D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch (11 page)

Duncan stared at the coin. She reached out and touched it with the tip of one finger and ran the tip in small circles around its circumference. Finally, she drew her hand back and looked up. “I will try,” she said. Then she smiled for the first time, a very shy, nervous smile. “If I may have one more cup of that wonderful beverage.”

Garett looked at Soja, who trudged over to the desk and lifted the bottle. “Well, then we might as well all have one,” he muttered. He refilled Duncan’s cup, then Garett’s, and gave his own to Burge. There might have been another cup in the cabinet, Garett thought. Three was an odd number. But Soja instead claimed the bottle and lilted it toward his mouth, swallowing noisily. “It’s been a wretched night, anyhow,” he said, capping the bottle and returning it to a shelf in the cabinet. It was a not too subtle way of saving what was left.

Duncan took a sip of the cinnamon wine and set her cup aside. A tiny drop of the red liquid clung to her lip as she leaned forward and gathered the amethyst dice between her hands. She licked the drop away with a delicate flick of her tongue and let the crystals fall. They scattered upon the desk and came to rest in small pools of reflected purple. Duncan studied them carefully, then gathered them up and cast them once more.

Garett went to the far side of the room to watch and wait. Over and over, Duncan cast the dice. The clatter they made on the wooden desk began to grate, and he felt his patience wearing away. Outside, the noise in the watch room grew louder than ever. Garett paced toward the desk, picked up his own cup of wine, which he had left sitting there, and downed it in a gulp. Burge slipped out for a moment. When he returned, the racket from the watch room had lessened somewhat, and he nodded toward Garett.

The dice clattered on the desk again. “I told you,” Duncan said without being addressed. “It’s difficult.” She picked up the dice and cupped them to her breasts. “Perhaps, if you ask a specific question?” she suggested, looking to Garett. “It’s easier to see for someone else.”

Garett went to the desk. Inwardly he cursed Ellon Thigpen. If the common-pinching fool had just allowed him to approach the Wizards’ Guild, this lengthy business might not be necessary. He might have some answers already. “What do I do?” he said.

She handed him the dice. “Hold them,” she instructed. “Warm them with your body heat and concentrate on your question.”

Garett cast a glance at Burge, who watched wordlessly, and wrapped his hands around the amethysts. He closed his eyes and drew a picture of Acton Kathenor into his mind, recalling the copper cauldron and the blood, the bits of broken mirror, all the details of the room in which the priest had died. Then he did the same for each of the other murdered seers, one by one, lingering on the visions as he rolled the dice between his cupped palms. Who killed them? he questioned silently. Who is the murderer? He called up an image of a figure, a face cloaked in shadow, and willed features to appear—a nose, a mouth, eyes that would become the face of the killer. The shadows persisted, though. It was not truly his job to lift them. He wasn’t the seer. It was only for him to shape the question.

Duncan took the dice from his hands, and Garett opened his eyes. She blew on the crystals, turning them over and over, shaking them, her own eyes shut tight with concentration. The crystals scattered over the desktop. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared expectantly. The breath hissed angrily between her teeth. She snatched them up and cast them again.

Impatiently, Garett went to Burge. Lieutenant Soja also crept nearer from his place by the cabinet. “This is getting us nowhere, Captain Starlen,” he whispered.

Burge looked at his commander, gave a sigh, and went to the desk. He knelt down opposite Duncan and watched as she cast the crystals again. Then his voice sounded barely over the clatter of the dice. “Feel your grandmother’s blood,” he whispered tersely. “Feel it flowing in your veins. She’s here, in you. You’re one. These dice are yours. They belong to both of you. Her vision is your vision. See as she would see.”

Duncan’s face screwed up. She said nothing, just gathered and tossed the dice, gathered and tossed. Beads of sweat appeared on her brow and ran toward her eyes. Without thinking, she wiped them away and cast again.

“Her vision is your vision,” Burge continued in a low drone. “She is in you, part of you.”

Faster and faster, Duncan’s hands flew, casting the dice and sweeping them up. The lamplight danced on the amethysts. They sparkled with flashes of purple and violet fire, and Duncan’s eyes sparkled with a black brightness.

Suddenly, she cried out. Her hand froze, on the verge of sweeping the stones up once more, and trembled above them instead. Slowly, she withdrew it and bent closer. “I see!” she gasped. “I see!”

