Flames Over Frosthelm

by Dave Dobson

  Edmund frowned and looked out of the window. “Well, I suppose it is,” he replied. “I hadn’t seen much beauty in it before, I confess, but perhaps it does have a . . . homespun charm.” He raised a hand to his chin, rubbing his gray beard softly. “You know, I could have sworn I closed that door earlier.” He turned back toward the door, and Boog dashed over toward me, keeping behind Edmund. As he ran, his cloak brushed the pitcher again. It teetered, swayed, rolled to the edge of the table, then rocked back toward safety. With all my consciousness, I willed it to continue to roll back, or just to stop, or failing that, to vanish in an inaudible puff of smoke. To my horror, it stopped, then slowly rocked forward, tipping farther and farther over the table's edge.

  I could stand it no more. I rushed over and grabbed the thing. “And this . . . fine vessel,” I said, holding it up to admire it. “I have never seen its equal. Yes, it's the best gourd pitcher I’ve ever seen! So clever! And utilitarian. Waste not, want not, I say. Or they say. I think they do. Yes.” I set it gingerly down well back from the edge. Boog now crouched behind a chair to my left, I hoped still unnoticed. Edmund looked at me as though he was not sure whether I was merely a few steps beyond eccentric, or perhaps most of the way down the road to raving madman. I could hardly blame him.

  He paused a moment, thinking, and shuffled up to me. “You know, Marten,” he said, “We’re not entirely cut off from the city out here.” He gestured with his right hand at a pile of scrolls in the corner. “We get a missive from headquarters every few weeks. Got one just yesterday, in fact.”

  I tried not to let my face show my unease. “Er, I…” I looked down, and saw that in his left hand, Edmund now held a sharp knife pressed against my belly, pointy end forward. I gasped, and Boog launched himself up from behind his chair, his staff swinging downward in a fearsome arc towards Edmund’s blade.

  I gritted my teeth for either the crunch or the stab, but neither came. Quick as an adder’s strike, Edmund dug the finger and thumb of his outstretched right hand into Boog’s neck. Boog’s eyes widened, his staff flew from his fingers, and he followed it down, landing with a dull thump face-first on the floor. The breath left his body in a shuddering gasp, and he lay still.

  “Perhaps you should sit down now,” Edmund said, quite reasonably, gesturing with his knife. I had no choice but to comply.

  33

  To Have Loved and Lost

  “You see, I’ve had some mixed messages from headquarters,” said Edmund. I wondered what he meant. Had Gueran or Lia reached him? I couldn't ask, or risk betraying them, and whoever else was working with them.

  “Er, mixed?” I asked. “From headquarters?” Very intelligent, I sounded. For a parrot.

  “Well, I’ve known Sophie since she was an apprentice,” said Edmund. “Terrible business.”

  “It wasn’t us,” I said, my cheeks growing hot. “She was our friend.” From the floor, Boog produced a guttural wheeze. I was glad of the support, however expressed.

  “Well, that leads me to the mixed messages. I heard of your crime, capture, trial, and conviction.” He gestured at the pile of scrolls, then reached over to pick one up. “It all sounded quite grim. And quite hasty, I thought. And then, yesterday, a courier delivered news of your escape, and a warning to be on the lookout for a pair of desperate criminals.”

  “So,” I said, my mouth dry. “That doesn’t sound mixed."

  “No,” he said, “It doesn’t. But then there's this.” He unrolled the scroll and showed me. I was too far away to read most of the cramped handwriting, but I could see my name and Boog’s in big dark letters. I’d have chuckled at the fancy ‘Beauregard’ under less serious circumstances. There was even a crude sketch of us, thought you couldn’t get much more than our relative heights from it. I was sure I wasn’t quite as scrawny as depicted, nor had I ever sported such a malevolent expression that I could remember. I could see what Edmund meant about mixed messages, though. Scrawled roughly over the neat black writing, in rust-colored ink that looked much like dried blood, was a single word. LIES.

