by Tim Stead
Arla paused in the street outside and looked at the place. It was not a pretty building, but solid – faced with yellow sandstone, large, leaded windows looking out on the street and an oaken double door. The sign hung above it depicted a mounted and crowned king, sword raised in his right hand. It reminded Arla of a painting she’d seen in Ella Saine’s house.
She went inside.
The tavern was closed, so its capacious public rooms were hollow. Her steps echoed on the flags. Diara, Gilan’s second, was waiting at the foot of the stairs. She was a small, dark, competent woman – an archer like Arla, and Arla had the impression Diara would die for Gilan if it became necessary.
“It’s upstairs,” Diara said.
It, Arla noticed, not he. Dead people seemed to lose a great deal of their character as soon as they stopped breathing, and it was part of Arla’s job to restore it, to resurrect them in a way.
She followed Diara up the stairs.
“Old or young?” she asked.
“Bit of both,” Diara said. She pointed to a closed door. “In there. I’ll go and fetch the landlord. Do you want me to wait until your people arrive?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Arla said. “Just keep folk out of the tavern.”
Diara went back down the stairs. Arla stepped across to the door and opened it. She pushed it wide with her boot and stood in the corridor for a moment, looking in. The body lay on the bed, slightly askew. His feet hung over one side and his head tipped back over the other, away from her so she couldn’t see his face. He was partly covered by the blanket, and seemed to be dressed in boots and trousers, bare-chested. So there was every chance that he had been asleep when his killer struck.
She looked at the floor, but she could see no marks, no blood, and the shutters in the room had been opened, so there was no lack of light.
She stepped inside.
If there had been no blood on the floor there was plenty on the bed. There was no doubt that the man had been killed where he lay. The mattress beneath him was soaked. She circled around the bed, keeping as far away as she could. His face showed fear. His eyes were open, his arms flung wide, so he’d realised what was happening to him, but there were no cuts on his arms and at first glance no sign of a weapon, so he’d not defended himself. She guessed he’d had no time. It looked like a single stab wound to the heart, and death would have been swift.
A knock on the door, and Diara was there again with a grey-haired man who looked overwhelmed by events.
“This is Vannal Carr, the landlord,” she said. She waited.
Arla abandoned her perusal of the room. The rest would have to wait. She walked to the door and shook the man’s limp hand. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “Shall we talk next door?” She nodded to Diara again, and Diara left them.
Carr opened the adjacent room and they went in. She waved him into a chair and sat on the bed opposite.
“This must be trying for you, Aki Carr,” she said. She found that a polite, formal manner put people at their ease. If you showed respect you often got it back, and cooperation came with it. “We’ll try to get all this cleared up as quickly as we can and let you open again. I understand that you have a business to run.”
He nodded.
“Do you know the man’s name?” she asked.
“He called himself Silas,” the landlord said. “Just Silas.”
“And was Silas alone?”
He nodded again. “Aye, alone. He sat by himself all night.”
“And nobody spoke to him?”
Carr seemed to wake up a little. He turned and looked at Arla as though seeing her for the first time. “Aye, there was one. Fandy the baker. He keeps a shop on Princes Lane. They exchanged words. Spoke for a minute or so. That’s all I saw.”
“Did you hear what passed between them?”
“No. They were by the fire. But the fire wasn’t lit – the warm weather, you see.”
“And he had the room to himself?”
“He wanted it that way. Single room – no shares.”
“Anything seem odd about him? Anything different?”
“He seemed worried. I don’t know really – afraid perhaps. He kept looking at the door like he was expecting someone.” Carr shrugged. “He was a long way from the sea.”
“The sea?”
“Aye. He must have been a mariner, dressed like that.”
It was strange, but not overly so, that a sailor would stay this far from the docks. If he was a merchant captain he could certainly afford The Old King’s Glory. He’d be closer to potential trading partners in Morningside.
“Did he have an accent?”
“Oh he was a foreigner, sure enough,” Carr said.
“Pekkish? Darnese? Saratan?”
Carr shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. Something eastern, and I don’t think Pekkish. We get a lot of Pekkish in here and he sounded broader.”
“And he was staying for just the one night?”
“Paid for one. Said he might stay more, depending, but he didn’t say on what.”
That was about it. The picture was beginning to take shape. Silas, if that was his real name, was coming back to life.
“Thank you, Aki Carr. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I can go?”
“Yes, you can go.”
The landlord retreated hastily back down the stairs. He had no stomach for death, it seemed. Arla went back into the room with the dead body. There was a chest in the corner, and she opened it and rummaged through. The clothes were the sort of thing that Malin would buy – all colours and show. It was typical sailor stuff, but good quality. There was a knife, too, a fine weapon and well kept, and at the bottom she found a spyglass, which was an expensive item, so the corpse was no pauper. The trunk had a false bottom, a badly concealed one in Arla’s opinion, and she popped it open to reveal a small fortune in gold coins. Again, the man had been well off, so no deck hand.
