The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows (32 page)

Liena would be preparing supper right about then, he mused, his stomach rumbling. It was Torin’s favorite—a slowly cooked stew. His stomach rumbled just thinking about it.

He always gave Wren a hard time about his wife, but she didn’t really hate him. Torin thought she was actually jealous of his relationship with Wren. She knew he would drop everything for Wren, would probably give his life to save the half-elf. But it was no more than he would do for Liena. He didn’t have a large group of friends, but when he cared for someone, it was a lifelong commitment.

Wren was like a wayward nephew. He wasn’t kidding when he had suggested he was like Wren’s uncle. It was how he really felt. Wren needed someone like himself to ground him, otherwise he’d be chasing a tangent at every opportunity. He had a great mind, but like other great minds, it had a tendency to fragment sometimes, to spill over into triviality.

Torin’s stomach grumbled again. Why did he have to wait, anyway? Why not wait somewhere he could get something to eat? It wouldn’t take long. He didn’t think Cutter would come back here, anyway. That man was on his own mission.

He hopped off the chair and opened the door, heading into the hallway. He almost collided with Kayla, the dwarf hurrying down the corridor with her arms full of files.

“Torin? What are you doing here?”

“Kayla. Sorry.” He reached out and adjusted the pile she was holding so it wouldn’t topple over. “What? Oh, waiting for Cutter. He’s supposed to be bringing the dragonshard back here.”

“What? You found it?”

“We did, yes.”

Kayla nodded and looked over Torin’s shoulder into the room. “Where’s Master Wren?”

“He’s gone off with Col to speak to Xavien.”

“Xavien? The city councilor?”

Torin nodded. “It looks like he’s part of this whole thing.”

Kayla frowned. “Really? Larrien won’t be happy about that. And who is this Col?”

“Sorry. I forgot you don’t know about that. He’s a member of the Dark Lanterns. He’s been working the case as well.”

“Sounds like you made a lot of progress since destroying the desk.”

Torin shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry about that. Cutter. Not big on subtlety.”

Kayla sighed. “It’s fine. As long as it gets this case sorted out. Where were you going?”

“To find some food. I’ve been waiting here for ages, but I don’t think he’s going to show.”

“You think something’s happened to him?”

“I have no idea. But he was supposed to be here over an hour ago.”

Kayla nodded. “I see. But what if he comes back and you’ve disappeared? Tell you what. You stay here and I’ll bring you some food.”

Torin grinned. “Thanks. And my stomach thanks you, too.”

He turned back into the office. As he stepped over the threshold, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back, near his kidneys.
Thinking he’d been stung by something, he reached around to feel for a bite, but the sting blossomed into a shooting pain. He touched the spot. It felt wet. And warm. Then another blossom of hot pain. He looked at his hand. It was covered in blood.

He frowned in confusion and turned around. Kayla stood before him holding a bloody dagger. He looked at it, then at her, not understanding. His legs suddenly felt weak. He reached out to Kayla to steady himself. She grabbed him by the shoulder. He thought she was going to hold him up, but then stabbed the knife into his stomach.

He fell to his knees, his hands going to the wound, trying to stanch the blood. Everything felt like it was fading away, like he was falling asleep.

But he wasn’t. He was dying.

He fell forward onto the carpet. He couldn’t believe it. This was it.

Goodbye, Liena
.

Just before he closed his eyes, he realized that his last words, his legacy to the world, were,
And my stomach thanks you, too
.

Wren would probably find that amusing.

T
he district of Fallen was one of the most decrepit slums in Sharn. It was once called Godsgate, one of the city’s first temple districts, but as the population increased and the towers grew higher, the religious quarter moved upward as well, so they could be closer to their gods. Over the next few hundred years, the district slowly decayed and festered, but somehow managed to cling to a semblance of life, like a barnacle on a rock.

Until the day the Glass Tower fell from the sky, raining shards of death on everyone below.

Chunks as big as houses and razor pieces the size of pins showered over the area. Hundreds of people died. Some said it was punishment for the arrogance of the priests, for leaving their original homes of worship. But, as those hit by the disaster rightly asked, why not take it out on the priests who actually deserted the district in the first place?

It was a fair point, so the disaster was declared a terrible accident.

The council refused to rebuild. Although they didn’t say it out loud, they were all thinking the same thing. The accident had actually done the city a favor.

And so the district of Fallen fell even lower.

There were still plenty of areas of Fallen, far away from the ruins of the Glass Tower, where people remained to try to eke out some kind of a life. They ran businesses out of half-ruined towers, patched up and repaired with scavenged supplies. There was a weekly market, supplying residents with rather desultory pickings.

But everyone avoided the area where the Glass Tower had fallen. The place was thought to be cursed. Rumors of restless spirits abounded, and over the years, sightings of a more substantial kind gained fame. A race of crazed, feral creatures claimed the area as their home. No one knew if they were survivors of the original disaster or whether they simply arrived and chose to call the deserted streets their home. Some said they had shambled up from the very depths of Khyber itself. Over the years, the people of Fallen came to give them a name, one that suited their animalistic ways. They became known as the ravers.

Col circled the darkened skycoach around the ruins of the Glass Tower. Wren had never been to this section of Fallen before. He didn’t think anyone came here, so pervasive were the rumors of ghosts and the like. It was the perfect place for a criminal to hide out. In fact, he wondered if the ravers were real. Maybe they were simply rumors started by those using the area as a hideout. What better way to keep people out?

Wren stared over the side of the coach. It was like some strange magical forest. Huge chunks of glass stood embedded in the ground like colossal tree trunks. Some stood upright, but others slanted this way and that, like spears planted in the ground to repel a cavalry charge. As the skycoach moved slowly
around the area of destruction, the small amount of light that trickled down winked and flashed on the faceted shards, revealing lethal edges and razor-sharp planes that promised a painful death to anyone caught inside.