  “They’ve all got that, at least the ones that mention you two and Sophie.” Edmund placed his knife down carefully next to his chair. Still convenient, I noticed, although if he could bring down Boog with two fingers he could probably take me out with merely a few chest hairs. “Would you care to tell me your side of this?”

  I pondered. Edmund seemed open to hearing us out, at least, and he had taken no other action against us than drawing his knife, now lowered, and defending himself against Boog. I had no more cards to play. I decided to lay down my hand. But first – “I will. But, my partner, Boog…”

  Edmund smiled. “He’ll be all right, though he’ll probably have a nasty bruise on his neck and some tingling in his extremities for a few days, and he may have bumped something on the way down. I don’t get to use that trick much anymore. He should come around in an hour, maybe less – depends on how hard I squeezed. I’m a little rusty."

  “Can I, uh, roll him over?” Edmund nodded his assent. I knelt next to Boog, tugged his cloak out from under him, and lifted his shoulder. To little effect, at first, but then I got a better grip and rolled him onto his back. His head hit the ground rather harder than I would like, and he exhaled sharply. His eyes were open and glassy, his mouth open, his tongue hanging out. There was a bit of wood stuck to his tongue, actually. I gingerly brushed it off and pushed his tongue back in his mouth. He gurgled, and his eyes very slowly rolled up to meet mine. I pushed his mouth closed, but it fell open again. I tried to straighten his cloak and dust off his clothing, but I didn’t know what the protocol was, not having faced this particular situation before.

  “That’ll probably do,” said Edmund.

  “Right,” I said, rising. I stepped back to my chair, sat, and related our whole sorry tale to Edmund. I left nearly nothing out, except the identities of my friends and the help they’d provided secretly or overtly on our behalf. And one other thing – I didn’t mention the amulet Sophie had left us. If Edmund turned out not to believe us, or to be working for Marron, at least Marron wouldn’t know we had the real amulet. Until he pried it from my cold, dead fingers, I thought, the odds of which were probably better than even at this point.

  Edmund asked a few questions as I talked, but mostly he sat and listened. When I finished, with my none-too-glorious stay in the woods outside Middlemarsh and our haphazard plan to meet with Edmund, he sat back in his chair and rubbed the knuckles of his right hand with his left, deep in thought. Finally, he spoke.

  “Well, I’m inclined to believe you,” he said. I fell back in my chair with relief. “For one thing, I’ve seen how bad a liar you are.” From the floor, Boog made an unintelligible wet noise deep in his throat. Edmund continued. “For another, I know the man of whom you speak.” He paused. “I believe this of Marron, for I know he’s done worse.”

  “Worse than killing the High Inquisitor and condemning two innocent men? Worse than resurrecting an evil god?” I could not prevent the color rising in my cheeks.

  Edmund raised a hand, palm open. “I apologize. I suppose it’s a matter of perspective.”

  I could not resist. “What else has he done? What do you know?”

  Edmund looked at me squarely for a bit. “Well. I suppose there’s no harm in it.” He straightened himself in his chair.

  “I am the oldest of twelve children. My parents were merchants in Frosthelm. They had a small shop near the noble district that sold mostly jewelry and fine clothing. Two of my sisters still run that shop now, and one brother, Roland, travels most of the year, bringing them back supplies and exotic goods. The other children, of the ten of us who lived to adulthood, anyway, have found other paths, other stations. But the favorite of the family was always the youngest, my sister Cecile.

  “When she was born, I was already in my apprenticeship at the Guild. But I lived mostly at home still, and continued to, even after I became a provisional inspector. It was comfortable, and my parent
s had come to rely on me for help with the other children. So, I got to see Cecile grow up, into a beautiful girl, into a young woman.”

  He paused. This departure into his family history was unexpected, but it was far more pleasant than being stabbed, and I was interested in how Marron played into it. Edmund continued. “Often, a youngest child is spoiled, especially in a family so large and prosperous, as we were by the time she came along. And it’s not as if we didn’t try. She was showered with trinkets, toys, pastries… She was one of those rare people that could show true, genuine delight at receiving a gift, but all of her pleasure came from being cared for by others rather than from whatever bauble she'd been given. In fact, after a few days, we usually saw our gifts in the hands of the other children who lived nearby, usually the children of washerwomen or porters, who would never have had such a prize otherwise. She was such a wonderful girl.” His gaze had grown distant, lost in his reverie.

