“Your friends,” Quimby snorted. “Take him, boys.”
Jacaré weighed his options. He could take out the five townsmen, gather his crew, and try to escape, but they’d have to steal a horse for Pira and would have some angry people chasing them. “I won’t fight. Tell me where you want me to go.”
The men didn’t listen and grabbed on to Jacaré like they expected him to flee.
“Our Lord Venza is waiting for you.”
It would have been too easy for Jacaré to break away, but his gut told him to stick around and listen.
Chapter 39
Leão
Leão handed over the coins to pay for their horses’ food and care and ventured back to the inn, but froze before he could get to the building’s door.
Jacaré, surrounded by five local men, was being half dragged, half marched through the town square. He caught Leão’s eye and gave a subtle nod to follow along.
What is going on? he wondered. Jacaré didn’t appear to be in any danger. The men who held his arms didn’t look very fit or well trained, so Jacaré had to be going along with them willingly.
Shoppers and hawkers, washerwomen and errand boys, merchants and craftsmen stopped mid-activity to watch the odd procession. Their eyes flitted over Leão and back to Jacaré, weighing and measuring, before returning to their conversations.
“Have they caught the murderer?”
“Is that him?”
“Could be. Nothing that looks that good ever is,” one woman said, eyeing Leão over the top of her laundry line.
The neighbor over the fence shook her head. “I thought Lady Venza said he was older—too old for Rosalinda to have been cavorting with.”
“Not Rosalinda. That girl couldn’t see a stray dog without wanting to take it in.”
Both women clicked their tongues, and Leão felt their gazes follow him up the road. He didn’t worry about the gossip or the stares, but the word “murderer” trailed after the group.
The men herded Jacaré toward the large house at the street’s far end. The smallest man, the one who seemed to be in charge, opened the gate and ushered them all through.
“Just a moment, Captain Quimby,” Jacaré said. “One of my traveling companions is just outside. Don’t you think it would be fair to have him join us? To vouch for my whereabouts when this crime was committed?”
Quimby gave Leão a dark look before opening the gate. “Lord Venza will want to talk to him anyway. Who says this young buck wasn’t involved?”
He gave an irritated flick of the hand for Leão to join them.
The whole situation made Leão want to laugh: the overweight leader, the mishmash of guards, the accusation with no foundation, the fact that they didn’t even take away Jacaré’s weapons. But Jacaré’s brow was drawn in grave lines, so Leão knew he should take the situation seriously.
The door to the villa swung open, and a man with gray-streaked hair and a matching mustache stepped out.
“What’s going on, Quimby? Who are these people?”
The little man offered a hasty bow before speaking. “Lord Venza, these men entered the city without registering at the main gate. And this one,” he said, pointing to Jacaré, “matches the description Lady Venza gave of the man seen with your daughter.”
Color flushed Lord Venza’s face. “Bring them both into my office. I’ll send one of the maids to fetch my wife.”
Leão and Jacaré were ushered into a tiled foyer. A table on the room’s right was draped in a red cloth and displayed a dozen bouquets of white flowers. The potent scent of gardenias and camellias filled the small space with a rich perfume that didn’t quite cover the stench of death.
There was a body somewhere nearby.
The lord led the group to a room with a large desk and a few wooden chairs. The furniture was simple, but well made, and Leão’s seat didn’t shift as he was shoved into it.
“I can see why you think this man could be my daughter’s killer.” Lord Venza stood behind his desk, supporting his weight with his hands. Dark pockets of skin hung below his eyes. “He does seem to match the description and has the look of a fighting man.”
Quimby preened, pulling the hem of his jacket down. “Exactly as I thought, my lord. He’s tall, lean, and he moves like someone who’s used to using a weapon.” He flicked the sword still strapped across Jacaré’s back. It gave a dull ping in response. “He carried this into the inn.”
“Hmm.” The lord’s eyes landed on Leão. “Were you with your companion five days ago?”
“Yes, sir. We were at an inn in Belem,” Leão answered with confidence.
“Which inn?”
“The Mug and Mutton, sir. The barmaid, Miriam, can verify that we were there.”
“Ha!” Quimby punched his fist into the air, a wide smile breaking his face into two round parts. “That’s an eight-day ride away. You couldn’t possibly have covered that amount of ground in five days. They’re lying, my lord.”
“But we rode—”
“Cross-country, I know.” Quimby hovered in front of Leão’s face, reminding him of a bloated mosquito looking for one last bite. “It still should have taken you longer.”
Leão looked to Jacaré for guidance but couldn’t read the look on his commander’s face. “We have an excellent trail finder,” he said weakly.
“I saw your horses when you rode in. Besides the one that had thrown a shoe, they were worn but not heaving. No animal could have galloped that far and survived.” Quimby’s smile turned to a sneer. “To have made it from Belem to here in five days, you would have had to run the entire way.”
Leão opened his mouth to explain that they’d done just that, but Jacaré’s hand turned to a clenched fist.
“And what in the Good Keeper’s name would have made you travel that hard?” Lord Venza lowered himself into his chair.
