much more vocal his son might have been, and how large a role that vocality had actually played in Arrun the younger’s death.
That was only one of many things that bothered him about this case. The murders were being blamed on shifters, but what quarrel did shifters have with Throneholders? If anything, he would think the shifters would be happy to see the Flame blown out, considering all the persecution they had suffered at the hands of its worshippers.
And why so many perpetrators? A group of killers working in tandem-or, even more improbable, cooperating with each other? It was practically unheard of, though there had been that village in Karrnath. Located on the Mror River, it had been decimated by residents who had apparently succumbed to some mass psychosis, murdering their neighbors and then turning on each other in a mad frenzy. But this case was nothing like that one, thank the Host.
Still, no scenario made sense-not the official one presented by the local government, that it was the work of malcontent shifters, nor the counterargument that it was some Church conspiracy to rid Aruldusk of shifters, Throneholders, or both.