Chapter 118

Two figures, one tall and one short, walked side by side down the empty long street. A sudden gust of wind sent the tall man’s gray cloak billowing back; he tipped his head slightly, pressed a hand to his sword-belt at his chest, the other hand clamped down on the paired longsword at his back.

The cold, hard contact was like a shot of something to steady the heart, it calmed him in an instant.

“Roy...” The short one stroked the beard that hung to his chest, “how about we call it quits? Even Master Letho slipped up. I won’t drag you into this. Go wait at the inn in town for good news.”

The boy shook his head and refused outright, “My master is still missing; you expect me to flee without a fight? I’m a Witcher, I can’t do that. I don’t think the Dwarf would count me fit company if I ran.”

“Aye, you’re right. If you truly were a coward, I’d look down on you.”

“Another thing: what clues did Letho uncover while working with you?”

Cranmer tugged at his beard in frustration, “To be honest, I’m vexed. Master prefers to ride lone, or perhaps he thinks folk like us slow him down. He ghosts about every day, won’t tell us a thing about his inquiries, and only finally let us move when he set the ambush for the serial killer.”

Roy drew a long breath, some surprise on his face; Letho was a lone hand, true enough — he’d left Roy to act by himself on more than one occasion — but he would not hide an entire case from the people running themselves ragged over the murders.

“Is the killer that powerful and Letho trying to protect us? Or does this string of murders hide a secret no outsider may know?”

They crossed the sparse crowds of the main street and came to the Hanged Man’s Alley on the west side of the princely palace.

The alley’s name fit its appearance perfectly; between a gray building and a high wall mottled with grime and moss it was dim and narrow, a blind lane a hundred feet in.

Roy had not gone far into the alley before a peculiar smell reached him; following it, he found several patches of brown, dried blood on the ground. Apart from that there were no other suspicious traces.

He crouched, touched a fingertip to a dust-streaked smear of blood, raised it to his nose and closed his eyes to sense it for a moment.

Blood, faint rot.