noticed that his noisy collision with the rubbish had failed to attract even the slightest hint of attention; not a light in a window, not the creak of a door. Grab moaned as he regained his footing.
Shapes loomed up ahead; the large man who’d hit him had now been joined by a second, slimmer figure. Grab turned on his heels and started to run, hopelessly, back toward the church. After a few steps, he hesitated, then stopped and peered over his shoulder. The two men weren’t moving; they were simply standing there, closing off the end of the street.
Grab tried to think clearly, his head still fuzzy from the strength of the big man’s punch. They were obviously herding him toward a greater danger. He shook his head, then turned back and practically walked into the gnome.
Mixer was standing in the street, his brass teeth glinting in the glow of the streetlamp beside him. He was holding a large and very nasty-looking crossbow.
Grab turned yet again, and ran. His hope was to break through the human barricade up ahead. He made a last, desperate dash.
Lightning split the sky, and thunder echoed through the clouds. The rain came down hard …
… and so did Grab Dafisful.
“Ahhhh!”
The bolt struck home, spearing into the thief’s back and forcing him forward. Grab gasped, his legs folded under him. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead. He laid a hand flat against the cobbles and tried to push himself up, but the gnome was on him.
Thunder boomed overhead, announcing its warning to any citizens who hadn’t already turned their mirrors to face the wall.
“Ahhh! No! Mercy, I beg you!”
Mixer drove a boot into the small of the thief’s back, reloaded the crossbow, and aimed it at his head. Then he pulled the trigger.
There was a sickening thud.
As the last of the rain came down, the corpse of Grab Dafisful was dragged into a nearby doorway and left propped up against the door like a stuffed dummy. Mixer smiled at his handiwork, and promptly departed.
PART TWO:
THE DUKE AND THE DETECTIVE
SEVENTEEN
M ODESET WAS FUMING, AND with good reason.
He’d been walking through the streets all night. He was dirty, hungry, and worst of all, he didn’t have anyone else to blame. All he had were choices. He didn’t want to go back to the Steeplejack Inn without the others (the innkeeper was enough of a pain as it was), and he certainly had no intention of loitering anywhere near the palace, so he’d decided to kick off his new day with a depressed stroll around the harbor district instead.
It wasn’t a bad day, by Dullitch standards, and the sun glinted off the highly polished paintwork of The Mostark , the viscount’s supreme galleon. Modeset wondered if he’d ever own such a ship again. Considering his current finances, a rowing boat seemed the more likely option, if they hired them out.
Heading along the quay, he came upon a small platform where two dwarfs were unloading a heavy crate of Legrash Ale. They tried to lift the crate, failed, and then proceeded to drag it off the platform, accompanied by an orchestra of grunts and groans. Modeset asked if he could lend a hand, expecting them to decline.
“You’re on,” said the older of the two, a dwarf with a beard almost down to his ankles. “Get at the side and guide us in.”
Reluctantly, Modeset did as he was told. The dwarfs took a breath, lifted again, and set off, remarking on how the ale seemed even heavier than before. They were right, too; Modeset didn’t like to admit it, but after the first few feet, they were actually carrying him as well. Some of these dockers, he reflected, had more sinews than sense.
At length, the crate was set down and the dwarf with the beard consulted a tattered scroll fastened to the lid.
“I’m done believin’ it,” he said. “What kind of grizzled nut am I?”
His colleague waited for the bad news.
Modeset, sensing the possibility of further involvement, had already taken a step back.
“This is supposed to go
Shapes loomed up ahead; the large man who’d hit him had now been joined by a second, slimmer figure. Grab turned on his heels and started to run, hopelessly, back toward the church. After a few steps, he hesitated, then stopped and peered over his shoulder. The two men weren’t moving; they were simply standing there, closing off the end of the street.
Grab tried to think clearly, his head still fuzzy from the strength of the big man’s punch. They were obviously herding him toward a greater danger. He shook his head, then turned back and practically walked into the gnome.
Mixer was standing in the street, his brass teeth glinting in the glow of the streetlamp beside him. He was holding a large and very nasty-looking crossbow.
Grab turned yet again, and ran. His hope was to break through the human barricade up ahead. He made a last, desperate dash.
Lightning split the sky, and thunder echoed through the clouds. The rain came down hard …
… and so did Grab Dafisful.
“Ahhhh!”
The bolt struck home, spearing into the thief’s back and forcing him forward. Grab gasped, his legs folded under him. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead. He laid a hand flat against the cobbles and tried to push himself up, but the gnome was on him.
Thunder boomed overhead, announcing its warning to any citizens who hadn’t already turned their mirrors to face the wall.
“Ahhh! No! Mercy, I beg you!”
Mixer drove a boot into the small of the thief’s back, reloaded the crossbow, and aimed it at his head. Then he pulled the trigger.
There was a sickening thud.
As the last of the rain came down, the corpse of Grab Dafisful was dragged into a nearby doorway and left propped up against the door like a stuffed dummy. Mixer smiled at his handiwork, and promptly departed.
PART TWO:
THE DUKE AND THE DETECTIVE
SEVENTEEN
M ODESET WAS FUMING, AND with good reason.
He’d been walking through the streets all night. He was dirty, hungry, and worst of all, he didn’t have anyone else to blame. All he had were choices. He didn’t want to go back to the Steeplejack Inn without the others (the innkeeper was enough of a pain as it was), and he certainly had no intention of loitering anywhere near the palace, so he’d decided to kick off his new day with a depressed stroll around the harbor district instead.
It wasn’t a bad day, by Dullitch standards, and the sun glinted off the highly polished paintwork of The Mostark , the viscount’s supreme galleon. Modeset wondered if he’d ever own such a ship again. Considering his current finances, a rowing boat seemed the more likely option, if they hired them out.
Heading along the quay, he came upon a small platform where two dwarfs were unloading a heavy crate of Legrash Ale. They tried to lift the crate, failed, and then proceeded to drag it off the platform, accompanied by an orchestra of grunts and groans. Modeset asked if he could lend a hand, expecting them to decline.
“You’re on,” said the older of the two, a dwarf with a beard almost down to his ankles. “Get at the side and guide us in.”
Reluctantly, Modeset did as he was told. The dwarfs took a breath, lifted again, and set off, remarking on how the ale seemed even heavier than before. They were right, too; Modeset didn’t like to admit it, but after the first few feet, they were actually carrying him as well. Some of these dockers, he reflected, had more sinews than sense.
At length, the crate was set down and the dwarf with the beard consulted a tattered scroll fastened to the lid.
“I’m done believin’ it,” he said. “What kind of grizzled nut am I?”
His colleague waited for the bad news.
Modeset, sensing the possibility of further involvement, had already taken a step back.
“This is supposed to go
Similar Books
