by J B Lucas
“Oh, how unoriginal,” said Selban and turned back to the corpse.
The visitor shrugged and smiled at the spymaster.
“I am but the messenger,” he said.
“Yes,” said Loreticus. “You’ve been very helpful. Go away now.”
Loreticus sat, resting his backside against the edge of an amphora, which was struggling to push its flowers into the sun. He stared at the corpse, then at his balcony so far up, then down the path towards the main thoroughfare in the palace, which is where he presumed the bride had run.
He had sent Selban to alert the guards and to collect Sempus, the diva of the morgue and to alert the captain of the palace guards that potentially a crime had been committed in the palace gardens.
“He’s dead,” stated the physician, catching Loreticus daydreaming. He turned towards Sempus, an utterance of caustic petulance in mid-flight. “I mean, but he’s thoroughly dead.”
“What are you talking about, Sempus?” snapped Loreticus. “I could have got that brilliant insight from someone as dull as Selban.” Selban shot his master a finger sign over the physician’s shoulder, then went back to grooming his teeth.
“Loreticus, this man died quickly, in pain and without any chance of survival. His hands are clawed,” said Sempus, pointing towards the tightly curled fingers, which clutched at the toga. “He wasn’t fighting anyone off, but rather some demonic pain inside himself.” He sank his girth into a vein-popping squat. “Spasms around the neck, eyes, but not jaw.” He prodded the dead man’s chin to test its elasticity. “Yes,” the physician said curiously. He stood up and clapped his hands. “Heart failure.”
“Really?”
“Definitely.”
“He’s young,” stated Loreticus. “What about the copious sweating? You see all the way down his chest and back? I’ve never seen that before, and I’ve seen old men fall over before. They didn’t perspire in the least.”
“Ah, yes,” said the physician. He bent down, hands on knees and lifted the toga towards his nose as if he were seeking the scent of a flower. “Yuck. Ammonia. Poison induced heart failure.”
“Could it just be murder by poisoning?”
“Well, yes. If it is murder and not an unintended target,” said Sempus and wiggled a fat finger at the spymaster.
“Legal point granted,” replied Loreticus. “But it isn’t definitely heart failure.”
“Possibly.”
They stared at each other for a moment, their impasse to be broken by Selban’s arrival with the palace militia captain. He was an old battle horse, a man who had been around the emperor for decades. Deep brown eyes in a hairless head took the squabbling younger men in with a swift glance, then turned to the floored body.
“Oh gods, it’s Roban,” he said.
“Who, captain?”
“The imperial tutor.”
“Why is he here? This is a highly restricted area.”
The captain looked at Loreticus through deep wrinkles.
“It was his wedding yesterday,” he said, looking back. “He was only a boy.”
“How old was he?” asked Selban.
“Nothing. Twenty-eight, thirty maybe.”
“Then I am but a boy,” said Selban, solemnly.
“Yeah but you look ridiculously old,” said the captain, then turned to Loreticus. “Your patch, spymaster, your duty to tell the old man.”
“Not at all. My patch ends with this wall here,” replied Loreticus, gesturing to the bleached sandstone next to them.
“He’s touching it,” said the captain. They all peered to see if the body was. “Besides, the emperor always blames the messenger.” He turned on his heel and left swiftly.
“Bugger,” said Loreticus.
Chapter 2
The Barbarian Mountains in the far north of the empire blew a miserable, damp breeze down onto the market town at the edge of the plain. Tristofan brushed his fringe out of his eyes and glanced around again. A drunk had told him to come here, and he’d done just that. So much for the pride in his work he boasted about on his visits home.
The right-hand man of the great spymaster had called him in. The young, vibrant Tristofan was the opposite to the grizzled and surly Selban, but he felt that the agent saw in him someone he could develop. Informers to the spymaster got paid well. Tristofan wanted to be paid well, but more than that, he wanted to be in the thick of it in the palace. That dream, that vision of him waking up in a smaller tower next to the spymaster’s own, that’s what helped him out of bed each morning. Including this particular bed, which was simply the straw of a spare stable, his horse peering at him over the dividing beams.
Tristofan, like most young men on the early part of their careers, felt a divine destiny was waiting for him around the corner. For him, all good things arrived in threes. The summons to Loreticus’s rooms, where he was briefed to come north by Selban, was the first. He expected the second to be the simple accomplishment of his mission.
He would know the man he was looking for when he saw him. Up in these parts, there was a certain cast to a local’s face, a way that they walked and talked, and a utilitarian style to the clothes they wore. This task to Tristofan was the equivalent to a treasure hunt for a mawkish boy.
But the expected glamour of his chosen profession was yet to be seen. This town was a shit hole. Ankle deep mud, half frozen into treacherous ruts by the dozens of carts which passed through on the trade track. Boiled vegetables with boiled meats. Sour beer. Fat women with broken veins in their cheeks. There was not a jot of fun to be had.
Tristofan stood himself up straight, tugged his fur lined cloak more tightly around his torso, and led his expensive horses daintily across the booby-trapped road. The tavern was situated there, in a grand widening of the river of carts and carriages, and it was the focal point of this dump.
