Dragon Precinct Read Free Page B

day shift, yes?”
    Jared smiled. “Unless the old bastard’s choked on his own bile since roll call this morning, yes, sir.”
    Torin returned the smile. “Assuming that to be the case, have him send all his slowest and stupidest guards here, and reassign all the fast smart ones to double their foot patrols. Half the population of Dragon is gathered outside, and most of the remaining half will get it into their heads to take advantage of it.”
    “Will do, sir.”
    Danthres saw the sense in Torin’s request, though not in his making it—it wasn’t their duty to do Dragon’s job for them, after all—and was about to say so when a deep voice came from behind the front desk.
    “Ah, Lieutenants ban Wyvald and Tresyllione. It is well to be both of you seeing.”
    Turning, Danthres saw a short man with a large mustache: Olaf, the Dog and Duck’s owner. Danthres had first met him fifteen years earlier, when she first showed up in Cliff’s End.
    Most people who came to the port city either had someplace else to go or nowhere else to go. Danthres had most assuredly been in the latter category, so when she arrived, she had stayed here until she secured a more permanent dwelling. The Dog and Duck had been the first lodgings she found in town that she could afford but did not smell like someone had died in them.
    Olaf had changed very little in the intervening decade and a half. His head was still bereft of hair, save for the massive thatch between his nose and upper lip—indeed, the only significant physical change from fifteen years ago was that the huge mustache had gone from black to white. As he came out from behind the desk, Danthres had to blink from the glare of the sun shining through the windows on the staircase and reflecting off his pate. His bald head combined with his narrow shoulders, protuberant belly, and skinny legs to give him the air of a small egg balanced on a large egg balanced on two sticks.
    Olaf was a native of the islands to the east, and his grasp of Common hadn’t improved in fifteen years either, though Danthres suspected that it was an affectation on his part and, if pressed, he could speak the language as well as anyone in the Lord and Lady’s court.
    “I’m surprised to see you in such a good mood,” Torin said, “given the circumstances.”
    “The circumstances, she is wonderful,” Olaf said, a grin trying to peek out from under his voluminous mustache. “Two years ago, I say to myself, ‘Olaf,’ I say, ‘remodel, you need to do.’ New mattresses, new curtains, new furnishings, better kitchen, new sign—even I am hiring a musician to play bar nights. All is good, close inn for month in winter when nobody come anyhow. I think this will be good, come in droves, will the people. So I close, and three more inns, they open and my business they steal! Last year been awful, but now—now it is good. ‘Come to the Dog and Duck,’ they will say, ‘the final place resting of Gan Brightblade.’ So you tell Olaf what to do, and do it, I will. I have gold mine here. Perhaps platinum mine, even.”
    “I’m thrilled for you,” Danthres said with as little sincerity as she could muster. “What room is Brightblade in?”
    “Room 12, right at stairs of the top.”
    “Good.” She looked around for Jared, but he was probably still upstairs rousting patrons. Another guard stood at the entrance to the dining area. “You—has someone called the M.E.?”
    The guard blinked several times. “I think so, ma’am.”
    “Someone did,” Olaf said. “Came by did one of those mage-birds with message that magical examiner would arrive in an hour and a half.”
    “When was this?” Torin asked.
    “Half an hour ago.” Olaf frowned. “Why so long does it take? He is wizard, yes?”
    “Yes, but a Teleportation Spell takes a great deal out of him,” Torin said, “and doesn’t allow him the energy to do the peel-back.”
    “Still,” Olaf said, “so long it should not take to be walking