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  “Uh, Dales!” Quinn exclaimed, halting the behemoth’s progress toward the door. Davon took advantage of the distraction and leapt forward, slicing Quinn’s knife arm. He dropped his weapon with a yelp and instinctively backed away, staunching the blood with his other hand. Davon sensed rather than heard a man behind him and mule kicked hard. A boot heel to the groin collapsed his foe.

  Davon turned to face the other two, testing their resolve by feinting forward. Both flinched back. Davon picked the one holding a knife and charged. The liquor in his target’s veins certainly slowed his reactions, and the defense came too slowly. The sabertooth dagger cut through the sweat-soaked shirt leaving a gash across his victim’s chest. The man roared in pain and stumbled back into the loading doors. Behind Davon, the one he had kicked struggled to regain his feet while the only uninjured one held back, waiting for support.

  I can’t let them work together. As long as they did not gang up on him, Davon knew he stood a chance. With a quick turn and step he raised and crossed his knives, bringing them down in a vicious stroke and cutting an x into the chest of the man who had just risen. He dropped again as the fourth man finally took a chance, barreling full force at Davon with a shout of determination. Davon spun gracefully out of the way and stabbed him in the lower back on the way by. The man screamed and arched backwards, dropping to the floor hard, red blooming on his shirt while he writhed.

  Quinn, having recovered from the shock of his wound, retrieved his knife and flung it at Davon with every ounce of force his arm could muster. The weapon hissed through the air. Without thinking, Davon batted the knife out of its trajectory with the dagger in his left hand, sending the weapon harmlessly into the stacks of seed. Clerking should have dulled his natural athleticism, but he was more alive and aware than he could ever remember.

  The warehouse hands now injured and cowed, Davon faced Dales the mammoth-man, who regarded him with curiosity and even a hint of respect. Dales’s abyssal eyes seemed like water on a dark lake, deep, cold, and dangerous. Davon backed away slowly as Dales strode forward out of the shadows. But rather than attack, he took a detour.

  With an expressionless face, Dales brought up a heavy boot and crushed the head of the man Davon had kicked and slashed. The awful crunch sent a shock up Davon’s spine. What is he doing? With similar unfeeling brutality Dales crushed the spine of the other fallen man on the floor. Quinn and the other worker huddled next to the loading doors, faces white with terror.

  Dales’s eyes fell on Davon. “So what are you then?” he asked, voice having lost its usual harsh edge and low class diction. He sounded almost…civilized. “A Queen’s man?”

  “Aren’t we all?” Davon replied, not quite grasping his meaning.

  Dales grinned and thundered forward, teeth clenched. With speed not natural for one of such bulk, Dales aimed a fist for Davon’s head. Davon needed all of his newfound prowess just to slip out of the way in time. The punch hit the warehouse doors. The impact broke the board completely in half and sent a shudder reverberating through the building.

  Davon swung his knife toward Dales’s exposed ribs, but the brute used his offhand to knock the thrust away. Even such a simple movement possessed the power to send Davon skidding to his left, fighting to remain standing. He regained a stable stance, finding Quinn and his companion slinking away into the back of the warehouse. Dales followed Davon’s gaze and turned, pulling his two pistols from his belt. With brutal precision, he gunned them both down with precisely aimed shots to the head.

  Davon pitched one of his daggers at his enemy’s exposed back, landing it in the man’s meaty shoulder. Dales flinched but did not cry out. After discarding his spent one-shot pistols, he reached over with his opposite hand and pulled the knife out.

  “A fine little blade, Mr. Harper,” he said, flinging it aside and away from Davon.

  A watery stain began to run down Dales’s back as he turned to face his prey. Face void of emotion, Dales tore at him, massive footfalls shaking the ground. Davon, wide-eyed and knife at the ready, awaited the charge, crouched and ready to spring. If the Caravan Master took him to the ground, the advantage would irrevocably be the larger man’s. He couldn’t let him get his arms around him, either. Dales leapt for his midsection, hand reaching out to snare him. With nowhere else to go, Davon jumped straight up, bringing his knees up to his chest.

