by J B Lucas
"No, but thank you for your concern," snipped Loreticus. "Perhaps I was out late, and perhaps it isn't anything for you to worry about."
"Well, unless I'm the husband," chuckled Sempus. Loreticus stared at him, and the physician's face flushed.
"Perhaps you should continue with your observations of the corpse, Sempus," he suggested.
The physician turned and rolled the body onto its side with a rough movement.
"Now, this confuses me," he said. A line of eight dots ran across the back of the corpse’s white muscular thigh, the marks at times connected by a sharp cut. The two men leaned in to examine the wound.
"What do you think it is? Did she land on something crenellated? An ornamental table perhaps?"
"I don't know," said Sempus. "But just as curious as the wound is the treatment."
"I thought she was killed? Do you mean that she got patched up and then died?" asked Loreticus.
"Yes. She certainly didn't die from a fall or a blunt blow to the head or neck." Sempus lowered the body back to rest. "I believe that she was either smothered or suffocated."
"Drowned?" suggested the spymaster.
"Ah, I don't think so. Her lips were blue when she was first delivered, and there was some froth around the mouth. Also, when we pushed her ribs, the air from her lungs didn't smell of water."
"So let me summarise," started Loreticus. "She has copious amounts of blood on her hands, which is not hers because her wounds were not deep enough to produce so much. She was hurt but escaped and had enough time to be treated but not enough time to change her outfit. She died from what appears to be asphyxiation."
"Pretty much," agreed Sempus and dropped a hand to Tilke's knee with a small smack.
"Have you had any other bodies overnight?"
"No," replied the physician. "But then I only get the interesting ones. The more mundane corpses, of course, go straight to the family home to be burned or buried. So unless someone rolls up today, I doubt we shall find out either the identity of her target or if indeed she was successful at all."
"The Eduans aren't cheap. I would presume that the target would have been someone of import."
“Then, my dear Loreticus, I shall keep my eyes open for any interesting meat.”
Chapter 2
Loreticus left the physician's quarters and moved slowly down the short stairs to the avenue, which ran along the inside of the palace wall. The imperial compound was in effect a village on its own, populated by the smart and the rich keen to keep close to the emperor. His royal dourness was obviously already up, evidenced by the hustling of the crowds on the streets that seemed to intuit when he woke and slept.
The spymaster decided to exit the palace. He wanted to minimise the risk of bumping into the old monarch and being forced to spend the morning reminiscing about things he was too young to remember. As he moved forward, his thoughts in tandem with his steps, his four bodyguards fell into a rhythm.
Who had assassinated his assassin? He wasn't going to confide in Sempus, who had the dramatic flair and discretion of a hairdresser, but Tilke was on his coin last night. It should have been a simple job – in and out, leaving the fat Surranid dead. A simple task, a simple step in his path to handicap another man's grand ambitions.
But now the spymaster had a very uncomfortable and rather nerve-wracking conversation to conduct. He left the palace compound through one of the lesser-used doors, exiting away from the clamour of the city market. He collared a royal messenger who was skiving near an outdoor tavern.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked sloppily, his brain still adrift from lack of sleep.
"Yes, sir," responded the youth. He paled slightly, panicking as he watched Loreticus’ face for an indication of what was about to be asked.
"Go tell Selban to be at my rooms in an hour. If I'm not there, then to find Demetrian later. These guards will have reported my likely resting place." A moment passed as the messenger waited for something less cryptic. "I don't think that the emperor is paying you to stare at me. Bugger off now."
The messenger gave a nod and galloped away from the table.
"Good gods, Loreticus," came a heavily accented voice from the shadows inside the tavern. "You could have at least let him pay."
"Sorry, darling Isa," he said and scooped a couple of coins from his purse to drop on the table.
He walked, a sparse flow of traffic drifting in the opposite direction, the morning air starting to pick up its heat, which turned the crowds awkward and made fresh smells fetid.
