That worked better when you paid in cash. And knew who else was at fault.
Borrowing money wasn’t an option. As an accountant Wynny wouldn’t loan herself a moldy herring in her current state. A bank would just laugh.
If she asked for a postponement to get legal advice Meurig could demand a deposit as surety. Probably more than she had.
Anyway, the situation was simple enough. A lawyer couldn’t help her.
Wynny realized if she didn’t come up with an idea she might be beaten to death in the next few minutes.
“Clan Fiera,” intoned Judge Terwyn. “What is your answer?”
Wynny spoke, glad her voice didn’t quaver. “Fierans came to this world in a spirit of peace, friendship, and mutual benefit. The books that were stolen from us contain the words ‘You shall not kill.’ Those who engaged in violence did so against the will of Clan Fiera. We are innocent of Caenam’s death. No blood of his is on our hands.”
She took a deep breath and hoped she had the next words right. “But you deserve justice. Sell me your bloodright for this death. I will pay you nine-tenths of the bloodprice in thirty days and tell you who the true criminal is.”
Someone in the crowd laughed. Clan Meurig’s Speaker looked outraged. The judge hadn’t even twitched. Whispered conversations in the crowd grew into arguments.
Clack. Clack. Clack. The pounding of wood on rock silenced the crowd.
“Clan Meurig, do you accept the offer?” asked Judge Terwyn.
“We wo—” The Speaker was interrupted by one of her fellow elders grabbing her shoulder. There was a short whispered exchange. Then the Speaker said, “Clan Meurig requests a recess to confer.”
The judge looked to Wynny. She nodded. He thumped his staff once and said, “The Speaking is in recess.”
The senior members of Clan Alevan strolled over to Wynny.
“My cousin, the death creditor,” said Heilyn with a grin.
“I thought you were an accountant,” said Atawan.
Wynny replied, “I am.”
“Then you’re very brave.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Rhedyn. “It was the only practical option.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Wynny. “I’m not sure where to begin on finding the killer.”
“That’s a worry for tomorrow. We still need to get through today.”
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clan Meurig’s Speaker was back on her slab. The recess was over. Wynny waved her cousins away.
“Clan Meurig accepts the offer of Clan Fiera, on the condition that if they fail to deliver those with blood on their hands, the full bloodprice is owed.”
A condition which could have Wynny beaten to death in a month. “Agreed,” she said.
“Both clans have agreed. The judge and all present have witnessed. This Speaking is concluded.” Judge Terwyn tapped his staff once.
***
When Wynny asked for a book recommendation, Judge Terwyn suggested his own. Clan Law In Practice was a comprehensive description of the rules controlling disputes among Corwynt’s clans. It distinguished between rules followed routinely and those which existed as a threat to encourage people to find compromises.
Death creditors only had a single chapter. ‘A successful death creditor must operate outside the bounds of what is formally allowed without crossing into what is forbidden. The price of this freedom is a lack of mercy when caught in a violation of the firm traditions.’
The book was cross-referenced to cases Terwyn had worked or witnessed, with fascinating details. Reading them had more appeal than brooding on the mess she was in. Wynny started when a Clan Parry man knocked on her doorframe.
“Ma’am, Glain Daind is here to see you.”
Clan Daind was one of two police clans for Arnvon. It handled the lower levels, including the industrial sub-levels where Caenam Meurig’s body was found.
Glain was tall for a woman, broad shouldered, with a stern glint in her dark eyes. She was in civilian clothes except for a hat—not the hat of a police uniform. It was a small-brimmed one right off the set of a Rag Duffy movie.
“Welcome, Detective, please come in,” said Wynny.
The police officer stepped in, closing the door behind her. She looked Wynny up and down. “So, you’re the death creditor.”
“For a month. I’m not planning on making a career of it. Please, have a seat.”
Glain chose the bed, leaning against the headboard. “Pity. We could use a good death creditor sometimes. They’re . . . flexible. We won’t tolerate a bad one, though.”
Wynny sat in the desk chair again. “I’m not going to start any Rag Duffy-style brawls.”
“I love those movies. No, you wouldn’t last long in a brawl.”
She wanted to resent that, but it was undoubtedly true. Wynny had survived the chaplain’s riot thanks to Marcus’s skill and strength, not any effort of her own. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“You can find Caenam Meurig’s killers,” said Glain.
“Isn’t that your job?”
“My job is to solve crimes. If our beloved Censorial masters say something isn’t a crime it’s not my job to solve it. This is my day off, by the way. I’m on a purely social call.”
“Then why do you want me to find his murderer?”
“I don’t like killers.”
Wynny thought a moment before responding. “We agree on that.”
“Good.” Glain held out a data chip.
Wynny took it and let it rest in the palm of her hand.
“That’s everything we found in the examination of the scene and of the body. There were six killers. Probably all men. He was punched until he fell down. Then they kicked him until he died.” Glain’s tone was clinical, describing the events without judgement. But she wouldn’t be here unless she cared.
Wynny shivered. “How do you know it’s six?”
“Shoes.” Glain pointed at the data chip.
Wynny fit it to her tablet. An array of pictures appeared. The largest displayed a set of shoes, rotating to show their full shape.
