Denerim Confidential

Chapter 5

Tabris Investigations was on the second floor of a slightly shabby but respectable-looking building close to the alienage. The stairwell let out into a windowless but comfortable lobby decorated with a rug, three armchairs, and a large, leafy plant. Three doors opened out into that small lobby. The first bore a black-and-white sign reading "Tabris Investigations" in a basic typeface, with "Naia Tabris, Owner" in smaller print beneath it. The second door had a near-identical Tabris Investigations sign listing Juliet Hawke as the PI in the office. The third door said "Tethras Holdings. Elmand Tethras, Proprieter." Alistair had to squint to read that one; the letters carved in the brass plaque on the door were so thin and rubbed down as to be nearly illegible. Somehow, he suspected that wasn't an accident.

Before he could knock on the first Tabris Investigations door, it burst open, revealing a panting, eager mabari hound with one paw raised. The massive dog cocked its head quizzically at Alistair, as if to ask what was taking him so long.

Naia Tabris rose from behind a battered metal desk. "Dog! Leave him alone."

"It's all right, I've always been a fan of this breed," Alistair said, reaching out a hand to pat the mabari's head. "What's his name?"

"Dog," said the elf, somewhat sheepishly. "He's a stray. I didn't want to give him a name because I can't really keep him. Small apartment, no time, you know."

Dog rubbed his head underneath Alistair's fingers; Alistair had the momentary, absurd thought that maybe he could fit a mabari in his own tiny apartment. "Any luck finding him a new home? How long have you had him around?"

"Uh. Eighteen months, give or take," Naia admitted. "I probably should have named the poor guy after all. But Dog stuck."

The mabari craned his neck back towards her and gave her an adoring look, his mouth hanging open shamelessly as he panted. Naia laughed and snapped her fingers. The dog immediately ran to her side and sat, suddenly still and intimidating. "See? You have manners, when you remember them," she said to the dog. "Please, have a seat."

It took Alistair a moment to realize that "have a seat" was meant for him. He settled into one of the two armchairs in front of the desk, an inexpensive, blocky seat covered in brown fabric. He found it surprisingly comfortable despite its aesthetic shortcomings.

He waited until Naia had settled behind her desk to begin. "So. Um. I decided I'd like to know more about the shooting. I'd like to think it's random, but ... well, frankly I don't think I'm that lucky."

Naia raised an eyebrow. "That many enemies?"

Alistair laughed half-heartedly. "Maybe I'm flattering myself, but I don't think I have any. No, if this is about me, it isn't really about, well, me." Too late, he realized how stupid that sounded, but Naia's face betrayed no sense of irritation or amusement.

"Who is it about, then?"

Alistair took a deep breath. Forming the words wasn't easy. It occurred to him that he had never actually told anyone this—only discussed it with people who already knew.

"Um. It's about my biological father, probably. He was sort of important." Maker, why couldn't he just spit it out? "Most people think I'm Eamon's by-blow. The truth's a bit more complicated. Eamon did know my father, but ..."

Naia's eyes widened in realization. "Maric Theirin. Your father's Maric Theirin."

Alistair felt his throat constrict. "How did you know?"

"You look a bit like your half-brother Cailan. I didn't put it together until you mentioned that your biological father was important, though." She leaned back in her chair, her eyebrows raised. "Wow. Any idea why someone might want Maric Theirin's secret son dead?"