  Dales reacted by raising his hands at the last moment, catching the tip of Davon’s boots and sending him tumbling forward through the air. Dales landed hard on the ground, dust billowing into the lantern light. Davon surprised himself by completing the flip and landing on his feet perfectly balanced. The shock of his own good fortune nearly cost him his life as Dales immediately pushed back with his arms and clamped his legs shut. Davon tried to jump out of the way, but one foot got caught in the vice. Pain erupted up his leg and he fell hard onto his backside, stabbing out at a meaty leg with the fury of a wounded animal.

  The knife sunk deep into Dales’s calf and the vice released. Both men rolled away from each other and struggled to their feet. Chests heaving with exertion, they regarded one another. To Davon’s surprise, his knife in his hand was wet but not bloody. Dales appeared to have sustained no injury, standing on the wounded leg as if nothing had happened. Davon winced as his bruised ankle forced him to hobble as they circled one another.

  “Hello there!” someone yelled from outside the loading door. A man’s face peeked through the hole Dales’s fist had created. “The Watch is coming!”

  “Tell them to hurry!” Davon returned. “These men are trying to kill me!”

  Dales grunted and made his way to the loading doors, keeping his eyes on Davon. Davon had no thought for attack. He would let the City Watch deal with Dales, who, with a single arm, yanked open a loading door and slipped outside. Davon retrieved his other dagger and limped after him cautiously. The man who had called for the Watch had sense enough to stay out of the way as Dales mounted the lead wagon and with a swat of the reins pulled away into the night.

  “I thank you,” Davon said to the white-faced man now gawking at the carnage inside the warehouse. Noticing the man’s fearful gaze at the daggers, Davon sheathed them both.

  Now for a look inside the crates. He limped back to the driverless wagons, horses nervously stamping at the cobblestones as he circled around the back. Running men approached from the street and Davon turned to face them. The City Watch gathered in the light of the warehouse lanterns.

  “Hold it there, Mister,” the first said, leveling his pistol at Davon’s chest. His ash gray uniform had one stripe. A young deputy. Davon held up his hands in a gesture of innocence.

  “The man you want has just fled, officer,” Davon explained. “His companions are dead inside. Send men to search for a wagon driven by a large man named Dales. It carries the same kind of cargo as these here.”

  Four more of the Watch approached warily. “We’ll get your story, Mister. Keep those arms up.”

  “But he’s getting away!”

  “I’ll send more men when I’m sure of what’s going on,” the officer said, surveying the bodies in the warehouse. “Your handiwork, eh? You’ve got a long evening ahead of you, Mister…?”

  “Harper. David Harper, at your service.”

  Chapter 10

  The Lord High Sheriff. Davon could hardly believe it. He had hoped the matter would, at most, result in a couple of interviews with captains of the City Watch, but as soon as he heard one of the officers say, “quadruple homicide,” he knew his plans to hand over the evidence and waltz off into the city were naïve. After two hours of interrogation by a diffident and soft-spoken Captain Gunwale, he heard the dreaded pronouncement: “Get the Lord High Sheriff out of bed and get this man and Mr. Masterson to the palace for interrogation.”

  As they led him at gunpoint through the quiet, dark streets of Bellshire, his imagination conjured up images of spike-covered torture devices in a dimly lit and reeking portion of the Queen’s dungeon.
The reality, fortunately, proved much more accommodating. Captain Gunwale shoved him into a windowless room on the bottom floor of the palace, a room that was several times the superior of the apartment he had rented for the past several months. A simple but commodious bed beckoned to him, while a table, washbasin, and armoire completed the furnishings. Not quite fit for a noble, but more than adequate for a commoner. The fire had even been lit.

  A puffy eyed Lord High Sheriff, accompanied by a couple of officers, entered an hour later. While not in the same realm of size as the hulking Dales, the Lord High Sheriff stood tall and wide. He had gray hair and a mustache used to curling, but the late hour rendered it a little limp. Davon greeted him with a bow and asked him to sit, which he declined. The sheriff measured Davon with a stern gaze and then started the interview the same way as Captain Gunwale, asking about his background, scrutinizing the evidence he had provided, and picking over the details of the deadly encounter in the warehouse.

  “Surely you have inspected the load by now,” Davon said after explaining the particulars again. “What was in the crates?”

