The youngster hurried off.
James looked at Jazhara and said, “I think he was merely a convenience for the Nighthawks and the Crawler.” Shaking his head at how little he knew, James added, “Or whoever else is behind all this madness.” He sighed. “I think the Nighthawks and whoever is employing them wanted to ensure no one could raise that ship but themselves. If I’m to guess, there’s someone up in Ylith who’s arranging for a team from their Wreckers’ Guild to head down to Widow’s Point - or there will be soon.” Pointing to the belt pouch in which Jazhara had Kendaric’s scroll, James added, “Finding that scroll would simply have made things easier for the Nighthawks. They would have promised Jorath whatever he wanted, gotten him to raise the ship, then killed him.” Glancing down at the unconscious journeyman, James shook his head in disgust. “Either way, he ends up a dead man. What a waste.”
“So what now?” asked Jazhara.
“We visit Lucky Pete and see if we can uncover this last nest of the Nighthawks and stamp them out. Then we find Kendaric. I think it’s safe to say he’s no longer a suspect.”
“How do we find him?”
“We look for the woman he was engaged to; perhaps she will know somewhere to start the search.”
“Jorath said he didn’t recall who she was.”
James grinned. “Maybe the journeyman didn’t, but I bet someone around here remembers. Probably old Abigail knows. Gossip like that doesn’t say hidden long.”
Jazhara said, “I’ll go ask her.”
James nodded. “I’ll wait for the city watch.”
A few minutes later Jazhara returned just as two city watchmen arrived with the apprentice. James instructed them to take Jorath to the palace and told them what to say to Duke Gardan. The watchmen saluted and carried off the still-unconscious guildsman.
After they left, James asked, “Did you get a name?”
Jazhara nodded. “Her name is Morraine. She runs a shop called The Golden Grimoire.”
James nodded. “Just your kind of place. An apothecary shop with a bit of magic for sale, according to rumor. It’s in the nicer part of town.” He glanced around and said, “We’re finished here.”
“Where to first?” asked Jazhara as they strode toward the door.
“First, to the palace to collect a half-dozen or so of the duke’s best swordsmen. Then back to Ye Bitten Dog.”
“You expect trouble?” asked Jazhara.
James laughed. “Always.”
EIGHT - Kendaric
James signaled.
The squire and Jazhara surveyed their surroundings as they walked toward Ye Bitten Dog. Six of the Prince’s Royal Household Guard waited at the intersection of the two streets nearest the entrance of the inn, hiding in the shadows as night fell upon the city. In addition, a young constable, Jonathan Means, was positioned across the street. He was the son of the former sheriff, Wilfred Means, and despite no direct order from the Prince, he was acting in his father’s stead. James had also recruited him as one of his first confidential agents in what he hoped one day would be the Kingdom’s intelligence corps. Young Means would wait fifteen minutes, then enter the inn. Alternately, at any sign of trouble, he would signal to the squad of soldiers and they would rush the building.
James and Jazhara wanted to see what sort of information they might weasel out of Lucky Pete before resorting to threats. And if there were Nighthawks in residence, it would be useful to have a riot squad close at hand.
James pushed open the door. Inside, the night’s revelries were starting to pick up, as whores and dockworkers on their way home from a day’s labor lined up three deep at the tables to carouse.
Glancing around, James realized they had caught the attention of a worker near the door who was looking at James and Jazhara’s fine clothing. “What have we here?” he said loudly.
His companion turned. “Looks like a court boot-lick and his Keshian pet, to me.”
Without bothering to look at the man, Jazhara said, “Careful, my friend. This pet has claws.”
The man so addressed blinked in confusion, but his friend exploded into laughter.
“That’s enough,” James said. “We seek no trouble.” He took Jazhara’s elbow and guided her through to the bar at the rear of the room, where the owner was filling tankards and handing them to a bar-boy to carry to the tables.
As they approached, Lucky Pete looked up. “What do you want now?”
James said, “Just some information, Pete.”
The boy took the flagons and hurried off, and Pete wiped up a puddle of spilled ale with a filthy bar rag. “It’ll cost ya. Like always.”
“Did you hear about the troubles at the Wreckers’ Guild?”
Pete shrugged. “Maybe.”
James slid a coin across the rough-hewn planks of the bar.