“That’s enough!” a man at the door in an expensive suit said. “This has been quite entertaining, I’m sure, but there’s no need for such foolery. Mister Fenmere would like a word with these two Tarians.”
“Spirited,” Jerinne said. “I appreciated the spar.”
“Come on,” Dayne told her. “You can play later.” He was glad the conflict had ended here—the cheap shield he was carrying had been dented by the crossbow shot. He’d be hesitant to rely on it in a real fight.
“Yes, Dayne,” she said in a mocking tone.
They went inside, following the well-dressed man, and were led to a sitting room. Dayne had seen more of his share of rooms like it, but it was surprising in contrast to the cramped, shabby apartment three blocks away. Here, the furniture was impeccable, imported from the Kieran Empire if Dayne’s eye was correct. Several paintings hung in the room, including what looked like a Garston.
The well-dressed gentleman left them alone in there for a moment.
“This room is a brag,” Jerinne said. “He’s showing us how rich he is.”
“If we didn’t grow up in noble households, we might be impressed,” Dayne said. He and Jerinne were both unusual within the Order, having been children of household staff, growing up in the presence of conspicuous wealth. Jerinne leaned in to the Garston, inspecting it as close as she could without touching it.
“Do you like that one, young lady?” An older man, with a tightly trimmed graying beard, stood in the doorway. “The Last Stand of Queen Mara. I find it a good reminder that no amount of righteous fury can match the strength of numbers.”
That was an interesting interpretation of the history. Mara, Druthal’s only female monarch, was ousted from her throne in a brutal insurrection, at one of the lowest points of the Shattered Centuries period. According to legend, she killed twenty of Lord Ferrick’s soldiers before dying, sword in hand, still sitting on her throne. Queen Mara was the inspiration for quite a few pieces of art, including Whit’s historical play, and the poem Killed but Never Defeated.
“Interesting,” Jerinne said neutrally. “Queen Mara was the last monarch of the Line of Halitar, but quite a few nobles trace their heritage back to that line.”
“Do they?” the man said with no sense that he was interested in what Jerinne was saying. “I under—”
“Including Baron Fortinare, which is why his great-grandfather commissioned the The Last Stand of Queen Mara from Garston.”
“Did he?” the man asked, now with an edge in his voice.
“He did. That’s why the Baron has it proudly hanging in his study. But this, sir, is an excellent forgery.”
The man’s jaw set, and he forced a smile to his lips as he looked to Dayne. “You’re Dayne Heldrin, of course. It’s a pleasure to meet the hero of the Parliament, the savior of the elections. We don’t get any real heroes in this neighborhood.”
“You must be Mister Fenmere,” Dayne said.
“In the flesh,” Fenmere said. “Though I am puzzled why two members of the Tarian Order would come to see me, just a simple businessman. It can’t just be for art criticism.” He looked over to the doorway, where the man in the suit was waiting. “Ask Olliman to come join us.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and he went off.
“We’re looking into some trouble here in the neighborhood,” Dayne said. “Apparently there’s been a rash of missing children in the area.”
“And you come to see me? Surely you don’t think I’m abducting children.”
“We were given to understand you have some influence in this neighborhood,” Dayne said. “Thus you might have . . . knowledge or resources outside of more conventional avenues of investigation.”
“What a very diplomatic phrasing, Mister Heldrin,” Fenmere said. “It’s true, I am aware of quite a lot of the things that happen in this part of the city. I’ve heard some stories, of course. Quite a few of the people here work long hours at the cannery or the chicken house, and then drown their sorrows in beer. Or stronger substances.”
“Stronger substances, indeed,” Jerinne said.
“And in the midst of all that, they lose track of their children. It’s quite a tragedy,”
“If only that tragedy had an architect,” Jerinne said.
Dayne gave her a little scowl. He understood where she was coming from, why she was needling Fenmere, but it wasn’t very helpful right now.
“Every person makes their choices,” Fenmere said. “They’ll leap into danger and death without a thought, it seems.”
The man who led them in came back with another man, also very well-dressed. “Willem, were you going to come back—oh.”
“Olliman,” Fenmere said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to help these fine people find their way back to their part of the city. They’ve clearly been in Dentonhill a little too long.”
“Yes, of course,” Olliman said. “I’ll convey your regards to the High Lord.”
“Please,” Fenmere said. “I’ve enjoyed this little lesson on history and art, but it’s not something I need to repeat.” He left the room.
Olliman looked at Dayne and Jerinne like he was their father, angry and embarrassed by their behavior.
“What did you two do?”
“Do we know you, sir?” Dayne asked.
“No, but I know who you both are. Come on, we need to get out of here.”
“We don’t know you,” Jerinne said. “And I don’t think we’re in any danger.”
“It’s because people don’t know me that I can even be here,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“What High Lord?” Dayne asked.
“Let’s get out of here,” Olliman said. “I’ll explain as we go how badly you just screwed up.”
Veranix had made a nightly ritual of patrolling Dentonhill, especially since the stories of the missing children had ticked up again. More and more of them.
He still didn’t know what to do about it, but he felt if he took some time each evening, watching from the