  The Lord High Sheriff, who had paced for the entire interrogation, rounded on him from across the room. “That’s none of your business at present. I will tell you, Mr. Harper, that Mr. Masterson, whom I interviewed first, paints quite a different picture of the whole affair. By his account, you are a fiend and an embezzler. Fortunately for you, I am quite convinced that Mr. Masterson is a filthy scoundrel. Be aware, however, that my poor opinion of him in no way improves my opinion of you. You look the clerk and clearly are or were a man of quality, but not everything about you fits. After decades of working the streets, I can smell a man hiding something just as sure as I can smell rum sweat on an alley drunk.”

  “I give you my word—” Davon began.

  The Lord High Sheriff interrupted him with a sardonic belly laugh. “Give me your word! Might as well close the investigation now, right, because of your word? Flame and flood. I’ve had enough words given to me that I could fill the pages of a book—a thick one, mind you. I’d much rather criminals give me a fine country ham than their word. At least I can do something useful with a ham.” The sheriff walked toward the door. “You get some rest, Mr. Harper. We should be at the bottom of this mess tomorrow. Nice sabertooth daggers, by the way,” he said of Davon’s confiscated weaponry. “We don’t see that kind of craft here in the city. I almost hope you’re guilty so I can keep them.”

  Davon thought his worries and curiosity would keep sleep at bay that evening, but the opposite proved true. His alleyway apartment was a breeding ground for noise. If the neighbor’s children above him weren’t jumping up and down until the ceiling seemed ready to crack asunder, the cats outside would launch into an early morning scuffle over the innards of a rat. The streets of the Crooks never slept, or if they did, they slept poorly. The palace apartment was as quiet as a coffin in a crypt, and when the officer pounded on the door in the morning, Davon sat bolt upright with the delightful realization that he had actually enjoyed hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  After a stretch, he stepped out of bed and tested his ankle, finding it balky and stiff. Thankfully, it wasn’t sprained or broken, and after a bit of use loosened up. He washed his face and replaced his shirt and jacket. A plate of breakfast came next, a delicious offering of toasted bread, eggs, and the Sheriff’s apparent favorite, ham. He savored it all, grateful for the departure from the apples and crusty bread that his paltry pay made standard fare for morning meals. After polishing off the toast, he licked the butter from his fingers. Perhaps being the Queen’s prisoner would be a suitable profession if I can’t manage caravan guard. He hadn’t felt so rested and well fed in months.

  The door banged open just as he drank the last of the mulled cider, and the Lord High Sheriff entered looking prim and proper in a pressed uniform of black and gold. His puffy eyes betrayed that he had not passed his night as comfortably as his prisoner. Davon stood and bowed.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered, voice a little hoarse. “The Queen wants to interview the both of you personally.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Out with you.”

  Numb, Davon grabbed his shabby coat and followed the Lord High Sheriff out the door. Would the Queen recognize him? While he had corresponded with the Queen a great deal, he had presented himself personally to Filippa only twice while he was still a Baron—once upon coming into his majority and claiming his estate, and the second time to seek her favor to marry Emile Ironhorn nearly four years ago. Surely the Queen saw so many faces that his bespectacled, bearded disguise and apparent poverty would suffice. Then again, she was Flametouched, and her gift one of discernment.

  He swallowed hard, feeling a little sweaty, and not from the temperature. The light slanting in through the pointed arch windows put the time at mid-morning. How he wished he could get outdoors and enjoy views of pale green leaves struggling to emerge from the branches as spring took hold. As if to spite the horrors of the night before, the day shone cheerily, birds flitting from sky to branch and back to the sky again. If this interview didn’t go well, he might never see them again.

  As they neared the antechamber to the Queen’s Hall, a grumpy, bound Mr. Masterson sneered at him from around two guards that held him fast. Davon wondered why he himself wasn’t similarly restrained.

  “There you are ya ruddy bastard!” Mr. Masterson spat, straining at his irons. “Told the sheriff a long story, I’m sure. You always had it out for me. The truth will out, Mr. Harper. I’ll show ‘em what you really are!”

