Chapter Three

By the time Twyla and Frank arrived on the scene, two miles from the barracks, the flare had landed. They found themselves on a flattened plain, nestled in the jagged foothills of the Dragon's Teeth mountain range. The flare's harsh light glared across the landscape, outshining their saddle lanterns and casting everything in bright pinks and dark shadows, rendering the area even more otherworldly than usual. Stranger still, a luminescent substance glistened in odd patches all over the rocky ground.

There was no sign of the person or persons who set off the flare.

"I don't like this," Frank whispered as he unclipped the pistol crossbow from his belt.

Their eyes met, the whites of Frank's glowing eerily pink by the light of the flare. Twyla nodded in response, not wanting to make any more noise than necessary. It had been some time since she had experienced true mortal fear on the job, but the continued hiss of the flare and the bizarre shining blotches on the earth made her insides twist up.

They dismounted as quietly as they could and walked toward the ring of the flare's light, with Frank scanning the landscape to their left and Twyla covering the right, their sidearms at the ready.

"See anyone?" she whispered as she squinted into the night.

"No. You?"

"No."

The plain wasn't wide, but Twyla felt exposed and vulnerable.

"This is not good," Frank murmured behind her.

Twyla was about to agree, but she tripped over something and went sprawling on the ground, landing painfully on her hip.

"Twy?" Frank was now having to cover both their flanks, but his eyes darted to her on the ground, and she could hear the worry in his voice.

"I'm good." She retrieved her pistol crossbow and got herself into a crouch to get a good look at what had sent her spilling.

"Boots," she declared. "And they have that weird, glittery stuff all over them. Crap, I got some on my pants. What in the name of the Unknown God?"

"Are the boots purple? Equimaris hide?"

"I can't tell in this light. You think these are Herd's?"

Twyla looked up. Frank's jaw was set, and he had his pistol crossbow trained straight ahead. He didn't glance at her, but he nodded toward something several feet in front of them. No, not something. Someone. A person lay unmoving on the ground, and it was clear they had sailed the Salt Sea. Like the boots, the remains were shimmering.

She scrambled to her feet, an action that took a humiliating amount of effort at her age. Back to back once more, she and Frank slowly approached the corpse to get a better look. The entire body was coated in a glittery residue, as were the soil, rocks, and scrub in a five-foot radius around it. The only things that rendered the victim identifiable were the outline of the ID key on a chain around his neck and the equimaris-leather boots he'd been blown out of.

"Mother of Sorrows," uttered Twyla.

"This is Old Hell and gone from boring," Frank agreed grimly. "I think I preferred boring."

The galloping slap of equimaris feet announced Duckers's arrival in response to the flare. He pulled up to a stop and called "You all right?" as he slid out of the saddle.

"We're fine," answered Frank. "Herd, not so much."

Duckers joined them to stare at the disturbing remains of his now deceased partner.

"Well, fuck," he said.

A crack of lightning lit up the night sky, followed by a clash of thunder. The first fat raindrops pelted the ground and the marshals along with it. All three looked up in dismay.

"Well, fuck," Duckers said again.

Twyla stood at a window in the barracks, looking out, though there was nothing to see but deep darkness and blinding lightning beyond the glass. She listened to the sound of the rain lashing the pane and gushing down the roof.

"Think there'll be any evidence left after this thing blows over?" she asked without looking at Frank and Duckers, who were sitting at the table with steaming mugs of something Duckers called "medicine."

"Not much we can do about it now," said Frank. "Come and sit over here by the fire and get yourself warmed up."

They had done their best to wrap Herd in sailcloth without touching the glittery substance that coated him, while the storm poured the old God of Wrath's watery vindictiveness upon them. Now Herd's damp body was tucked away in the cellar until they could deliver the remains to the coroner.

Frank's voice came again from behind her, low and comforting, an audible hug. "Herd's beyond your help and your worry now, darlin'. Come have a seat."

Resigned, Twyla sat beside him, and Duckers pushed a third mug in front of her. Whatever it was, it smelled marvelous. She took a sip and felt the so-called medicine burn a path of warmth down her throat.

"Is that whiskey?" she half asked, half coughed.

"And black tea and honey. Lots of honey. It's better with lemon juice, but I'm not going to carry lemons around in Tanria, and the bottled stuff isn't the same."

Frank cupped his mug, letting it warm his fingers as he got down to business. "I'm sorry, Duckers, but we've got to ask you a few questions. Can you tell us your whereabouts this evening?"

Duckers had his own mug halfway to his mouth, but he set it down with a thud. "You don't think I killed Herd, do you?"

"No, but I think we need to cobble together a report to give Maguire. Who knows what kind of details might be important here. So, where were you between the time you left us at the stable and the moment you joined us at the… I guess we'll call it a crime scene?"

"I patrolled the northwest corner of the sector first, up there by the Alvarez Ambrosia Bottling Company in W-7."

Twyla calculated the time it would take to ride from the northwest corner of the sector to the place where they found Herd. It lined up with Duckers's arrival on the scene.

"How long had you and Herd been partners?" Frank asked him.