Wouldn’t he find it interesting to know that we are the Good Keepers?
“Lord Venza,” Jacaré spoke up. “What my friend says is true. We have ridden hard, stopping along the way to change mounts whenever possible. We, too, are hunting a murderer.”
Leão tried not to let his surprise register on his face.
“Hunting a murderer?” The underlord blinked a few times, obviously as stunned as Leão felt.
“We’re headed to Performers’ Camp to seek out more information, and because of a thrown horseshoe we stopped in your town,” Jacaré said as he leaned forward. “Perhaps we can be of assistance to you. As you ascertained, we are fighting men from far to the north.”
“You look more like pirates from the far south.” Quimby pouted, folding his arms over his paunch.
“We have no reason to believe your words,” the lord said. “What proof can you offer? Who hired you to seek out this murderer? What references do you carry?”
“Venza?” a soft voice called from the doorway. “One of the girls said you had reason to see me.”
At first Leão thought the woman who entered the room was a statue. Besides a dark lock of hair that had slipped from her veil, she was completely devoid of color. Her clothes, skin, even her eyes, seemed to have faded to a pale and lifeless gray.
“I’d like to sit with Rosalinda for a few more hours before . . .” Her lip trembled. “Before you take her away tonight.”
“I’m sorry, my love.” Lord Venza crossed the room and draped a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. “These men entered town this afternoon without registering, and this one seems to fit the description you gave. Quimby brought them by so you could have a chance to look at them.”
She visibly composed herself, tucking the stray hair under her head covering. “Stand,” she commanded in a voice brittle as ice. Her eyes traced over their bodies, taking in their heights, clothing, and the weapon Jacaré wore over his shoulder.
Her eyes,
so sorrowful in her washed out face, made Leão ache with empathy. This woman’s suffering was a raw wound, seeping with anguish.
Even with all his skill, with all the healing power he supposedly had, there was nothing Leão could do for that kind of pain.
She raised a finger and pointed to Leão’s chest. “This one is much too tall.”
Her head tilted to the side, and her tongue dampened her bottom lip. “Do you, sir, ever wear your sword at your hip?” she asked Jacaré in a soft monotone.
“Never, my lady.” He touched his hip where his daggers hung. “As you can see, my belt is made for one hunting knife and pouches only.”
“He could have worn a different belt,” Quimby suggested with an irritated huff.
She nodded. “Will you turn around so I may see your back?”
Jacaré rotated slowly, the glares from all the men in the room tracing his every move.
The woman moved to Jacaré’s side. “My daughter was very petite. She wore her hair piled on top of her head to give her more height. That night, she danced with a stranger half a head taller.” She reached out and touched Jacaré’s shoulder with one finger. “She wouldn’t have reached your chest. You are too tall as well.”
“My lady! Don’t base your decision on what you thought you saw during the festivities!” Quimby’s jowls vibrated with anger. “He could have been slouching, or perhaps Rosalinda was wearing higher shoes that night.”
“No, Quimby. I know what I saw, and this man is not him.”
“But—”
“This is not the man.” Her tone turned sharp. “The man who murdered my daughter was not this tall. He wore his sword on his hip, and his hair in a queue at the base of the neck.”
Quimby took a breath, probably to protest again, but Lord Venza dropped a hand on his shoulder.
“You heard my wife. While I appreciate your help,” he said nodding to the knot of men, “all of your help, pinning the blame on any stranger who enters town will not bring the murderer to justice.”
He excused them to leave and they followed the lady out of the office. “I apologize for your inconvenience here in Vicente. As you can see, we’re quite overwrought. Your appearance seemed like a stroke of luck, though I don’t suppose any murderer would walk back into town unless he knew he couldn’t be identified.”
“We’re truly sorry for your loss,” Leão spoke up, his mind awhirl with the details of another murder. “Your daughter . . . she was killed in town?”
The lord nodded, wiping a hand over his tired face.
“I’m sure it’s difficult to speak about.” Leão hesitated, taking a breath before pushing on. “Would you mind telling us what happened? I only ask because as my friend said, we too are seeking a murderer.”
Jacaré’s eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t stop Leão from speaking.
“About four months ago, a young barmaid was murdered as she walked home from work.” Leão laid out the details of the story Miriam had told him between their kisses. “The girl, Elise, didn’t return when her aunt expected. They found her two streets from home with her throat slit and a brand burned into the side of her neck.”
All the color in the lord’s face faded away, and his hands shook on his desk. “How old was she? This Elise?”
“Just sixteen,” Leão said softly.
“And she lived with her aunt, not her parents?”
“That’s what I understand, my lord.”
“Oh Light,” Venza cursed, wiping a tear from his eyes. He took a few moments to gather himself. “Few people know, but our daughter, our Rosalinda, was a foundling. My wife and I were never able to have children of our own.”
Jacaré’s hands tensed on the arms of his chair. “I know this is an awful thing to ask a mourning father, but your daughter’s body, it’s still laid out in the house. Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the lord breathed.
“May we see her?”
Lord Venza only hesitated a moment before nodding. “Follow me.”
