by J B Lucas
“The other side of the palace. You have to walk all the way around, always in sight of your shiny guardsmen on the walls.”
“And were the girls gorgeous?” asked Selban. “Do you remember where they were from?”
“So, two out of the four appear innocent,” said Selban. “At least it appears like we’ll find the killer before long. I owe him…or her. They scared the daylights out of me last night.”
“Five,” said Loreticus. “Don’t forget Marlan. I don’t trust him at all.”
“You’re right,” said Selban. “There’s something shifty about him. I never trust country military types. They’re always talking about horses and wearing tight clothes. Not normal.”
“Well, now we have the rendezvous I most wanted to avoid.”
“Coya?”
“Indeed. She’s of the Ferran clan. They are so much more calculative and cold than the rest of us. But I expect that Tristofan will have volunteered for that duty,” said Loreticus. “She’s a glamorous mark, and he’s a gossip at heart.”
“And gossip has never been a real vice. It’s a virtue, in fact. We were given voices to dissect scandal, my dear Loreticus, and terrific, salacious rumours about friend or foe will lift the heart of any man.”
“Well, you are an addict of hearsay. It’s the first on your list of vices.”
“Pish,” laughed Selban. “Someone who doesn’t like a scandal isn’t alive. I’ll wager that I can get from Coya a secret in exchange for gossip. Unspecified rumour about someone she cares little for.”
“Fine. The wager is my choosing then.”
True to Loreticus’ guess, the young spy was sitting on the edge of a fountain that had a view down the private road to Coya’s villa. He smiled when he saw his masters approaching, his disguise of a nonchalant idler broken by their determined gestures.
“Anything exciting to report?” asked Selban.
“Nothing,” said Tristofan, dusting down his blue tunic humbly. “No visitors, no excursions, nary a servant scooting out for an errand. That door has remained shut for all but two moments of the day when the butcher came, and a servant left.”
“I’m going to get you inside,” stated Loreticus. “I want to know what she says after we leave. Let’s put the wind up her and see what happens.”
“Although,” said Selban, raising an impertinent finger, “I am quite confident that she’ll tell us what we need to know through simple persuasion.” He gave Loreticus a knowing nod, as if to convince the spymaster.
Tristofan watched them confusedly, being only witness but not privy to their private conversation.
“Do you think that you’ll be able to get out if I get you in?” Loreticus asked. Tristofan gawped up at the façade of the building, a titanic, brutal rectangular block made of old stone. If a building could seem bored by its own existence, this would take the prize.
“I think that I could probably get out by the roof,” he said. The youth had a straight posture, a relic of a superior lineage He nodded, at home in the company of his two masters. “Yes. Don’t worry about me.”
And so they approached the house, and before Selban rang the notice of their arrival, Tristofan hid behind a small outcrop of an ancient, weathered pillar by the door.
“Yes?” asked a gigantic, shaven-headed guard. Loreticus and Selban pivoted their faces to gaze up at the man, whose bald crown almost scraped the very top of the high doorframe.
“Lord Loreticus to see Lady Coya,” stated Selban and walked in as if that statement were enough to make the guard vanish. The giant reached out, gently pushing the agent back by his forehead.
“Wait.”
He closed the door, leaving them outside. Loreticus glanced up the height of the villa, which leaned over but didn’t quite touch the other buildings. It had a servants’ path along the front, separating its pale gold from the neighbours of a newer, redder stone.
“Is there a tavern near here?” he asked, as if Selban were to answer. From the corner of his eye, he saw the young spy gesture back towards the square with the fountain. He nodded.
Then the door opened, and the guard stood back to let them in.
“Good gods,” exclaimed Selban as he crossed the threshold, limping. “Bloody stones.” He reached down and started tugging at the ties of his footwear, hopping in circles.
Loreticus ignored him and carried on through the foyer, past the extravagant salt pot with its broken lid and a spill of fresh granules, into the atrium. The giant gawked back and forth between the two spies for a moment, then lurched inelegantly after Loreticus, the more imminent threat to his ward.
Selban kicked the door open slightly further, letting in the shadow of Tristofan, and closed it with a thump.
“You left the bloody door open!” he called to the guard. Then he straightened up, put both his feet on the floor and sauntered idly through the foyer.
“Well, spymaster,” rumbled Coya, “to what do I owe this pleasure? Has my dear cousin told you that I’ve done something naughty, or are you here to woo me?”
Loreticus smiled, his eyes closing with the gesture, and he bowed deeply.
She had been lying on a long cushion, staring at the night sky, and was now propped up on one elbow. Her thick hair was wet, her eyes sharp and unadorned, her nose more prominent without fringe or cosmetics. Somewhere, deep in the hidden rooms of the old house, someone was practising with a string instrument. First came a burst of intoxicating music, then a pause, again the same few bars repeated.
“How could it be that after one single night, dear Coya, I am so addicted to your subtlety and refinement?”
She laughed, dropping her head back.
“Oh shut up. What is it that you want?”
