by J B Lucas
“You make it sound so sordid,” muttered Aemilia. She had recovered her dignity. Loreticus doubted that she would ever be as full of bravado as Julia. “We did the dignified thing and helped a comrade of our husbands. Even if we had known that we wouldn’t get our money back, I’m sure that we would have acted in the same way.” She glanced at Julia, who nodded her consent.
“If we are acting in an unnatural way, sir, it’s because we are unfamiliar with such a situation. We’re simply not guilty people,” added Julia.
“No, you’re not,” agreed Loreticus, watching their faces. He paused. “What was it that drove him out of the capital? Was it a disagreement with Claisan?”
“Unlikely,” replied Aemilia. She waited while Julia took a deep draft of her wine. “General Claisan rarely argued with his people. He would simply agree to disagree and let them go. Well rewarded for their hard work, of course. General Claisan wouldn’t have sent him up here without any of his possessions.”
Loreticus turned his eyes to the table, then at Deciman. He took a dramatically deep breath through his large nose.
“Marshal, I’m afraid that these two ladies might have to stay under your supervision for the near future,” he said. “What I hear makes me believe that they are somehow still involved in the murder at the Old Manor.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Deciman, looking very uncertain about his task. He studied the two scared women as he might nervous racehorses. Behind them, their guards shuffled cheek to cheek on their seats, watching the situation unfold.
“That’s not fair!” cried Julia in a stage whisper. “We haven’t done anything.”
“Aemilia is lying,” stated Loreticus. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”
Julia stared at her friend, and there were a few motions of a private, unspoken communication.
“Major Gholan came up here with someone else’s fiancée,” stated Aemilia. “Or so the story is told. That’s why he ran out of the capital so quickly. I think that we might have met her, a girl called Amle.”
*
Loreticus sent two messengers full speed to the capital that night. He had accommodated Julia and Aemilia in a guest house in the centre of town, one originally meant for dignitaries visiting his family. Deciman and the two guards were sleeping downstairs there, all keeping an eye on each other rather than looking out for the ladies.
“What do you think?” asked Loreticus as Selban sloped into the library at Loreticus’s villa. His friend pondered for a moment as he drank the last couple of mouthfuls of wine from a glass, then suppressed a belch.
“I think I know the gossip about Amle.”
“Thought that you might,” said Loreticus.
“If I’m right, and I usually am about these mischiefs, she is the daughter of a very prominent family. Ambassadors, if I remember, and well-connected ones. She was supposed to be marrying into the royal family.”
“Really?” asked Loreticus, intrigued now. Gossip wasn’t truly interesting unless it was close to home. “Who? Please don’t tell me Ferran.”
“No, not the imperial prince, but someone peripherally royal,” Selban said. “If I am right, can you imagine? Amle refuses some petty royal and instead elopes with a man twice her age and without money or influence.”
“And it seems without protection,” muttered Loreticus. “If you know, I’m betting Claisan knows. So why is he rattling his sword at me?”
“Because you’re Ferran’s man,” replied Selban. “And it’s the perfect reason to have you strung up.”
“I am not Ferran’s man,” growled Loreticus, but without conviction. He and General Ferran had been friends since childhood, but their characters had adapted differently once they graduated to the real world. Loreticus had adopted a code of responsibility, if not morality. Ferran had begun to live more in a manner of impervious detachment, hoarding those things which made him content for the shortest time; slaves, trickery, intrigue and violence. However, like all childhood friendships, there was more to the connection than just affection. There was the nostalgia of a childhood and that kept the two of them loyal.
“Perhaps she was the scream you heard?” asked Selban.
“Very possibly,” replied Loreticus. He stood, walking slowly around the desk and they moved towards their sleeping rooms. They remained quiet as they passed through the reception hall, the inner peristyle and then the central internal garden. He stared at the stars through the open skylight, watching the clouds slide past them on invisible winds. A loose tile caught his eye, looking like it was about to fall on his head and annoying him with its urgent triviality. Suddenly he froze in midstep. “What idiots we’ve been!”
The three of them bolted through the door of the Old Town Manor, Crispan rattling the keys in his hand as he loped up the stairs behind the younger men. Selban and Loreticus paced the room as he staggered in a few metres behind them, out of breath. He pointed at the bedside table, which looked to have been knocked slightly out of place.
Loreticus pounced over, grabbing the piece in both hands and heaving it back towards the centre of the room. As the table dragged across the floor, a part of the wall moved with it to reveal a dark passage with depleted candles fossilized as drips on the walls.
“This is how Amle escaped,” stated Loreticus.
Chapter 6
They returned to the villa, the night already old and the town deeply quiet. Crispan excused himself, brought out a younger servant, then retired to bed without ceremony.
Loreticus and Selban were buzzing. The logic was built, with only the central keystone absent to give it shape.
“What is it that I’m missing?” Loreticus asked. “Tell me what we know now.”
“Gholan came here on the recommendation of his friend in the militia. He was on the run, having made serious enemies in the capital. He was broke.”