He led them deeper into the house, where the smell of death was poorly masked by flowers and fragrant oils. A small room, cold even though sunlight poured through a west-facing window, held an altar and some artwork featuring Mother Lua.
On the stone lay a young girl, her dark hair fanned around her head like she was floating in water. Even in death, with her cheeks beginning to sink in, she was lovely. And though the resemblance wasn’t perfect, her height and coloring were close enough.
The dead girl could have passed for the girl whose sorrow had been frozen on Jacaré’s glass.
She was dressed in a rich blue silk, a matching scarf hiding most of the wound on her ruined throat. With hesitant fingers, Leão pushed the material aside. Below the gaping slash a red burn marred the pale white flesh. Two small lines, one straight and the other jagged and broken, had been branded into Rosalinda’s skin.
Two girls murdered and marked. Both sixteen and of questionable heritage. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Chapter 40
Johanna
“Come on, boys. We’ve got to go.” Johanna had waited longer than she dared. The sun was too high in the sky, and her mother still hadn’t returned. Johanna forced down her disappointment. Her mother had a difficult relationship with punctuality, which had become even worse after her father’s death. “Put on your shoes and we’ll run a bit.”
“But,” Joshua said, studying his filthy feet with chagrin, “I don’t have any that fit.”
The boy was in that horrible stage between eleven and twelve where something that had plenty of room yesterday was guaranteed to pinch tomorrow. He’d become all knees and elbows, sharp pointed chin, and hollow cheeks.
Johanna rubbed her forehead, feeling overwhelmed. Her brothers would probably be fine in the clearing by themselves, but she hated to leave them unattended. What if a panther roamed the woods or they stumbled on a poisonous snake? Or worse, that their mother came home drunk and angry?
“Can you make it through the forest barefoot?”
“Sure. I walk around here all day without shoes.”
The ground was littered with small stones, nettles, and the twisted roots of age-old mango trees. The forest couldn’t be much worse, and really, what other choice did she have?
She paced for a second, before grabbing the satchel that held her Storyspinner’s cape and a small collection of cosmetics. “All right. Let’s go.”
They started off at a jog. Little Michael clung to her hand but never complained or slowed them down. At least for the first mile.
One-third of the way into the run, he stared at Johanna with tear-filled blue eyes that begged for a rest. So she slung him across her back, where he gripped with an acrobat’s strength, making himself the lightest burden possible. The satchel hung around her neck. It thumped against her hip, but she couldn’t find a more comfortable position for her brother and the bag.
Carrying his weight, even up the hills wasn’t so bad. There was always a down slope after, and they stuck to the soft grass that grew along the side of the path. It didn’t jar as much as the hard, hoof-trodden trail.
They’d almost crossed the halfway point when Joshua stubbed his toe, splitting the nail and bleeding all over the place.
“Keeper-cursed scum sucker,” Johanna growled as she bound the toe as quickly as she could with a strip torn from her shirt.
“I’m okay,” Joshua insisted, limping forward a few steps. “I can make it.”
But despite his sweet attempt at bravery, she could see the pain on his face. Even worse was the knowledge that her efforts to protect the younger boys had failed. Joshua and Michael both realized how much their family needed money from this job.
“I can run for a while,” Michael offered. “Let’s go.”
Johanna picked up Joshua. Even though he was thin, his extra wei
ght made her legs burn and arms cramp. Still, she and the boys pushed forward, until Michael’s breath came in ragged pants and Joshua’s arms trembled around her throat.
“It’s . . . not that . . . much farther,” she said, but each word hurt to speak. She offered Michael the best smile she could muster. His bottom lip quivered, but he trudged forward.
She managed to put one foot in front of the other until her knees turned to jelly. Johanna and Joshua tumbled, somehow taking Michael down as they fell.
They all lay in the grass for a moment, panting and probably crying, at least two miles from the manor.
“We’re okay, Jo.” Joshua pushed himself to his feet and limped to her side. He held out a shaky hand, as if he could pull her up.
She wanted to lie in the shade under the walnut tree, to rest for a while, but for her brothers she stood and stumbled along.
This has got to change, she thought as sweat dripped off her forehead and soaked through her shirt. We’re good people. We work hard. We don’t deserve to live like this.
Chapter 41
Rafi
“Mother’s going to kill us if we don’t get back soon,” Dom said as he marched toward his horse. “And by kill, I mean actual murder.”
“We’ve got plenty of time,” Rafi whispered, stalking toward the rabbit den. He carried the bag of vegetables to the hole they’d been watching and dropped a few carrots into the tunnel. “I hope they eat those and get fat and have thousands of babies, so we can eat them next year.”
The hunting had gotten so slim, the forest so brown as a late-season heat wave dragged on, that Rafi worried all the small creatures would die without human intervention. He’d already dropped off sacks of grain and a salt lick to a meadow a small deer herd frequented, but leaving food for rabbits was something unheard of.
“I have plenty of time, because no one will be sitting close enough to smell me.” Dom sniffed his armpit. “You, on the other hand, will have Belem in your lap all night.”
The Storyspinner Page 14