by J B Lucas
But soon the noises of the market drifted into the buzzing of a hive of bees, and he breathed the hot air deeply.
The advancing footsteps brought him back out of his doze. He slowly opened his eyes to see a dapper young agent, dressed and groomed in spite of the mundanity of the capital. Pleasantly Tristofan always looked his part – trim in physique, gallant in clothing, relaxed in elegance. He stood tall, his dark tunic rebuking the drab sepias of the commoners behind him, coated in the red dust of the empire.
Selban loitered and lurked nearby, picking his teeth with some stick that he’d probably collected from the ground.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the young agent with a smile. His was a face that would forever remain boyish, framed by round cheeks and lifeless flat hair. He made Loreticus feel old.
“Hello, Tristofan. Did Selban explain what we need from you? Five people tracked down and followed. Identities confirmed, residences or hostels noted, any unusual activities investigated. No contact with them, no running after them. Everything clear?”
Tristofan nodded.
“When would you like me back here?”
“After dark,” replied the spymaster. “Bring all of Selban’s runners with you so that I can hear their reports first-hand.”
Tristofan nodded again, a strange gesture which almost collapsed into a bow. Then he was off, taking a page of notes that Selban had just written out.
Selban turned with a flat expression and observed Loreticus. The spymaster shrugged.
“Wager?”
“Done,” croaked Selban. “I reckon that he’ll get made before dusk.”
“Then I’ll bet in his favour. He’s a smart lad. A quarter coin on it. Now go home and get washed and changed quickly. We’re off to see the object of your passion.”
Chapter 3
Dasha lived on the outskirts of town, a fact which had surprised the spymaster as he had read through Bobban’s list of guests. She had inherited a grand house overlooking the bustling market, a marvellous towering beast of a building that caught the shadows of the palace’s towers as the sun sank. He had seen it before but only from the outside and was one of the new style estates within the city’s cramped centre, a plot with gardens and outbuildings, stables and trees. But it seemed that Dasha had moved as soon as her father had passed leasing his old place in town to another commercial family and retreating as far away as she could from her mercantile roots.
The spies rode in relative silence but for Selban’s sudden, violent snores. Loreticus peered out of the open sides of the shady carriage, contemplating what life would be like to take a step back from the palace and wake up each morning with Dasha. Somehow his imagination cast him in the role of his father in his study in Lores, quiet and satisfied, receiving the occasional letter from the palace, correcting maps and strategizing politics out of curiosity rather than paranoia.
The houses became humbler as they moved away from the centre, away from the famous districts of town, at perpendicular to the impressive cardo, which ran through the heart of the capital. The fact that one couldn’t reach her district via the main street was a testament to her reclusion, and this tendency of evasion coupled with her willing attendance the night before intrigued Loreticus.
Such was his muddled state of mind when the carriage jolted along an unflattened, stony road to her house, and even the relative modesty of her house charmed him. The tall fences were made of a solid, oiled metal and showed a trim but low-maintenance garden. Small statues of lions, bulls and horses lined the warm pathway up to the entrance of the house. Even though the tired evening sun had not yet vanished, which it tended to do with an inelegant haste, the doorway was brightly illuminated by two huge braziers, their snug glow blowing life into the sharp corners.
But then, where else was someone as individualistic as Dasha supposed to live? The more Loreticus considered it, the more obviously alien her father’s house seemed.
His coachman spoke briefly with a confident, informal man who approached the gate. The domestic glanced at Loreticus, then nodded at the coachman and returned to the building.
Loreticus slapped Selban’s arm, then got out, not bothering to see whether his colleague had woken up.
The air was different from that in the centre of town. There was no significant market here to taint the breeze with butchers’ blood or spice merchants’ tobacco. There was no waste on the street, no horse droppings on the road, no cheap torches with their greasy smoke. Here it smelled of the countryside – the south of the capital that grew the crops to feed the sprawling mass around the palace. Loreticus was transported to quiet spring evenings; his memories gathered in the front of his mind unbidden as he remembered sunburnt cheeks and harsh shadows on his maternal grandparents’ land.
Fat palm trees squatted haphazardly in the garden, and small lizards squirted up the trunks, pausing occasionally to judge him.
Then the servant came back down, now placing a few small lanterns along the path in anticipation of full dusk, which was overdue.
He opened the gate, passed the coachman a small parcel of bread and wine, then bowed and let Loreticus through. There was a small pause as Selban plunged out of the carriage and stretched. He then rubbed his nose viciously as if fighting an itch and padded along behind the spymaster into the house through the main door, into a simple foyer where a small pot of salt declared the owner’s wealth, to the central garden area.
Dasha stood tall, waiting for them, wiping her hands on a towel. Her movements were as slow and arranged as a living statue; her outfit was just a fine woollen tunic that dropped to the floor, hanging from her small pointed breasts, covering all but her arms and long, thin neck. There was no pretence here, with grey smudges of clay or earth marking her skin and cloth.
