Alton and Cook easily get Sir Durandal’s room number from Lenny at his namesake motel. A small office at the front of the two story building sits beneath a sign declaring the location to be Lenny’s Comfy Motel. Lenny himself mans the office, and guards the gate to the rooms with his large presence. The building is two stories high, with doors to the small guest rooms in a narrow outdoor walkway fenced off from the alley next door. The next door building is a warehouse for a Mine City importer, but currently empty. Lenny lets the detectives through the gate and expresses his delight to do his civic duty.

Cook knocks sharply on the indicated door. Though it’s still early afternoon, Lenny had assured them that the paladin is currently in his room. There’s no immediate answer. Cook knocks harder, and they hear shuffling behind the door.

“We know you’re in there! Come on out!”

“On my way. Just. Just give me a minute.” The voice is reedy, with a hint of private desperation.

Alton’s hand grips her rapier. Cook raises an eyebrow, but shakes his head. She stands behind the door, ready just in case Sir Durandal is ready for violence.

The door creeps open, and Sir Durandal blinks out at Cook nervously. His eyes are bloodshot, with deep dark circles beneath them. As Gus described, his blond hair is thinning, and he’s a very large man, but with a bit of a paunch, as though he used to be more active than currently. He’s strapping his scabbard to his hip while fumbling open the door. His clothing is rumpled, as though he’d slept in it, and badly at that.

He wears a tunic with the crest of the goddess Serabeth embroidered over his heart, and a Strabthine coat of arms at his back. It is the uniform of Her divine Fist of Judgement, marking him as an obvious paladin in a city where that allegiance would not be worn openly.

“Are you Sir Roland Durandal, of the Second Strabthine Empire?” Cook asks, authoritatively. He pushes his raincoat to the side to better display his UEEIF badge. Sir Durandal visibly steels himself against Cook’s dead stare, flexing the fingers of his right hand compulsively.

“I am.” The paladin steps out of the room. Alton releases her rapier, and Cook steps out of the way. “And you are?”

“I’m Detective Imryll Alton, and this is my partner, Detective George Cook.” Alton gestures toward Cook as she speaks. Though it’s incredibly rude, Durandal does not turn to face her. His stare is locked on Detective Cook as though it’s he who lacks the need to blink and not the other way around. Cook shuts the door with only a brief glance into the motel room.

Inside, a full suit of plate armor lies in pieces on the bed. Cook doesn’t immediately notice anything else that could be significant.

“Sir Durandal,” Alton addresses him again. Clearly he isn’t going to make this easy on her necropolitan partner. “We have bad news. I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter, Marion Durandal, was murdered last night.” She allows a pause for him to take in the news. His face is grim. The shadows under his eyes seem darker, and his mouth presses into a thin determined line.

When he doesn’t comment, she continues.

“Miss Durandal has accused you of her murder. We’ll need you to come with us to the station to make a statement. As you are surely aware, this is a serious charge and we will also need to confiscate any weapons you carry.”

“Will you let me see her?” His voice wavers. His eyes remain dry.

“It would be unconscionable to allow a murderer access to his victim,” Cook coughs. Sir Durandal shoots the necropolitan detective a fiery glance, his hatred laid open for all to see. “Give the detective your sword, Sir.”

Shaking hands unbuckle his sword belt, and grip the scabbard all too tightly as the longsword passes from the infuriated paladin to the quiet elven detective. Alton accepts the weapon, and then proceeds to pat down the suspect for hidden blades. She finds only a small dagger, of the type usually used for eating at restaurants with suspect cleanliness. She confiscates that as well.

The three walk quietly out to the courtyard where the detectives’ dead horses wait for them. Sir Durandal misses a step and stumbles at the sight of their skeletal mounts being used so casually in a busy part of town.

“Sir Durandal,” Cook says shortly, “You have two options. You can walk with us to the station peacefully, or you can walk with us to the station peacefully in handcuffs. I know when I’ve been smote, and I’ll tell you that your escape will do you no good.”

Durandal makes a noise that sounds half like a snarl. Alton gracefully mounts her horse, and stealthily draws a small pistol from her boot. Cook’s feet remain planted, facing off against the taller, broader paladin.

“If you do not obey an officer of the law’s commands, we may be required to use force.” Traffic in the busy street slows around them. Cook’s gaze is passionless ice. Durandal’s anger overrides his resignation.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he blusters, “I am a knight in the court of our Empress in the Strabthine! You can’t treat me like common scum!”

“If your empress herself were accused of murder in the United Non-Evil Necromantic State, the Two Rivers police would treat her no differently.” Alton says impassively. “You may be a knight in the Strabthine, but here you’re not even a citizen.” The paladin blanches, his freckles standing out brightly against his pale skin. His rage subsides in the truth of his predicament.

Cook mounts up, and Durandal walks placidly between his police escort back to the station.