“There has to be foul play, I’m afraid. Poor old Bobban found a body in his tavern this morning, and we’re helping him out before the militia come stomping in.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. Who died anyway?” she asked. Selban walked in silently, with the colossus marching angrily behind him. “Oh Selban!” Coya cried. “I was just hoping that you’d been murdered.”
“Darling Coya,” he said, “you’d have lost the chance to win back all of that dirty gold you lost to me last night.”
“You and I both know that you’d never let me win that back. You’d demand something unsavoury from me in return.”
“Oooh,” squeaked Selban dramatically, “what’s on offer?”
“A Lady Igna,” interrupted Loreticus, “she dined at the table near us.”
“I presume the only other guest in The Indigo. I’m presuming that she paid for our food and drinks.” Coya rolled to a sitting position, her eyes teeming with thoughts. “She wasn’t alone; I remember that. Was with some non-descript chap, I think. Anyway, I can’t help you.”
“You know what I’m going to ask,” smiled Loreticus. They were still standing, talking to her, and this informality was starting to feel more like a slight.
“I was busy last night. Left straight after lover boy over there fell asleep.”
“Would you tell me where you were?”
“I was busy. What about that big barbarian Aerix? He might be some belted prince or other, but he’s still a murderous brute.”
Loreticus folded his arms. He considered Coya, who stared at him without any hostility.
“I’ve got to know where you were.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m afraid that I do,” asserted Loreticus.
“Why?”
“Because I promised Bobban that I wouldn’t let his tavern go broke because of this. A hostel where you get murdered isn’t a huge attraction.”
“He’s your client?” she asked with a solemn pause. For that small cohort of people in the capital who had clients and dependent families, there was a certain fraternity. Coya understood that a duty of rank obliged her, but something more controlling held her back.
“Yes,” said Lore
ticus.
“I’m sorry,” she stated. “I truly can’t offer any opinion to what happened.”
“Let me ask you, Coya,” started Selban, then broke his sentence as he sat on a small wall that edged a tree plot. “Could I tempt you to let us know where you were?”
“Tempt? Selban, I’m not going to get into one of your unwinnable wagers.”
“Not at all. Penny for a penny. Juicy information for its like.”
“You’ve got gossip?”
“I do.”
“You’re puerile.”
“It’s smashing gossip.”
Coya smiled and stared at the agent.
“How smashing?”
“It’s about Loreticus,” said Selban. The spymaster stared at him in surprise, and Coya let out a round, contagious laugh.
“Oh, gods, wonderful. Fine. A penny for a penny.”
They clasped hands briefly; then Selban stepped back again, slightly out of reach of the spymaster.
“Our Loreticus is enamoured,” he said.
“I was with someone last night,” she responded.
“She doesn’t like him, much to his surprise and disappointment,” Selban continued.
“I was with my lover,” she said.
“He’s romantically lost and humble for the first time ever. It’s wonderful to watch.”
“I was at my lover’s house until early dawn. Both sets of servants will give testimony should it ever become necessary.”
“I think that he’ll win her heart eventually, but it will be the downfall of the celebrated reputation of Loreticus the Lover.”
“My lover’s identity is the greatest secret of my life.”
They smiled at each other; then both studied Loreticus. The spymaster stood, his cheeks roasting and ears on fire.
“You’re both fools,” he said quietly, his broken ego souring each syllable.
“Dasha likes you,” stated Coya gently, “but she likes being chased more.”
Tristofan watched Loreticus from an unlit corner near the day quarters, not hearing anything, and confused by the strange body language that transpired in the group.
The spymaster and his agent left, and Coya fell back on her cushions, staring through the compluvium. Tristofan could see the unnatural whiteness of her eyes; then she rang a small bell and sat up.
“Bring me a note of paper and something to write with,” she called to the mammoth guard who approached.
Tristofan stole up the stairs to the dayrooms, which appeared comatose without anyone around. He stepped into an empty room and crossed the dark floor to gently open the shutters. He leapt up deftly, one foot landing firmly on the ledge, his hands grasping either side of the window frame. Slowly, Tristofan shifted his balance up, climbing along the frame until he was near the top. Tristofan wedged himself in lengthways and reached tenderly with one hand until he felt the edge of the stone roof above him. His fingers curled around the smooth lip, found a grip, and after sucking in a breath, he let go of his brace on the window, his other hand immediately snapping up to grasp the same brick as the first.
He swung there for a moment, watching his fingers, then heaved himself up, his left foot scratching feebly up the wall until his toes caught the edge of the roof. Tristofan squeezed his eyes shut, every fibre in his biceps and groin tearing as he gradually moved inch by inch onto the flat surface. He lay on his stomach for a moment, sighed, then hobbled along the stones to the front of the house.
As he had hoped, the guard had called a house runner from his slumber. Tristofan waited for the giant to close the door, then scuttled down the broken old stone work of the house’s corner and dropped without sound to the servants’ path.
The runner was walking quickly ahead of him, and Tristofan followed at a distance. His mark was talented, turning often as if he could hear the spy’s breath, waiting unnecessarily on the opposite side of an open space before moving away swiftly into a dark alleyway.
Tristofan followed quickly after him, crossing a wide reach of a square far away from the cardo, deep in one of the sleeping districts.
