They hurried to Dockside, casting looks over their shoulders. Even Maeda made no attempt to hide the fact that she wanted to get away from Vytautas. Anything that could strike fear into Maeda ought to terrify Errol, so he lengthened his strides.

The scent of saltwater and fresh breeze hit his nose. Errol breathed deep, cleansing the stench of the shop.

The five members of his group, including a hooded figure he hadn’t yet met, had already completed their purchases. They stood in a loose knot around Captain Grimhilt, who barked out last-minute orders. He glanced up and beckoned when he saw Errol and Maeda. If her presence surprised or unsettled him, then he certainly knew how to hide his reactions.

“Now that you’ve arrived, I have one more task for you to accomplish. My colleague, the esteemed Lieutenant Inspector Donalon, will fill you in on the details.”

A slender man of average build, Inspector Donalon had mastered the art of blending into the crowds. He stepped into their circle, melting out of the bustle of passersby to join the group. Errol couldn’t tell where he’d come from, or what he’d been doing. The very air around Donalon seemed fuzzy, blurring in a way that he only noticed when he squinted.

Maeda nudged him and whispered, “Use your sense field, not your eyes, Mako. He’s not masking his presence right now, just his appearance.”

Errol relaxed his hold on the senses, normally kept in check when he was in crowds so the pulsing mass of humanity wouldn’t overwhelm him. He reached out, sweeping the crowd. A faint pulse from Donalon solidified as he finally pinpointed the man.

Maeda leaned close again. “In time, you’ll be shocked to look back and wonder that you survived without relying on your sensor. Use the gifts you’ve been given.”

“Thank you,” Errol said, but suspicion wormed its way into his gratitude. What motives drove Maeda? He didn’t know her to show unasked-for kindness. They'd only ended up on the Bridge investigation together because no one else was stupid enough—and because he had ghosts of the past to dispel.

“Hail, Adventurers,” Donalon said. Errol could hear the eye roll in the Inspector’s use of the heroic title. “I have a second job for you, should you find your current undertaking too light a burden.”

Gruvrik snorted. “I’ll accept this job. The hill dwarfs do not tire.”

“Among my duties as official Inspector is the followup on delicate cases. For the last two years, I’ve been unable to pull at a most intriguing thread, since I'm prevented from setting foot on the Bridge. Our powers are simply incompatible; that place would tear me to pieces if I ventured too close to its jagged shores. You, however, have a chance to be my eyes and ears.”

“How about your mouth?” Gruvrik said. “Sounds to me like you could use some help in the speaking department. It’s a shame you’re so often at a loss for words.”

Jarkoda rumbled. It sounded like two boulders smashing together, or like thunder across the bay. It took a moment for Errol to recognize it as laughter.

“Point taken, my short friend,” Donalon said. “I’ve been tracking Stefano Dell’Atti, the heir to the Dell’Atti fortune. He disappeared a few years ago, last seen heading for the Bridge. If you can find him and return him, the Dell’Attis will ensure that it’s worth your while.”

Errol’s vital ring chimed silently, alerting him to an update. He twisted it, pulling up the map Grimhilt had loaded.

Quest update: Find the heir. Upon completion, receive 1,000 gold and favor with Dell’Atti banking syndicates. Accept?

Grimhilt cleared his throat. “Please remember that your primary duty is to recover the Heart of the Tempest Stormorb at all costs. Stefano is merely a lucrative secondary option.”

The acid Grimhilt poured on the word “secondary” made it clear that he didn’t consider it secondary, or even tertiary, but Donalon shot him a look and he sighed. The contempt leaked out of his posture and he stepped aside.

“How will we know if we’ve found him?” The question came from the hooded hunter, who hadn’t spoken until now. Her voice was plain and quiet.

Errol felt a tinge of disappointment. After wondering all morning about the identity of their mystery companion, hearing something so normal seemed like a letdown. He rallied and threw his support behind her. “Seconded. We need details, Inspector.”

Donalon withdrew a fine gold chain, etched with runes that emitted a faint bluish-white glow. “Wear this. It’s attuned to Stefano’s life force. You will know when you’ve found the heir, no matter how he may be disguised.”

Errol ran his hands through his hair. “Disguised? That sounds like he doesn’t want to be found, Inspector.”

Grimhilt shot a glance at Donalon, who looked away rather than meeting the Captain’s eyes or answering Errol’s question. Before Errol could follow up with more questions, Donalon merged in with the foot traffic around him, slipping away from view. Errol cast out with sensor field, but only a weak beacon from the other side of the square matched Donalon’s profile. Then it, too, winked out of existence.

“Did I imagine that?” Errol said to Maeda. “I thought I sensed him moving in the opposite direction, just for a heartbeat.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m surprised you felt that much, although you sensed true. He’s a sly one, I’ll give him that. Gone.”

Grimhilt cleared his throat. “Daylight’s burning. Depart for the docks.”

Errol caught himself before he saluted, but he started marching toward the ships in dock by the harbor. Merchants and dockworkers surrounded them, pushing in toward the city where they could spend shore leave and conduct business. His little team followed close at his heels, cutting through the wave of pedestrians and carts like salmon swimming upstream.

