Chapter Three - The Milkman

I sat down in an armchair and felt very sick. That lasted for some five minutes, and was succeeded by a fit of the horrors. The poor white staring face was more than I could bear, and I managed to get a tablecloth and cover it. Then i staggered to the wine-cupboard, found a bottle of Dwarven Stout and drained several mouthfuls. I had seen men die violently before - heck, in the years I'd killed many myself. But this cold-blooded indoor business was a whole new thing entirely. Still, I managed to pull myself together. I looked at the hourglass, and saw that it was half-past ten.

An idea seized me, and I scanned all over the flat with as much care as I could. There was nobody there, and no traces of anybody, but I shuttered and bolted all the windows and out the chain upon the door. By this point, my wits were coming back to me, and I could think again. It took me about an hour to think it all out, and I didn't hurry, since unless the killer came back, I had till about six in the morning for my cogitations.

I was pretty much fucked - that much was obvious. Any shadow of a doubt I might have had about the truth of Salren's tale was now gone. The proof of it was under the damn tablecloth. Those who knew that he knew had found him, and done exactly what they saw fit to ensure his silence. Yes - and he'd been in my room for over a week, which meant that his enemies must have reckoned that he'd confided in me. So, I would be the next to go. It might be that very night or tomorrow, or a few days later, but I was right on top of their shit-list, there was no doubt in that.

Then I thought of other probabilities. Assuming I went out now and called the police, or went to bed and let Dalfors find the body in the morning, what then? What kind of story would I tell about Salren? I had lied to Dalfors, and the whole thing looked desperately fishy. If I stayed honest and told the Guard everything, they would simply laugh at my face. The odds were a thousand to one that I would be charged with his murder, and the circumstantial evidence was enough to get me hanged, or a life in the Stockades. Few people knew me in Stormwind, and I had no real pal who would come forward and swear to my character. Maybe that was what those madmen were playing for. They were clever enough for anything, and the Stockades were as good a way of getting rid of me till after June 15th, as a knife through my throat.

Also, if I told the whole story, and by any chance I was believed, I would be playing their game. Thrall would stay nice and safe in Orgrimmar, which was what they wanted. Somehow, the sight of poor Salren's dead face had made me a passionate believer in his scheme. He was gone, to be sure, but he had taken me into his confidence, and I was still pretty well bound to carry on his task.

You might think this ridiculous for a man in danger of his life, but that wasn't the way I looked at it. I'm just an ordinary sort of chap, not braver than others, but I hate to see a good man downed, and that long knife wouldn't be the end of Salren, if I could play the game in his place.

It took me an hour to think this out, and I had come to a decision. I had to vanish, somehow, and stay vanished until the second week of June. Then I had to find a way to get in touch with Alliance Command and tell them what Salren had told me. I wished to heaven he'd told me more, and that I had listened to what little he had told me more carefully. I knew nothing save for the barest facts. There was the big risk too - that even if I weathered every other danger, I wouldn't be believed in the end. I had to take my chance of that, and hope that something would happen that would confirm my tale in the eyes of the Alliance.

My first job was to keep going for the next two or three weeks. It was now the 24th of May, which meant twenty days of hiding, before I could venture to approach the powers that be. I reckoned that two sets of people would look for me - the madmen who wanted to end my existence, and the Guard, who would want me for Salren's murder. It was going to be a giddy hunt, and it was queer how the prospect comforted me. I had been slack so long that almost any chance of action was now welcome. When I had to sit alone with that corpse and wait on fate, I was no better than a crushed worm, but if my neck's safety was to hang on my own wits I was prepared to be cheerful about it.

My next thought was if Salren had any papers or documents about to give me a better clue to this whole affair. I drew back the tablecloth and searched his pockets, since by now I had looted from enough corpses to no longer feel squeamish. The face was wonderfully calm for a man who'd probably been killed gruesomely. There was nothing in his pockets, save for a few coins, a cigarette-holder, a penknife and a pencil. There was no sign of the little black book he used to make notes in. No doubt, his killer had taken that.

But as I looked up from my task, I saw that some drawers had been pulled out in the writing table. Salren wouldn't have done that - like most high elves, he was fanatical about order and cleanliness. Someone had been searching through them, probably for the pocket-book.

I went through the flat and found that every damned thing had been ransacked - the inside of books, drawers, cupboards, boxes, even the pockets of clothes in the wardrobe and the sideboard in the dining room. There was no trace of the book. It was likely the enemy had found it, but not on Salren's body.

Then, I got out an atlas and looked at a big map of the Eastern Kingdoms. My idea was to get off to some wild district, where my experience as a mercenary would help, for I was a dead duck in the City. I decided that the Wetlands, Arathi Highlands and the Hinterlands would be best, since my people were from Stromgarde, and I could easily pass off as an ordinary Arathi. I had half a mind to pretend I was from Gilneas, for I knew the lingo pretty fluently, and my father had many friends from that country, not to mention that my mother had also been Gilnean. But the wall was up, and I would be more conspicuous to be seen outside than in, not to mention that it would be best to go in a line the Guard did not know of my past. I fixed on Thelsamar as the best place to go - it was the nearest Alliance town near the contested territories I was heading into, and relatively small at that, so there was less chance of being bagged there than anywhere else.

I quickly calculated some timings, and figured that the Deeprun Tram to Ironforge left at 7.10, which would land me in that capital by 8.00 and from there to Thelsamar it would be about another two hours by Gryphonhawk. All that was very well, but the bigger problem was how to get to the Tram Station without being observed, for I was pretty certain there would be some of Salren's friends watching from outside. This puzzled me for a bit, then I had a brainwave, on which I went and slept for two troubled hours.