Loreticus shrugged in his tunic, letting the air move across his torso. This was a particularly hot month – one that people had noticed in a city with no seasons. The air was bone dry, causing a general malaise of sticky mouths and aching sinuses. Resting was no respite, and walking was no remedy. The only cure for the desert heat was to live in denial, and this was only manageable if there was an end somewhere in sight.
The spymaster had planned to go up to a family property towards the foothills of the mountains. Northern mornings saw clouds cool breakfasts before forest breezes shooed them away by noon.
Now someone else’s hired hand had killed his killer and had caused him untold complications. He hated the selfishness of some people. Loreticus had a hangover, a heat headache, a horrendous penance for his actions last night and a ghost to find. He felt punished for his arrogance. Maybe his gods would have looked after him more favourably had he stayed home and prayed for success rather than having snuck into someone else's bed.
He drew to a stop in front of a large and formal door. It was half mercantile, half domestic in its design – of a home converted to receive clients. The door sat in the sun, although for much of the day, it was covered by the shadows of its narrow street, an alleyway which he knew the same family owned and which turned into an efficient slaughter trap if need be.
Loreticus knocked, and the door opened immediately, with the servant standing out of sight behind the thick wooden portico. Loreticus nodded to him, a quirky respect that was caused by nerves, and strode into the darkened interior. The young spymaster leaned forward slightly as he walked, aware that there were eyes on him from multiple directions. The voyeurs weren't watching for a threat. They were searching for guilt.
After the entrance area was a large archway that led into the internal garden. In mimicry of the palace, the family had cultivated an ancient-looking ambience here, exhaling rich air to meet the visitor, shading and taming the unpleasant heat. Loreticus strode deep into the centre of the tall plants, then sat on the stone bench, the place where he always sat, and shuffled his feet like a deficient apprentice.
"My dear spymaster," came a peaceful voice, rich in warmth and intelligence. "Thank you for coming unbidden."
The spymaster stood, flattened his dark hair above his ears with his palms and obediently waited for the queen of the assassins. Bethulia’s short form entered the small circle of stone where an impluvium should have been, and she glided gracefully within his arm’s reach. He bowed, took her thick knuckled hand and kissed it gently.
Her thick hair was loosely tied into a bun on her neck, and her soft angular cheeks framed her smile. There was a manliness about her now, something which had only developed over the last few years. Dark eyebrows and a rectangular face belied her earlier daintiness, even in old age.
"Ever the gentleman," she said, then twirled her fingers in a disingenuous gesture, "the charmer without peer."
"You're too kind, Bethulia," replied Loreticus, "Well, I hope that you're being complimentary."
The old lady smiled and sat on a bench opposite him.
"Before we start, let me remind you of our adage. 'Life is a pleasure; death is rest; it's the transition between the two which hurts'."
"I understand, Bethulia," he said. "I’m here to pay my respects to your family. I didn’t intend for Tilke to be in any danger.”
She waved her hand, turning her face to one side.
"We know the risks of our job. We pride ourselves on a clean and clinical exit for our clients’ marks. We don't get involved in passionate or excessively painful operations, and we don't do messy. Last night was messy." She paused for a moment and examined her fingers. "Have you seen my granddaughter?"
"I have. She is being taken care of by my personal physician. She is ready for your family any time now."
"Is he expecting us?" asked Bethulia.
"He is. No surprises for either side."
"Then let's get to the matter of concern," she continued. "I'd like to hear what you know and then afterwards what you suspect. You know me well enough, Loreticus, to understand that I don't issue warnings. But if your complacency or negligence caused hurt to my family, we are over as business partners. If your hand is found in the delivery of this attack, the situation will be even bleaker for you."
Loreticus nodded, and then in his usual didactic fashion, he stood to deliver his thoughts. At first, a hand came out flamboyantly, then returned behind his back as he mentally rephrased his opening. He looked at her and then back at the ground.
