by Tim Stead
Malin got the message. He left them alone and Arla waited a few seconds before she spoke.
“What is it?” she asked.
Bilan approached the corpse again. He pointed to the neck.
“Did you notice the bruising?”
“I saw a shadow. What do you see?”
The death man picked up a metal bar in his right hand and held it like a dagger. He moved around to the left side of the body and put his hand around the corpse’s neck. He then made as if to strike down with his other hand.
“He grabbed the throat before he stabbed him? Why?”
Bilan shrugged. “That’s for you to say.”
“You’re sure?”
“The windpipe is crushed,” the death man said. “Hardly any need for the knife. Your killer was strong.”
So the assassin wanted Captain Silman to know that he was dying, to have that one moment of terror before the knife struck home. That made it a different kind of crime. There was more than a simple assassination here – if such a thing could be said to be simple. This had been personal.
“Thank you, Bilan. Thorough as usual.” She turned to go, but apparently the death man wasn’t finished. He made a coughing noise.
“I was interested to hear that the man didn’t know how to read or write,” he said.
Arla turned back from the door. “Why?”
“It explains this,” Bilan said, holding up a strip of paper. Arla was across the room in a moment and snatched it from his hand.
“Where…?
“In his boot,” Bilan said. “In his right boot.”
Arla smoothed the paper out on the table beside the body. It was a collection of symbols, drawings, she supposed. Three vertical bars, a hand, a crown, a sword or dagger, another hand, and finally a circle.
“It’s gibberish,” she said.
“It must mean something,” Bilan said. “He went to some trouble to draw it and hide it.”
Arla looked at the drawings again. They were aligned, all set in a row, which might mean that the order was significant. But she had no starting point, nowhere to jump from.
Three. Hand. Crown. King? Money? Weren’t Saratan coins called crowns? Knife? Sword? Another hand. Finally there was a circle, which could be almost anything – the sun, a coin, just about anything that was round.
Hopeless.
“Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong job,” she said, more than half to herself. She’d wanted a puzzle, but one that she could solve.
Bilan didn’t say anything.
“Is there anything else?” Arla asked.
“He died after midnight from a knife in the heart,” Bilan said. “But you guessed that.”
Arla ignored the comment. When Bilan wasn’t being deferential he tended to arrogance. It wasn’t a good combination. She’d decided a long time ago that she didn’t really like Bilan Conir, but he was harmless, and as useful as any lawkeeper.
“Thank you, Bilan,” she said.
She walked back through the law house. Now she had other people to see, and the whole business was worrying her. It stank of importance, of pivotal events, of royalty and politics – all of which she wished to avoid.
Malin was waiting. He was picking at a bowl of something and talking to Ulric.
“We’re done here,” she said. “You’ve got a ship to sail and I’ve a man to meet.”
“Hekman wants a report, Arla,” Ulric said, putting something fried into his mouth.
“Later,” she said. But she couldn’t keep him waiting for ever.
6 The General
With Malin safely dropped off back at her rooms, his packing resumed, Arla headed down towards the citadel. This was her least comfortable part of town. She had been imprisoned here once, and at the time she had expected to die. After all, she had killed the king’s son. That it had been in self defence, and at a time before the fall of the Faer Karan when the Ocean’s Gate guard and the king’s men had fought openly in the city’s streets, had hardly seemed likely to save her.
But she had been helped. Sam Hekman had helped, and Ella Saine, and the princess, the Do-Regana Calaine whose brother she had killed. They had all helped and now Arla was free and safe, though she still felt the king’s ire in the eyes of his men.
The citadel was massive. It served no real purpose now but to underline the king’s power, which probably needed underlining. It squatted on the eastern side of the river’s mouth, bounded on two sides by water and on all four by high, thick walls. The gate was shut, and usually kept that way, but the postern stood open and a couple of king’s men loitered in front of it. They watched Arla approach.
“Commander Crail of the lawkeepers to see General Grand,” she said.
“And your business?” one of the soldiers asked.
“Lawkeeper business,” she replied. She did not consider herself required to explain things to these men. Her rank, after all, was supposed to be equivalent to a captain.
The soldier hesitated, perhaps considering whether or not he could get away with rebuffing her, and apparently decided against it. He turned to his companion. “Go and see if the General will receive her,” he said, and the other man went through the postern into the citadel.
Arla waited. The sun was past its zenith, but the day was still warm. The remaining soldier didn’t seem inclined to talk so Arla turned her back on him and looked up at the cliffs above Morningside. At this time of day the sun lit them so that they looked like a vast rampart, the detail of the stone washed away by the flat light. She’d been up there a couple of times when she’d been an Ocean’s Gate guard, patrolling. The views were spectacular.
“Is this about that sailor got killed up in Morningside?”
She turned again. So he was talkative after all.
“It’s related,” she said. “He was here yesterday. Did you see him?”
The man shook his head. “I was in barracks – training day. They say he was killed by a single blow.”
“Who’s they?”
“Just rumour – you know.”
“Do they say who killed him?”
The soldier grinned. “A bit vague on that,” he confessed. “But no shortage of suggestions.”