They crested the final gentle slope of Covington Lane. Masts and rigging came into view in the bay below them. Errol picked up the pace, his lanky legs halfway to jogging down the hill in his eagerness to depart. He drew up short a few breaths later, staring at half a dozen sharp spear points levelled at the group.

The warriors bearing the spears wore masks of scarlet. They advanced with a shout, an attack chant on their lips.

Taras and Maeda recovered first, launching themselves in front of the pack. Taras turned two spear thrusts with his shield, which glinted in the high morning light. He thrust out his shield ahead of him with both hands, and a wave of white-hot light poured forth, knocking two enemies to the ground. They didn’t get back up.

The people surrounding them screamed and scattered in all directions to avoid the fight that broke out on the streets. A stiff breeze whipped in off the sea, carrying pungent scents of fish and salt and a mixture of spices from the stalls on the harbor, which only added to the medley of confusion.

Maeda produced a small dueling net and already closed with the nearest attacker. She lunged forward, twisting under the spear thrust, and tangled her opponent in the weave of the net, tossing him down like a fresh catch of fish. Her hand blurred in a flash of steel, and the man grunted and flopped over.

With a roar like rolling thunder, Jarkoda leaped past Errol, catching the shaft of a spear in one hand. The halfdragon yanked on the spear, pulling the thug off balance. He smashed his other fist into the man’s head, which caved in with a sound that almost made Errol retch.

The other spearmen hesitated, taking a step back and shifting their weapons into a more defensive stance. Before they could regroup, Errol quick-stepped over to the closest soldier and unleashed his voltage stream into him, pouring all the energy he could muster into the attack.

An acrid scent of burning flesh rose in the air and the man lurched away from Errol, arms thrashing about violently. Abruptly, he collapsed to the ground and grew still.

Errol staggered as he ran out of energy—his life force was still woefully inadequate. He caught his balance and leaned over to rest his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. The air seemed thin. Lights danced around his vision.

The spearman next to him took advantage of his disoriented state, thrusting straight toward his heart.

Errol tried to lurch to the side, but he was too slow. Pain blossomed in his shoulder. He’d avoided a killing blow, but agony ripped through his arm. Screaming, he grabbed the spear just below the sharp bade that lanced through his shoulder, attempting to wrench to free it from his flesh, but the pain drained his strength. He gave up and clamped his hands down on the wound.

The last spearman glanced once at his fallen comrades and then sprinted away in the opposite direction, turning only to throw his spear behind him to slow their pursuit. It clattered harmlessly to the stone and skittered to a rest at Errol’s feet.

Rhae rushed over to him with a great deal too much excitement. “At least you didn’t get skewered twice!” She placed her hands over his, pulling them away gently but inexorably. He registered a dull shock at her strength, but the thought seemed far away, wrapped in a layer of clouds and gauze.

Clarity came rushing back when she tugged the spear free.

Despite Errol’s shouts of protest, Rhae held him in place, wrapping a strip of cloth over the wound to staunch the bleeding. She stepped back only once he’d stopped struggling and pulled out a small set of bagpipes, playing a lively tune that felt out of place compared with his pain, but the sharp edge soon subsided into a subdued throb.

The sound screeched a bit in his ears, but he was grateful anyway. Her ability to weave healing into her music helped take just enough edge off the pain that he was able to stagger to his feet. If he stayed prostrate on the ground any longer, his strike force might lose whatever little confidence in him they had left.

“If only I had that harpoon, I could have taken them both,” Errol said to Maeda, trying to keep his tone light.

She chuckled. “More likely you’d have missed and punched a hole in your other side.”

Taras approached then, his hands surrounded by a nimbus of white fire. “This will hurt,” he said, then latched onto Errol’s shoulder without any further preamble. The burning was worse than the spear thrust had been, but Errol gritted his teeth, determined not to scream again, and with a wash of heat, the pain disappeared.

He rotated his arm and lifted his hand above his shoulder experimentally. “Thank you!”

“You’ll still scar, most likely, but at least you won’t slow us down on the Bridge.”

Errol nodded, but his gratitude soured as he realized the mission was paramount to any concern for his own health. He swallowed the bitterness. “It feels as good as new.”

The clatter of boots caught his attention and he glanced to his right. Two city guards ran up, swords at the ready. They bowed slightly to Taras and resheathed their weapons. “Honored one, forgive our intrusion. We’ll see that these men are brought to justice, unless you already have a claim on them yourself.”

“Send a message to Grimhilt,” Errol interrupted. “Call for backup to deal with these thugs if you have to, but get to the palace now. Tell Grimhilt that someone knows. Someone opposes the Chancellor.”

The guards looked at each other briefly, but Errol caught the disbelief in their faces. With a sigh, he turned to Taras for backup.

“Do as he commands,” the cleric said.

They exchanged glances, looked back at Errol, and shrugged. Seconds later, they sent up a flare to summon additional city guards, then ran back toward the council chambers.

Errol bristled inwardly, but he thanked Taras for his help, schooling his features to remain smooth and calm.

Leadership. Ugh.