  “When she got older, she helped out in the shop, as most of us did from time to time. The shop served mostly the wealthy. Frequently the city nobility would stop by, shopping either for gifts or from vanity. Cecile was perfect. Always kind, always helpful, with a good sense of what people were really after. I don’t doubt that a good part of the shop’s growth and success at that time came from her working there.”

  “The shop became something of a status symbol.” That meant nearly nothing to me. I had no idea what nobles liked, but I imagined Gueran could tell me how the lofty lived. “Our goods set trends, fashions – business was very good. Most noble families would eventually stop in, sometimes several times a month to see our new wares. That’s when Marron came – not Count Marron yet. His mother, the Countess, was still alive. The younger Marron, though, then a boy of perhaps sixteen years, came to the shop, probably as a reluctant companion to his mother. And he met Cecile, and she treated him as she treated everyone, with kindness and charm and a ready laugh. One can hardly blame him for coming to love her – we all did, and she could make anyone feel their best.

  “Marron visited the shop regularly, then, throwing his money about, and often bringing Cecile gifts or flowers. I don’t think she had it in her to hurt him, although I’m sure she didn’t respond to his wooing to any greater extent than courtesy required. And for Marron’s part, he had to know it could not have led to anything – his family would never have allowed him to marry a commoner, even one of our somewhat enhanced stature. I don’t know if he was after a mere tryst, or a fleeting romance, or if he even knew what he was doing.

  “The thing is, Cecile had already lost her heart to another. A quiet lad, who often spent his days by a small fountain outside our shop, reading, or sketching, or writing. Though I’m sure he was shy at first, as he was with everyone, Cecile could coax words from a stone, and she would stop to chat, or share her luncheon. He was a kind and gentle boy, was Trevain. They grew to be very good friends, very close, and they fell in love.

  “Though none of us knew it, the lad turned out to be a noble of a minor house. The titled noble, too – his parents had both been taken by a fever when he was ten, and Trevain was their only heir. He did not hold high station, but his mother had been a respected advisor to the Prelate, and his father well-liked. Most, if they thought of him at all, felt pity for him, but he kept well clear of court intrigues and business, and the lack of attention suited him.

  “Finally, when Marron had been after Cecile for the better part of a year, Trevain asked my parents for permission to seek Cecile’s hand in marriage. Something Marron had never done. They knew her heart and would have agreed even had he not been a noble. She told Marron on his next visit, and he broke several pieces in the shop and stormed out, cursing both her and Trevain. But at least it was over. The courtship was brief. They already loved each other fully and completely. They were married at his small summer estate, with all of our family in attendance, and a happier day I don’t think I’ve ever had, nor ever will, in my life.”

  Edmund’s eyes were moist. I could see that the story must end in tragedy, so it was no surprise. I wondered if this Cecile could really have been as perfect as he said. It didn’t matter, I supposed. When people are gone, their memory is all that remains, and hers seemed a bright one. A strong echo of the old man’s sorrow rose in my throat. Marron had certainly tried to destroy my life, but he had not destroyed those I loved most.

  “They lived, quite happily, for a year,” he continued, his voice quiet. “Then, in the middle of one summer’s night, Trevain’s family home in the city was burned. Both of them died in the fire.”

  “Was burned?” I said. “It wasn’t an accident?"

  “No,” he replied. “It was no accident. It was made to look like one. It appeared the fire started inside, near where they were sleeping. The whole house burned down to the stonework, so there wasn’t much to work with. But I got the Augur to help. We tried many sets of items – burned linens, bricks from the house, spare buttons, ash – it took many days, but I would not give up – it was my sister, and Trevain. The images in the pool finally showed the fire being set, and...” He rubbed his eyes. “…Trevain and Cecile stabbed as they slept.”

  The pain on Edmund’s face was hard to look upon. “Could you tell… who it was? Who did it?” I asked.