“What?” Garett demanded as he leaned over the desk. The amethysts shimmered impossibly, almost as if they quivered, alive, under the light. He could see nothing in the facets. “What is it?” he shouted.

Before Duncan could answer, a wind whistled sharply through the office. Duncan’s wine cup overturned, and the blood-red liquid spilled out. It flowed around the five dice. Overhead, the cressets swung wildly. Garett shot a look around the room. There was a single, unshuttered window, but the wind didn’t seem to come from there. The desk began to shiver and vibrate and move across the floor. Duncan gave a shrill scream.

Above the dice, a violet, nebulous light formed and swirled, and the crystals rose slowly into the heart of the smoky radiance. Like tiny stars, they spun and whirled, throwing flashes about the room. Garett felt a pressure on his ears, behind his eyes. A great invisible hand seemed to press on his chest. The crystals spun faster and faster until they could no longer be seen individually, but formed a single orbit around some unseen center. The violet light burned hotter.

Then something smashed Garett to the floor. A scream rang in his ears. A light exploded in his head and burst into thousands of colors.

The pressure, though, was gone. With a groan, he rolled over and stared at Burge, who was still half on top of him. “Sorry, Cap’n,” the half-elf muttered. “Had to do that. I saw it cornin’.”

Garett struggled to his feet as the office door slammed open. A dozen faces, prisoners as well as guards, stopped at the threshold and stared. Gray bo, the officer at the arrest desk, shouldered his way past the others, and the prisoner, Perch, came behind him, wide-eyed.

“What in the hells?” Graybo demanded, glaring at the body of Lieutenant Soja, which was crumpled next to his precious cabinet.

A pool of blood was forming under Duncan’s head where she’d fallen behind the desk. Garett bent down beside her, his own head still swimming, and carefully turned her over. The fortune-teller’s eyes were gone, replaced with empty holes that bubbled blood. “My gods,” Garett muttered, though he honored no deities.

“The lieutenant took it through the head,” Graybo reported, bending down beside his superior. “What in the hells hit him?”

Burge pointed to the door, where he’d been standing just an instant before he’d hurled himself at Garett. One of the purple dice was deeply embedded there. Another was embedded in the far wall. “That one was for you, Cap’n,” he commented. “I’d say there’s someone or somethin’ out there that doesn’t want to be seen.”

Garett didn’t answer. He pushed a blood-drenched lock of hair back from Duncan’s face and tried to master the rage that swelled inside him.

Garett put Graybo in charge of the watch house and

grudgingly named Kael the new second-in-

command. Their appointments, of course, were only temporary. Korbian Arthuran, as captain-general, would no doubt wish to name permanent replacements for a post as busy and important as the River Quarter.

A rickety old cart pulled up outside, drawn by a single black horse and bearing a cheap wooden coffin on its flatbed. Led by Burge, two dark-robed representatives from the Guild of Embalmers and Gravediggers strode with somber grace, their hands folded before them, into Soja’s office. They nodded wordlessly in Garett’s direction, then looked around.

“Oh, my,” said one of them suddenly as he looked from the still form of Duncan to Soja’s corpse. “There are two.” He turned to his comrade with a look of paternal consternation. “We were not properly informed,” he continued to Garett. “I’m afraid they shall have to share a box for now. We can separate them before burial, however.” He made a

wave of dismissal, and his comrade went back outside.

Garett turned away. He had little love for gravediggers, and this one reeked of embalming fluid and the smells of the death house. His smooth, calm voice only irritated Garett, who drew his dagger from its sheath and set about gouging free from the wall and the door the amethyst dice that had missed Burge and himself.

The second gravedigger returned, bearing the wooden coffin on his back and shoulders. He bumped roughly against the sides of the doors as he struggled under the burden, but the first gravedigger made no effort to help him with it. At last, he set it down on the floor and lifted the lid.

“Forgive me for bringing up unpleasant matters at a time like this,” the first one said with an oily voice, and Garett slowly turned back to face him. “Who will pay?” He batted his lashes unconsciously. It was the only part of him that seemed to move as he waited for an answer.

