The Consuls of the Vicariate by Brian Kittrell

leading the way through the hall and into the street. He soon found the beginning of their appointed route, the mouth of a narrow back street near the western wall of the Ancient Quarter. It couldn’t have been a well-lit street, now could it? Laedron sighed.
    Marac’s face radiated his concern. “Everything all right?”
    “Yes, yes. I only wonder what we’ll find along this road.”
    “This one’s as good as any other. We’ve been in tighter spots.”
    “Let’s get to it, then. It’s not going to patrol itself.”
    With the sun setting on the horizon, Laedron watched the lantern lighters scurry through the streets. The light posts gave off a dim ambient glow, just enough for him to make out important features, but not enough to clear the shadows that gave him anxiety. How entertaining it will be for our assailants when I draw this dagger . I know more about fishing than wielding this thing, and that’s pathetic indeed . He was glad to have Marac at his side; he knew the miller’s son had paid close attention to sword training.
    Marac walked over to the first business they encountered, turned the knob, and jiggled the door in its frame.
    “What are you doing?” Laedron asked.
    “Making sure it’s secure. If we’re to be militia, we might as well do it right.”
    Laedron checked the next door. “What do we do if they’re unlocked?”
    “Reach in and lock it, I suppose. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a bit new to this whole patrolling thing.”
    “We just have to stay close to Jurgen’s apartment. I’d die if anything happened to him.”
    “Don’t you mean to her ?” Marac asked.
    “What? No, of course not. Don’t be silly.”
    “What’s silly about it? Has your training made you cold to any possibilities other than the mission?”
    “Now’s not the time. We have a war to stop.”
    Marac gave him a cross glare. “All duty, eh? What will become of you when duty ends and all that remains is a tired old man?”
    “I have some time before that, I should think. Plenty of time by my calculations.”
    “Wait too long, and you’ll find things passing you by, my friend. Wait, yes, but no longer than you must.”
    “We’re too different, and her father just passed. I don’t want to simply be a replacement for someone she’s lost.”
    “No, she doesn’t strike me as that type. She’s willful, and she might even be as stubborn as you. From my limited experience, I could say that you two have several things in common—a love of books and knowledge, a quiet demeanor, all wrapped around a fiery, passionate center.”
    “All of that aside, I doubt she’s interested in me. I’ve been in her embrace, but it was only to comfort her in her grief. Nothing more.”
    “Then bring her back from the darkness, Lae. Give her hope. Won’t you at least try?”
    Laedron stopped.
    “Well, won’t you?” Marac took him by the shoulder. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sorry if I offended, but it’s—”
    “Look. Just there,” Laedron said, pointing down an alley. In a wider part of the alleyway, a pair of shoes—clearly still worn by a body—lay exposed, and the person to whom they were attached wasn’t moving. Laedron could gather little detail since the body was mostly concealed behind a few barrels.
    “Oh, probably a vagabond. We’re militia, right? Let’s check him out.” Marac approached, looked over the tops of the barrels, then turned back to Laedron. “It’s a militia guard, Lae. He’s not moving.”
    Laedron walked around the barrels and crouched beside the man. Searching for wounds, he said, “There’s no blood. Nothing. He isn’t breathing.”
    “Roll him over.” Marac walked to the other side of the man and hunched over him. “Check his back.”
    “Nothing there, either. No blood, nothing.” Laedron scanned the distance when something made a noise in the next alley, a sound much like a pan hitting the ground. “What was that?”
    Across from them, a man cowled in