They made it, and he tied his mount to a post outside, an act which always cheered him. He was proud of his horse, which reminded him of his sister. If anyone unwelcome or unknown tried to touch his horse, then a bite, a kick or a full-on assault was quickly and unrepentantly released.
He went inside, glancing round in hope of a fire to warm his knees and toes. Nothing. A cold, ashen fireplace. A solitary drinker, who looked like he’d be there even if his cup had frozen over.
“No wonder you don’t have guests,” said Tristofan as he approached the bar. “It’s colder in here than it is out there.”
“Oh, shut up,” said the bar maid cheerfully, and served him a cup of hot wine. “We do well enough. Why are you up here if you can’t hack a breeze?”
“Looking for someone.”
“Don’t tell me, that other bronzed buffoon from the capital. You missed him. He left about an hour ago.”
“From the capital? Who?” Tristofan was awake now, his hands clutching the hot cup. This was the second boon of three. Being superstitious paid rewards.
“Ibor I think he was called. He had a steady stream of barbarians coming in to see him over the last week or so. Set up shop here, so they kept trailing through that door with their beards and their big shoulders, asking for Ibor as if none of them knew him, then vanishing off to his rooms upstairs.”
“Ibor Country perhaps?”
“No idea,” said the barmaid. “That wine isn’t free, you know.”
Tristofan dashed out of the bar after another few minutes of questioning. Eventually he’d learned – far too late in the conversation – that Ibor didn’t even have a horse. That meant one of two things. Either he was taking the carriage to the capital, or he was hiring a private transport.
He grabbed his horse and stepped daintily across the frozen furrows and potholes to the imperial post house. There, not bothering to tie his horse up, he burst in, hoping to catch Ibor waiting for his ride.
Nothing. No-one but the unimpressed clerk, who sat covered in layers upon layers of clothing.
“What?” she croaked. “If y
ou’re another drunk looking to run home for free, you’ll deal with me first. Money upfront or I’ll turf you out on to the street.”
“No, ma’am,” replied Tristofan in his sweetest tones. “I need to send an urgent message to the capital. Can it be sent today?”
“Yes, but it will cost you.”
“They’ll pay on the other end,” said Tristofan.
“Did you not hear me, young’un? I’ll batter your ears if you make me get out of this warm chair.”
Tristofan drew out a ring with an eagle motif. It was large, proud, gold and for those who brandished it without authority, it was a capital punishment.
“It’s going to the palace,” he said.
The clerk nodded and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
The emperor had once ridden into battle with a hundred thousand men following. He had once built a bridge out of boats and set fire to a castle from underneath. He had once battled a giant barbarian singlehandedly in front of both armies to win the respect and subjugation of a dozen tribes. Murals, engravings and songs immortalised that stance, when the great emperor, almost seven feet tall himself, stood on a frozen battlefield and held up the massive severed head of the chief to his tribes.
Loreticus stood, waiting for him to talk. The emperor was looking out over his precious gardens, his hands behind his back. Loreticus stared at them, imagining all that they had been through. The old man started walking.
“Poor Roban,” he said quietly, facing front as Loreticus trailed behind. “The day after his wedding. What poor timing.”
“We believe that he might have been murdered,” said Loreticus.
“Killed?” The emperor turned to face him. “On his wedding day or today?”
“His wedding day, your majesty.”
“Well,” said the emperor, looking away, “Normally it takes a good five or six years before the spouses contemplate that.” He walked on, leading Loreticus down the narrow paths, the ones he knew curled around back to the entrance to the gardens. Loreticus could almost time the journey until he was out of the situation. The emperor stopped again. “Spymaster, it feels like a violation of my sanctuary for a life to have been taken here. I’ll have all of the different priests and god-botherers to come in to cleanse the place of course, but you need to find his killer. His ghost will wander around my gardens if not, pissing me off and killing off my plants.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any ideas at the moment?”
“Not definite ones.”
“Well,” said the emperor and turned to face Loreticus. He folded his heavy arms over each other and looked down at the spy. “Let’s hope that your old mentor Eitan didn’t make a mistake in choosing to recommend you, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
The emperor looked at him once more, then turned and continued the loop until they were back at the entrance.
“So we’re going to get thrown out of the tower?” asked Selban, his pock-marked face whitening.
“It’s considerate of you to sympathise in that way, my old friend, but I think that this is squarely on me. I’ll be thrown out of the tower, you won’t.”
“So I’ll get the rooms in the tower?”
Loreticus gave him a warning glance.
“Does the emperor think that it’s anything to do with you?” asked Selban, moving the conversation whilst obviously pre-occupied with the previous thought.
“No, I don’t think so. He knows that we wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“It was a friend of the emperor?”
“I think so,” replied Loreticus. “Or at least a friend of the family. From what I can gather, he was the children’s tutor and that’s why he was down there in the private gardens getting married. A special favour for a loyal servant of the family.”
“Well, that sucks.”
“Luckily none of the immediate imperial family was there otherwise we’d have had an assassination hunt tearing the palace apart right now.”