Loreticus realised that he had never seen her standing before, and her figure and posture surprised him. She appeared tall but wasn’t. Her slenderness, her gentle curves made her appear taller, and her clever, penetrating eyes spoke of a private world. Dasha possessed an intelligence that could not be translated by the mundanity of the empire’s language, and Loreticus wondered where she went to quench her thoughts.
As he considered Dasha, Loreticus became aware of her watching him. There was no affection, just a glare that enquired why he had imposed on her exile.
He smiled softly, a chosen expression to disarm her.
“Hello Dasha,” he said gently. “I’m sorry to make you suffer from our company two nights in a row, but our common friend Bobban is in some trouble.”
“Really?” Dasha replied, forgoing any welcome. Her voice was different, carrying an entitlement that was as threatening as it was discreet. “Come through,” she said and with a small gesture made way through the trees.
On the other side of a small, unmatured garden was a bare wall with an unfinished mosaic. Across a table was a long, inked sketch of a dinner scene, coloured with gentle hues, which indicated a familiarity to the guests.
“My past time,” she said.
“It’s amazing,” croaked Selban, his voice finding its way out after his sleep.
“Well, it’s certainly more difficult with a hangover,” laughed Dasha. “A hangover caused by an overly familiar and far too charismatic character.”
“Does she mean me or you?” asked Selban.
“I think she means you,” replied Loreticus. “Take the compliment whilst you can. You don’t get many of them.”
“Too true.”
Dasha sat in a canvas chair, positioned to help her place the tiles. Two more seats were brought by servants who appeared and disappeared with remarkable speed.
“There was a murder last night at The Indigo,” said Loreticus. “One of the overnight guests.”
“Good gods,” whispered Dasha. “What happened?”
“It seems like a robbery, but we don’t know. There was no way in and out without disturbing Selban.”
“You were in one of
the rooms?” she asked, looking at Selban.
“Um… No, I was sleeping at the table downstairs.”
Dasha raised her eyebrows and considered the agent for a moment, before turning back to Loreticus.
“Bobban asked us to help out,” he said. “Did you know the guests there last night?”
“No. Well, I presume not. Bobban organised the game to capitalise on the visitors, I understand. They were quite posh, so it seems Bobban wanted the crowd to act like The Indigo was popular every night. What was his name?”
“Her name,” corrected Selban.
“Lady Igna Purganda,” said Loreticus. He paused, watching her expression. Dasha leaned back, contemplating the mosaic as she feigned to rifle through her memory.
Loreticus got distracted just then as he examined the shape of her nose and the length of her neck. He realised that the short hair, something which he had attributed to modesty, was instead the perfect fashion to frame her wise, youthful face. A strange tension built in his stomach, and he thought for a moment that he was in love with her.
The spymaster realised that he wasn’t being partial, and relief came when Dasha turned back to him, and her stony eyes washed his embarrassment away. Her gaze was telling him something, but he didn’t understand. This rare moment thrilled him, an instant when he, the spymaster, was outmatched by romantic circumstances.
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” she said confidently, then gazed away again. The turn of her head caused a lurch of suspicion inside Loreticus, but again he couldn’t quite understand why.
“Thank you,” Loreticus said and stood up, declining the wine which was just arriving. He examined Dasha, who stayed put in her chair, surprised by his decision to leave. The awkward mandarin wasn’t sure if the urge to stand up was from his unease or his desire to see her upset at his departure. A petty satisfaction bubbled inside him, and he fought his emotions.
She stood and taking one arm from each of them, led them to the near edge of the foyer.
“Can you remember what time you arrived back here last night?” enquired Loreticus as her servant arrived to lead them out.
She glanced at the domestic with a note of panic, then returned her eyes to the spymaster.
“I honestly can’t,” she said, calm again. “What time did we leave?” she asked Selban.
“I have no clue,” he replied merrily. “I was blotto.”
“She’s lying,” stated Selban, now wide awake and outside. “You’re in love, and she’s lying.”
“I am not in love, and yes, she most certainly is fibbing. But I can’t somehow fit her with the murder. I don’t think that she knew the name when I said it. Did you see anything?”
“Only the erection in your tunic when you were staring at her.”
“Oh, for all the gods, Selban. You’re a bloody animal.”
“So are you, it seems. You love her, which is why you missed it.”
“What exactly did I miss?”
“She definitely didn’t know the name,” Selban said, wiggling a finger. “And that long deliberation of whether she could remember was as poorly acted as anything I’ve seen. She was playing to get your attention.”
“Oh,” murmured Loreticus, “you think she likes me?”
“Gods, no. Well, I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know why any woman likes you. But that’s not why she did it.”
“She was distracting me.”
“Yes.”
“From what?”
Selban shrugged.
“From whatever she has to hide.”
*
Back at The Indigo, they found a young man with a fresh black eye sitting outside at the table where Loreticus had taken his siesta. The spymaster and his agent paused to stare at the youth, who softly stood and passed Loreticus a note. The spymaster opened it and began reading.
