The Rostikov Legacy

by Charlotte E. English

  Part of him wanted to tell her. She was right: he had few real friends, and there was nobody in whom he could confide about his life as the Malykant. It could be lonely.

  But a larger part of him had no intention of telling her. Solving the murder was only part of his job; the other part was much worse. Would she understand, or would she despise him too? He couldn’t risk it. Because without Nanda’s friendship, he really would have nobody at all.

  Malykant.

  The sibilant voice whispered through his dreams, drawing him towards consciousness. He opened his eyes to complete darkness, or near complete; a hazy phantom hovered near his face, pale and faintly glowing.

  ‘Eetapi,’ he murmured. ‘What’s afoot?’

  Death is on the wind, the serpent replied.

  Konrad was out of bed in an instant, groping blindly for his clothes. It took him a few moments to dress and then he was down the stairs and out into the street, Eetapi gliding ahead of him and Ootapi trailing behind.

  The night was cold and very, very dark; the sky was free of clouds and empty of moonglow, for the moon was in its dark phase. Stars glittered coldly above as Konrad hurried through the streets of Ekamet, fumbling with the buttons of his coat to fasten the wool closer around his chilled throat. The city was silent and empty at this hour, and his footsteps rang in the quiet.

  Eetapi was leading him northwards through the city, past the centre and into the richest quarter. A premonition twisted his gut as he realised where they were headed: directly, unerringly towards Rostikov House. Had Irinanda’s gambit failed? Had the poison-man succeeded after all?

  Death is within, Eetapi whispered as they stopped outside the front door of the house. The building loomed, dark and imposing and firmly shut against the world. He slipped around to the back. Nothing stirred; all was undisturbed, as far as he could tell in the darkness.

  A servants’ entrance stood at the rear of the house, a sturdy wooden door with a small window and, he doubted not, strong bolts on the inside.

  He brushed his fingers against the lock. The metal grew chilled under his touch and he heard the faint sound of the well-oiled lock pulling back, clicking open. Another moment, and a faint squeak of metal told him the bolt had withdrawn itself also.

  Konrad opened the door just wide enough to pass through. He stepped into a small rear kitchen, a utility area that was, thankfully, empty of inhabitants.

  Eetapi, he said in the silent way. Lead me.

  The serpent materialised in his mind’s eye, keeping its semi-corporeal form hidden. He followed her lead out of the tiny room, through the main kitchen in which a single maid snored, and through at last into the more opulent parts of the house.

  Eetapi stopped at last outside the study. Its door was ajar, and a light burned within.

  Is there danger?

  He felt the serpent’s negative. No living soul is within, she confirmed. There is only death.

  He pushed open the door, slowly so it wouldn’t creak, and stepped inside.

  The corpse lay near the window. It was partially hidden behind a wing-back chair that sat near the fireplace, so Konrad couldn’t see the face. But the clothes told him this was a man, and not a servant. He crossed the room in swift strides and knelt by the side of the body.

  With a shock, he recognised Lord Amrav Rostikov. He lay on his back, hatless and without his cravat, waistcoat or hat: he wore only a loose shirt and trousers. His throat had been cut.

  Serpents, he said immediately. Bind his soul.

  They did so, weaving the scattered shreds of it together and binding it to the corpse with the strength of their Master’s will. Rostikov’s mouth opened and his eyes widened in shock. Or was it fear?

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Konrad ordered, pitching his voice low. ‘Quietly.’

  The corpse’s mouth worked but nothing emerged.

  ‘Who killed you?’ Konrad said.

  Rostikov grunted, and his arms flailed.

  ‘Who killed you?’ Konrad repeated. ‘Tell me quickly.’

  The corpse grunted again, an inarticulate, urgent sound. He shivered and tears leaked out of his eyes.

  Suddenly understanding, Konrad knelt and pried the man’s lips apart.

  The corpse’s tongue was missing.

  He sighed. Release him, he ordered the serpents. They obeyed, and Lord Rostikov’s corpse settled back into the stillness of true death.

  Konrad retrieved his knife, working quickly. He’d already been in the house for too long. He cut into the corpse’s torso, opened it, and carved away the flesh that coated his ribs. He chose one of the sturdiest of the rib bones and extracted it, wrapping it in cloth and storing it in his coat.

  This done, he paused to examine the room. Everything appeared to be in order; nothing was broken or upset, and the room did not appear to have been robbed. He did not find the weapon that had been used to cut Rostikov’s throat.

