Free The Consuls of the Vicariate by Brian Kittrell

route? No,” Laedron replied.
    Wilkans led them down the hall to a room with a large table holding a map of the city. He rubbed his chin and studied the map. “This here would be a good one.” With his finger, he traced a series of narrow streets near the Ancient Quarter.
    “Anything we should know about it?” Laedron asked.
    Wilkans cleared his throat. “Some have gone missing along this route before.”
    “Gone missing?” Laedron raised an eyebrow. “How many?”
    “Three, and the answer to your next question is two months.”
    “Without a trace?”
    “Nothing that we could find. No bodies, no blood, no witnesses.” Wilkans handed Laedron a pair of whistles, each attached to its own chain. “If you get in trouble, signal for help. We run patrols tighter since those disappearances.”
    Laedron gave a whistle to Marac, then put the other around his neck. “Very well, Sergeant.”
    “Get to it. Report anything unseemly to me or Master Greathis. Get a bit of sleep before you go out; you’re on the night patrols, and you start at sunset and keep on ‘til sunrise. The militia quarters are on the second floor.”
     
    * * *
     
    “I’m bored already,” Marac said, kicking a stone down the avenue.
    The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the lantern lighters were busy on their appointed rounds. They had done little more than eat a heavy meal at a nearby tavern and ensure that old women had no harassment or trouble when trying to cross the roads.
    “You’re always bored.” Laedron swatted Marac on the arm.
    Marac scoffed. “What are we doing? Walking along while waiting to be killed under mysterious circumstances?”
    “Giving Jurgen peace of mind.”
    “I’ve never seen a city so tight. What more could he need?”
    Laedron grinned. “We got in, didn’t we?”
    “Good point.”
    “Loosen up, Marac,” Laedron said. “Creator! I never thought those words would cross my lips.”
    “You’re telling me!” Marac rolled his shoulders. “Nothing a good night at a tavern wouldn’t cure.”
    “Don’t even think about it. When we’re done with this, you can have as much ale as you can stand, but not before.”
    “Yes, Da.”
    “Oh, stop it. You know how important our task is. We have no time for loafing.”
    “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
    The night marched forward, and even Laedron felt ungratified and listless as the evening progressed. I pray we don’t have weeks of this ahead of us . They returned to the militia headquarters once Laedron caught sight of the first rays of the morning sun. Collapsing on his bed, he heard something crinkle against his hair. Reaching behind his head, he found a scroll held furled by a red ribbon and a bit of wax.

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← Chapter Five | Chapter Seven →
     
     
    Dealing with the Enemy
     

     
    B rice sat quietly in his room, the lock Caleb had given him in hand. The decorations, the inlays, and the mechanism all captivated Brice unlike anything—or anyone, for that matter—he had ever encountered. Each time he slipped the probe into the keyhole, he closed his eyes and envisioned the little world within, the blocks, levers, and shafts. Opening the lock and claiming victory over its intricacies would be proof that he could open any door or chest which barred their progress.
    He was beyond frustration, but he remembered the feeling well. In Reven’s Landing, Brice had had run-ins with many looms that had given him fits, and he had been tempered like steel to be patient and resolved when machinery malfunctioned. The lock he held, though, was not in need of repair. In fact, his goal was to make the lock work against its purpose and give up that which it protected.
    “Still playing with that?” Caleb asked.
    Brice blinked. With his attention fixed on the lock, he hadn’t noticed Caleb enter the room. “Trying to figure it out.”
    “It’ll have to wait. It’s time for the meeting.”
    “Already?” Brice turned to see only darkness through