He wandered, making turns at random, looking to the signboards for clues. He reached a short wall and, peering over, realized how far he’d come. Far below was the river, a small line at the base of a canyon, and what looked like the roof of a boathouse appearing the size of a copper din held at arm’s length.
Certain he’d find nothing at the top, Hadrian descended by a different route. At last he spotted a signboard with a crown and sword. The building it was attached to looked like an errant castle turret made from large blocks of stone complete with a crenellated parapet two stories up. Hadrian tied his horse to the post and climbed up the porch steps. He beat on the door at its base. After the fourth clubbing, he debated drawing his big sword-the butt of it made a decent sledge-but the door opened. Behind it stood a beefy man with a day-old beard and an unfriendly look on a freshly bruised face. “What?”
“You the city watch?” Hadrian asked.
“Sheriff Malet,” he croaked, his eyes only half open.
“There’s been a murder-several in fact-down on the river.”
Malet looked up at the weather with a sneer. “Bugger me.”
He waved Hadrian into a small room with a stove, table, rumpled bed, and enough swords, shields, and other tools of war to outfit a small army.
“Mind your feet and keep your puddle at the door.” Malet was alone and holding a candle that illuminated his face from below, casting shadows that along with his puffed and bloodied face made him look as grotesque as a stone gargoyle. He set the candle on the table and stared at Hadrian.
“What’s your name?”
“Hadrian Blackwater.”
“Where’s Blackwater?”
“It’s not a place.”
Malet, who was wearing only a nightshirt, grabbed a pair of trousers off the floor. Sitting on the corner of a dark wood desk, he stuffed his legs in. “What kind of profession is it, then?”
“It’s just a surname. Doesn’t mean anything.”
Malet glared at him with weary eyes. “What good is it if it don’t tell me something about you?”
“Why don’t you just call me Hadrian.”
“I’ll do that.” He stood up and buckled his trousers. “Where are you from, Hadrian?”
“Hintindar originally-a little village south of here in Rhenydd.”
“Originally? What’s that supposed to mean? You got yourself born someplace else recently?”
“I just meant I haven’t been there in many years.”
“Many years? You don’t look old enough to have lived many years.” His eyes shifted to his swords. “That’s a lot of hardware you’re carrying, Hadrian. You a weaponsmith maybe?”
“Father was a blacksmith.”
“But you’re not?”
“Listen, I just came here to report the killings-you want to hear about those?”
Malet sucked on his teeth. “You know where the killer is right now?”
“No.”
“Bodies likely to get up and walk away soon?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your rush?”
“I’m a bit tired.”
Malet’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Really? I’m so sorry for you. Turns out I’m a little worn out myself. I spent all day stopping a bloody riot from breaking out over on the west side because some dumb bastard spit the wrong way. Two of my men are laid up with knife wounds as parting gifts. And just a few hours ago I got my nose mashed dragging two drunks out of The Gray Mouse Tavern who were busting up the place because they thought it would be funny. I only just collapsed into bed when some other bastard couldn’t wait until morning before hammering on my door. I know I wasn’t asleep long because I still have the same damn headache I went to bed with. Now, I didn’t bang on your door, did I, Hadrian? So don’t complain to me about being tired.” He turned to a small stove. “Care for coffee?”
“Don’t you want to go see the bodies?”
Malet sighed and raised a hand to the bridge of his nose. “Are they in the street outside?”
“No, down on the river, about three miles I guess.”
“Then no, I don’t want to go see the bodies.”
“Why not?”
The sheriff glanced over his shoulder with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “It’s dark and it’s raining, and I’m not trekking down that ruddy mud slide until the sun comes up. In my experience the dead are a very patient lot. I don’t think they’ll mind waiting a few hours, do you? Now, you want coffee or not?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He began stuffing the stove with split wood stacked beside it. “Go ahead and tell me your story.”
Hadrian took a seat at the little table and explained the events of the last several days while Sheriff Malet made his coffee and continued to dress. By the time he was done with both, the previously black window revealed the soaked street in a growing hazy light.
“And this barge is about three miles down the river along the towpath?” the sheriff asked, sitting opposite him at the little table by the window, his hands hugging the metal cup under his nose.
“Yeah, I secured it well enough before coming here.” The coffee was bitter and far weaker than Hadrian was used to. In Calis, coffee was common in every house, but it was a rare, and he imagined expensive, luxury in Avryn.
“And you never met any of these people before?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ve never been to Colnora before now?”
“No, sir.”
“And you insist that a guy in a dark cloak with a hood killed everyone on the boat as well as three others in Vernes, then just vanished.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me, Hadrian. How did you survive?”
“I suppose because I was the only one who was armed. I also didn’t sleep, which is why I’d like to get this taken care of sooner rather than later.”
“Uh-huh. And how did this fella manage to murder everyone on a tiny barge without you ever seeing him kill anyone? You didn’t, right? He butchered all those people, including the woman you were with-this Vivian-and then got away, and you never even saw him swim to shore?”
“I don’t know how he did it.”
“Uh-huh.” He took a loud sip from his cup. “So you’re not a blacksmith … What are you, Hadrian?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
“Looking for work, then?”
“I will be. Right now I’m on my way to Sheridan.”
“The university? Why?”
“A friend of the family sent me word that my father had passed and asked me to visit.”
“Thought you were from Hintindar.”
“I am.”
“But your father died in Sheridan?”
“No, he died in Hintindar-I’m guessing. But the friend lives in Sheridan. He has some things to give me.”
“And the swords?”
“I was a soldier.”
“Deserter?”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because you come here with a story of being the only survivor of a slaughter, and that makes you the obvious suspect.”
“If I had killed them, why would I come to you? Why wouldn’t I just disappear?”
“Maybe that’s just the point. Maybe you think by pinning these deaths on Duster I’d never suspect you.”
“Who’s Duster?”
The sheriff smirked and took another sip.
“Am I supposed to know? Because I don’t.”
Malet stared at him a moment with a puzzled look. Then with a rise of his brows, he set his coffee back down, making a little clink. “A year ago last summer, this town was terrorized by a series of exceptionally gruesome murders perpetrated by someone called Duster, or the Duster. The magistrate, lawyers, merchants, some of my men, and a number of disreputable malcontents were butchered and hung up like decorations. Every morning there were new ornaments, gruesome bits of artwork. No one was safe. Even members of the Black Diamond were butchered. The killing spree went on all summer. The streets went empty, ’cause folks were too scared to go out. Commerce was crippled, and I had every bloody merchant calling me every name you can imagine.”