Goblin Precinct (Dragon Precinct) (7 page)

If he had the wherewithal, Boneen would have teleported to Haven’s Way and brought the detectives back here right away. But it was just as well that he had nowhere near the will to do so. Leaving aside any other considerations, Tresyllione always threw up when she was teleported, and he was going to have a hard enough time getting Ilya to clean up the parchments as it was. Asking her to clean Tresyllione’s vomit would probably be her breaking point.

Speaking of whom, Ilya flitted over to hover near Boneen’s nose. “What is it, Boneen, what’s wrong?”

“Quite a bit, I’m afraid. Elthor’s death has far more ramifications than we originally thought.”

SIX

OSRIC HAD ALMOST MADE IT TO HIS OFFICE WHEN THE PAGEBOY CAME by with orders to take the captain to see Lord Albin. With a sigh, Osric followed the young man through the corridors of the castle’s western wing. While meetings with the head of the demesne used to be fairly regular when Osric first took on the job of Captain of the Castle Guard, after a few years, Albin learned to trust Osric’s judgment and didn’t feel the need for regular updates.

The downside of that was when Osric
was
summoned, it was almost always because of a serious problem. Most often it was due to a case being political in nature, which meant a great deal of scrutiny for him and his detectives. The last time, it was during the Cynnis case, when Osric had to talk Arra Cynnis’s father out of requesting that the captain fire Tresyllione and ban Wyvald.

Thinking back on it, Osric realized that most of the difficult meetings he had with the lord of the demesne were cases he’d given to his two best detectives—often involving Tresyllione pissing someone off. It was the captain’s considered opinion that, if he hadn’t paired her up with the more affable ban Wyvald, he would’ve been forced to fire her years ago.

Which would have been unfortunate, since the pair of them truly excelled in the job. The Castle Guard had fulfilled Lord Albin’s mandate swimmingly mainly due to the detective squad’s success rate, and that rate was almost entirely on the backs of those two.

Upon entering the huge wooden double doors at the end of one corridor, Osric got a tight feeling in his stomach at the sound of Lord Albin sneezing.

It was unnecessary, of course. The first chill that signaled autumn’s impending arrival was generally accompanied by Lord Albin getting the sniffles.

But during the first meeting Osric ever had with Lord Albin, eleven years ago, Albin was pale, sickly, sneezing, and constantly blowing his nose into an embroidered handkerchief.

Osric recalled the day quite clearly. The war had been over for half a year, and Osric had found himself adrift. He wound up—as did so many others—at Cliff’s End on a chilly late-summer day. Citing his position as a former general in the service of King Marcus and Queen Marta, he requested an audience with Lord Albin, never for a moment expecting it to be granted.

When the pageboy arrived at the Dog and Duck Inn with the message that the Lord and Lady requested his presence at their dinner table, but first he was to meet with Lord Albin in his sitting room for drinks, Osric nearly fell over from the shock.

A fire was roaring in the fireplace on the left-hand side of the room, while Lord Albin—who had a monk’s fringe of hair back then, and no mustache—sat on the couch, sneezing. “Ah, you must be General Osric! Please, do come in! Have a seat. Elron, please fetch the general a drink.”

Osric hadn’t even noticed the servant until Albin spoke to him. The servant—who had since died—moved silently through the room. He poured an amber liquid into a crystal glass and wordlessly handed it to Osric.

“Thank you,” Osric said. Elron simply bowed in reply.

“That will be all, Elron,” Albin said, and the servant shimmered out of the sitting room, closing the double doors. The creak of the wood was the only noise he made.

 After sitting in a plush chair that was perpendicular to the couch, Osric said, “I have to admit, my Lord, to being surprised by your invitation.”

“Really? You were the one who requested it.”

“Yes, sir, but you were the one who granted it.”

Albin laughed. “Well, why wouldn’t I? Your record speaks for itself, and Sir Palrik speaks very highly of you.”

