The Claw, Ceristen Series #3

Chapter 2

There was no leeway for argument in his direct, level tone. The man moved off huffily to seek out less thrifty prey.

"You will be wanting to stay with your aunt?" Fred asked Jared. But the young man shook his head.

"They live outside the village three miles, and it is late already. I will share your inn-room if you do not object."

"No, indeed," Fred answered, and went aside to inquire of a passerby directions to the inn.

≡

Mordred woke before the sun had risen, and could not get to sleep again. Dark thoughts were crowding his mind. At last he rose, crossing the room as noiselessly as he could and opening the door.

"Mordred?" Fred's voice sounded drowsily on his ear.

"Shh. 'Tis nothing. Can't sleep; I'm going out to clear my head." Mordred stepped out and shut the door.

≡

Bulca was three days into the dratted thaw. It was all very well to have the pleasant sunshine and warmth in the unexpected time of early February, but all the man bent over the muddy flower beds could think about was how the crocuses were coming up too soon.

Wilhelm Dickson, Inspector of the Peace for Delgrass' northern riverside precinct, leaned back on his heels and rubbed a hand across his sweating forehead. "Don't come up, you silly bulbs," he muttered. "This isn't spring."

"Fretting about your flower plants, Dickson?" came a lazy voice behind him.

"No concern of yours," returned Inspector Dickson shortly, rising and turning to face his fellow inspector James Harris. "I like to see them bloom, that's all."

"For an Inspector, you are one softie." James Harris chuckled and walked back into the small house.

Inspector Dickson swiped an annoyed hand across his brow again, wiping away the smear of dirt that he suspected was there. Some days Harris was bearable, and other days Inspector Dickson wished they had been assigned fifty miles apart.

"I am not a 'softie'," he muttered, following his partner into the house. "My life is not bound up in flowers, either."

He sighed. Harris thought it was funny, that was all. He had no idea he was being annoying. And for that reason, Inspector Dickson endeavoured to put up with it.

Harris was puttering in the kitchen area, banging pots in a pile as he tried to find a clean one. "Fried eggs, Dickson?"

"Where on earth did you get eggs?"

"Picked 'em up off a lass in the market yesterday."

Inspector Dickson slapped his forehead. "Throw them out, Harris. They're bound to be rotten. Nobody goes selling eggs in the slowest part of laying season."

"She said they were laying extra because of the thaw..." Harris mumbled grumpily.

"For an Inspector, you are one gull," Dickson muttered, unable to resist. He snatched up the eggs and set them in a cloth, to bury outside later.

The door shuddered under the impact of a knock, and Inspector Dickson looked up. "Harris, that thing is about to burst off its hinges. Have you – never mind." He stalked over to the door and yanked it open.

"What is it, sir?" he asked, seeing the short man waiting outside, a grimy apron over his tunic and pudgy arms folded over his paunch.

The man chewed his lip a moment. "I'm from Cobren. Just some miles south of 'ere."