I got up at four and opened my bedroom shutters. The faint light of a fine summer morning was flooding the skies, and the sparrows were beginning to chatter. I felt stupid, and like a God-forgotten fool. My inclination was to let things slide, and trust the Guard to take a reasonable view of things. But as I reviewed the situation, I could find no arguments to bring against my decision of the night before, so with a wry face I resolved to go on with my plan. I wasn't feeling in any particular funk - just disinclined to go looking for trouble, if you understand me.

I pulled out a set of leather armour I'd used in the past, mostly dark coloured and unobtrusive. Into my pockets I stuffed a spare shirt, a cloth cap, some handkerchiefs and a toothbrush. I had drawn a good deal in gold from the bank some days before, in case Salren would have wanted some money, and I took some five hundred gold from it and put it in a secure belt in my armour. I pulled a thick black cloak over it all, to cover it as I walked out. That completed my preparations. Then I went and had a bath, and cut my moustache, which was long and drooping, into a short stubby fringe.

Now came the next step. Normally, Dalfors would come in at 7.30 and let himself in with the key. But at about a quarter less than an hour before he came, the Milkman would show up, as I knew from bitter experience, and with a great clatter of cans, and deposit my share in front of my door. I had seen that chap sometimes, when I'd gone out for an early morning walk. He was a youngish chap, no older than me and about the same height, with an ill-nourished moustache. He also wore a black cloak in the mornings. Upon him I staked all my chances.

I went into the darkened smoking-room where the rays of the morning light were beginning to crepe through the shutters. There, I breakfasted off a mug of Dwarven Ale and some biscuits from the cupboard. By this time, it was getting on for six in the morning. I put a pipe in my pocket, and filled my pouch from the tobacco jar on the table by the fireplace. And as I poked my fingers into the tobacco, I touched something hard, and I drew out Salren's little black pocketbook...

That seemed to me like a good omen. I lifted the cloth from the body and was amazed at the peace and dignity of the dead face. "Goodbye, old chap" I said. "I'm going to do my best for you. Wish me well, wherever you are."

Then I hung about the hall waiting for the milkman. That was the worst part of the whole business, for I was fairly choking to get out of doors. Six-Thirty passed, then six-forty, and he still didn't come. The fool had chosen this day of all days to be late. Then, at one minute after the quarter to seven, I heard the rattle of the cans outside. I opened the front door, and there he was, singling out my bottles from a bunch he carried, and whistling through his teeth. He jumped a bit at the sight of me.

"Come in here for a bit," I said. "I want a word with you." And I led him to the dining-room. "I reckon you're a bit of a sport," I said, "and I want you to do me a service. Lend me your cap and overall for ten minutes, and here's five gold for you."

His eyes opened at the sight of the gold, and he grinned broadly. "Wot's the gyme?" he asked.

"A bet," I said. "I haven't the time to explain, but to win it I've got to be a milkman for the next ten minutes. All you've got to do is stay here until I get back. You'll be a bit late, but nobody will complain, and you get five gold extra this morning. What do you say?"

"Right-o!" he said cheerily. "I ain't the man to spoil a bit of sport. 'Ere's the rig, guv'nor."

I stuck on his flat blue hat and his black cloak over my own armour and cloak, picked up the cans, banged my door and went whistling downstairs. The landlady at the front desk told me to shut my jaw, with a few other creative obscenities regarding my parentage, which sounded as if my get-up was appropriate.

At first I thought there was nobody in the street. Then I caught sight of a Guard standing a hundred or so yards away, and a loafer shuffling past the general goods store around the corner. Some impulse made me raise my eyes to the house opposite, and there at a firstfloor window was a face. As the loafer passed he looked up, and I fancied a signal was exchanged.

I crossed the street, whistling gaily and imitating the jaunty swing of the milkman. Then I took the first sidestreet, which lead to one of the canals. In one of those alleys there was a bit of a blank area. When I was certain there was no one, I dropped the milk can there, and threw the hat and overalls on top of it. I had just put on my leather helmet when a postman came around the corner. I gave him good morning and he answered unsuspiciously. At the moment the bell of the Cathedral square struck the hour of seven.

There was not a second to spare. As soon as I got to the canal road, I took to my heels and ran for the Dwarven District. The clock above the Tram Station showed five minutes to the train departure as I entered the archway with it's rotating gears and hissing steampipes. I simply ran onto the platform, which was moderately crowded, and onto the train, which had begun to move as soon as I entered it. Panting and wheezing, I climbed into the last carriage.

About three minutes later, as we were roaring through the tunnel, an irate dwarven guard interviewed me. He wrote me out a ticket to Ironforge, and he conducted me from the third-carriage, which was exclusively for tradesmen, into the first carriage, which was for mercenaries. There were already a night elf male, a gnome officer (probably a priest) and a dwarven female there, both hunters from the looks of it. The guard went off grumbling, and I mopped my brow and mentioned in my broadest Arathi dialect (which sounds a lot like the Dwarven accent, actually, except that the language is Common) that it was a sore job catching trains. I had already entered in upon my part.

"The impidence o' that gyaird!" said the Dwarf girl bitterly. "He needit an Arathi tongue to pit him in his place. He was complainin' o' this wean no hain' a ticket (indicating the gnome), and my gun was bein' ribbed at, an' he was objectin' to this gen'lmean spittin'. (indicating the night elf man)"

The night elf morosely agreed, and hawked and spat into the darkness outside the tram. And thus I started out in an atmosphere of protest against authority. I reminded myself that a week ago, I had been finding the world dull.