Chapter 7: Into The Lair

With Trade’s reluctant blessing, Imoen and I made our way to Farrahd’s home in the Bridge District. The place looked like a cross between a wedding cake and a Calimport whorehouse, with gilded turrets and soaring spires as far as the eye could see. It came as no great shock to find that this mansion was even grander than the Coltranes’s. The Farrahds had been in business for a longer time. However, the peeling paint and the unkempt flowerbeds told me a different story. Either Farrahd’s gardener was hitting the bottle, or the cash flow was beginning to dry up.

“You got the stuff?” I asked.

Imoen winked and patted her belt pouch. “You betcha. Borrowed it from his pocket during his last visit.”

“Good. Be careful in there. I don’t want to have to rescue you.”

“Puh-leeze. This’ll be easier than shaking down a Shadow Thief.” She snapped her fingers and vanished.

I marched up the chipped steps while Imoen slipped around the back. After waiting for a few moments to let her get settled, I pounded on the gleaming white door.

A brick hithouse of a man answered. He had the expression of a guy who’d just found a steaming pile of dog shit on his porch. “Yeah? What do you want?”

I could see I’d have to be careful with this one. He was packing heat, two wicked looking wands jammed in his belt. So I played it straight. “I’m here to see Yusef Farrahd.”

He looked me up and down with a quick flick of his tiny dark eyes. “My master is a very busy man. Why should he see you?”

“Why don’t you give him my name and find out? It’s Sar…”

“I know who you are.” He stepped forward and thrust his face into mine. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll go while the going’s good.”

The doorman’s breath reeked of gin and sulfur. I turned my cough into a laugh. “That’s real good. Did you think that up all by yourself?”

He wasn’t impressed. “A wise guy, eh? Beat it before I have to teach you a lesson.”

“Put up or shut up, kid. I'm not spending my day waiting for you to work up some balls.”

He swore and reached for his wands, but I got there first. I grabbed his wrist and twisted. The wand fell from his nerveless fingers and I caught it with my other hand. He tried to point his other wand at me, but I caught his forearm and wrenched it back. He screamed as I spun him around and slammed him into the wall--hard. I did it a few more times, enough to knock him silly. Imoen wanted a distraction, not a bloodbath.

Keeping a tight hold on his arms, I shoved the doorman through the open door and into the hall. Two guards came out of a room at the end of the hall. They drew their blades, and I shoved my wands into the doorman’s neck. “Don’t come any closer, or your buddy gets it.”

The doorman, whey-faced and sweating, let loose with a string of panicked Calishite gibberish. Whatever he said, it worked. The guards backed off and let us enter the parlor.

Farrahd sat in a leather armchair before the blazing fireplace. Although huddled in a mass of thick blankets, he shivered like a naked elf in a snowstorm. He jumped to his feet as we entered, his blankets sliding into a crimson puddle around his feet.

“Hello, Farrahd,” I said, giving the doorman an extra shove. The man stumbled forward, landing on his knees with a gasp. “Nice flunky you got here. You ought to trade up. It would be a real shame if anything happened to your place.”

The doorman opened his mouth to make another smart comment. Farrahd jerked his head in the direction of the door, and the doorman closed his mouth and went. Farrahd then turned his feverish gaze on me. He’d lost weight over the past year. Skeletons had more meat on their bones than he did, and his glittering black eyes overwhelmed his face.

“What are you doing here, Sarevok?” he asked. “Why do you invade my home in this uncouth fashion?”

“No games, Farrahd.”

“And why do you no longer call me Yusef?” His frown was a masterpiece of gentle disappointment. “I thought we were friends.”

I almost laughed at that hackneyed old ploy. “Don’t give me that. You needed some chump to find your wife and I needed a meal ticket.”

“Very well.” He smoothed his long black beard with a tanned hand. “Perhaps we could sit down and discuss this matter like civilized men.”

I shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

While he rustled up some drinks, I glanced around the room. It was a lot more to my taste than Sis’s pink parlor. The walls were lined with dark wood and expensive art, and the brown velvet chairs begged me to sit down and have a smoke. So I sat down and did just that. A movement in the corner nearly startled me into a cough, but it was just Imoen settling behind a painted screen. She winked at me before nudging the delicate cloth between us.

