The Consuls of the Vicariate by Brian Kittrell Page B

muffled, “Go away!” came from beyond the door.
    “I won’t go away. Open, in the name of the militia,” Laedron said, trying to sound serious and authoritative.
    The door creaked open only an inch or two. “What ye want?” The voice was that of an elderly male, probably crotchety and set in his ways, but little else.
    “Did you see what passed here not long ago?” Laedron asked, pointing over his shoulder.
    “No, and we don’t want any trouble. Go away.”
    Before the man could slam the door, Laedron forced it open just enough to lodge his boot in the crack. “We’re not done here. If you’ve seen anything, you need to tell us.”
    “What are you doing there?” a voice shouted from up the alley. The jingle of metal armor matched pace with footsteps, and Laedron recognized the newcomer as one of the younger militia guards.
    “Investigating a crime,” Laedron replied. “Go get more guards. The killer is up this street. Take the next right, then turn right again. There you shall find him in a puddle of his own blood. Go!”
    “You caught the one who did this?” the elderly man behind the door whispered, opening the door. “Is it true?”
    The man wore a long, white beard identical to his hair, both unkempt and dirty. He gave off a horrible odor reminiscent of sweat and spoiled milk, and his clothes were those of a beggar.
    “Yes,” Laedron said, trying to hide a grimace. “Now, will you tell me what you saw? Or do you insist on playing this game even still?”
    “Lower your voice, young man. There are ears that might overhear us. Come in, and I shall tell you what I saw.”
    Entering the cramped domicile, Laedron was thankful he hadn’t eaten anything recently because the smell and conditions within the pitiful house would have surely made him lose his stomach on the floor.
    “What in the hells is that smell?” Laedron asked, unable to contain his disgust. “Are you harboring the dead beneath your floors?”
    “My soup, young man. Sounds like you wouldn’t care for any.”
    “If it’s putting off a scent like that, I think I’ll pass,” Laedron said, and Marac waved his hand in agreement.
    “Well, have a seat, then.” The man gestured at a pair of rickety wooden chairs set around a matching table, then took a seat across from them. “Name’s Clarence.”
    Laedron sat and folded his arms. “Laedron, and this is Marac. What did you see?”
    “That young fellow there, the dead one, he was walking along and tapped another fellow on the back when he reached the barrels. They exchanged words too quiet for me to hear, then I saw a glimmer of light.”
    “A glimmer of light?” Laedron asked, his interest piqued. “What did it look like?”
    “Swirling, vibrant, and red. It wrapped around the guard, and only a few moments later, the militia man collapsed.”
    “The man who did this, he had symbols along the back of his garb? Red embroideries?”
    “Yes, and a scarf across his face.” Clarence paused. “Am I safe here?”
    “Worry not. That one will trouble you no more.” Laedron stood. “Anything else?”
    “That’s the best I can remember. What do you think this means, if you don’t mind me poking my nose around in it?”
    “We know not,” Marac said, “but we shall find out. Keep your doors secure and report anything else you remember to Master Greathis.”
    With a nod, the old man stood and let Laedron and Marac out. Laedron heard the slide of metal locking the door behind them once they reached the alley.
    Seeing more militia approaching, Laedron pointed at the dead guard. “Take this one back to the headquarters, and you’ll find his murderer on the next street. Bring that one’s body to Greathis, too. We’ll keep up the patrol in case there are more.”
    Once they had gotten farther up the alley and clear of the militia, Marac asked, “Do you mean to tell them about the stones?”
    “No, not yet.” Laedron patted the pocket containing the black pouch. “I mean to