The alleyway didn't stay silent for long.
Within minutes, the perimeter was swarming. Not just Iron Guard, but Magistrates in grey robes, scribbling on their clipboards, muttering and mumbling underneath their breaths.
Elian gave a sideways glance towards them. They must be having a meltdown thought Elian, as the Magistrates are well known for their meticulous bureaucracy and a royalty dying in the back of an alley must be breaking numerous laws and regulations. Elian could imagine the piles of papers and reports awaiting them.
Dwarves in purple tunics, carrying strange looking thingamajigs seemed to be scanning the walls. Elian had heard of them, the Runesmiths as they were called, a clan of dwarves that had combined magic with advanced dwarven technology. Elian had heard his seniors say that if the City Watch had access to a fraction of their technology it would have made their jobs so much easier.
As though sensing Elian's gaze, one of the Runesmiths turned to look in his direction. Elian quickly ducked out of the way and stood by a wall, trying to make himself invisible. It was a survival instinct. In the Lower Ring, visibility meant trouble. Here in the Crown District, it meant death.
"Make way!" a herald shouted. "High Justicar Gror approaches!"
The sea of black armor parted.
Gror was a dwarf of immense girth and even immense dignity. He didn't walk; he glided, his movements hidden beneath layers of heavy, stone-gray robes. He wore the monocle of the High Court and carried a staff of office made of silver and gold topped by a gem the size of a fist.
He stopped at the edge of the crime scene, his nose wrinkling. He looked at the body of Prince Thrain, then he looked at Elian.
"Why is there a stray dog in my crime scene, Captain Varn?" Gror asked, his voice bored and nasally.
Captain Varn stiffened. "Constable Elian is a tracker, Your Honor. He was the first responder from the City Watch."
"A tracker from the Watch?," Gror scoffed. He walked past Elian without making eye contact, as if Elian were a lamppost. "We have the Runesmiths who can find a grain of gold in a barren desert. We do not need... low-born intuition."
Gror circled the body of the dead prince. He bowed down to get a good look at the lifeless face and seemed to mutter something to himself.
"I told the King that his son's activities in the Entertainment Quarter would be his own undoing. Didn't think it would come to this though," Gror said with a tone of deference yet tinged with a slight condescension.
Gror gestured at the Captain of the Iron Guards, "Well what do you have to report Captain?"
"Single gunshot wound to the neck, Your Honor," Varn reported. "Instant death."
"Gunshot," Gror repeated, the word tasting like vinegar in his mouth. "A human weapon. Used to kill a member of a royal family."
Gror sighed, a long, tragic sound that seemed rehearsed. "I warned the Council. I told them that allowing the humans to keep their 'technology' would lead to this. Anarchy. Chaos."
Elian bit his tongue. He wanted to point out that the Dwarves had invented war machines that could level mountains, while humans just had noisy tubes that fired lead balls.
"It is an open-and-shut case," Gror declared, turning away from the body. "A human radical group. Probably the 'Ironless.' They've been agitated about the tax hikes."
Elian rolled his eyes upon hearing the name Ironless. He knew them, a bunch of old men who were always hanging out drinking at the Sheepshead, a small tavern on the Southside of the Lower Ring. They talked a mean game, but they were mostly harmless.
"Your Honor," Borrun spoke up, stepping forward nervously. "With respect... there was no report of a shot. A gun in this alley would have woken the whole district."
Gror stopped. He turned slowly to look at Borrun.
"Are you questioning the evidence of your eyes, Watchman?" Gror asked softly. "There is a bullet hole. Therefore, there was a gun. If no one heard it, perhaps the human cowards used a pillow. Or perhaps the rain drowned it out."
Gror waved a hand dismissively.
"Captain Varn, lock down the Lower Ring. I want a curfew in effect within the hour. Anyone found on the streets after the bell is to be arrested. Sweep the human taverns. Find me a gun."
"But Your Honor," Varn hesitated. "A sweep like that... it will cause a panic. Maybe a riot."
"Then put it down," Gror said coldly. "The Prince is dead. The peace is already broken."
The Justicar swept out of the alley, his entourage scurrying after him like grey beetles.
Elian let out a breath, his hands shaking slightly. Not from fear, but from frustration.
"He doesn't care who did it," Elian whispered to Borrun. "He just wants someone to hang."
Borrun looked at the body, then at Elian. "If they sweep the Lower Ring, they'll tear the place apart, Elian. My cousins live there. Your sister lives there."
Elian looked back at the corpse of Prince Thrain. He crouched down one last time, ignoring the glares of the remaining guards.
"He's wrong," Elian muttered.
"About what?"
"The rain didn't drown out the shot. And a pillow wouldn't stop the echo in here." Elian pointed to a small smudge on the wall, high up, near the roofline. It was barely visible in the dark.
"And look there," Elian whispered. "Scrape marks on the brick. Someone didn't walk in here. They came from above."
"Elian,"Borrun hissed. "The Justicar declared it a human crime. If we go against the official report..."
"If we don't," Elian stood up, his face hard. "The Iron Guard is going to burn our homes looking for a ghost."
Elian turned up the collar of his coat against the rain.
"We have to find the real shooter, Borrun. Before the curfew starts."
"We have no authority!" Borrun argued, though he was already following Elian out of the alley.
"We're the City Watch," Elian said, stepping back into the mud of the main street. "We find drunks and thieves. And whoever killed this Prince is just a murderer. That makes him ours."