Osric blinked. “‘Sir’ Palrik?” He had known Palrik as a particularly unimaginative officer.

“Yes, he’s been a member of my court since birth. Insisted on enlisting in the army when the war started, though. Apparently had some kind of animus against the—” He cut himself off for a sneeze that shook the glass on the drinks cabinet. “Sorry. Against the Elf Queen. In any event, he spoke very highly of you.”

“I’m grateful to hear that.”

Albin laughed again, but this time it modulated into a cough that Osric sat uncomfortably through. “My apologies,” Albin said, after getting his breathing under control. “I was simply amused that you did not return the compliment to Sir Palrik. That’s good—you don’t engage in insincere flattery. It isn’t something I’d look for in a dinner companion, normally.” He blew his nose again. “So, General Osric, what brings you to Cliff’s End?”

“Well, for starters, my Lord, I’m no longer properly referred to with that rank. My term has ended. As for what brings me to Cliff’s End—I am hopeful that I might find employment here. Perhaps sign on to a ship at the docks.”

Tilting his head in surprise, Albin said, “I wasn’t aware you had any naval experience.”

Reluctantly, Osric said, “I don’t.”

“The best you could hope for would be to serve as a simple sailor. Surely a person with your experience can find something more—more lucrative?”

“Unlikely. I’m a soldier, my Lord, and there are no more wars to fight.”

“But surely the army provided you with a pension?”

Osric smiled bitterly. “Surely you would think that, my Lord, but I’m afraid not. We were told that, when soldiers died, the money put aside for their pension was put back into the war effort. What we were not told was that that was the case for
all
the pension money, whether the soldier entitled to it was dead or alive. Which came as rather a shock to those of us fortunate enough to survive the war, only to find ourselves without what we were promised.”

That prompted a frown. “Oh dear.”

“I must confess, my Lord, that I used harsher language.”

“No doubt.” Albin sipped his drink.

“In any event, the last of my savings provided me with a week’s lodgings at the Dog and Duck. I have that long to find employment, which may prove impossible. There is peace in Flingaria, my Lord, and that reduces the opportunities for making a living for those of us whose skills are best suited to war. Besides which, as you can see—” He pointed at the patch that covered his left eye, which back then was a cheap cloth one. “—those skills are now diminished.”

“Ah, see, that’s where—” Albin sneezed. “Excuse me. That’s where you’re wrong, General. Sorry, Osric. You see, there
is
still war. It’s constantly being waged here in Cliff’s End.”

Osric frowned. He had heard of no conflict between Cliff’s End and any of the other city-states.

“I speak metaphorically—but only barely.” That was followed by yet another coughing fit. “My apologies. As I was saying, there is a war—against lawlessness and chaos. Cliff’s End has long been a crossroads, with a population that increases every year—and with it comes a more entrenched criminal element. Many years ago, I expanded the mandate of the Castle Guard to maintain law and order within the city-state.”

Nodding, Osric took a sip of his drink. He had heard a rumor to that effect, but he hadn’t given it much thought.

“At present, the captain in charge is a man named Brisban, but he’s dying. The physicians tell me he is unlikely to live out the week—and even if he recovers, he will no longer have a job. He has been a poor captain, and I need someone of superior intellect and experience.” Albin smiled. “And then you fell into my lap.”

That was followed by yet another coughing fit.

Osric accepted the offer eventually, of course, but it took him a few days to do so. For starters, he wasn’t sure if he was truly as qualified as Albin thought. And given how ill he was during the meeting, Osric wasn’t sure that Albin would necessarily outlive this Brisban person. He was worse during dinner, which he barely touched and during which he coughed and sneezed more than Osric thought possible in one sitting.

But then Brisban died and Albin got better, and Osric found no other job that wasn’t menial, and decided it was worth a try. It helped that Albin offered him a salary that was twice what he’d made as a general. One of the first things he bought with his initial wages was a new silk eyepatch.

