The Consuls of the Vicariate by Brian Kittrell Page A

black robes took off down the opposite street. Laedron caught a glimpse of red symbols on the back of the man’s cloak, small, indistinguishable characters written in two vertical rows from his shoulders to the hem.
    “A killer? Marac!” Laedron sprang to his feet. With Marac’s heavy footsteps on his heels, Laedron pursued the shadowy figure through the alley. Laedron turned the next corner and heard the sound of a sword being drawn behind him—Marac readying himself for a fight. He drew his dagger. Better this than nothing, I guess .
    Rounding the next corner, Laedron felt a sting on his throat and recoiled out of reflex. He remembered that same feeling when Heidrik, Gustav’s minion who had tortured Marac and Mikal, had lashed him in the face. The feeling was unmistakable and familiar, the warmth of blood flowing across his skin. He turned and plunged the dagger into the cloaked man as hard as he could. Laedron’s breathing hastened while his target’s slowed and became shallow. From the amount of blood on his hands, Laedron knew that he had hit his mark and hit it well.
    The man’s dagger dropped from his left hand, and a bit of wood from his right, as he collapsed. A pool of blood spread slowly and soaked his garments.
    Laedron took a step back to keep his boots from getting drenched. Laedron’s eyes widened when he realized that the length of wood was, in fact, a wand. “It’s a mage, Marac! Have I killed one of our countrymen?”
    “Keep your voice down, Lae.” Marac leaned down and removed the cloth covering the man’s face. “Doesn’t look like any Sorbian I’ve ever seen.”
    “We haven’t seen them all. What if he’s like us? What if he was on a mission, too?”
    “If he was on a mission, I doubt it came from the same people we serve. Look, a tattoo on his neck. Unlike anything I’ve seen before.”
    Laedron turned the man’s head to the side, and the tattoo on his neck was illuminated by the lantern light. “It’s a word.”
    “A word? What does it say?”
    “ Kivesh .”
    “Kivesh?” Marac asked. “Well, what does that mean?”
    “Nothing. It’s a name.”
    “How can you read it?”
    “It’s written in an old language. Zyvdredi.”
    Marac’s face twisted with apparent shock and fear. “Zyvdredi? Here?”
    “It would seem so.” Laedron rummaged through the man’s pockets. In the belt, he found a black cloth pouch.
    “What’s that?” Marac asked.
    Without responding, Laedron opened the purse and pulled out a handful of black stones, each etched with a runic symbol that he couldn’t place, symbols similar to the ones along the back of the man’s cloak. A few of the stones sparkled with an artificial glow as if reverberating with energy. The others only reflected the light of the lantern posts.
    “What are those, Lae? What does all this mean?”
    “I don’t know.” Laedron returned the stones to the bag and put it in his pocket. “I’m going to hold on to them until we know for sure.”
    “What do we do now?”
    Laedron retrieved the man’s wand and tucked it into his other boot. “Back to the dead guard. I need to see what I can discover about the body. It may lend a clue.”
    Marac led the way back to the militiaman’s body, and Laedron searched the area for any sign of onyx stones.
    “Nothing here. Nothing more than we already know, which isn’t much.”
    Laedron reached for his wand, but Marac grabbed his hand before he could draw it.
    “If we’re to do this, we’d better try the old-fashioned way—find witnesses and look around. If you’re discovered, we’d be in deep water.”
    Laedron stood with a sigh, then turned when he heard a door close behind him. “Where was that?”
    “Couldn’t tell,” Marac said.
    Believing the source of the sound to be close, Laedron knocked on the door opposite the dead guard, then listened intently. He heard the shuffling of feet against a wooden floor on the other side, but no one answered. He knocked again.
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