  “Shut your mouth or I’ll knock the teeth out of your head,” the sheriff warned.

  Couric grumbled something incomprehensibly to himself and fixed his eyes on Davon with a stare that would have cured meat. Davon ignored him, wondering why this wasn’t heading to the courts. Having a matter brought to the direct attention of the Queen after only one night’s investigation seemed odd. While he knew four murdered men were not to be taken lightly, that the Queen would take a personal interest so quickly seemed extraordinary. Perhaps she felt her honor bruised by the fraud perpetrated upon the Aid Society, a cause she had personally endorsed. If Mr. Masterson failed to convince her of his innocence, the rest of his life would either be very short or very miserable. Maybe both.

  At length, the doors ponderously opened, revealing the ox statue at the entrance to the hall. The Lord High Sheriff and his men prodded him forward. Davon pushed his fake glasses up closer to his eyes, stooped as if he had been clerking for fifty years, and exaggerated the limp from his aching ankle. His hat he had to doff in the Queen’s presence, but he hoped his thick beard and common clothing would render him unrecognizable even to Filippa’s sharp gaze.

  With a stately stride the Lord High Sheriff led them forward. Davon and Couric came up behind on either side, each flanked by a soldier. Few nobles populated the gallery for the morning inquiry, for which Davon was grateful. The Queen of Bittermarch leaned on the armrest of her throne, chin in her hand. Her elderly countenance was troubled, but as they entered her piercing gaze took them all in. Abruptly she smiled, failing to stifle a surging laugh. Davon swallowed hard. When she composed herself, her mouth was turned up in amusement, though her eyes exuded severity.

  “What rabble have you brought me this morning?” the Queen asked the Lord High Sheriff. “I somehow expected the perpetrators of this atrocity to be a bit more grandiose. These two appear to be a couple of scrawny rats from the Crooks.”

  The sheriff bowed. “And so they are, Your Grace. Nonetheless, the matter is grave, as I am sure you are well aware. How should you like to proceed?”

  “Let them speak, by all means. Mr. Masterson, are you aware of the charges leveled against you by your clerk?” she asked.

  “That I am, Your Ladyship. All a pack of rotten tripe invented by this wooly-faced fart!”

  The Lord High Sheriff smacked Couric upside the head. “Watch your language or I’ll lop your tongue off.�
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  Filippa let Couric shovel up his side of the tale, light though it was on details but heavy on insults for the ‘rascal David Harper.’ The Queen listened carefully and silently, letting Couric vent and plead and accuse. Davon hardly felt threatened by any of Couric’s nervous and barely coherent testimony; he was more terrified that someone would recognize him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Masterson,” the Queen said once Couric had finished. “Now, Mr. Harper, correct?”

  “Yes, My Lady.”

  “You seem unperturbed by your employer impugning your honor in nearly every conceivable way. Do you have a better tale to tell or simply no honor to impugn?”

  “I am simply comfortable in the truth, Your Highness,” he stated confidently. “Unlike the accusations of Mr. Masterson, mine are accompanied by evidence and proof. You have the documents I collected as well as the seized wagons. I don’t doubt that given a little time, the Lord High Sheriff will find more witnesses and evidence beyond what I have already provided. I shall be exonerated from the charges Mr. Masterson has levied against me and the full treachery of the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company will be exposed. I stand ready to provide testimony at your convenience.”

  “He’s a bloody liar!” Couric yelled. “Don’t listen—”

  The Queen stood with some effort. “You will keep your tongue, Mr. Masterson,” she scolded sharply. “I’ve yet to take the full measure of Mr. Harper, but you? You are a scoundrel, a thief, and a murderer. Sheriff, remove him, please. Find one of our more unpleasant cells and dump him in it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  She returned to her seat and waited while the guards guided a red-faced, shaking Couric, from the room. The Queen folded her hands in her lap, Davon suffering under her searching stare for several moments.

  “Now, Mr. Harper,” she said, “if you would be so kind as to relate to me how you came to work for the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, how you became aware of the mishandling of the Aid Society funds, and what your motivations were for coming forward. Spare no detail, and please, be thorough when you describe the events that precipitated the murders yesterday evening. Your freedom and your life depend upon it.”