Garett resisted the urge to toss his dagger at the man’s toes. There would be a mean pleasure in making the pompous fool jump, watching his placid demeanor fall apart. He knew, though, deep down, that his anger was not truly directed at the gravedigger, but at himself. He felt responsible for Duncan’s death. He had sought her out and compelled her to use her dice and try to find a murderer. But the murderer had taken her right out of Garett’s hands, and Garett had been helpless to prevent it.

He shoved his dagger back into its sheath and made a fist around the two amethyst crystals. “The lieutenant has family, I believe,” he said through clenched teeth. “Ask them what arrangements they wish to make. As for the girl...” Garett shrugged, gave a great sigh, and shook his head. “She was a street waif. Give her the usual funeral and bill the city.” That meant, of course, a soggy grave somewhere out in the marsh west of the city wall. And the guild would cut itself a small profit by charging for a coffin that would never be used.

The first gravedigger nodded, then made a gesture to his partner. The second man bent and lifted the lieutenant’s body while the first merely watched. He dropped it into the open coffin, banging an arm against the side, bumping Soja’s head in the process. When he went to Duncan’s body, Burge stepped quickly in to help, lifting the seeress’s arms while the gravedigger took her feet. Together, they placed her with greater gentleness on top of the lieutenant.

The first gravedigger watched expressionlessly as the lid was settled in place. “Would you ask some of your watchmen to please carry this to the wagon?” he said dispassionately when the job was done.

Garett frowned to himself. Not once had the man unfolded the hands he held clasped together so regally upon his robe. His attitude, his posture, everything about him offended Garett. Still, he nodded to Burge, and the halfelf summoned Graybo, Kael, and two other men. Even old Perch stepped in to lend a hand. It was a measure of how disorganized things had become that the fellow had not yet been jailed.

When the coffin, with its double burden, was loaded on the wagon, the first gravedigger at last prepared to leave. Garett followed him out of the office, out of the watch house, and down the steps. The gravedigger climbed aboard and settled himself down beside his lesser partner, who already had the reins in hand.

“Wait,” Garett commanded, and the first gravedigger stared down at him. Did Garett imagine it, or was that really a look of contempt in the guildsman’s eyes. Well, by the gods, they would profit enough by cheating the city in their usual manner. They were not going to gain further by tonight’s misfortune. He held up the pair of amethysts. “There are two more of these,” he said, and though the gravedigger tried to hide it, a new gleam of greed shone suddenly in his gaze. “In the girl’s brain. They’re what penetrated her eyes. There’s another in the lieutenant’s body. Dig them out and bring them to me at the Citadel

within an hour. Is that understood?”

The gravedigger hesitated, and the barest hint of disappointment flickered across his lips.

“Let me make this clear, guildsman,” Garett added sternly. “These stones are evidence in a murder investigation. If they do not arrive in my office within an hour, I’ll hold you personally responsible. Is that understood?” Abruptly, Kael appeared at Garett’s side. “Sir, if you wish, I’ll accompany the coffin to the death house, and see that your stones are safely delivered.”

Garett gave the junior sergeant another look of renewed interest. He was brash, yes, but he had a head on his shoulders. He would bear watching. “That’s an admirable idea, Sergeant,” he said, clapping the young man on the shoulder. With a lithe move, Kael sprang up onto the wagon’s flatbed and knelt down by the coffin.

The gravedigger could no longer hide his displeasure. His face soured, and he nudged his partner with a sharp elbow. A moment later, the wagon trundled off down Rat-water Way, ringing the iron bell that warned pedestrians and sleeping citizens alike that death was passing in the streets.

“A hard business, Cap’n,” Burge said from the top of the steps.

Garett went up to join him. “You saved my life in there,” he said. “I’m grateful.”

Burge snorted. “Faster-than-human reflexes,” he muttered. “It’s one of the few things I can thank my elven dad for.” He looked away abruptly, unable to conceal even briefly the bitterness that crept into his voice whenever he mentioned his father. “Anyway,” he continued, putting on a grin, resorting to mirth as he usually did to smother the deeper emotion. “I couldn’t let your little apple-seller, Vendredi, be deprived of the night of her life.”

It was Garett’s turn to snort. “Afraid you’ve got the wrong idea, there, Lieutenant,” he said.

“No, sir,” Burge countered, cocking an eyebrow. “It’s just a matter of time before the two of you are squealin’ like pigs in springtime.”