Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

Panic. It suffused the air in the room, impregnating the atmosphere with a heavy feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach.

Anger.

Fear.

Pain. So much pain.

Of course, these feelings would hover around any murder scene, but for Wren, they were something more. Torin had once asked if it was a magical talent, but it wasn’t. It was pure instinct.

Wren opened his eyes, staring at the exact spot on the carpet where the murdered professor lay. He took in the room, noting the pillows on the floor by the unlit fire. He crouched down and saw the faint shimmer of powdered glass. He looked under the couch close to the door and saw broken shards scattered around. He swept them together gingerly. Crystal. Enough for two glasses.

He walked along the wall, trailing his fingers over the expensive wallpaper. A couch was lying on its side. He looked to the carpet where the indentations of the legs made small holes, then at the deep marks on the walls. Whoever had thrown it was very strong.

Wren avoided looking at the body for the moment and stepped into the washroom. Nothing much in there. He checked the sink and noted bristles stuck to the basin. Someone had shaved recently, someone who, judging by the length of the whiskers, shaved only about once a week. He sniffed, and could smell expensive cologne.

The bedroom was much more interesting. He saw the huge hole in the wall first, where someone had obviously been slammed. A small puddle of blood lay on the floor. Judging by the drip pattern, it was from a hit to the nose, not a knife thrust or slash.

He smelled the pillows and caught a whiff of perfume. He smiled. His suspicions were correct. The professor had been entertaining a lady. Had she seen the attack, then?

He looked under the bed, but all he found was a bottle of wine that must have rolled there during the struggle. Nothing else indicated the presence of a woman in the rooms.

He headed into the lounge. This time, he stopped to study the body. He noted the severed arm and the broken fingers. Interesting. That seemed to indicate someone was trying to get information out of him. Information valuable enough to … well, to rip someone apart.

Wren shook his head. The violence of the attack was quite astounding. And the strength needed …

“Torin!” he shouted.

The door opened and the dwarf and Larrien appeared. They were joined by someone else, a female dwarf. A cleric acolyte, judging by her robes.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The dwarf froze, eyes darting between the body on the floor, Wren staring indignantly at her, and Larrien, hoping for some kind of reassurance.

“This is Kayla,” said Larrien. “She’s my assistant.”

“Oh.” Wren turned to Torin. “What did the man look like who attacked you? Describe him.”

“Big,” said Torin. “Over six feet. All muscle. Hair shaved to his scalp. A tattoo of a dragon up his arms and around his neck.”

“Strong enough to do all this?”

“Definitely.”

“Hmm.” Wren took one last glance at the body, then moved to the other side of the lounge and knocked on the walls. “Torin, check that desk over there and see if he kept any kind of diary.”

Torin headed to the rolltop desk opposite the door and started rifling through the papers. Wren carried on knocking, getting the same muted thud every time he did so. He reached the section next to where Torin was standing. The rap on the wall became hollow.

“Here we go,” he said in satisfaction. He ran his fingers along the wallpaper and down to the floor. It took him some time to find the catch. A tiny switch was set into the floorboards. He pressed it, and a door jutted out with a quiet click.

Wren hooked his finger around the door and stepped inside. It was a tiny room, no bigger than a broom closet. He pulled the door closed, all but a small crack. He peered out through the gap. He was looking directly at the body of the professor.

Wren closed his eyes and inhaled. He smelled the same perfume that was on the pillows. So … what had happened? The professor knew his attacker was coming and hid his lady friend in here? Who was she? He needed to know.

He glanced down and saw something glint in the small band of light that entered through the crack. He bent down and picked up the object.

“Wren,” said Torin. The door opened, bathing Wren in light. Torin stood holding a small, leather bound journal.

“What?” Wren stepped into the lounge, closing the door behind him.

“His appointment book. He has an entry written in for today. It just says ‘Red.’”

“Interesting. Page back. I think you’ll find the appointment repeated?”

Torin thumbed back through the book. “You’re right. Every week, actually. For the past three months.”

“Hmm.” He walked over to Larrien, who hovered by the door, trying not to look at the body. Wren held up the item he had found on the floor. It was a silver necklace, cheaply made. Hanging from the chain was a crystal dragon. “Do you know what this is?”

Larrien squinted at it. “Hold on,” he said, and fished a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from his pocket. He perched them on his nose. “That’s better.” He took the chain from Wren. “It’s a necklace,” he said.

“Yes, it is. Well done, Larrien. You should be an inquisitive. Do you know what kind of necklace?”

“I’ve no idea. It’s not really my area of expertise.”

“This dragon isn’t just any old reptile. It’s the Boromar dragon.”

He stared expectantly at Larrien.

“Yes?” said the head of the university.

Wren sighed. “These necklaces are given to courtesans in the employ of Boromar. The girls usually sell them, though they don’t make much. Was it common practice for professors to have, shall we say, visitors to their rooms?”

“No, it was not!”

Wren raised an eyebrow. “Come now, Larrien. Don’t lie to me. I’ll be very hurt if you do.”

“Fine,” Larrien snapped. “Yes, it is fairly common for professors to have courtesans visit their rooms.”

Wren turned to Torin. “Randy old buggers, eh?”

“You should know. You’re about the same age.”

“How dare you! Take that back.”

“No.”

“I demand-”

“Wren,” Larrien interrupted.

“What? Oh, of course. Sorry.” He pointed at Torin. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“No, we won’t.”

“Wren,” said Larrien. “What are your theories?”

Wren shot Torin a dark look, then turned his attention back to Larrien. “I never discuss theories while working on a case.”

Larrien all but collapsed with relief. “So you’ll look into it? Oh, thank Aureon. Does this mean I don’t have to involve the Watch?”

“Larrien, you have an all but dismembered body lying in the university. Of course you’ll have to call in the Watch.”

“But it’s all so sordid . Do they have to know the details?”

Wren shrugged. “Tell them what you want. Let them do their own investigation. If they can be bothered, that is. Oh, and tell them to call in a cleric. He might be able to communicate with the body and find out some information.” He snapped his fingers. “Torin, come.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a dog.”

“Apologies. How would you like me to speak to you?”

“Like I’m a person.”

“Oh.”

Wren grabbed the door and ran into the clerics he had earlier shooed away. He waved his arms in irritation as he pushed his way through them. “Get away from me. Move, move! You’re like flies!”

He heard Torin’s voice behind him. “And you know what flies are attracted to, don’t you?”

The second day of Long Shadows