“No,” the Hell-Hound said grimly, “but I know someone who might. Don’t bother
going back to sleep. If I’m right, this won’t take long at all,”
Innos, one of several grooms who watched over the military barracks and stables,
awoke from a sound sleep to find lights ablaze and a swordpoint at his throat.
“Think back, Innos!”
It was Zalbar. Innos had watched his degeneration into a brothel barfly with no
interest other than that there would be one less bunk for him to police. Now,
however, the Hell-Hound’s eyes were blazing with a savagery that spoke of old
times. Innos looked into those eyes and decided that he would not lie, whatever
question was asked … just as the street watcher had decided not to laugh at
the Hell-Hound when he stalked back from Ischade’s.
“Bu … but Zalbar! I have done nothing!”
“Think back!” Zalbar commanded again. “Think back several years. I was coming
out of an audience with the Prince … so upset I was nearly out of my mind. I
handed you something and told you to dispose of it properly. Remember?”
Innos did, and his blood ran icy.
“Y … Yes. It was the head of your friend Razkuli.”
“Where is it?”
“Why, I buried it, of course. Just as you ordered.”
The swordpoint pressed forward, and a small trickle of blood made its way down
Innos’s throat.
“Don’t lie to me! I know it hasn’t been buried.”
“But … if you knew …”
“I just found out tonight. Now where is it?”
“Please don’t kill me! I’ve never …”
“Where!? It’s important, man.”
“I sold it … to the House of Whips and Chains. They use skulls in their