"The target was a well-known Surranid money lender who represented his own family, who had grown rich from sponsoring generals. They primarily funded General Claisan and his cavalry under Iskandar but had also underwritten Augustus before he became emperor when he went north to the barbarians." He paused, waiting for Bethulia to ask his motives. She didn't, so he continued. "It seems that she was successful according to my source in the banker's house, but as there was only one body in the room, we must presume that either she escaped without killing her attacker or she killed the attacker, and his corpse was removed by an accomplice."
"Which do you believe?" interjected Behtulia.
"I don't know your methods as well as you, of course, but the logical move would have been to simply stop the other person, then exit and consider options later. If it was a clean kill, so much the better."
"Agreed," maintained the old lady. She nodded for him to continue.
"The current questions in my head are threefold. First, how did they know that an assassin was due last night? Then, why let her complete her job before attacking? Last, her cause of death remains a mystery. Why choose a complicated method when the tried and trusted ones are more commonly accepted?" Loreticus came to a stop and looked at Bethulia. He flashed a small smile and spread his hands. "Now my suspicions are unfounded, broken in logic and mere hypotheses until I have investigated more. First, how did they know that she was coming? Perhaps they didn't. Perhaps the guard was a permanent fixture in the banker's room. Next, why let her finish? Perhaps he was simply too slow. Finally, why not just cut her down or finish her with a throwing knife? Again, perhaps it was an opportunity, but then what killed her? My physician says asphyxia, but I say poison, and there are no blade cuts on her anywhere."
"What type of wounds does she have?" asked Bethulia.
"Minor bruises on her knees. Cuts from the edge of something across the back of her thighs," responded Loreticus.
"You saw the whole of her?"
Loreticus nodded, embarrassed.
"I did. We also wanted to get rid of the evidence of her blood-soaked clothes before too many people asked questions," he explained.
"And so she had no other wounds?" asked Bethulia.
"No."
"Give me the exact details of the wounds on her thighs," she demanded.
"Small puncture marks, some with fine lines between them. Not deep but jagged around the edges in some instances. We presumed the cause to be a table edge, but some households put broken pottery on top of their walls as an extra deterrent. It could have been something like that."
"More likely, Loreticus, that it was a studded lash," stated the old assassin. She turned to a figure who had been half-hiding along the path. "Fetch me one," she ordered. Bethulia turned back to Loreticus. "They are no longer in favour mainly because they can be noisy. But they are an excellent transport for poison." She dropped her chin, privately examining something on the floor between them, and they waited in silence. Loreticus noticed an incongruous smell of honey drifting from the plants, and he squinted at the trunks to find its source without any reward.
The shadow came back after a few minutes, morphing into a young man of minuscule stature. Bethulia let the lash hang from her fingers. It was over a metre in length, with small spheres slotted along a fine wire, one end blending into a leather handle and the other falling with the weight of a cluster of spikes. "Would this offer an explanation of the wound?" she asked. Loreticus stared for a moment, then nodded.
"Exactly," he said.
"Did the puncture marks have any swelling or purple colouration around their edges?"
"Not in my memory," responded Loreticus, "but I wasn't looking specifically for that."
"You would have seen. Were they slightly white at the edges instead?"
Loreticus paused, imagining the injuries again. The girl's skin was so incredibly colourless that it would have been a guess. He shrugged but gave a non-committal gesture of agreement.
"Then, my dear spymaster," declared Bethulia, "you need to go to see Sammalid, the physician from Surran. He most likely treated her when she escaped." She stood slowly, and something in Loreticus' instincts told him that she was playing up her infirmity for him. "The big question, young man, is who benefits? Not just from a caught assassin but a dead one? Also, who benefits from letting your banker get slaughtered first? In our world, men as rich as Claisan's banker won't have a bedroom guard who falls asleep at his post."
Loreticus nodded again. He bent to kiss her offered cheek.
"I'll keep you updated," he said in farewell.