Farrahd handed over a whisper-thin glass of Calimshar Amber. At least the guy wasn’t cheap with his booze. He sank down into a plush armchair and flashed me a predatory smile. “To business,” he said, raising his drink. The gold ring on his pinky glinted in the soft candlelight.

“To business.”

We clinked glasses and drank. The wine slid down my throat like tawny silk. I didn’t say no to another.

“I see you like my wine.”

The second glass disappeared as quickly as the first. “You have good taste, Farrahd. This is one hell of a bachelor pad. I didn’t know you collected paintings, though. I thought you collected corpses.”

Anyone else would have been shaken by that, but Farrahd only raised an eyebrow. “What an interesting choice of words, Sarevok. You must shine at parties.”

“Can it, Farrahd. You know why I’m here.”

“Perhaps I do,” he admitted.

“That’s nice. I like it when that happens. Now spill it.”

He shook his head. He had a good poker face, but the slight tremor of his wineglass gave him away. “I have nothing to say. I am sorry, of course, that such a worthy competitor has passed on, but I had nothing to do with it.” His voice frosted over. “And I resent the implication that one such as I would deign to perform this lowly deed.”

“That’s your story, is it?” I tossed the guttering end of my cigar into a brass vase, keeping my eyes peeled for the faint shimmer of magical energy.

“Do you have a better one?”

“I think maybe you had an idea to whack the competition. That’s what I think.”

He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. “You are insane, Sarevok. Completely insane.”

There it was, a golden mist, hanging in the air above Farrahd’s head. I swooped in for the kill. “Did you do it, Farrahd? Did you kill Kelsey Coltrane?”

Farrahd opened his mouth and froze. “Yes,” he rasped. I could tell the guy was serious. As serious as a gut stab.

I waited a moment for his trembling to subside. Nice and easy, that was the way to handle him now. Imoen’s Fantabulous Super-Duper Lemon-Freshened Interrogation Spell, as she called it, was useful, but fragile. If Farrahd struggled hard enough, he could shake it off before I got what I wanted to know.

“You were the one who shot him? Or did you hire someone?”

“No, no, I could not trust a servant with the job.” Farrahd wiped his forehead, sweating more than an ice sculpture on a sunny day. “Delegation has its place, but when you want something done right, you must do it yourself.”

Questioning Farrahd was taking more out of me than I’d anticipated. My own brow was getting damp just watching the guy twist in the wind. I peeled myself from my cushy chair and went straight to the bar. Pouring another glass of wine, I asked, “Why did you do it?”

“Because she ruined me, Mirielle and that unnatural sorcerous husband of hers! Father’s business went downhill after he and Surayah died. All of our oh-so-loyal customers scurried off to less depressing pastures. After years of struggle, I finally clawed my way back to the top.” His jaw clenched. Veins stood out on his neck, their ropy lines the same sick color of a bruise. “That was when the Coltranes swept in and took it all away from me! I had to do something, for my business, and to avenge them…”

This plan was actually working. I felt almost dizzy with triumph, but I couldn’t waste time patting myself on the back. “Avenge who?”

Farrahd struggled to his feet, his face ashen. “She did it… she laughed when she told me… she… she…”

A drop of sweat beaded on his forehead, and the fog of magic began to dissipate. Damn, Imoen was losing him.

“Tell me! Quickly!”

A loud squawk grabbed my attention. We both whirled to see Imoen lifted into view by unseen hands. My eyes darted to the door. The doorman stood there, smirking at me. It looked like he’d found a friend, a sinister looking mage with a nice manicure and a nose ring. I guessed he was the one responsible for Imoen’s discovery.

I raised my stolen wands, but they slipped from my sweaty fingers. My knees buckled, and I fell forward onto the plush carpet, like a goblin who zigged when he should have zagged. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was wrong. The queasy mess in my gut told me everything I needed to know. The wine. Never drink a suspect’s wine. Imoen was right. The booze was going to kill me after all.

Someone kicked me onto my side. I looked up into a ring of cold steel. The guards’ faces were grim, and I could see nothing good in store for Imoen or myself.

A big toothy grin slashed itself across Farrahd’s face. “Take them downstairs, and be sure not to forget the scrawny witch. I have such plans for them.” His shrill cackle rang in my ears as something hit me hard on the back of the skull and the world faded to black.