Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

No one would investigate to find out who had killed her. These kinds of crimes were not important enough for the Watch to waste their time. Cheap courtesans in the lower levels died all the time. Just another death among a thousand others. No one cared.

But something wasn’t right. This whole thing, far from being an open and shut case, was a confused muddle of lies and mistaken assumptions, and Wren was as much to blame for that as anyone. He sighed, recognizing the feeling that was building inside his chest, that tight knot of impatience that told him things weren’t right. It wouldn’t go away. Not until he’d checked every last lead.

Wren turned from the balcony and stepped back inside. He grabbed the satchel that contained all his equipment, slung it over his shoulder, and headed out the door.

Lucky for him, he didn’t need much sleep.

Kayla let him back into the university. Larrien had placed her in charge of coordinating the Watch and fending off chroniclers from the Inquisitive and the Chronicle . She had dark rings beneath her eyes and yawned repeatedly as she reluctantly led the way to the professor’s rooms.

“What did the cleric find out?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Wren looked at Kayla in surprise. “He must have picked up something.”

“He didn’t. He seemed quite upset about it. He said there was absolutely nothing there. Said that whatever killed him must have been blessed.”

“Or cursed,” muttered Wren. “And the Watch? Did they find anything?”

“They didn’t look. They just took the body away and said they’d be back tomorrow.”

They arrived at the apartment. Wren paused before opening the door. “No point in both of us being kept from our beds. I just want to take a second look, then I’ll be off.”

Kayla stifled a yawn. “I’ll wait. Have to lock up once you’re gone.”

Wren nodded and pushed open the door. “Won’t be long.”

The room felt different since the body had been removed. Less … heavy. No real sense remained that a tragedy had occurred earlier that night. It just felt-what was the word he was looking for? It felt vacant. Unlived in.

He opened his satchel and rummaged around inside. He took out a pair of Cannith goggles and pulled them over his head. He fitted them over his eyes and blinked a few times to get used to the smoky orange tinge of the lenses. He closed his eyes and concentrated, activating the magic of the goggles.

When he opened his eyes again, his vision changed drastically. Everything was clearer, much sharper, as if he had been half-blind his whole life and then presented with his first pair of glasses. Everywhere he looked, his vision seemed to focus and then zoom in on whatever his eyes settled on, revealing tiny details that hadn’t been apparent before.

Just there, for example. He saw the faint outlines of footprints in the carpet, one pair deeper than the others. A warforged, perhaps? The carpet had bounced back but not enough to hide the prints from the goggles. To the right, he spied a deep indentation then a short trail across the fibers, as if someone had landed heavily and slid along the floor on his back.

He walked to the bedroom and traveled slowly back and forth across the floor, peering straight down at his feet.

Here we go, Wren thought. He got down on his hands and knees and lowered his face to the floor, cocking his head to the side as he tried to peer at his discovery from every angle. He pulled out a wooden vial and a pair of tongs from his satchel and carefully picked up a tiny item, holding it close to the goggles.

A shaving of black metal. The kind one would find if, say, a fight had taken place and a heavy blade was scraped across the body of a dark warforged.

Wren dropped the shavings into the vial and placed it into his bag. He stood up and stared at the hole in the wall. It was vaguely man-shaped, but when he stepped forward he could see faint pinpricks of blood on the wall studs inside the hole. He reckoned that if he had a look at Cutter’s back, he would see the same pattern there.

Wren put the goggles away and stood in the dark, lost in thought. He left the room and walked Kayla back to her apartment in Shava House, the tiny boarding house for the community of staff that lived on campus.

Some time later, Wren climbed the steps of Daggerwatch garrison and pushed open the reinforced metal doors that led into the building. He walked through and entered a square room with three doors on each wall. A huge desk sat against the far side of the room, about as high as Wren’s shoulders. A tired-looking dwarf woman sat behind it.

Wren approached and beamed his smile. “Excuse me, my dear-”

“Do not, and I repeat that, do not ever , call me ‘my dear.’ Understood?” The dwarf stared at him.

Wren’s smile faltered, but for only a fraction of a second. “Of course. My apologies, uh …?”

“Sergeant.”

“Yes. Sergeant. My apologies. I was wondering if you could lend me some assistance.”

“Probably not, but ask anyway. I’m feeling generous.”

“Thank you. I’m looking for a prisoner who was brought in earlier.”

The dwarf held up her hand to stop him. Wren waited, but she simply held it there. Wren leaned to the side so he could see past it to her face. “Yes?”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sergeant . Sorry.”

The dwarf lowered her hand and turned a huge ledger around on the desk. Wren leaned forward with interest. The dwarf ran her finger down a list of names, turned the page over, ran her finger down the next list, then slammed the book shut.

“Don’t tell me,” said Wren, becoming slightly annoyed. “Those are the names of prisoners brought in during the last watch.”

“Correct.”

“Can I check the list to see if his name is there?”

“No.”

“Can I describe him to you to see if you remember him?”

She appeared to consider this for a moment. “Go on, then. And I’m only doing this because I like you.”

“Uh, thank you. His name is Cutter. He’s a human, over six feet tall, muscular. He has a tattoo of a dragon on his head that runs down his neck and wraps around his arms.”

“Shaved head, growing into stubble?”

“Yes!”

“Haven’t seen him.”

Wren deflated. “Oh.”

“Unless …”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing for dinner at the end of the week?”

Wren blinked in bemusement. “Sorry?”

“Dinner. You take me out to dinner, I’ll tell you about your friend.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “That’s fine. Would Sannid’s suit your taste?”

For the first time, he saw expression on her face. Her eyes widened. “Sannid’s? I thought the waiting list was over a month long.”

Wren shrugged. “I know the owner.”

She studied him, eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to back out, are you?”

“Perish the thought!” Wren leaned over the desk and pointed at a quill. “May I?” She nodded, so he took it and wrote his address on a piece of parchment. “My address. You can track me down if I don’t turn up.”

She took the piece of paper and read it. “Skysedge Park?”

Wren nodded. “We can meet at my place first. Try some of my wine. I collect the stuff, but so rarely get the chance to enjoy it.”

“That … sounds good.” She looked at the address again and seemed to remember something. “Your friend! Yes, your friend was moved to Warden Towers.”

Wren frowned. “Moved? Why would he be moved?”

“I have no idea. Some woman came in and spoke to the captain. Cold bitch, she was.” She shrugged. “We don’t care. One less mouth to feed.”

“I see. Thank you for your time. You’ve been a great help.”