“I know you,” stated Selban, waggling a finger at the boy. “You’ve done work for me before.”
“Yes,” came a deep, foreign voice from inside, “and as freshly as this afternoon, you cadaverous fart.” Aerix came through the door of the tavern, bending to get his head clear, one shoulder brushing the frame. “I caught him following me. Inside and out. I thought at first that he was just a very novice mugger, but then after a couple of punches he told me that he was in a spy club of some sort.”
“Guild,” corrected Selban, “not club.”
“Then he told me it was your club,” returned the barbarian, leaning towards Selban.
“Guild.”
“I presume that Bobban explained why,” Loreticus interrupted.
“Yes, some of it.”
“Then let’s go inside and discuss it over supper. I’m hungry, and Selban and I have a long night ahead.”
Aerix turned, glaring at the boy, who cowered at his glare.
“You need to recruit better spies for your club,” he said, without looking at Selban.
“Guild.”
They sat down, and Bobban came over immediately.
“I’m sorry, spymaster,” he said to Loreticus, then turned slightly to Aerix. “And your highness, I’m sorry to get you caught up in this. Supper is on the house, of course.” He scurried away.
“Free food! It’s working out alright again,” said Selban, relaxing back, stretching his arms out along the back of the bench. Aerix stared at him, surprised by his calm.
“I can see how your tenderfoot outside got into the club if you’re the boss,” he said.
“I didn’t even realise you had a club,” said Loreticus.
“Guild.”
“By the by,” Loreticus turned to Aerix, “my friend, you normally stay here, so you must know your way around the building and the neighbourhood.” The barbarian shrugged. “Did you know the victim?”
“I didn’t know her,” he said. “It seems that this was her first time staying here. In fact, in a way, we all knew her to look at.”
“How so?”
“She ate at that table over there,” said Aerix and pointed towards the small corner that had been in shadows the night before. “She was sitting next to us the entire night.”
“I honestly can’t remember that,” laughed Loreticus. “I’m obviously not as bright as I thought I was.”
“No, you’re not,” confirmed Selban.
“Maybe he’ll be able to join your spy club then,” said Aerix.
“Well, we were distracted last night. But well-noticed,” said Loreticus.
“I didn’t notice. As I said, I didn’t know the lady, but Bobban told me. He got a bit uppity when I dragged in your little man.”
“Wasn’t she dining with someone else?” asked Selban.
They paused as the serving girl brought jugs of salted wine. She placed three cups in order, then poured the wine, blushing at the silence that she had caused.
“Can you send Bobban over?” asked Loreticus.
“He’s gone, m’lord,” said the girl. “Went home to see his wife. She’s a bit sick again.”
She finished pouring, her cheeks so red that it seemed they would never return to their natural pallid white. Then after having waited a beat for a follow up question, she scampered back to the kitchen.
Silence remained at the table, and each drank carefully, balancing their own thoughts with the strange unease.
“Have you ever murdered anyone?” asked Selban cheerfully.
“No. But I’m contemplating it.”
“I was just asking because you’re very well-groomed for a barbarian. You look more like one of those chaps who scrapes you down in the baths than a gladiator.”
Aerix turned towards the agent and studied him, which seemed to scrutinise Selban’s very being. It was a strange contrast – the bright black eyes of the robust and preened Aerix peering directly into the crusty, bag-saddled sockets of the fluffy-haired Selban. They seemed a mismatch to anyone watching who didn’t know what the ugly agent was capable o
f.
“First, rat boy, I served many years in my father’s army. As he was my father, I was the first into and the last out of every battle. Second, I have killed more men and women on the battlefield than I can total. That doesn’t make me a murderer, but I’m no happier for it either. Finally, you have no idea about my home country. Ignorance breeds prejudice; prejudice breeds stigma. If I dragged you before my people and said that you were the average citizen of this empire, they’d have a fine laugh, then throw you into the nearest river for a wash.”
“I quite like you,” said Selban.
“Me too,” added Loreticus.
“You’re a pair of buffoons,” grumbled Aerix.
“Where were you last night after the game?”
“With the spy club master, over there drinking.”
“All night?”
“No,” said Aerix, a little more humbly. “After he fell asleep, I got a runner to take me back to my lodgings and sort out a little blow-out for myself and a young lady. I woke up for lunch, and my people can prove all of that.”
“I’m not sure that’s the right word in this context,” commented Selban.
“You had imperial military training, right?” asked Loreticus.
“Some. And I saw real violence in battle,” stated Aerix, directing his boast towards Selban. “Why?”
“Lady Igna was killed with a military mace.”
“So?”
“It’s the type of mace only soldiers and veterans carry.”
“Not me,” said Aerix with a shrug. He gestured out through the front door. “As you can see from your club tyro, I don’t need a mace to dish out a wallop.”
There was a pause, and Aerix watched the spymaster digest the thoughts.
“Where are you staying?” asked Loreticus.