Author's Note: I'm often amazed but just how few words 50,000 actually is; not just in the time it takes to write it, but in how little of a story can be told. Watch your average film and count the minutes before things really kick into high gear and onward towards climax. I would bet an average of them hit the halfway point before you truly see the plot develop toward its eventual close.
I say this knowing that the scene I'm about to post here is past the 30,000 word mark, past the 56th page in an 8.5x11 layout; a not-insignificant body of work. Yet our hero and his partners are still in the process of gathering information on the initial pair of murders (which they have only recently discovered are linked).
To think I may only be a third of the way into this work and still deeply mired in what I hope is at least cleverly worded exposition is a little daunting when one considers just how much this is the small house salad to the enticing entree yet to come. I hope you enjoy.
- andy
* * *
Satisfied at the retelling, A.J. squinted up into the high light from the mirror mesh that was forever focused on this particular haven of commerce as if more light might actually lend purity to the vendors or their seedy patrons. The woven network of high, angled mirrors managed to catch even the last slivers of light from the desert valley outside without even so much as a drop of magic to feed them. He might have taken more pride in the feat, were it not for the mirrors’ irritating habit of perpetually guiding the light directly into his eyes.
Squinting through the sun spots, he tried to refocus his eyes and his mind on the scene, somewhere between the thousand scuffling feet of the marketplace. Somewhere nearby, only two nights prior, a young human boy struggling to earn a day’s wage had been stabbed multiple times and left for dead alongside his bulging purse. Though both the body and the silver were long gone, there had to be clues left that might lead back to the killer, or killers, who had seen fit to carve into the boy like a stalkermeat pie .
His focus was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out over top of the constant din. “Well, if it isn’t old Quarterstock himself,” said the constable, making her way up the row to where the trio now stood. The golden sash of her station shimmered in the bright light of the afternoon, standing out sharply against her otherwise haggard appearance. The two dwarven officers following behind her could easily have passed for twins, right down to the cut of their beards. Otherwise, they looked every bit as provincial as the woman who led them, their silver sashes seemingly the only thing of any luster they owned in a city full of metal and gemstones.
The constable herself was squat of figure, even for a dwarf, with long gray hair that trailed almost to her ankles, even when bound in its thick braid. “And only two days late,” she added, stopping short to glance down at the gnome. “That’s a new record for you, isn’t it?”
“Breaking new ground every day,” A.J. answered, making an overelaborate gesture of bowing to the constable. Nathaniel echoed with it far more genuine intent. Dede remained rigid, not taking her eyes off the woman or the leather cudgel at her hip.
“Constable,” she said stiffly. “I see you got my message. Your man said you couldn’t make it.”
“Well, I can always make time for the good people of this city,” the constable said to no one in particular, turning to gaze out into the busy street. “Or to watch Quarterstock trip all over his little legs trying to figure out what happened here.”
“We know what happened here,” A.J. told her, adjusting his spectacles pointedly as he watched the patrons milling about on the same clustered street. “What I mean to uncover is why and how.”
“How?” the constable laughed, holding her not-insubstantial belly. “I think maybe you’ve been standing in the mirrorlight too long, boy. That courier had more holes in him than the highway road.” With a long glance up at the tall Terrace guardsman accompanying them, she added: “Or do you think maybe he drowned?”
“Of course he was stabbed,” A.J. admitted, squatting next to the curb and running his fingers along a handful of white scuff marks where the stone had been stuck by something hard enough to leave a mark. The constable just chuckled, but before she could state the obvious, the gnome rose to his feet again. “The question is, how did someone get close enough to a runner, a human runner, to stab him not once but three times?” To the constable’s befuddled expression, he added: “Your man was kind enough to forward us your initial report. At least, I assume it was only an initial report. Certainly, someone with your depth of experience didn’t think the case closed after just a preliminary inspection with no formal examination—“
“A courier was mugged,” the woman interrupted, “a shifter with no house papers on him. There was nothing left to do but wait till the noble who sent him contacted us wondering why his shipment never arrived.”
“Yes, brilliant,” A.J. replied, still distracted by the scuff marks at his feet, “unless of course that selfsame noble had just been served a toxic supper and was too busy spitting up blood to file the proper paperwork.” His eyes followed the line of the scuff marks back out into the street, trying to gauge the angle of approach. “Not that you should have needed to wait for an invitation to know something was amiss.”
“What are you talking about?” the constable grunted, following his eyes out into the street. “It looked every bit like a typical robbery. I bet pennies to platinum you would have come to the same conclusion, if you weren’t too bored to even bother listening to the details.”