"Less than a month."

"You said he'd been ditching you on the job. Any clue where he was going or what he was doing?"

"No."

"And you didn't report him?"

"I'm not going to be the jerk who snitches on his coworker. Besides, I'm getting a reputation as the guy who can't keep a partner. I didn't want to cause trouble, for me or for him."

"Understandable. And very charitable of you, too," said Twyla. Already, Duckers's concoction was making her feel a bit muzzy. "Anyone know what the glittery substance was? I'm worried the rain is going to wash it all away, and I'm not sure how to explain it to Maguire."

"If anyone wants a sample, there's plenty on Herd." Frank crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on two legs as he mulled everything over. "How do you think he died? Because I can't for the life of me figure out how you'd go about killing a man with glitter. Or why you'd want to."

Duckers leaned his elbows on the tabletop. "What if it wasn't a person who did Herd in? What if it was, you know, an animal? Ish?"

Twyla suspected Duckers was feeling muzzy himself. "What kind of animal-ish covers someone in gold sparkles?"

"Hear me out. What if it was a ——?" Duckers spoke the last word of his question so softly, no one could hear it.

"A what?"

"You know, a ——." Duckers shifted his eyes as, once again, he rendered the last word incomprehensible.

"Let it rip. There's no judgment here."

"A dragon."

Twyla gaped at him for a full five seconds before turning to Frank. They silently asked each other, Did you hear that, too? Is that what he actually said?

Frank brought the front two legs of his chair to the floor to give Duckers his full attention. "Well now, I don't mean to discourage a little thinking outside the box, but I've been working in Tanria for twenty-two years, and I've never seen a dragon or heard of anyone else seeing one."

"I get that, and Hart always said the same thing. But think about it: We found Herd in the middle of nowhere, covered in gold sparkles, with no MO, no weapon, no evidence, no suspect in sight, nothing. He was obviously scared enough to light his flare to get our help. And there are all those old stories about dragons flying around in here. All I'm saying is, What if?"

"Seems pretty far-fetched," Twyla said doubtfully.

"I know, but…" Duckers took a fortifying gulp from his mug. "Look, a couple of weeks ago, I thought I saw something flying around that tall peak in the Dragon's Teeth. It was around sunset, and I wasn't close up or anything, but dang, it looked big."

"It was probably an eagle or a vulture," said Frank.

"Maybe. But maybe not."

With that eager, earnest expression on his face, Duckers reminded Twyla of her own kids, of all the times they had wanted to believe that the world was far more magical than it was. She softened. "Someone needs to bring in Herd's remains tomorrow. I'm sure Maguire is going to want an autopsy. You could stop in the station and float your dragon theory by her."

"Are you kidding? Maguire would laugh me out of the Tanrian Marshals."

"So you want us to suggest it to her so that she can laugh us out of the Tanrian Marshals?"

"She'll listen to you. You know, because you're old-timers."

The word old bludgeoned Twyla.

Frank barked with laughter. "If Twyla could shoot fiery balls of glitter out of her eyes, Duckers, you'd look an awful lot like Herd right about now."

"We shouldn't speak so irreverently of the dead," Twyla whispered as if Marshal Herd might hear her.

"You never had to listen to his Old Gods–level misogyny when he discussed his supposed conquests. Didn't help that the guy reminded me of Carl."

Carl could have referred to either Frank's father or his brother, since they shared the same name. It didn't matter; he held them both in the same contempt.

"I was not a fan," Duckers offered in support.

Frank gave Twyla a side hug. "You can bring cheesy potatoes to his funeral, if it makes you feel better."

The following morning, they were up with the sun, each of them the worse for wear, thanks to Duckers's medicine. They divided up, and for over an hour, they scoured the immediate environs around the site where Herd's body was found, but the area produced little evidence. Only a few remnants of gold glitter twinkled in the morning light, since most of the residue had been washed away with the rain. There were also traces of blood clinging to a rock, but no other signs of struggle. Twyla was about to call off the search when Duckers shouted, "Hey! Over here!"

The next thing Twyla knew, the rookie was on the ground. Alarmed, she sprinted as fast as her middle-aged legs and leaky bladder would allow. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frank hustle from the opposite direction. She reached Duckers a couple of seconds before he did.

"What's wrong?" she panted.

Duckers grinned up at her. "Nothing. I'm here for scale."

He was lying between two birdlike prints mirroring each other, each of them roughly half the length of one rookie Tanrian Marshal. The print on Duckers's left was more distinct than the one on the right, a foot with three long, skinny toes and a narrow heel.

"What do you think, Ellis? Eagle? Vulture? Dragon?"

Frank gave a long, low whistle.

"Is that your way of saying I was right?"

"I'm not saying a thing." Frank pulled a notebook, pencil, and measuring tape out of his pack.

Duckers made no move to help him and Twyla. He folded his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles with a smug "Mm-hmm."

Twyla's hand was shaking as she moved toward the longest toe, unspooling the tape. "Is this creeping you out at all?" she asked Frank, who held the other end at the base of the heel.

"Yep. You?"