“The killers left footprints in the blood. We can match some of the bruises to the toe designs. Between soles and toes we found six distinct shoes. Two were different sizes of the same boot. They might be from the same clan.”
“So at least six.”
Glain shrugged. “There could be more. But six is a lot for a murder. Any one of them could inform on all the others.”
Thus sparing his clan a share of the bloodprice.
“I can’t accuse someone of murder because he’s wearing a certain kind of shoe.”
“No. But if you bring the shoe to our lab we can see if any of Caenam’s blood is on it. Even if they cleaned it we can find traces.”
Wynny’s eyebrows went up. “You’re allowed to do that?”
“We’re not allowed to investigate. But laboratory technicians need training and practice.”
That sparked a little laugh. Wynny looked at the display. Five boots, one dress shoe. Why should finding a shoe seem so much easier than finding a murderer? Maybe it was just knowing that others wanted to find the murderer too.
“You need to remember you don’t have any police authority,” said Glain. “People don’t have to answer your questions. You can’t go into a clanhome without permission.”
“But I can tell people which clans let me in and which didn’t.”
Glain grinned. “Now you’re thinking like a death creditor.” She tossed her hat to Wynny. “Take the fedora. It’ll help.”
***
Wynny stood behind the green line with everyone else waiting for the flight from Caernod. A corner of the city spaceport was reserved for planetary traffic, mostly passengers. Cargo took cheaper water transport. She stared up through the patchy clouds trying to spot the incoming liner.
Her father wanted to come out immediately when he heard about the bloodprice demand. There wasn’t a direct flight from Bundoran so he had to wai
t until a hurricane moved past Caernod for the connection to resume flight. He’d messaged when he boarded the first leg, before Wynny woke up in the morning.
Someone else saw it first. She followed the pointing arms. A red oval dropped through the clouds. It slowed as she watched. Legs extended. Then it touched down on the blue circle fifty meters away. A staircase extended. People emerged.
The uniformed attendant on the line waved permission. The crowd surged over the green line. Children broke into a run. Wynny found herself in a gap, lagging behind the most eager but ahead of the ones just here for business.
Her father was one of the last to emerge. As much as he wanted to see her, Vychan Goch wouldn’t spend extra to sit up front or even in the middle. He maneuvered through the chattering groups on the tarmac to wrap Wynny in a hug.
“Hello, Papa.”
“You! Couldn’t you phrase that message more delicately? Your mother almost had a drowning heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
Vychan held up a portfolio. “Let’s find a place out of the breeze and I’ll show you what the lawyer found.”
Clan Goch kept a lawyer on call. Vychan had spent six hours with him yesterday. Wynny was eager to see what they’d found. She needed all the help she could get.
A café just inside the city wall was empty enough to provide privacy, it not being lunchtime yet. They ordered warm fruit juice and pastries.
“Here you go, girl. Problem solved.” Vychan took a sheaf of papers out of the portfolio and slid them across the table.
Wynny grabbed them. Had her father’s secret society contacts identified the murderer already? As she flipped through them her face fell. She looked at her father and spoke in a flat tone. “This is a divorce affidavit.”
“Yep. He dug up every case on desertion out there. Going to space without stating he’ll return is sufficient grounds.”
She threw the papers across the table. “I’m not divorcing Marcus.”
Vychan flailed to gather them. He knelt down to pick up the two pages he’d missed. “It’s the only sensible option.”
“If you want to help me, find some clues.”
He sat back in the metal chair. “I have no idea how to find one. Neither do you. You’re very good at what our clan does but that is not preparation for detectiving.”
“I’m learning.”
“The police clans spend their lives learning and they don’t solve every murder.”
Wynny took a sip of her juice. The glass was warm in her hand, keeping the drink at the ideal temperature. “This is not some fancy mystery. This was stupid men getting angry. They left evidence. They’ll talk.”
“You have twenty-seven days. If you don’t catch them by then they’ll kill you.” Tears glittered in her father’s eyes.
She reached across the table to take his hand. “Daddy. This won’t help. I bought the bloodright myself. It’s on me.”
Vychan shook his head. “No. The lawyer called Judge Terwyn. You were speaking as the representative of Clan Fiera, not for yourself. Sign the papers and you’re Clan Goch. The debts and obligations stay with Clan Fiera, waiting for one of them to show up.”
“But—” Wynny stopped and thought a moment. She put a hand on her belly. “Oh, this is not how I wanted to tell you this. I won’t divorce Marcus. I want my baby to have my husband’s name.”
It was a long moment before Vychan closed his jaw and started breathing again. “How . . . how long have you known?”
“Just yesterday. I realized I was off-cycle and picked up a test. I wanted to tell you and Mamma together.”
“She’s not going to be pleased to hear second, no. But that can wait. First we need to keep you alive.” He finished sorting the pages into order and put them in the middle of the table.
“I’m going to stay alive by catching the murderers.”
He tried another approach. “Would Marcus worry more about his baby’s name or his baby’s life?”
That only received a sniff.
“Consider this—what about the next murder. Are you going to spend the rest of your life hunting down any follower of the Sacrificed God who kills another? That’s the precedent you’re setting.”