  “It was a thief – a common criminal. We found him a week later, his throat cut in an alley. The only thing we could get from the pool was a masked man, cutting him down, and only a glimpse of that. And that is where the case stopped."

  “But you think – it was Marron, behind it?”

  “There was no one else with motive. Trevain had no enemies, and Cecile surely did not. But there’s more. Afterward, Marron brought evidence forward that Trevain had been spying for Gortis. Papers, notes, and testimony from some of Marron's lackeys of a meeting with Gortians. Marron had his mother’s support in this, as well, though I don’t know if the elder Marron really knew what was going on.”

  “Did you see this evidence?”

  “No, I did not. It went directly to the Prelate, but I heard from some who saw it. Sophie did. It was weak. I could probably have disputed it if I'd had a chance. And Trevain had no interest in politics, no need for money – it just didn’t fit. But I had no status, and it wasn’t Inquisition business. And Trevain had nobody left to speak on his behalf, other than a few friends, none of whom held any weight in the court.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The Prelate revoked Trevain’s title and put his lands and estate up for auction. Marron bought them with his mother’s coin, and had the homes and buildings razed. To erase the memory of the traitor, he said.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was full of grief and rage, but I had no evidence to go on.”

  “So you stayed quiet?” I asked, wondering what I would have done.

  “No,” he smiled, “I didn’t. I kept investigating. I followed Marron around the city for a few months. Eventually, I took to the streets. I put up posters. I shouted in the town square. I got myself thrown in prison. Rather foolish, I fear.”

  “How is it that you’re, er, out, then? And still an Inquisitor?”

  “In my investigations, I found two more pieces of evidence. One showed that Trevain was innocent. He was a tireless writer, and he kept a daily journal, which, though damaged, survived the fire. On the day of his supposed meeting with Gortians in Frosthelm, he had been miles away, attending a performance of a troupe of actors and acrobats in Celeni. He had described the performance in great detail in his notes, and I verified it with some who had seen the show.”

  “But…” I hesitated, curious, but not wanting to offend. “Had he been a spy, could he not have gotten a description from someone else, and falsified the journal?"

  “I thought of that. Not because I believed it, but because Marron might have argued it.” said Edmund. “He had described his seat in the theater so well that I could actually go to Celeni and collect the chair. I put that at the Augur’s pool wit
h some of his belongings, and it showed him clearly at the theater, watching the show.”

  Interesting. Having been falsely imprisoned by Marron myself, I was not particularly surprised. “What was the second piece of evidence?”

  “I tracked down a woman who’d been a companion of the man who set the fire. She was angry at his murder. She still had some coins she’d received from him. I bought one from her and tried it at the Augur’s pool with some of his belongings.”

  “But money doesn’t work, usually,” I protested.

  “It was a jumble, to be sure. But one of the images clearly showed the coin in a room in the Marron house. The Marron coat of arms was painted on the wall, and on one of the guards nearby.”

  “How did you get this much time with the pool? For a case that was closed?” That was certainly unusual – the pool was normally only used for at most an hour or two a day, and there were always active cases to solve, and paying clients to serve.

  “The Augur took pity on me, I think. I was driven – consumed by grief and rage. And I’d been helpful to her before in several cases. I'd learned to use the pool myself, although without much control. So, she didn’t have to drain herself – I took on the auguries.”

  I thought about it. I believed Marron capable of these deeds, to be sure. At this point, I’d believe he ate grilled kittens for lunch. “But that’s not enough. Not enough to arrest or convict. Not a noble.”

  “No, not enough,” admitted Edmund. “But it was enough for me. Until they locked me up, I spread enough rumors by shouting accusations in the town square that Marron was becoming the talk of the court, I think.”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “If Marron had his way, I’d have been locked up for a long time, or sent to the mines, or even killed. But the High Inquisitor interceded. Dran, it was then. He pointed out my obvious distress and promised to station me far from the city. I'm not sure what the Prelate believed, or if he even cared much, but I was released and sent to the border, and then to several other posts, and for the last twelve years, here in Middlemarsh.”