"Very much." She crouched on her end and pulled the tape taut. "The drudges were bad enough—thirty-four and five-eighths inches. I don't have a pressing need to come face-to-face with whatever this thing is."

"Dragon," Duckers coughed into his fist.

"Duckers thinks it was a dragon," Frank informed Chief Maguire at 11:43 in the morning, when the three marshals stood across the dinged-up desk from their boss.

"Thanks a lot, Ellis," grumbled Duckers.

"This is one of those best-to-rip-off-the-bandage situations."

Maguire opened a desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of aspirin, and helped herself before finally speaking. "So let me see if I have this right: Herd didn't show up for his shift. Duckers rode out alone. A flare went up, presumably set off by Herd. Ellis and Banneker, you two arrived on the scene first and found Herd dead, covered in glitter. Duckers arrived shortly thereafter, as did the storm. You wrapped the body and took cover. This morning, you returned to the scene to look for evidence and found a giant set of footprints that Duckers thinks belong to a dragon, even though dragons have been extinct for literal millennia."

"That about sums it up," said Frank, sliding the sketch of the prints he had made that morning with the accompanying measurements across the desk to her.

"We lost a twenty-plus-year veteran of the Tanrian Marshals, and the most likely theory is that he was killed by a glitter-breathing dragon?" Maguire got up and walked to her window with its view of the gravel parking lot and a sliver of the churning mist that shrouded Tanria. After a moment, she turned her blue-green demigod gaze on Twyla. "You're mighty silent, Banneker. What do you make of all this?"

"I'm not saying I think a dragon killed Herd, but I'm not not saying it either. Those prints were mighty big."

"Ellis, they're both saying dragon. What would you call it?"

Frank licked his lips. "I'm not sure what else it could have been."

Maguire threw up her hands. "Couldn't y'all have waited until the end of the day to dump this on my desk? It's not like I can knock one back before noon."

She began to pace the floor like a caged tiger. The three marshals watched her warily as if they were kids at a zoo, hoping the bars would hold.

"We won't know anything conclusive about the cause of death until the coroner's report arrives. For now, consider anything related to this case classified. Duckers, you're working with these two for the time being. I don't care how you all patrol Sector W-14 as long as no one goes out alone. And, Ellis?"

Frank stood at attention.

"Do you remember how to operate the old crossbows, the big ones?"

"I think so."

"Good. Check some out of the weapons lockers, and teach these two how to use them."

"Sure thing, Chief."

"If you come across anything else amiss out there, anything at all, report it to me as soon as you can. And let me be clear: If you see a—I can't believe I'm saying this. If you see a dragon, you shoot to kill. I don't care if it's the scientific discovery of the century. I'm not losing another marshal. Understood?"

"Understood," the three marshals answered, none of them with enthusiasm.

"Could've had a nice iuvenicite-smuggling case, but no—the Bride of Fortune has to dump dragons in my lap," Maguire muttered, and with that, she dismissed them, though not before popping another aspirin.

Maguire's shoot-to-kill order sat uneasily on Twyla's conscience. But then, she was the sort of person who was racked with guilt every time she heard the mousetrap under her kitchen sink snap. Reading her thoughts, Frank put his hand on her back as they walked toward the weapons lockers, and murmured, "If it comes to that, I'll do it."

"It isn't the same thing as taking out a drudge. The drudges were already dead. This…" Her voice trailed off.

"I gotta admit, I'm not feeling great about shooting down the scientific discovery of the century," said their new partner.

"We can cross that bridge if we come to it, Duckers," said Frank. "Try not to worry about it too much."

Twyla brought them to a halt. "If we're going to be working together, it seems to me we should be using first names. From now on, I'm Twyla, and this is Frank."

"Okay, but fair warning: my first name is ridiculous."

"Worse than Duckers?" Frank wondered aloud. Twyla swatted his arm.

"It's Penrose," he told them with chagrin. "But my friends call me Pen."

"I'm glad you're working with us, Pen," said Twyla.

"Back atcha."

At the weapons lockers, Frank scribbled their request on the requisition form and pushed it across the counter to Fern. The weapons registrar raised her pencil-thin eyebrows, but she returned a moment later with three full-sized crossbows.

"Fuck yeah," breathed Pen as he picked one up.

"Might want to oil the tiller and wax the strings," suggested Fern. "I don't think anyone has taken these things into the field in twenty years." She picked up one of the crossbows and blew on it, sending a dramatic cloud of dust whirling through the air. Pen caught it in the face and sneezed.

"Thanks, Fern." Frank picked up the crossbows and pushed one at Twyla. She took it, albeit reluctantly.

"Do you think this is necessary?"

"Maguire obviously thought it couldn't hurt, and I'd rather be embarrassed than dead."

"I am so here for this," said Pen.

Twyla gaped at him. "What were you just saying about the discovery of the century?"

"That still stands, but tell me it's not going to be fun as shit giving these things a whirl."

"Happy dragon hunting," Fern joked as they made to leave with their oversized weaponry. Twyla slapped on a fake smile and emitted an even faker laugh, not that Fern had the slightest suspicion that her words were absolutely on target.