  He left the room, leaving the door ajar as he’d found it. He strode back through the house, past the maid that snored, beautifully oblivious, in her place by the cold kitchen fire, and back out of the rear door. The locks and bolts slid smoothly shut again at his bidding, and silence returned to the Rostikov dwelling.

  He could think of only one reason why the killer would remove Lord Rostikov’s tongue after he was dead. That the culprit knew he was hunted by the Malykant was no surprise: everyone knew what the missing rib bones meant. But the specifics of his methods were not, and should not, be known.

  Someone knew about his reanimation of Navdina Rostikova. Someone knew that corpses could still speak, were they encouraged by the right means. And that person had taken steps to ensure that Amrav Rostikov could not identify his killer.

  What worried him most was how. Had the killer researched the role of Malykant and found someone who could give detailed information? He doubted that. Such details were secret, protected on pain of death. Merely to find such a person would be difficult; encouraging them to share their knowledge would be virtually impossible.

  That meant that he had possibly - probably, even - been observed when he spoke with Navdina’s corpse. And that in turn meant that he might have been identified.

  He’d been wearing his customary wide-brimmed hat, he knew. It was cold out in the Bones at this time of year, so he had been wearing a thick coat and a scarf. His hands had been gloved. He doubted that much of his face had been visible as he had worked on Navdina’s corpse, but nonetheless. He would have to be more careful.

  Eetapi, he said in his mind. Ootapi. Watchers. You are my eyes in the spirit lands. Was any living soul present at the binding of Navdina Rostikova?

  We think not, Ootapi replied.

  But it is not impossible, Eetapi added. He understood. They had bound the spirit of Navdina and held it while he questioned her. While thus occupied, they could not simultaneously keep watch over him.

  He made his way to the small park near to his house and sat down on a bench, drawing his hat down over his eyes. Dawn would not be long in coming, and sleep was out of the question for him now.

  It was difficult to imagine what the consequences might be of his exposure as the Malykant. He doubted not that his ability to perform the role would be compromised; therein lay the logic in keeping the title a secret. In order to move about unobserved, he must be anonymous; and for the Malykant to be feared as was proper, his identity must be a mystery.

  But if he had been identified, the killer had known who he was for days and had not yet chosen to expose him. Perhaps he was yet safe. But he had been careless at the scene of Navdina’s death. He must take much greater care from now on.

 

  Konrad returned to Rostikov House a few hours later, as soon as he judged that the alarm would have been raised. He arrived to find the house crawling with activity: policemen moving in and out of the front door, taking tools inside and removing evidence; reporters hoping to catch a word with a detective; servants fleeing the house in a panic
. Konrad hung back. A day or two ago he might have gone inside with impunity, but now he was reluctant to draw attention to himself.

  He waited until he saw a familiar figure emerge from the house, his dark blue overcoat closely buttoned up and his inspector’s hat tall on his head. Konrad fell into step beside Nuritov as the man made his way around the side of the house.

  ‘Savast,’ Nuritov greeted him. ‘I imagine you already know the identity of the victim.’

  Konrad inclined his head. ‘What have you learned?’

  ‘Victim’s tongue was removed,’ he replied. ‘No indication as to why. Throat was slit, ragged job; not a professional killing by any stretch of the imagination. Ground floor window was open. We think the killer got in that way.’

  Konrad’s brows went up. ‘A ground floor window? In which room?’

  ‘Parlour,’ Nuritov said, with a sideways glance at him. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

  Konrad said nothing. There had been no ground floor windows open a few hours ago, but he was not inclined to admit to a police inspector that he had been inside that house last night.

  ‘Is anyone ill?’ he asked instead.

  Nuritov looked at him oddly. ‘Ill how?’

  ‘Suffering, say, from a variety of rash.’

  ‘Not that I know of, but we haven’t finished interviewing everyone yet. Why do you ask? Got some kind of lead?’

  Konrad smiled. ‘This one I cannot share, but note this: if anyone inside that house should develop any such ailment in the near future, it is significant. And you’ll let me know, if it happens.’

  ‘All right.’ Konrad could hear the exasperation in the inspector’s voice, but he was unconcerned. He’d done his duty in alerting the man: the details could be spared. He didn’t want Irinanda’s name to come up again.

  ‘Keep an eye on it,’ Konrad said. With a nod to Nuritov, he departed.