Ghostwalker by Erik Scott de Bie Read Free Book Online

expectantly, and he added, “Oh yes. And the guard had a family … apparently.”
    “Drex is dead?” Greyt asked, ignoring the news of the guard. He was beginning to take an interest in the discussion. He halfheartedly made the sign of Milil, his supposed patron. As they spoke, he delicately picked shards of glass out of his flesh, which healed as he removed the glass, thanks to the potion. “What happened?”
    “Single slash to the throat, found naked in his bedroom, his guard dead in similar fashion, though he was armed and armored,” Meris said. “Dagger wounds, runs my thinking.”
    “Why did you not come to me yesterday?” asked Greyt, narrowing his eyes, but he already knew the answer. Meris had wanted to solve the mystery himself—not to win his father’s favor but to demonstrate his own superiority. He only came to Greyt because he had failed.
    The grimace on Meris’s face told him his suspicions were correct. The fool.
    “Suspects?” Greyt asked. He felt irritation and more than a little anger. Accidental death, if Drex had fallen from a window and broken his neck, was one thing, but murder was quite another. “Goodwife Redgill has been dead these past ten winters, so she’s out of the question. One of his guards?”
    “His flipskirt, I wager,” another, deeper voice called.
    Bilgren, wild black mane flowing around his shoulders, huge gyrspike on his back, and rage on his face, dragged in a struggling half-elf maid who was clad only in a torn shift. Her face was bruised and spattered with congealed blood, some of it her own.
    Bilgren threw the half-elf down and spat on her. The maid cringed.
    “Th’ wench was caught fleeing from ‘is house in th’ middle o’ the night. No knife, but bloodied up.”
    With a flourish of his scarlet cape, Torlic glided in behind Bilgren. He disdained to touch the barbarian, and weaved a path around him, heading to the wall. He leaned against it. Greyt supposed he should have expected Torlic to appear—he, Bilgren, and the late Drex, in addition to Greyt himself, had once been members of the Raven Claw band.
    “She didn’t put up much of a fight.” Torlic sneered and ran his hand over the handle of the rapier sheathed at his belt. “Typical, for a wench.”
    The half-elf knelt before Greyt’s chair and table and looked up with teary eyes. While her condition no doubt had been poor the night in question—Greyt knew well the late Drex’s propensity for violence coupled with pleasure—he was sure she hadn’t been caught in quite this poor a condition. Greyt was certain his son or perhaps Bilgren had interrogated her in his own way; another reason for the troublesome delay in information.
    The Lord Singer rose and unfurled his violet cape, which trailed from his shoulders. “Leave us,” he said to the guards and Bilgren. “Meris, you may stay.”
    Bilgren shot him a look. His azure eyes were burning with dimwitted anger. “What about me, Greyt?” he spat. “Let me help ye ‘persuade’ this little…”
    Greyt did not flinch as he looked up at the Uthgardt barbarian, who was a foot taller and almost twice his weight. Even Bilgren’s gyrspike—a wicked sword with a flail on the end that was about the size of Greyt’s head—did not move the Lord Singer.
    “Begone,” Greyt said without blinking. Cutting off any objection, Greyt added, “It wouldn’t do for you to be seen here after this incident. People might suspect.”
    “Drex was me friend, don’t ye forget!” Bilgren bellowed. He took the opportunity to shoot the half-elf woman another angry glare and to take a menacing step toward her. “An’ just ye wait, little flipskirt—” She cringed and tried to fold herself into a tighter ball. Then Bilgren stormed out. From the way the girl’s face relaxed when Bilgren left, Greyt could tell his guess had been correct.
    “What about you?” Greyt asked Torlic, who had been standing impassively.
    Torlic squinted bright blue eyes and gave a shrug.