Now, Albin was sitting in a large chair next to the fireplace, which had a roaring fire going. Despite his proximity to the flames, he had a sweater wrapped tightly about his shoulders, and he was obviously shivering. These days, his hair was entirely gone, and he had let his mustache thicken to the point where it dominated his face, obscuring his mouth and the lower part of his nose. It also looked, rather revoltingly, as if it had caught quite a bit of the lord’s mucus.

“Ah, Osric, come in!”

“My Lord.” This time, since Albin was in the chair, and had moved it proximate to the fireplace, Osric took the couch.

“I need reassurances, Captain, that Fanthral is receiving every courtesy. It is critical that we maintain strong relations with the Consortium.”

This allowed Osric to ask a question that had been preying on his mind ever since Fanthral showed up in Cliff’s End. “Why?”

Albin had sneezed as he asked that, so he asked, “I beg your pardon?”

“Why is it so critical that we maintain strong relations with the Consortium? I hadn’t even
heard
of the Consortium until Fanthral arrived.”

“Between you and me, Captain—I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Osric’s eyes widened. “Pardon me, my Lord?”

“All I
do
know is that I received a mage bird from the king and queen themselves, informing me that, for whatever reason, this latest provisional elven government is one we must maintain strong ties with.” He shook his head and shivered some more. “A dozen years since the Elf Queen fell, and they’ve gone through at least three different governments, all of which have collapsed under the weight of their own incompetence. I fail to see why this is the one we must fawn over.”

For several seconds, Osric simply stared at Albin. The last time he’d been summoned to this sitting room, Albin had also been uncharacteristically tetchy. That time it was because he needed to play nice with Sir Malik Cynnis due to his needing the latter’s money for a project. Of course, Sir Malik’s later disgrace in the same scandal that brought down Lord Ythran probably didn’t do anything to help that project, whatever it was, along.

Still, Albin was not usually one to be this snappish, and this now marked twice in two visits that he’d been so.

After a sneeze, Albin said, “Also, I’ve been receiving queries all morning from virtually everyone in Cliff’s End who has the prefix ‘Sir’ asking about the bank robbery. I assume you put Harcort Grovis’s son on it?”

“No.”

Staring at Osric through what he now saw were very rheumy eyes, Albin asked, “Whyever not? He knows the bank better than anyone.”

“Actually, he doesn’t, as his father sent him to us instead of letting him work at the bank.”

“Yes, but surely he would have picked up something along the way.”

Osric sighed. “I doubt it, given how little he’s picked up on being a detective. My Lord, Grovis is our worst detective. Besides, he’s unlikely to be objective.”

Albin sneezed again. “Excuse me. And of what value is that? Objectivity is not always a virtue.”

“It is if, for example, the thieves were aided by someone who works for the bank. It could be someone Grovis knows, and someone—especially Grovis—is less likely to accuse someone he knows of committing a crime.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but I still believe that he can be of use advising . . .” He trailed off. “I assume it’s Dru and Hawk, since you put Tresyllione and ban Wyvald with Fanthral?”

Osric nodded.

“Very well. I hope you’re right, Osric. The robbery is making a lot of very important people very nervous.” Albin punctuated his remark with a coughing fit.

“Of course.” Osric finished his drink and rose. “If that’ll be all, my Lord?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course, Osric.” Albin waved the captain off.

Leaving the sitting room as fast as he could, Osric hoped he wouldn’t be summoned to the sitting room again for at least another week, since past history suggested it would be that long before Albin was well again.

SEVEN

ONCE AGAIN, JORBIN’S WAY WAS QUIET, AND HOBART WAS NOT happy.

He puffed away at one of his Barlin cigars. It was midday, the time-chimes having just rung twelve, and usually that would mean that Jorbin’s Way would be packed with potential customers pushing past each other trying to find just the right thing to buy from Hobart—or, if they insisted, from one of the other merchants.