She moved around the room, looking at everything, but nothing else seemed remarkable, or even interesting. It was as though he had not touched the room other than the trunk and the bed.
She moved closer to the body.
As she’d first thought it was unmarked but for the stab wound in the chest, except… She looked closer, and it seemed to her that there was some bruising around the neck. It was more of a darkness, as though he hadn’t washed.
She lifted his hand and dropped it. He was stiff, so he hadn’t been dead that long, but more than a couple of hours, she guessed. That fitted with everything she’d been told.
It was going to be hard to find out who Silas really was. Even if Silas had been his real name she needed to find his ship, his fellows, his city, and there were no clues here.
A clattering on the stairs signalled Corin’s arrival. The officer appeared in the doorway and paused, looking at the body.
“What have we got?” he asked.
“Murder. It happened some time during the night. Single stab wound to the heart. Probably a captain or mate on a trading ship from Sarata or Darna. Send someone down to the docks to check any eastern ships. On second thoughts ask on all of them. He could have been working on any ship. See if they’re missing an officer or if one’s just left the ship, and check if anything left port this morning.”
“I’ve relieved Diara,” Corin said. “And I asked Taranath to bring his unit down. I’ll leave Borana on the front of the tavern until Taranath gets here.”
Arla nodded and Corin left. She was alone again with the body. She hadn’t asked if the death man was on his way, but she assumed he was. Bilan Conir, their particular death man, had been working for the lawkeepers for longer than Arla. He read corpses like Ella Saine read books, and he had proven invaluable. Arla had learned some of what he knew, but Conir was the master.
She walked round the room again, careful not to disturb the body. This was not a simple matter. The man on the bed had been sought out and murdered in cold blood by a skille
d assassin. There was no passion in the killing, and considerable stealth. The killing blow had been precise. No effort had been wasted.
So this killing was not commonplace. It meant something and the murderer would be difficult to catch. Chances are he was already out of the city.
A creaking floorboard made her look to the door again, and he was there, the death man, a stick-thin figure in black. His job, his proper job, was the laying out of the dead, but Bilan knew more that any man in the city about how, why and when men and women died.
“This one’s important,” Arla said.
Bilan nodded and moved towards the body. “I’ll write you a report by this evening, Commander,” he said. “Do you want me to take the body back to the law house for laying out?”
The alternative was Bilan’s place of work.
“The law house,” Arla said. “I want you to go through it with me.” It was how she learned, picked up fragments of Bilan’s knowledge.
“You’re not staying, then?” the death man asked.
“No,” Arla agreed. “I have to see a baker.”
She left him to his work. She preferred not to watch. His gentleness with a body was reassuring, but somehow it was also quite terrible. She nodded to the lawkeeper on the tavern door.
“Keep them out till he finishes,” she said. Then she was out in the street and fresh air, or what passed for it in Samara. She turned and headed towards Princes Lane.
5 The Baker’s Tale
Princes Lane was a narrow street. It was close enough to Morningside to be prosperous in spite of that, and was home to a clutch of well-to-do businesses.
Fandy’s bakery was about half way down the lane on the left hand side, sandwiched between a cloth merchant and a tile maker. Arla paused to look in the window before she went in, and found herself regarding cakes that defied her knowledge of what a cake could be. She had always believed that a cake was a thing made from flour, butter and a little sugar, perhaps with dried fruit or a little honey to sweeten it, and it was usually brown. Fandy obviously didn’t agree. His window was full of colour, his cakes arranged like a culinary rainbow of fantastical shapes. The man was clearly an artist.
Arla opened the door and went in. There were three customers at the counter, pointing at what they wanted and pouting with anticipation as Fandy – she assumed the older man was Fandy – and his assistant put their desires into small stiff paper boxes.
Fandy glanced at her and his smile stiffened a little. Arla was wearing the red tabard and bronze badge that identified her as a lawkeeper, and those things were not usually a welcome sight around the city. He finished serving and pushed the last customer onto his assistant.
“Lawkeeper, what can I do for you?” he asked.
Arla didn’t want to conduct this particular piece of business in public.
“Do you have a back room?” she asked.
He nodded and led the way through a curtain into a large room full of ovens and tables. There was another man working here, and Fandy led the way through the scented heat, the cinnamon and honey fog, to another smaller room where he sat down behind a desk scattered with papers.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“You were at the Old King’s Glory last night?” she asked.
“Aye. I’m often there. The food is good and the company convivial. Van keeps a tidy house.”
Van must be Vannal Carr, the landlord. “It’s the company I want to ask about,” Arla said. “You talked to a man, a sailor, not a regular customer.”
Fandy seemed to think for a moment, then he smiled. “Aye, I remember. Strange man. A sailor as you say, and Darnese.”
Arla filed the information. “Strange in what way?”
“He seemed troubled, hinted at secrets. He was trying to arrange to see General Grand, but not having much luck, though he seemed to think it urgent.”
“General Darius Grand?”
“Aye, that one.”
Darius Grand was one of the mage lord’s men, or had been. Now he was General of Samara’s Army, trusted by both the mage lord and the king and an occasional member of the king’s council.
