“You’ve done more than should be expected, Reese, protecting your master’s wish for privacy. But I’m a sergeant of the City Watch, and this is an official visit. If you impede me further, you’ll end up in the stock, Reese.” Guld felt his body tense as Reese’s lined face darkened dangerously. Damned veteran. “Don’t make this messy. Don’t.”
“If I let you in, Sergeant-” Reese’s voice was like gravel shifting in the surf, “I’ll likely get fired. A man needs to work. I need this job, sir. I ain’t had the best of luck, as you know. I need this job, and I mean to keep it. If you’ve questions, maybe I can answer ’em, maybe I can’t, but I won’t let you pass.”
“Hood’s breath,” Guld sighed, taking another step back. He turned to Obler, who had begun whimpering and throwing futile gestures at the two men. “Get my corporal, Obler. He’s out front. Tell him: double-time, weapon out. Understood?”
“Oh! I implore you-”
“Now!” The scriber scurried down the hall. Guld swung back to Reese, who looked resigned. The sergeant spoke quietly, “My corporal, Reese, will make a lot of noise coming up here. You’ll be disarmed and restrained. Loudly. You’ll have done all you could. No master worth his salt will find cause to fire you. Do it my way, Reese, and you’ll not get arrested. Or killed. Otherwise, we’ll work through you-we’ll take our time, until your breath is short and you’re done, then we’ll cut you down. Well, which way is it to be?”
Reese sagged. “All right, you bastard.”
They heard the corporal’s heavy boots on the stairs, the clatter of his scabbard as it struck the railing spokes, then his gasps as he appeared at the landing, his blade held out in front of him, his face flushed. The lad’s eyes widened upon seeing his sergeant and the manservant standing calmly watching him, then he ran forward as Guld waved him on.
Guld turned back to Reese. “All right,” he whispered, “make it sound convincing.” He reached out and grasped Reese by the coat’s brocaded collar. The old man bellowed, throwing a boot back to hammer the door, rattling it in its frame. Guld pulled Reese to one side and pushed him up against the wall. The corporal arrived.
“Your sword to the bastard’s neck!” Guld ordered, and the corporal complied with undue zeal, nearly slitting Reese’s throat until Guld pulled the lad’s arm back in alarm.
At that moment the door opened. The man in the threshold took in the scene in the hallway with one lazy, cool glance, then met Guld’s stare. “Release my servant, sir,” he said softly.
Guld felt a chill race along his veins. This one’s for real. The sergeant gestured at his corporal. “Step back, lad.” The guard, confused, did as he was told. “Sheathe,” Guld commanded. The sword slid into its scabbard with a rasp and click.
“That’s more agreeable,” the foreigner said. “Please come in, Sergeant, since you seem so eager to meet me. Emancipor, join us, please.”
Guld nodded to his corporal. “Wait out here, lad.”
“Yes sir.”
The three men entered the room, Reese closing the door and dropping the latch.
Guld looked around. A desk cluttered with… slabs of slate; the remains of a breakfast on a chair, recently finished. Odd, it’s near sunset. Two slept-in beds, travel trunks, only one open and revealing a city-dweller’s clothes, a coat of mail-a weapon box beneath it-and a false backing. The other three trunks were securely locked. Guld took a step closer to the desk, eyeing the slate. “I don’t recognise those runes,” he said, turning to the austere man. “Where are you from?”
“A distant land, Sergeant. Its name would, alas, mean nothing to you.”
“You have a facility for languages,” Guld noted.
The man raised an eyebrow. “Passing only. I understand my accent is, in fact, pronounced.”
“How long since you learned Theftian?”
“That is this language’s name? I thought it was Mollian.”
“Theft is the island. Moll is a city on it. I asked you a question, sir.”
“It’s an important one, then? Very well, about three weeks. During our passage from Korel, I hired one of the crewmen to instruct me-a native of this island. In any case, the language is clearly related to Korelri.”
“You are a sorceror, sir.”
The man assented with a slight nod. “I am named Bauchelain.”
“And your travelling companion?”
“Korbal Broach, a freed eunuch, sir.”
“A eunuch?”
Bauchelain nodded again. “An unfortunate practise among the people from whom he hails, done to all male slaves. For obvious reasons, Korbal Broach desires solitude, peace and quiet.”
“Where is he, then? In one of the trunks?”
Bauchelain smiled. “I did not say shy, did I, Sergeant? No, he remains outside the city, as crowds disturb him.”
“Where?”
“Precisely? I cannot be sure. He… wanders.”
Guld looked down at the slate slabs. “What are these?”
“Imperfect efforts, Sergeant. The local slate possesses some intriguing mineral properties-no doubt the reason why the ancient tomb-builders used them-there is within them a natural energy. I am seeking to harness it toward… order.”
“Do you intend to stay in Moll long?”
Bauchelain shrugged. “That will depend on whether I succeed in my efforts. Of course,” he smiled slightly, “even my patience has limits.”
Guld heard the implicit warning and ignored it. “How do you contact your friend, the eunuch…” Dammit, why does that bother me? Moll’s own history has its eras of slavery and castration… so why in Hood’s name is my skin crawling?
Bauchelain shrugged again. “A simple cantrip of communication. He will come to the locale appointed for rendezvous, punctually.”
“Are you a necromancer, Bauchelain?” Casually asked, but Guld turned to gauge the man’s reaction. There was none but faint amusement.
“That is a fell endeavour, Sergeant. I have no interest in delving into Hood’s Warren-”
“Is it Hood’s, then? Some say it’s the very opposite.”
“Many conjectures abound on the subject. I myself concur with the sage Kulp Elder’s theory that necromancy occupies the threshold of Hood’s Warren-the in-between of life and death, if you will. A necromancer might well know more, but it’s not in his or her nature to expound on the subject. Practitioners of the Death Arts are, of course, very secretive.”
Guld nodded. He walked slowly to the door. “Your manservant’s a stubborn man, Bauchelain. He was prepared to give his life, protecting your privacy.”
“Had I known,” Bauchelain said, glancing over at Reese, “I would have added a cautioning provision to my request, Sergeant, regarding those who do not take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Guld grunted. “Good idea. You almost lost yourself a good man.”
“That would have been unfortunate indeed. Thank you for your concern. Is that all you wish of me?”
“For now,” Guld said. He stopped at the door. “You’ve paid for this room in advance?”
“Until week’s end, Sergeant. Why?”
He opened the door, hiding his wry grimace. Suddenly dense, are we? “Good evening, sir.” He stepped out into the hallway, closing the door. The corporal and Obler waited outside, their eyes wide and fixed on the sergeant’s face. Guld headed down the hallway. Both men followed.
“He says they’ve paid for the week,” Guld said to Obler.
The hostelier nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Four more days.”
“Aye.”
“Corporal?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Remain outside this building until you’re relieved. Obler, is there a back door?”
“Aye, but it’s thrice-bolted.”