Wynny had worried about that herself. “If I can get all the books back that will stop the source of the disputes.”
“I doubt that,” said Vychan. “There’s been arguments about what the books say in Bundoran, just from what gossip has passed along.”
“I still need to recover the books so the Censorate doesn’t sanction Fiera.”
“You can take more than a month to get the books. And you’re not going to be killed if you can’t find them. Look. Sign the divorce. When Marcus comes back, marry him again. You said he wanted a ceremony.”
At least he’d said ‘when’ instead of ‘if.’ With the governor off gathering a fleet Wynny didn’t know if she’d see Marcus again or if he’d die with the rest of his planet. She didn’t answer her father.
Vychan picked up the papers and put them back in the portfolio. He pressed the seal closed and put it on the table. “Please. Just take them. In case.”
“All right. In case.” Wynny picked it up.
***
Mamoa. Seat of the Monitor’s Palace. Capital for a sixth of the Censorate. Bridge Yeager felt a quiver, quickly suppressed, as he contemplated his upcoming audience. If Monitor Singh felt his request was presumptuous—or even if it was a reasonable request that didn’t justify an ‘emergency’ demand for an audience—Yeager could be beheaded on the red rug in front of the Monitor’s throne.
By luck he’d arrived on the eve of a scheduled Court Day. His audience was added to the day’s business as the fourth item, bumping down all lower priority petitioners. Yeager had seen the third group ahead of him as they formed up in the foyer. Two rivals for a planetary throne were appealing to the Monitor to settle the dispute. After listening to the princes and their lackeys bicker Yeager thought a beheading might be the best solution to that. Or two beheadings.
He glanced back to check his own entourage was in good order. Every crewman of his transport with a dress uniform had been pressed into service. Most were the pilots and navigators he’d shanghaied along the way. Each knew how to thread the shoals through three or six more star systems toward Mamoa. Then they reached the limit of their knowledge and it was time to go into port and wield his gubernatorial conscription authority. They were in a mix of Censorial Navy, Survey Service, and planetary militia uniforms.
The one civilian pilot thought only bringing jumpsuits would let him escape court. Yeager’s valet noticed he was close enough in size for one of the governor’s suits to be altered for him. Now the poor bastard was in the front row of the entourage, helping give it a less military appearance.
The doors to the courtroom were sculpted with a relief of some mythological figure. Not one Yeager recognized. The gold face and torso split in half as the doors opened.
A herald proclaimed, “His Censorial Judgement the Monitor Singh calls forth Bridge Yeager, Governor of his Censorial Wisdom’s Province of Corwynt.”
Yeager strode forward, careful to stay at the stately pace that said, ‘I am in awe of your authority’ rather than a brisk ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Rustling and shuffling sounds said his entourage was following. He hoped they were doing it right. None of the courtiers had laughed.
His eyes were downcast. Not just as a sign of respect. He spotted the first gold thread in the red carpet. Just short of it he laid on his belly, palms on the carpet, fingertips pointed at the Monitor, toes pointed away. Rustles, grunts, and a few thuds told him the entourage was also performing the prostration. When silence said they were all prone he stood and walked forward again.
At the second thread the prostration went more smoothly. Or at least he didn’t hear any thuds.
Yeager approached the third gold thread without altering his pace. This was where he would speak to the Monitor. He didn’
t see any bloodstains. The princes must have kept their heads.
This time he stayed prone until commanded to rise.
Then Yeager had his first look at his superior in the Censorial government. Singh took his post two years after Yeager had been sent to Corwynt by his predecessor. The man was short and thin, taking up only half the seat of the throne. Bristly white hair set off a lined dark face. The Monitor’s nose was lumpy from being broken. That was a statement. A monitor had access to medical technology which could regrow a nose or any other organ from scratch.
“I have reviewed your report,” said the Monitor. “State your request.”
“Your Sagacity, I request a Censorial fleet to impose order on a world outside the law of the Censorate.”
“I will consider this. Describe the situation to me.”
Yeager summarized his report. Fiera’s isolated bubble, the first contact, the embassy, the false agreement. He pitched his voice to carry. The bureaucrats and courtiers who’d need to support the decision hadn’t read the report. Even the monitor may have just listened to someone else’s precis of it.
When he finished the Monitor asked, “If left alone, what harm could this world do?”
The report hadn’t addressed that. Yeager considered it obvious. “Your Sagacity, the Fierans already triggered a riot with subversive literature. They have proscribed books, some supposedly thousands of years old. They could distribute books among the populace.”
He paused, then realized another aspect of the Fieran contact. “They approached Corwynt through a void. They can navigate to other worlds, by-passing the approved trade routes. They would be an example of a world not under Censorial control, an inspiration to would be rebels.”
The Monitor raised a hand. Yeager shut up. Singh slid on the cushion of his throne to face to the left. “Admiral Pinoy.”
A man in naval dress uniform, bearing more medals than Yeager had seen on any two officers, stepped out of the crowd of courtiers. His toes just graced the edge of the red carpet. He stood at attention. “Yes, Your Sagacity.”
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 9