looting a rich caravan. The aftermath had been very similar to what he was
seeing here: expensive goods tossed randomly with no regard to their value. A
prince’s ransom had been ruined with careless handling …
He decided that he wouldn’t like Ischade. His time in palaces and brothels
taught him to appreciate objects that he could never afford and to be offended
at their neglect. At least royalty knew how to take care of their toys … or
had servants who did.
“What can I do for you, Officer?”
He turned to find a raven-haired woman entering the room, belting a black robe
about herself as she walked.
“Ischade?”
“Yes?”
Now that she was in front of him, Zalbar was suddenly unsure of what to say.
“I was told to talk to you … by a ghost.”
The man by the door groaned noisily. Ischade shot him a look that could have
been used in the army.
“Sit down, Officer. I think you’d better tell me your story from the beginning.”
Zalbar took the offered seat absently, trying to organize his thoughts.
“I had a friend … he was killed several years ago. He’s haunting me. The first
time was a long time back and he didn’t reappear, so I thought it was just a bad
dream. Lately, he’s been coming to me more often … every time I try to sleep,
as a matter of fact. He says he needs my help to cross over, whatever that
means. He told me to talk to you … that you could tell me what he couldn’t.
That’s why I’m here.”
Ischade listened to all this with pursed lips and a faraway stare.
“Your friend. Tell me about him.”
“He was a Hell-Hound, like me. His name was Razkuli …”