The aforementioned individuals hove stolen a priceless artifact from the church. It appears as a black globe, two spans wide. We urgently seek its recovery, as well as the apprehension of the thieves. Under no circumstances attempt to use the relic. The church will handsomely reward anyone involved in the recovery of this item or the arrest of the thieves.
Teron looked over his work then handed it to the innkeeper. “When your boy returns, have him take that to the speaking stone.”
He pulled a third sheet and wrote:
Master Keiftal.
I followed the carriage tracks to Ghalt. Found the carriage burned, the harnesses empty. Hoof prints indicated that they took the horses and continued west. Lost the trail but believe they continued into Ghalt, else why burn the carriage? I have alerted the military via speaking stone as of an hour past dark. I will check the station to see if they are waiting for the next southbound rail run, but I believe they have most likely taken the first available, which would take them north to Thrane. This worries me. Might they escape into the Eldeen Reaches? If so, we may already be too late. If not, could they be helping the Thranes to get the Sphere back? I do not know which I fear more.
Pray for me. Pray for us.
He flipped the paper up and reread it for good measure, then handed it to the proprietor along with a gold coin. “Post this to the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude. This should pay for the services. Keep the rest for your troubles.”
“Yes, of course,” said the innkeeper. “Thank you.”
Teron stepped closer to the old man. “And tell no one I was here.”
“Yes, absolutely. Have no fear of that at all.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to come back.”
The lightning rail station outside of Ghalt was, as usual, quite slow between runs. The local merchants, beggars, and thieves had by and large dispersed, as had most of the debarking passengers. A few travelers remained, one pacing back and forth, waiting for those he was to meet, the rest lingering in the café and savoring their Aundairian wine. Outside the depot building scattered clots of locals exchanged goods, monies, and stories.
Teron moved among the stragglers, scanning for a gnome paired with a half-orc and listening for the voices of the thieves he’d encountered in the catacombs. He doubted the latter two would be foolish enough to stand around together, although he also hoped they’d never believe someone was capable of running all the way from the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude, and therefore that they might be a little lax in their circumspection.
He satisfied himself that none of his suspects were present and headed to the building. It was a small structure, set well back from the trail of conductor stones to avoid the potential of a strike of elemental energy as the caravan moved past. It was a new building, the Ghalt stop being one that had seen much use during the Last War. The structure had been built with military efficiency and therefore military ugliness. Unlike most buildings in Aundair, it was strictly utilitarian and devoid of ornamentation.
One end housed the offices and the counter at which passage was purchased. The center was a large, open waiting area, ideally suited for marshalling small units of troops but too loud and open for a crowd of civilian passengers to pass the time peacefully. The far end held a small kitchen and restaurant, mercifully separated from the waiting area by a solid, noise-dampening wall.
Teron stepped up onto the building’s porch. The cuffs on the innkeeper’s peasant shirt hung annoyingly low on his wrists, and he pulled back one sleeve as he opened the door to the waiting area. He walked across the open room to the counter where a solitary clerk fiddled with a small skinning knife.
Teron laced his hands and leaned his wrists against the counter.
The clerk looked up. “May I help you, traveler?” he asked, his voice as limp as his half-lidded eyes.
“I seek information,” said Teron. He tried to fix the clerk with his steely gaze, but the clerk was more interested in the way his blade was spinning on the countertop. “The most recent northbound run,” said Teron, pressing forward, “did a gnome and his half-orc servant book passage?”
The clerk favored him with a brief, weary look. “We do not give out information on our other passengers. House Orien bylaws.”
Teron proffered the prelate’s seal, “This is very important. Church business. I need an answer.”
“Look, friend,” said the clerk, almost looking at Teron, “I work for House Orien, not the church. And House Orien says, ‘Don’t give out information on our passengers.’”
“You don’t underst—”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t tell you anything.”
“Actually, you can.”
“Actually, not a kobold’s chance,” said the clerk. “If there is a problem with this, take it up with House Orien.”
“All right,” said Teron, “I will. Let me speak to your supervisor.”
The clerk gave Teron a brief, long-suffering glare. “He’s not here.”
Teron raised one eyebrow. “You’re the most senior employee here?”
The clerk nodded.
“I’ll go check, shall I?” said Teron, and he placed his hands on the counter, preparing to vault over.
“No! No, wait right there,” said the clerk. “I’ll fetch him and send him around to speak with you. Maybe he can make you understand.”
The clerk shuffled away from the counter to the door to the rear office. He knocked, cracked the door open, and stuck his head through. Teron heard him speak to someone else, and then, after a moment, a well-dressed elf appeared. He walked around the counter and approached Teron, looking the monk up and down as he closed. Teron smiled grimly—the only smile he was capable of generating on command—and extended a hand.
The elf took Teron’s hand to shake it, but Teron shifted his grip at the last instant. He pressed the elf’s middle knuckle in with his thumb and squeezed his hand, flexing the elf’s slender hand backward. The elf drew a sharp breath in through his nose, but to his credit he held his composure.
“I’m here on official church business,” repeated Teron. With his left hand he pulled his satchel around to the front and fished through it to find the portraits. “I need to know whether this gnome and this half-orc boarded the northbound run a few hours ago.”
The elf pressed his lips together. “House Orien policy is not to provide any information on the itineraries of our passengers.”
Teron squeezed the elf’s hand more lightly, and he felt the elf’s tendons creaking under the strain.
“However,” added the elf through clenched teeth, “perhaps we can make an exception. For the church.”
“Thank you,” said Teron, bowing slightly. He released his grip and clapped a friendly hand on the elf’s shoulder so that it rested at the base of his neck. One finger probed the weak point between the elf’s neck and clavicle, and Teron felt the elf tense up again. “Why don’t we look through your books?”
“I didn’t see no passengers like he’s looking for, master,” said the clerk, the boredom utterly wiped from his face. “But I can check the other ledgers, if you like.”
The elf supervisor nodded quickly.
“Praxle d’Sivis,” said Teron. “Look for that name.”
After a several minutes’ search, the clerk returned with a ledger. “Here you are,” he said. “D’Sivis, party of two, booked passage to Thaliost, Thrane.”
“When will that run reach Fairhaven?” ask Teron.
The clerk fumbled about for a schedule, traced his finger across the grids, and said, “It reaches Passage a few hours before dawn, leaves again about an hour after sunrise, then reaches Fairhaven just after sundown.”