“And Claisan knew this all the time,” added Loreticus. The young servant, dressed in his formal tunic and with mussed hair coughed gently as he entered the room. He handed Loreticus a letter. The spymaster broke the seal, unfolded the paper and read in silence. He smiled humourlessly.
“It seems he knows we’re talking about him,” said Loreticus and waved the paper to show Claisan’s seal on it.
“Why is he writing again?” asked Selban. “Is he so bloody formal that he’s letting us know when he’s sending up a knuckle-dragging hit squad?”
“No. He’s replying to me. When we were in the thick of it, I did the only thing I could do.”
“You lied?” asked Selban. Loreticus didn’t answer as he read the letter again. “Or, did you throw Deciman to the wolves? My money stays on him. That’s why the little bugger puked every time he saw his handiwork.”
“I honestly don’t know who it is, but Claisan is pulling strings. I threatened him, and luckily my bluff worked. It seems that we should expect a guest tomorrow.”
*
A coach bearing the grand crest of Claisan arrived the next day, turning heads and fuelling wagging tongues. Amle’s face was seen in the windows, and despite her reclusive earlier stay, the villagers recognised her. The coach stopped at the bottom of the sloped path to the villa, and she stepped out, four guards dismounting from the vehicle to stand by her. Amle was a fiercely beautiful young woman, her red hair glowed and her blue eyes shone despite the heavy grey of the clouds.
She strode up the path easily, the heavy guards pushing themselves up with more effort. Loreticus opened the door, let her in and then held his hand up to the soldiers.
“No,” he said simply, closing the door before they could speak.
He led Amle through to the reception room, where Selban waited discreetly to the side. Loreticus had instructed Crispan to scrub his friend and ensure that Selban polished his teeth as best he could. After all, Amle was a lady from the capital and even in the country, you are judged by your company.
“Thank you for coming,” he said as they
sat. Amle possessed a profound confidence, something which seemed neither arrogant or false. She smiled, took the warm wine offered and drank, looking around the room.
“Your family has wonderful taste,” she said.
“My mother,” he replied, following her gaze at the murals and the paintings. Light came from the windows in deliberately choreographed shapes and movements, highlighting different portraits and mythological battles throughout the day. “She had a better taste in homes than she did in sons.”
Amle smiled and brought her gaze back to him.
“General Claisan said that I would be safe with you,” she stated. “That’s why I’m here.”
“General Claisan just tried to fit us for murder,” muttered Selban angrily.
“You are safe,” said Loreticus, quieting Selban with a gesture. Amle regarded the agent, and he coughed awkwardly and stared at his feet. “But you also have a responsibility. You’re here to help me find the murderer in my home town. I need to put Gholan’s ghost to rest before someone gets lynched unnecessarily.”
“Understood, Loreticus.” She put down her glass, then crossed her arms in thought. “Here’s what I know, and I apologise if it sounds practiced. I was in his room, we were talking, possibly heatedly, about what we were to do. He wanted a grand house as he thought I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else. I only wanted to be with him, and to have a simply life.” She paused for a moment, drank a small taste of wine and looked at Loreticus. Her face was drained to a speckled white. He was surprised to see just how fragile she really was. “Excuse my emotions, spymaster. When my Gholan was murdered, you lost the opportunity to speak to a refreshingly honest man. He was never cut out for the army or diplomacy. If he could have observed and thought all day, he would have been the happiest of souls. I don’t know you, but from first impressions, you would have enjoyed conversations with him.” She was lost in memory for a moment. “Without any warning, an arrow came through the window with such speed it could have been shot by a god. It hit Gholan, throwing him off his feet. I slammed the shutters before they could try again, and by the time I came to the floor to his aid, my husband was gone. There was nothing I could do.” She touched her mouth, reliving a memory. “His lips were still warm when I kissed him, yet there was not a breath left in his body. I ran, and I have been hiding with our friends in the militia since. General Claisan has protected me, sending more men to keep me safe.” She came back into the present with the last statement and stared directly at Loreticus. “He seemed to originally think that you had a hand in Gholan’s death, so I was rather confused as to why I am here.”
Her authority was admirable, even though she seemed balanced on the precipice of grief. Loreticus stared at her, captured by her presence, then to bring his mind back to action, began to ask questions in quick succession.
“Did you know Ferran?”
“The prince? Not really, only as a guest either at my parents’ parties or through common acquaintances.”
“Did you have any enemies?” he asked. “What if the arrow was meant for you?”
“No one,” she replied calmly. “You’d be surprised at what a boring life I led in the capital. Gholan was both an act of love and of rebellion. I had no enemies.”
“Who was the man you were betrothed to before you ran away?”
There was a long pause and she held his eyes, hurt that he had asked. Then she raised her chin.
“Satrus.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” stated the spymaster.
“There was no reason why you should have. He is an adjutant,” she said. “A typical soldier who was born to the brood running for the throne one day. A little princeling with nothing to say for himself.”
“You don’t sound like you thought the match was a wise choice.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she admitted. “Even my parents didn’t think so. However, they were themselves an arranged marriage with a rocky start, so they trusted the established wisdom. Eventually, I had to tell Satrus myself that it wouldn’t work, that I was falling in love with someone else, and that we would have to stop the proceedings before it became too public.”