“Did he say why?”
“No, but I think he thought it was in Samara’s interest, and his own. I had the feeling he didn’t feel safe.”
“Someone meant him harm?”
“He seemed to think so.” Fandy leaned forward. “Was he right? Is that why you’re here? Did someone harm him?”
Arla saw no point in lying. “He’s dead.”
Fandy sat back in his chair and stroked his chin. “I wish we’d talked more, lawkeeper, but that was about the length of it. I can’t remember his exact words. There was one thing, though. He implied he’d been on a voyage, but not to any of the cities. Cabarissa, perhaps.”
“Nobody can sail to Cabarissa,” Arla said. “It’s forbidden.”
“The Pekkish have been doing it for a year now,” Fandy said. “Or so I hear. They trade spices and rare chemicals. The Shan love that kind of thing.”
Arla was taken aback. She’d never heard of anyone trading with the Shan – not since the mage lord had cast out the Faer Karan – but she knew one man who could tell her more about it. Malin.
She thanked Fandy and left his shop, resisting the temptation of his bizarre cakes. She made her way south again, but not back to the law house. Malin was still in Samara, and due to sail on tomorrow’s morning tide. She wanted to know what he thought about Cabarissa.
She ran up the steps to her own rooms and flung open the door. Malin was stuffing things into a sack in the middle of the room. He looked up.
“Dramatic entrance,” he said. “Anything wrong?”
“What do you know about Cabarissa?” she asked.
Malin shrugged. “An island, populated by Shan. Sort of south from Darna…”
“About trading there?”
Malin stopped stuffing the sack and stood up.
“It’s not allowed,” he said.
“But it happens. Pekkish ships, I’m told, trading spices.”
“It does happen, or so they say. Dangerous business, though.”
“And a Darnese ship? Would they trade there?”
Malin shook his head. “That would be crazy. We’re about as popular as plague with the Shan. Nobody would dare.”
“Would the Shan know that a ship was Darnese?”
“No reason they would, I suppose, but if they were found out…” He shrugged again. “Lost with all hands.”
“Well I’ve got a Darnese captain or mate laid out dead in the law house, who might have been there.”
“Really?” Malin abandoned his packing altogether and walked over to the door. “Who was it?”
“We don’t know – just that he was Darnese and staying in a pricey tavern.”
Malin looked at the floor. “I might know him,” he said. “There’s not that many ships out of Darna and I know most of them, and most of the captains. If you let me take a look I might be able to tell you his name and his ship.”
As loath as she was to get Malin involved in lawkeeper work it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. A name and a ship would be another step forwards.
“Come with me,” she said.
It took a little more than ten minutes to reach the lawhouse. Ulric was on the front desk, as usual. He was eating, also a common sight. She wondered if he knew about Fandy’s shop.
“Is the death man here?” she asked.
“Aye. He’s been here a few minutes. He wants to talk to you.”
Arla lead Malin through the corridors of the law house to the back room where they laid out bodies.
“First time I’ve seen your world,” Malin said.
Arla didn’t reply. Instead she opened the door. Bilan was stooped over the body, but he creaked upright when he saw her, his eyes sliding off her to examine Malin.
“He might know who it is,” she said, feeling odd that she had explained herself to Bilan, but it had seemed necessary
. The old man nodded and stepped away from the body.
The victim was laid out neatly, hands at his sides, still wearing his breeches, but the boots were gone.
“Malin? Do you know him?”
Malin stepped forwards. He looked at the face for only a second before he nodded. “Aye, I know him. This is Captain Silman of The Laughing Gull out of Darna.”
“Have you seen the ship in port?” Arla asked. Malin shook his head.
“No. He hardly ever comes to Samara. Most of his trade is with Sarata and Pek, though he’s been up the east coast a bit. The Gull is a small ship – small crew. I’d have noticed her if she’d been here.”
A captain without a ship. That was another puzzle.
“Does he trade by land?” she asked.
“Never heard of it,” Malin said. “Silman ran his ship pretty close to the wind – never made much money. He was the sort to take marginal commissions just to keep busy. I can’t think he’d leave The Gull if he didn’t have to.”
“You’ve not heard any scuttlebutt?” she asked. “Any rumours of him taking a job recently?”
“No. We haven’t crossed wakes for two months. Last I saw he was carrying hides and oil out of Sarata headed west – back to Darna, I think.”
“Anything else you can tell me about him?”
“Not much. He ran without a mate most of the time – only took someone when he needed a contract read. He couldn’t read or write and navigated mostly by eye. He was pretty good at that, though. Mostly his cousin came along to do the paperwork – name of Corrish. He’d be in Darna, I expect, if he wasn’t with Silman.”
It was a wealth of information – more than she had dared to hope for. But now she could see that Bilan wanted to speak to her. The death man was shifting his weight from foot to foot, a sure sign of impatience.
“Malin, go and wait in the front. If you want, Ulric will find something for you to eat.”
“Eat?”
“Go.”