Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“Don’t you want to go see the bodies?”

Malet sighed and raised a hand to the bridge of his nose. “Are they in the street outside?”

“No, down on the river, about three miles I guess.”

“Then no, I don’t want to go see the bodies.”

“Why not?”

The sheriff glanced over his shoulder with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “It’s dark and it’s raining, and I’m not trekking down that ruddy mud slide until the sun comes up. In my experience the dead are a very patient lot. I don’t think they’ll mind waiting a few hours, do you? Now, you want coffee or not?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He began stuffing the stove with split wood stacked beside it. “Go ahead and tell me your story.”

Hadrian took a seat at the little table and explained the events of the last several days while Sheriff Malet made his coffee and continued to dress. By the time he was done with both, the previously black window revealed the soaked street in a growing hazy light.

“And this barge is about three miles down the river along the towpath?” the sheriff asked, sitting opposite him at the little table by the window, his hands hugging the metal cup under his nose.

“Yeah, I secured it well enough before coming here.” The coffee was bitter and far weaker than Hadrian was used to. In Calis, coffee was common in every house, but it was a rare, and he imagined expensive, luxury in Avryn.

“And you never met any of these people before?”

“No, sir.”

“You’ve never been to Colnora before now?”

“No, sir.”

“And you insist that a guy in a dark cloak with a hood killed everyone on the boat as well as three others in Vernes, then just vanished.”

“Yes.”

“So tell me, Hadrian. How did you survive?”

“I suppose because I was the only one who was armed. I also didn’t sleep, which is why I’d like to get this taken care of sooner rather than later.”

“Uh-huh. And how did this fella manage to murder everyone on a tiny barge without you ever seeing him kill anyone? You didn’t, right? He butchered all those people, including the woman you were with-this Vivian-and then got away, and you never even saw him swim to shore?”

“I don’t know how he did it.”

“Uh-huh.” He took a loud sip from his cup. “So you’re not a blacksmith … What are you, Hadrian?”

“Nothing at the moment.”

“Looking for work, then?”

“I will be. Right now I’m on my way to Sheridan.”

“The university? Why?”

“A friend of the family sent me word that my father had passed and asked me to visit.”

“Thought you were from Hintindar.”

“I am.”

“But your father died in Sheridan?”

“No, he died in Hintindar-I’m guessing. But the friend lives in Sheridan. He has some things to give me.”

“And the swords?”

“I was a soldier.”

“Deserter?”

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“Because you come here with a story of being the only survivor of a slaughter, and that makes you the obvious suspect.”

“If I had killed them, why would I come to you? Why wouldn’t I just disappear?”

“Maybe that’s just the point. Maybe you think by pinning these deaths on Duster I’d never suspect you.”

“Who’s Duster?”

The sheriff smirked and took another sip.

“Am I supposed to know? Because I don’t.”

Malet stared at him a moment with a puzzled look. Then with a rise of his brows, he set his coffee back down, making a little clink. “A year ago last summer, this town was terrorized by a series of exceptionally gruesome murders perpetrated by someone called Duster , or the Duster . The magistrate, lawyers, merchants, some of my men, and a number of disreputable malcontents were butchered and hung up like decorations. Every morning there were new ornaments, gruesome bits of artwork. No one was safe. Even members of the Black Diamond were butchered. The killing spree went on all summer. The streets went empty, ’cause folks were too scared to go out. Commerce was crippled, and I had every bloody merchant calling me every name you can imagine.”

“And this was all because of one guy?”

“That’s the rumor.”

“You never caught him?”

“Nope. The killings just stopped one day. And every day since then the people of this city have given thanks to Novron and Maribor. So you can see why I’m not too pleased to hear your story.”

“What makes you think it’s the same guy?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Few people ever saw the killer, but the ones who did reported he wore a black cloak with a hood.”

Malet glanced out the window, drained his cup, and fetched his coat off a wall peg. “Let’s go see what you left on the river.”

Rain poured as they rode the slick towpath where rivulets etched the mud. Hadrian now understood Malet’s concern about hazarding the trip in the dark. The canyon gave birth to dozens of various-sized waterfalls that saturated the trail. Most of the bigger ones they managed to walk around; some even had wooden awnings built for the purpose that he hadn’t noticed on the way up in the dark. Others they carefully trudged through, and on one occasion they dismounted and led their horses across on foot. Hadrian couldn’t get any wetter, but soaked as he was and still dressed in his useless linen, the gusts that blew through the ravine drove him to shiver.

Hadrian led the way on the single-lane towpath and slowly came to a stop.

“Something wrong?” the sheriff asked.

“Yeah, this is the place. It was right here.”

“The boat?”

“Yes.”

Malet circled his horse, a tired spotted bay with a ratty black mane. “I thought you tied it.”

“I did. Right here.” Hadrian slid to the ground, his feet slapping the muck.

Peering downriver, he found no sign of the barge.

“Well … I guess the rising current might have loosened the rope.” He found the tree he had tied the barge to and saw a slight mark, yet nothing so certain as a rope burn.

Malet pursed his lips and nodded. “I suppose that’s possible.”

Hadrian searched the path for the wedged tow bar, but it, too, was gone. More disturbing was the lack of discarded tack, the horse collars, and the other half of the team. Nothing remained. He trotted farther down the path until he reached a slight bend that gave him a clear view of the open river-still no barge.

“Why don’t we head back up and talk to Bennett at the shipping dock,” Malet said as Hadrian returned. “I’d like to hear what he makes of his missing boat.”

Hadrian nodded.

Nestled in the crux of the canyon walls, just past the river dock, stood a wooden building. It possessed all the charm of a mining shack but sported the elongated frame of a boathouse. A sign mounted on the roof read COLNORA-VERNES SHIPPING amp; BARGE SERVICE.

“Closed! Go way!” they heard when Malet banged on the door.

“Open up, Billy,” Malet said. “Need to talk to you about your boat that was due in today.”

The door drew back a crack and a small bald man peered out. “Whose-whatsa?”

“The barge you’re expecting this morning, it’s not coming. According to this fella, everyone’s been murdered.”

The old man squinted at him. “What are you talking about? What barge?”

“What do you mean, what barge ?”

“Ain’t no barge expected in today. Next barge is in three days.”

“That so?” Malet asked.

“Honest,” Bennett replied, rubbing his sleeves.

“You got a barge pilot named Farlan working for you?” the sheriff asked. “He a steersman a yours?”

Bennett shook his head. “Never heard of him.”