And that was where they were going. Inside.

“Very bad idea,” repeated Wren. “Very bad idea.”

Col looked over his shoulder and frowned at him. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve come this far.”

“Sharp edges,” said Wren nervously. He peered over the side again and quickly yanked his head back as the skycoach drifted past a tall shard. The glass barely missed his head. “Watch what you’re doing! That one nearly sliced my face clean off!”

“You’re acting like a child,” said Col.

Wren vigorously rubbed his face. “You’re right. You’re right. Sorry. Got a fear of sharp things.” “What, like swords and knives?”

“No, they’re fine. Sharper than that. Razors, all this glass.” He gestured vaguely around. “It could take your finger clean off and you wouldn’t know it.”

“Yes, you would. As soon as the air hits the wound, you’d know. You’d feel a gentle throbbing at first, then you’d look down and see a bloody stump where you recently had a finger—”

“Yes, thank you. If you’d just shut up now, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Col shook his head in exasperation. “I’m taking us over the fall zone. Keep your eyes open for any light.”

“Fine.”

Col pulled the skycoach up a few feet and headed straight over the forest of glass. Towers still stood within the area, some having escaped unscathed, others half collapsed, little more than decayed remains. Wren peered into the darkness, wishing that Xavien had been more specific with his directions.

They covered the area in a grid pattern, but it seemed hopeless. Wren couldn’t see any signs of life. He turned to Col to tell him it was a waste of time—

—and caught a glimpse of light out of the corner of his eye.

“Stop,” he ordered.

Col stopped the skycoach in midair. “What?” he asked.

“I saw something. A light.”

Col looked around. “Where about? I can’t see anything.”

Wren stared hard but he couldn’t see anything. “I’m sure I saw it. Just a flash. Like when you see a torch through a gap in a shutter.”

Col slowly moved the skycoach backward. A moment later, Wren saw it.

“There,” he said, pointing. The skycoach stopped moving and Col looked to where Wren was pointing.

“Looks like an old tower.”

“It’s been built up, though. The top half is wooden.”

Orange light speared through wooden slats. Col studied the tower. “There’s no way in from the top. It doesn’t look like there are any windows up there.”

“So we go in from the bottom,” said Wren. “Quietly.”

Col nodded and turned the skycoach around. He settled it in a gentle landing outside the tower, in a space that had been cleared of debris.

“I wonder if he’s been hiding here all this time,” mused Wren as he dropped to the ground.

“Possibly. No one’s going to come looking for him here.”

Col checked his weapons, then drew his long sword. “You ready?” he asked.

Wren checked the wands in his belt. “Ready.”

Col nodded and they walked around the tower until they found the door. Col stood to the side and motioned Wren to do
the same. He reached around and flicked the latch, giving the door a gentle push.

It swung inward on silent hinges. They waited, but nothing happened. Col darted a quick look around the door frame.

“Clear,” he whispered to Wren. He crouched down and entered the tower. Wren followed. He saw a dark room cluttered with all kinds of junk. Old chairs were stacked one on top of the other all the way to the roof. Tables had been separated from their legs and piled into a corner. Cobwebs hung from the rafters. Diadus certainly didn’t spend any time down here.

Col was standing at the bottom of a spiral staircase. Wren joined him and they climbed slowly up the stone steps, keeping their eyes trained above them.

Wren leaned close to Col. “Watch out for him. He’s a powerful artificer. No telling what he’s got up his sleeve.”

Col nodded.

The next floor was the same as the one below—empty of life but cluttered with junk. They moved up, past two more deserted floors. Then the stone and rock of the tower walls gave way to the newly constructed wooden portion. Wren tensed, as this was probably where Diadus lived. They climbed a few more steps, then Wren heard a dull clomp. Col paused to look down. The stairs had been replaced with the wooden variety.

Col indicated for them to tread more carefully. Wren hoped it wasn’t too late. Maybe Diadus hadn’t heard Col’s footstep.

The stairs stopped at a sturdy door. Col studied it carefully, then motioned for Wren to retreat a few steps so they could talk.

“It’s solid,” he said. “If it’s locked, there’s no way we can break it down. I can pick the lock, but he may hear me.”

Wren smiled and pulled an amethyst wand from his belt. “No problem,” he said. “Just stand behind me, please. Thank you.”

Wren pointed the wand and released a wave of blue electricity that hit the door, crackling and smoking. All went silent for half a breath, then the whole door exploded inward with an implosion of air, disappearing from sight. Wren cut off the flow of energy and Col rushed passed him, sword raised, plunging into the room. Wren followed, waving away the smoke so he could see.

The door had smashed a desk and punched through the back wall of the tower. Smoke drifted out of the hole, and after a moment, Wren saw Col standing over something.

“Couldn’t you have used something with less of a bang?” he asked.

Wren joined him and looked down. “Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh.’”

“Is he dead?”

Col crouched down beside Diadus and felt for a pulse. Blood seeped from a wound in his head. Wren didn’t think the door had hit him, for the simple fact that his body was still in one piece. Shrapnel from the desk had probably hit him.

“He’s alive,” said Col.

Wren breathed a sigh of relief.

“We just have to wait for him to wake up.”

Wren straightened and looked around the room. A single lantern on a table provided a small amount of light. An unmade bed was pushed against the wall. Next to it was a large table piled high with books. On the opposite wall, shelves held an assortment of jars and vials. He walked over to them and started sorting through the bottles, taking down jars and gingerly sniffing the contents.