Then a sudden lurch, and a blade whistled faintly. Tristofan moved on instinct and due to training, his forearm blocking that of the knifeman, his foot kicking out at the attacker’s knee.
The runner crumpled with a curse, and the spy leaped back out of reach. His mark was little more than a boy, and luckily neither the knife nor the kick to the knee had connected as painfully as they might have.
Tristofan squatted to eyeball the runner.
“Boy, I need to read that letter,” he stated. “And you need to tell me where you’re taking it.”
“You can’t,” bleated the runner. “Lady Coya will send me to her cousin’s house if I screw up.”
“Who’s her cousin?”
“General Ferran, sir.”
“Ah,” said Tristofan, confused slightly by the formal address. He then realised that his blue tunic was still appeared elegant, even though it had ripped on his climb. “It seems that you’ve already screwed up. My suggestion is that I read it; then you tell me where you’re taking it, and I let you on your way. Neither of us need to go dashing over to Coya to tell her what happened.” The runner froze, unsure of what to do. “I could of course make up the wildest stories about you, and let my master tell her. They are family friends after all.”
Already compromised, the runner accepted defeat. He handed Tristofan a folded scrap of artist’s sketch paper. The original message had been scrubbed out and underneath were two simple lines.
My darling, the spymaster is sniffing around.
He will find our secret out as he always does; prepare yourself for trial by the mob.
“Where were you going with this?” asked the spy, handing back the paper. “Have you read it?”
The runner stared at Tristofan, and with the last few struts of dignity fighting his voice, he replied, “I was taking this message to the house of Lady Dasha. And no, I’ve not read it. Unlike you, I treasure my honour.”
Chapter 4
“Her lover is Dasha?” asked Loreticus, colour running to his cheeks. He stood up from his chair and wandered over to the edge of the balcony to hide his face. Pale lights came from the scattered windows of the houses beyond the palace, whilst above them, the sky was laced with its usual patterns. They had been organising the day’s contacts in the tower room when a breathless but graceful Tristofan had appeared in the doorway.
“Oh fantastic!” declared Selban, clapping his hands. “Glorious, glorious, wonderful, glorious!”
“I don’t understand the secrecy though,” said the spymaster. “If all the servants know, what’s the big hush-up?”
“Might I speak candidly?” asked Tristofan.
“If you need to ask that question, you intend to already.”
“Our younger set is more conservative than yours,” he said to Loreticus. “We are a little more prudish about these things.”
“Are either of them married?” asked Loreticus. “Is that what’s so embarrassing?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Selban. “Neither appeared so.”
There was silence for a moment as thoughts fought their way across Loreticus’ eyes. He seemed to realise that Tristofan was still there.
“Well done,” he said. “Leave the locations of the others, and let’s chat again tomorrow.”
“Only one missing,” said Tristofan as he laid down a list. “Tyba. Couldn’t find her or anyone of that name with her description. I used one of the best guys we have and nothing.”
“I don’t think that she’s the murdering type anyway,” said Selban. “She’d forget what she was there for before she’d killed anyone. Well done, Tristofan. A fine discovery.”
They waited until the spy had descended, Selban leaning over the balcony as they watched Tristofan walk through the garden five storeys below, and when they heard the door clack shut, Selban turned around
to the spymaster with a hideous, open-mouthed grin.
“Good gods,” he said. “You never break form.” He cackled, pouring himself a glass of black wine.
“I really don’t know what you mean,” replied Loreticus.
“Not at all. You have an incredible knack of falling for the most inappropriate ladies. They’re the only type that you like. Relationships doomed to fail before they’ve even started.”
“Oh, I’d say that this was quite unique.”
“Honestly, even with this ball-sack of a face, I’ll be married and bouncing kids on my lap before you. For a spymaster, you are incredibly unaware of yourself.” He raised a finger, drank deeply, exhaled heavily, and continued. “The greatest beauty is the one who is least attracted to her admirer. And indeed, my dear Loreticus, you do love a little strangeness.”
“I’m not beyond throwing you over the edge of the terrace,” stated Loreticus, “my dear Selban.”
The agent chuckled, then sighed and poured himself more wine.
“I know,” replied Selban. A strange melancholy tainted his voice now. He drained his cup. “I’m off to sleep. Three down, two to go.”
“We’ll have cracked it by tomorrow lunchtime then,” said the spymaster.
“Let’s hope so.” Selban started pacing the terrace, seemingly searching for something.
“No,” said Loreticus firmly, as if to a dog. “You’re not sleeping here. Go home.”
*
“Bobban, who else came and went last night? We know of the two of us, the maid who served us, the party we were at the table with, Lady Igna, Marlan and your wife.”
“My wife wasn’t here,” stated Bobban, sitting with such a posture that his body concertinaed into a squashed globule, his invisible belt some three inches deep in a crease of his belly. He swiped his hair in long strands from one side of his bald pate to the other, and he appeared quite out of place between Loreticus and Selban. “Remember,” he continued, gesturing to Selban for support, “I went out to see her at home the next day. Sick as a dog, as usual.”