"Of course you will," she returned. "Come see me tomorrow morning with an explanation, but in the meantime, go meet your homunculus and speak to Sammalid." She snapped out a laugh to his surprise. "Oh my gods, Loreticus, you're not the only one who has ears in this city."
Chapter 3
Loreticus' homunculus was waiting for him in his rooms, breathing heavily through his great nostrils.
Selban inevitably made an impression at first sight. Great etched bags hung under his eyes, which themselves varied between shades of red. His skin was dry and cracked, the flesh underneath soft and failing. Selban was most dangerous when he was eating, as he seemed oblivious to the small rainstorm of food flecks that flew from his mouth.
The next most obvious observation came almost immediately with that gruesome initial impact; as the new acquaintance would examine the grotesquery of his face, Selban's intelligent gaze would scrutinise their own unguarded expressions, a knowing gaze which could humble the most arrogant observer if he found himself caught.
Then Selban would unsheathe his humour, a sharp and disarming wit which was often meant to make himself seem the fool that he wasn't. He was wise enough to know that his intelligence was easily hidden under his ugliness.
Compared to Loreticus’ slim and dark figure, Selban was a fierce creature. He was shorter, more muscular, and the hair on his head stood up like dandelion seeds rather than Loreticus’ lifeless flattened sweep. The two agents were perfectly matched and incredibly distinct.
"So, not dead?" he muttered as Loreticus entered. The rooms were at the finish of five flights of stairs, and Loreticus took a moment to catch his breath. The room smelled of the heat, along with dust and Selban’s food competing for attention. Sunlight came pitilessly through the open doors, contested by only a spiritless breeze trying to sweep the room.
Selban stood on the periphery of the room that led from the study to the large balcony, the sunlight illuminating the long, thick fluff on his head like a poor man’s halo. Loreticus had interrupted Selban’s observation of the lunchtime pedestrians, as they bobbed around the taverns and market.
"Not today, maybe tomorrow," said the spymaster. Selban offered some warm wine as he approached, and they stood together for a moment, consum
ing the complexity of the view below them. The mood of the city seemed duller today, grumpier as if everyone had hoped for a respite from the heat and had instead been disappointed. "We need to prove that we had nothing to do with it before we try to find out who piggybacked our plans."
"Same thing, isn't it? And why 'we'?" asked Selban.
"You're my homunculus," said Loreticus with a smile.
“What do you mean?”
“Bethulia decided that you were my homunculus.”
"Rather unfair, I'd say." Selban brushed himself down, missing most of the food stuck to his clothes. “I’m a man of normal height and desirable build.”
"Not my choice of words." Loreticus stepped on to the balcony, enjoying the mild breeze. "They're a surprisingly eloquent lot, the Eduans."
"Well," returned Selban slowly, "Bethulia is, and perhaps your Tilke was. But their boys are just simple stabbers with hot tempers. It’s their revenge I'm concerned about."
Loreticus shrugged. Lightning flashed silently on the horizon, and they watched a thick purple cloud start to pull itself away from a distant mountaintop.
“The gods are angry today,” said Loreticus. “I wonder who has annoyed them now.”
“The gods indeed. Perhaps they are just too bloody hot as well.”
The spymaster glanced at him and then collapsed in a large wicker chair.
"Let me state what I know so far; then we can work out who we need to see," he said. "First, we agreed to put a stick in the wheel of General Claisan's grand ambitions. It’s becoming apparent that he wants a civil war between the throne and the religious community. I think he wants a state within a state, whilst you think he wants the throne.” Loreticus shrugged to punctuate his point, a strange gesture which was far too old for his years. “You can’t wage war if you can’t pay the troops, so the best way to slow him down is to drain him of cash, which means cutting off his credit. We couldn’t find any blackmail strong enough on the Fat Banker that wouldn't absolve him of Claisan's protection, so simply erasing him was the logical choice. Still agree?"