“And what happened after that revelation?”
“A minor tantrum which would have suited a bad actor,” she said, a smile masking a nasty memory. “To say that the man was bitter would be understating the pettiness of his personality. He is entitled, warped and totally impervious to any repercussions of his actions.”
“Violent, then,” Loreticus said. “What does he look like?”
“Petty,” Amle replied. “He looks as petty as a man can. There’s spite woven into all of his features. We all know that dogs come to resemble their masters. Ask Ferran if you want to know more.”
*
The night that Loreticus had sent two letters to the capital, one had arrived at Claisan’s desk to buy time and access to Amle. The other had gone to Demetrian, a young captain in the imperial guard who owed Loreticus a favour. Demetrian had in turn dispatched two of his troops, highly trained riders, who arrived at Loreticus’s door the same night as Amle.
They were tall men, quiet in their manner, deliberate and economical in their speech. Each carried a personal menace about him, a cold depth in his eyes which spoke of blood and battle.
One sat at the desk in Loreticus’s office and started to draw Amle’s description of Satrus. When she eventually approved of the portrait, the two men studied it and then one folded it into his belt. Then they left the villa.
Two days later, they returned with an extra rider sitting between them. Loreticus stepped from the villa threshold, and he knew that this was Satrus. The man had the ginormous nose of the royals, the bitter arrogance of the unguided princeling, and the sneering naivety of youth.
He sat Satrus down at the same table he had sat at with Amle.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“No,” replied Satrus and glanced around the room, looking for the two riders.
“They’ve gone,” stated Loreticus. He leaned back and stared at the young man. Satrus looked considerably younger than Amle, and he had an innate talent of being unlikable without very much effort. “I work for the emperor on special assignments.” Satrus glanced at him, then at Selban. “I am also friends with Ferran, who is already on his way here.”
This caught Satrus’s attention.
“Hurrah,” he drawled. “I can’t wait to leave this shit hole and get away from you peasants.” He laughed and reached for a glass and the wine decanter. Loreticus laid down an arm, blocking Satrus’s motion.
“You’re staying with me until then. I’m the lord of this village and you’re in my custody. I don’t care about your privileges in the capital. Ferran will forgive me if you have a fat lip when he arrives. Do you know who I am yet?”
Satrus, curious now, shook his head.
“I’m Loreticus, the spymaster for the emperor. Does my name ring any bells?”
Satrus nodded.
“Good. Then my recommendation is to be civil until Ferran arrives.”
At that moment, Satrus looked up and past Loreticus. The spy turned to see Amle standing at the edge of the room, staring with tearful eyes at Satrus.
“What did you do?” she asked quietly.
“Bitch,” spat Satrus quietly. Loreticus stood and slapped him hard across the face, knocking him to the floor.
“I’ve told you once already, little man, that you shut up and act nice. There’s a high chance that Gholan would rather be the first to you.” He gestured to Selban to take Amle out of the room. “And you better hope that if Ferran does arrive that he is in a pleasant mood.”
“He’ll look after me,” muttered Satrus as he rose and settled himself in his seat. He stared at Loreticus with a childish hatred. “What happens after he’s given me his little telling off should be of more interest to you. I’ll be coming for you.”
“Please do,” replied Loreticus and
gestured for his household guards to take the man to a servant’s den.
*
It was an optimistic opinion that the townsfolk had exhausted themselves with the sheer volume of gossip over the last week. However, spirits were revived and enthusiasm replenished on the arrival of the advance royal guard. Twenty men stamped into town, filling the short road to the square, then spreading out to check the vicinity for threats. They took position on the steep path to Loreticus’s villa, staring impassively over the heads of the Claisan guards, who in turn had shifted their attitudes from burly arrogance around the locals to beaten dogs opposite the royals.
Ferran’s small troop led its way up the road, his curly blond hair frizzing with the damp, his white skin paler than usual. Ferran’s generous nose was dripping, something which he blamed squarely on Loreticus.
“If you didn’t live in this bloody barbaric pig sty, Loreticus, I wouldn’t have to suffer a cold.”
“You’re made of sterner stuff than this weather, my friend,” he said and they hugged. “It’s long overdue that you came to see where I grew up.”
“I didn’t want to ruin the legends of you living in trees or caves or wherever the hell you country people live.”
They walked into the villa, the double doors wide open for the larger party, Crispan orchestrating his shy servants like a dance troupe leader.
“Elegant,” stated Ferran, glancing around. “Although not exactly extravagant.”
“Not all of us want to decorate our houses like brothels,” replied Loreticus, and Ferran laughed.
“Where is the little dick?” the prince asked. Loreticus motioned to Selban, who drew Satrus through a dark door. The boy looked defiant in a way that only he himself would think credible.
Ferran sighed and clasped his hands behind his back. Satrus shuffled his feet in embarrassment, the quiet of the room softly magnifying the awkwardness. A fresh bruise stood out on his cheek.