Dede did her best to keep the smile on her face to a dull roar. The constable wasn’t known for her keen insights, which made it all the more precious to hear her nail A.J. squarely on the nose. The gnome, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. “It didn’t strike you as odd that his purse full of coin was still heavy on his belt when you found him, or that on the most crowded street in Stenwahl, no one heard a courier’s cry for help?”
“It was the middle of the night,” the constable explained. “Everyone would have been in bed.”
“Exactly!” A.J. countered. “Not a soul on the streets. So how did his attackers get close enough to him to stab him three times? Surely, he would have known he was being followed.”
“They?” Dede echoed, raising an eyebrow at her partner. “Now who’s jumping to conclusions?”
“Runners,” A.J. explained, “are trained to be the fastest men and women in Stenwahl. Human runners,” he added, glancing up at Nathaniel, “are especially coveted for their long stride. That same height affords them a vantage point few others can boast. Assuming they aren’t too busy bowing to everyone in so much as an inch of imitation silk…”
Nathaniel opened his mouth to explain, but thought better of it, simply bowing his head to hide the sudden color rushing to his cheeks. Had A.J. not been so hell-bent on laying out the scene for the constable, he might have noticed the death glare from his partner behind him. “For a human runner walking alone on an empty street at night to be stabbed means he is either blind, drunk, or set upon by more than one assailant.”
He pointed to the intersection, tracing an invisible line with his finger up toward the base of Hammond’s Gate. “Miners call it a ‘pot trap,’” he explained, “on account of the men who go deep into the tunnels to try and drive nests of cavestalkers out into the open. They beat on pots and pans and generally make as much noise as possible, scaring the stalkers up the tunnel and into the waiting cages. The poor beasts are so busy running from their harmless pursuers that they never see the real danger right in front of them.”
The constable just laughed, shaking her head at the gnome. “Boy, you do love to hear yourself talk,” she said. “Hammond’s Walk is the only road up to the Terrace. It wouldn’t take much for someone to lie in wait just to jump messengers on their way up to the council seat. The right bit of paper goes a lot farther than coin in this city. Just means you’re dealing with a smarter thief than most. Oh, and for your information,” she added, taking particular pride in the words, “there was a highway breeze two nights ago, thicker than soup and twice as messy. No one standing could’ve so much as seen the shoes on his feet, no matter how tall he was.”
To her surprise, the gnome started to grin. “Then why was he running?”
“Running?” the constable scoffed. “They’re called ‘runners,’ ya daft halfer . What did you think it meant?”
Dede’s eyes flashed to A.J. at once, watching the gnome carefully. Not many people could get away with calling a gnome ‘halfer’ in polite company, let alone to one’s face. It was all she could do not to lay into the constable herself, but the look on A.J.’s face held her rooted to the spot.
“Runners,” the gnome said with a smile, “typically walk, on account of the long distances they have to travel, and the many steps twixt here and the Terrace, where this one was heading. A sprained ankle may as well be a broken neck to someone whose income relays on his feet, doubly so a shifter who is likely down on coin as it is. In the throes of a thick highway fog, I would argue that anyone so worried about his next meal and dependent on a working pair of legs to earn it is the least likely person to be found running at, pardon, ‘break neck’ speed up the Walk.”
The gnome paused to enjoy the color coming to the constable’s face. She rather reminded him of Nathaniel’s captain for a moment, minus the beard and plus several dozen pounds. “And for your information,” he continued, “the term ‘runner’ is really more of a metaphor, since ‘walker’ doesn’t inspire anyone with terribly much confidence in expedient delivery.
“Runners generally only run when a message is of a particularly urgent nature,” he explained, “or else when they’re in immediate threat of being intercepted. ‘Mugged,’ as you called it. Since Counselor Harrows’ proposal was not going to be seen till the morning, it was anything but urgent, so we have to assume the latter, unless you think it likely our messenger fancied a heart-pounding jog at half-past the night bell in the middle of a blinding fog.”
A.J. paused to adjust his spectacles, pointing to the white marks at his feet. “These marks were made by something small but strong, like the bronze cap of a runner’s case. You can still see some of the color in the marks there,” he added, squatting low to draw the woman’s attention to the particular mark in question, “meaning they were struck at some considerable speed, especially for something as light as a scroll case to have left so noticeable a mark. My guess is that the runner landed on top of it.”
“What makes you say that?” the constable asked, trying to sound like she had already guessed ahead at the answer. A.J. simply gestured to the small, dark stain a few feet further into the street, where a handful of flies had gathered to inspect the dried patch of blood.
“Strange for someone paid to walk the streets night and day to trip on his own feet,” he said, watching the constable’s reaction closely, “least of all with enough force to draw blood. Unless, of course, he was too busy looking behind him to see where he was going.” He glanced back down the street again, imagining the poor courier dashing out of the fog, harried by unseen figures hiding in the soupy mist. “Pot trap.”
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