“I hear the king’s away in Blaye,” Arla remarked. The soldier frowned.
“You’re going to tell me that rumour told you that, aren’t you?” he said.
“Apparently it’s no secret in Blaye – nor is the business he’s on. Portina’s a good man.”
“I suppose you knew him, being from Ocean’s Gate?” It was true. She couldn’t claim close acquaintance with the King of Blaye, but before the fall he’d been an officer of the Ocean’s Gate guard, and a well liked one. She’d ridden out with him a few times on patrol here and there.
“He was an officer,” Arla said. “He gave me orders and I obeyed. We were hardly barrack mates.”
The soldier nodded. He understood. It was the same with him, she supposed.
The other soldier returned. “He’ll see you,” he said. “I’ll show you the way.”
Arla followed him through the postern and across a large, dusty courtyard. There were butts set up at the south end, reminding Arla that she was short of bow practice. They went through a doorway, down a short corridor and turned left onto a terrace that overlooked the sea. It was less of a terrace than a corridor open on the south side. A sea breeze washed this side of the citadel and she found it quite pleasant. It reminded her a great deal of Ocean’s Gate itself.
They turned once more and stopped in front of a door. The soldier rapped on it and a moment later it was opened from within.
Arla had never seen General Darius Grand, but she knew him at once. He was tall, thin, his hair sandy-coloured and close-cropped. He looked at her out of clear green eyes.
“Commander Crail,” he said. “I’m glad to finally meet you.” He held out his hand and Arla took it. His handshake was firm but not aggressively so.
“General Grand, the honour is mine,” she replied
. Indeed it was. Here he stood, the arch enemy of Ocean’s Gate, the undefeated commander who had outfoxed a dozen Faer Karan overlords in battle, the mage lord’s oldest friend, a living legend. At Ocean’s Gate they had admired and hated him at the same time. Now only admiration remained. The world had changed that much.
“Come. Sit.” He retreated into his room and Arla followed. It was a comfortable room, but not opulent. There was a desk, clear enough that it might be unused, a table, a couple of comfortable chairs and a thick rug on the floor. The windows that looked out over the sea had been left open, inviting the sounds and smells inside.
What struck her almost at once were the blades. The whole of one wall was covered in blades of all shapes and sizes, and they gleamed with fresh oil. There were quite a few styles that she had never seen before.
“Now,” the general said, sitting in one of the easy chairs. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”
“A man was killed last night,” Arla began. “He died in a tavern called The Old King’s Glory, stabbed to death in his bed.”
“So I’ve heard,” Grand said.
“He was here yesterday, trying to see you.”
Grand raised an eyebrow. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Not certain, General, but he told someone last night that he had been trying to see you and was turned away.”
Grand stood up and went to his door. He opened it and spoke a few words to a man waiting outside. The man left in a hurry. The general came back and sat down.
“We’ll see in a moment,” he said. “Do you know why he wanted to see me?”
“He implied some danger to Samara,” Arla said, and she remembered the crown on the scrap of paper from Silman’s boot. “And perhaps the king, but we’re not sure.”
“Was he Samaran?”
“No, general. He was Darnese, but he seems to have misplaced his ship, and there’s a chance he took it to Cabarissa.”
Grand picked up a pen and scratched a note on a piece of paper. “So,” he said. “The rather vague suggestion is that there might be a plot to poison the king?”
Arla hadn’t allowed herself to make that assumption, but all the bits and pieces pointed that way. “It’s a possibility,” she said. “But it seems more complicated than that.”
Grand nodded. “And your investigation is ongoing, I understand, but you will keep me informed? I am responsible for the king’s safety.”
“You will know what I know, general,” she said.
Someone rapped on the door and the general stood up and went to open it. One of the king’s soldiers stood outside and at a word from the general he stepped through the door and stood stiffly before them.
“This is Gardisian,” Grand told Arla. “He was on gate duty yesterday.” He turned to the soldier. “Did a Darnese mariner come to the gate yesterday, asking to speak with me?”
The soldier looked at his boots. “Yes, general,” he said.
“And why didn’t I hear of this?”
“He was babbling,” the soldier said. “We thought he was out of his head, maybe even dangerous.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“He was talking about a game. He said someone was in danger, but it was only a game, general.”
“Apparently not, Gardisian,” Grand said. “The man was murdered last night.”
The soldier blanched, but said nothing. The general left him standing there for a while. He turned to Arla.
“I suppose we’ll never know exactly what he wanted to tell me. Are you close to catching his killer?”
“Not really. There’s progress, but we’ve been lucky to get as far as we have. This morning he was an anonymous corpse with an assumed name.”
Grand turned to the waiting soldier. “So what have you learned from this, Gardisian?” he asked.
The soldier blinked and shuffled his feet. “To tell you when anyone asks, general.”
“See that you do, and make it known to the others. You can go.”
The soldier left, closing the door softly behind him. Arla heard his footsteps hurrying away.
“Anything you need,” Grand said, “just ask.” He stood.
It was the end of their meeting. Arla knew when she was being dismissed.
“There’s one thing, General,” she said.
“Name it.”
“Can you spare a dozen men for an escort. I want to send an investigator to Darna, and I don’t want to send him by ship.”