“Small blessings,” muttered Selban. A banging came from the door down below, and Selban stepped to look over the terrace to see if he could work out who it was.
“No chance,” said Loreticus. “You’ll have to go down.”
“Why me when it’s your gate? I’ve got a debilitating cold.”
“Simply because it’s not your tower yet, you lazy oik. Get going.”
Loreticus took Selban’s place by the balcony. The weather was calmer today, as if the sun were taking a rest. Even the Border Mountains were clear of their usual angry carbuncular clouds. The ugly climate had been lanced for a day.
He saw Selban stagger out of the door at the base of the tower, walking in his usual carefree manner, wiping his nose along the entire length of his forearm. He stopped by the wall, ran his fingers through his fluffy hair twice, put on a more elegant stance and then opened the door.
There was a dialogue that Loreticus couldn’t hear, and his eyes drifted back to the magnificent mountains. It was unusual for them to be captured in full sunlight, as if he was seeing them in a more youthful, unguarded state. Suddenly, he heard Selban shout and whoop. He slammed the door, his visitor’s hand whipping away just in time not to be caught by the speeding edge.
He danced on his own, his arms windmilling with a letter clutched in his hand.
“We found him!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Who?” Loreticus called down, but by the time his voice had landed, Selban was already away and racing up the stairs to his room.
“The traitor in Antron’s troop!” exclaimed Selban. “The leaker!”
“Do I know him?” asked Loreticus.
“No, but my man does. Funnily enough whilst he was hunting some leads down, he missed him, but handed the urgent message to another one of our agents who works in the post station.”
“So who is he and where is he?”
“His name is . . . . .” Selban paused and reread the letter, counting on his fingers as he read, “’Ibor’ is his first name. Is it possible that his second name is ‘Imperium’? What a bizarre name.”
“Ibor Imperium,” repeated Loreticus. “Certainly a name that one would remember. Are you sure?”
Selban nodded. “Look,” he said, “A simple code.” He showed Loreticus the letter, with a price and other numbers mentioned in the first line, and these numbers then matching specific lines and letters. “He’s somewhere on the trade track around the base of the Barbarian Mountains, flogging what he knows apparently. The princelings in their caves want to find out whether any of them are in for a bashing this winter.”
Loreticus started pacing, waggling a finger.
“The question is, Selban, whether we tell Antron, or whether we get Ibor ourselves and find out what he knows before we give him back.”
“Oh easy,” said Selban. “I vote for the latter. Let’s get some juicy gossip.”
“Agreed. Get everyone on it. Who do we have near the trade track?”
“We’ve got about five part-time helpers, all of the people in the post stations, most of the messengers and couriers, and a few forgers. There’s also a good bunch of mercenaries nearby if you’d like to go down that route.”
“No,” said Loreticus. “If we go down that route, it would be better done by Antron. Who’s your man up there? Is he reliable?”
“He’s a baby-faced pipsqueak but he’ll deliver if we need him to.”
“Is he likely to avoid too many major blunders?”
“He’ll be fine,” said Selban.
Loreticus took the less usual route when he got on to the main road in the palace. It led him down into the private quarters of the imperial family, and he strode through the hallways as if they were as familiar as his own home.
Two guards stood up and clattered to attention, their surprise causing clumsiness. Loreticus ignored them, brushing between their shoulders as he opened the doors to the princess’s private quarters.
“How do you always know it’s me?” asked Loreticus, a large smile curling across his face.
“Well, spymaster mine, you are the only person who ignores the guards. Even my father talks to them.”
The girl came over, and Loreticus bowed, kissing her hand in a mock gesture of gallantry.
“Oh shut up,” she said with a blush. The princess Alba was coming up to seven years old now and spent the vast majority of her days with adults. Any playful instincts had been suffocated by boredom whilst on her own or drowned in incomprehension when with company years older than her. She looked back at Loreticus. “So?”
“Your friend Dania. Is she a close friend, or a gossip-worthy friend?”
“Without doubt, gossip-worthy. She’s a creep in class.”
“Well,” said Loreticus. “Her mother is no longer able to ride like she loved to because of a terrible case of piles.”
Alba laughed, covering her mouth instinctively to hide her missing incisors. “What are piles?” she asked.
“Oh. Polyps.”
“Oh,” repeated Alba. “What are polyps?”
Loreticus folded his arms and looked carefully at her, trying to find a secreted smirk.
“She has a sore bottom and she’s unable to ride,” he said. Alba laughed loudly.
“Her mother does have a very big bottom,” she said.
“Huuuuuuuuge,” remarked Loreticus.
They laughed and kept each other’s eye.
“What do you want, Loreticus?”
“I have some bad news for you, my princess,” he said, and led her to a seat. “Your tutor fell sick a couple of days ago at his wedding. He won’t be coming back.”
“Oh no,” she said, and her face fell into that expression that children wear when they are strangers to a situation. “Will he be okay?”
“We’ll know soon enough,” lied Loreticus. He wasn’t going to risk the emperor’s wrath by explaining the concept of death to his daughter. Her mother had passed away long ago from pneumonia, and it was a part of her life best left buried for now. “What can you tell me about his bride?”