“Consider it done. Tomorrow morning?”
“That would be timely, general. Thank you.”
Darius Grand opened the door, and she found herself outside again, looking at the sea. A soldier was waiting to escort her to the gate. She had to admit that, even though she had learned nothing of value, the general had not been a disappointment.
7 Corin
Corin Longday’s morning had been fruitless. He had spent it down at the docks going from ship to ship to discover if any of them were missing a captain, mate or any other officer or person of importance. None had admitted to it. When he finally got back to the law house after midday he discovered that the dead man had been identified and his ship too, so it had all been for nothing.
He dismissed his two lawkeepers for an hour – it was time for their midday meal – and sat himself down in his office and waited. He was uncomfortable waiting, though he knew it was a requirement of the job. He had been flattered when Arla had chosen him to be an investigator. He saw it as a promotion, an elite position, though the money was the same. He hadn’t expected to do so much sitting around. Several times he had asked Arla if they could be assigned to patrols when things were quiet, but she had shaken her head. There were things to study, she had said, if one wished to be a good investigator. Spend the time on that.
He contemplated going down to the stables on Yarrow Street for a bit of weapons practice, but he knew that Arla would want to speak to him as soon as she returned, so he waited instead.
To pass the time he flicked through reports from previous investigations. Arla insisted that they write everything down, who they’d talked to, what had been said, and anything else that seemed important. It had taken him only a few minutes to write his own report – the names of the ships and sailors he’d spoken with and that they knew nothing.
Corin had favourite reports that he read over and over again, and most of these had to do with the Shrike killings of two years ago. They read like a tavern tale. They had everything required – a great evil, magic, murder, heroic actions by the lawkeepers and finally the intervention of the mage lord himself along with his Faer Karani servant, Borbonil.
He especially enjoyed reading Gilan’s reports of his adventures at sea. The Patrol Commander had a fluent, readable style that contrasted favourably with Arla’s dry, factual statements.
Someone banged on his door.
“Corin?”
It was Gilan, leaning into the room, making it seem smaller.
“Commander?” Corin stood. Gilan was not as informal as Arla. He liked his status.
“Arla’s office is empty. Where is she?”
Corin shrugged. “Out,” he said. “Following her nose like she always does.”
“You’ll have to do, then.” Gilan stepped into the room. “There are two bodies down in the old town. Gonfalon Lane. I’ve a patrol keeping folk away, but best you get down there as soon as you can.”
Corin had done this before, and a crime took precedence over reporting. “I’ll leave at once,” he said. He rushed down to the commissary and found his two lawkeepers still at their lunch. They were sitting at a table with four or five others.
“Borana, Tyri, we’ve a job.”
Both of them jumped up at once, Tyri taking a handful of food with him, and followed Corin out into the street.
“What is it?” Borana asked. Corin paused at the street corner.
“Two bodies in Gonfalon Lane,” he said. “I’ve nothing more than that. Tyri, you go and see if
you can get Bilan Conir out again. We’ll need him. Borana, you come with me.”
They split up. Borana was shorter than Corin and had to walk quickly to match his pace. “Three in one day,” she said.
“We don’t know yet,” Corin said. Never make your mind up before you see the proof, Arla had told him. It could be an accident. Gilan hadn’t been specific. They turned down Market Street and half way down it they turned left onto Pear Tree Lane, which didn’t have any trees of any kind. It was a narrow road, barely big enough for a cart or four men abreast. It was a street of houses all stacked drunkenly against each other. They gave the impression that if you took one away they’d all fall down.
Small alleys led off this lane to left and right, and the fourth one on the left was Gonfalon Lane. It was easy to spot because a pack of curious children had gathered at the mouth, sprinkled with the occasional man and woman peering anxiously into the shadowed alley.
Corin pushed through them, and they parted guiltily, scattering before his obvious authority. There were three of Gilan’s lawkeepers in the alley, and they looked relieved to see Corin.
He knew them vaguely, but there were so many lawkeepers now that it was no more than that. He looked down the alley and saw two bodies sprawled on the stones.
“What have we got?” he asked.
“Two dead men,” the patroller replied. “The woman in that house,” he pointed, “found them. Both stabbed. It looks like murder.”
“Is the woman in the house?” Corin asked.
“Didn’t see her leave,” the lawkeeper said.
Corin walked down the alley and looked at the bodies. They were both men, and young men at that. Neither of them seemed much past twenty. The first he examined was lying on his back, and Corin could see a single stab wound to the chest. The man’s eyes were open, which Corin always found unnerving, and he risked a rebuke from Arla by closing them. There was little else to see. The corpse was dressed roughly, but in colourful cloth, which suggested a sailor. He wore no rings, no jewellery, and a quick finger through his pockets revealed nothing.
Corin moved on to the second man. This one lay face down, both arms stretched out above his head, as though he’d died trying to break his fall. Crouching as low as he could, Corin could see much of the victim’s face. This one had a neat beard, and one hand bore a gold ring – which suggested that the motive had not been theft. The ring was in plain sight and would be worth a couple of extravagant nights in a good tavern, if Corin was any judge.