by J B Lucas
"Still agree," articulated Selban wearily. "Maybe we acted a little late; maybe we should have gone straight for the general. But you can’t ride a horse backwards, so I’ll not mention that I’m always right."
Loreticus glanced at him and continued, "We used the best the Eduans had for this operation due to the huge repercussions of a mishap."
"And a mishap occurred," interjected Selban.
"Not a mishap. A mishap is an irate banker with a big scratch demanding that Claisan or Iskandar lop our heads off. We just didn't think someone else would be swimming in our murky pond. Now we have our own heads on the block."
"Bethulia wouldn't do that. You've been using her for years," spluttered Selban.
"Don't be fooled by her soft exterior dear Selban. You should know better than that. She'd use us as an example to everyone. Even the imperial spymaster shouldn't consider her people disposable." He put down the cup of wine he was holding. "So, we have two immediate visits I believe. The first to this Sammalid character. The second to General Ferran."
"Really? Calling in favours already?"
"No," grumbled Loreticus quietly. "Our enemy's enemy and all that. We need to gauge what's happening over there. We might be paranoid, but no more than our dear generals. They wear the thickest armour on their backs."
Chapter 4
Sammalid was nervous that day or rather more nervous than usual. He was desperate to leave the stinking capital to go back home to his beautiful country. It was just that every day was a little too lucrative, or someone rather important was due to visit, and so he ended up staying despite himself.
But today everything was wrong. Sammalid was in far over his head, and he knew it. This moment was the culmination of his laziness at not correcting a poor set of poor decisions.
Sammalid had chosen his calling badly, having come from a family of deliberate and well-respected chefs. In his hometown of Surran, however, there was no great wealth in the kitchens, and his family rarely ate as luxuriously as those they served. But by now, he could have been head chef in one of the great palaces in Surran – married, with kids and a heavy belly swinging before him just like his mother and father.
Instead, he was in this sweaty town, constantly scrubbing blood or pus from his fingers. Sammalid had become the unordained curer of embarrassing imperial poxes and the bandager of assassins. He was paid well. He was treated with respect. But still, he lived in a small house, with the windows constantly shut, in the knowledge that his friendly clients would chop him up if he breathed a word of their warts, swellings, itches or cuts.
Sammalid was also paranoid, and such stress just wasn't conducive to a healthy life. Whilst his brother was living the life their father had passed on, with great galleys and vast herb gardens, he skulked in a claustrophobic hut.
A stomp in the street jarred his nerves. Metal on stone, which entailed either a general with his entourage or a messenger from the palace. "Cuts or crabs?" he griped bitterly.
A knock at the door, a muffled cough and an unintelligible conversation. Sammalid peeped through the spyhole, glimpsed the faces of two imperial soldiers, then slowly opened the door. The soldiers stomped in, knives drawn as they scanned the room, ignoring the little man as he stood, head bowed, waiting for the usual procedure to finish. Then they backed out, nodded to whoever their boss was and stood aside.
A man in his mid-thirties entered, his outfit elegant but simple, his black curly hair fiercely pulled back from his face. Intelligent eyes sat on a complicated face. He was a handsome gent, but whatever curse ran through his spirit soured that charm.
The doctor gave him an instinctive once-over. The visitor had a small limp in his right leg but was otherwise in good shape. A walking man, not a fighting one.
The man gave Sammalid a warm smile, an expression which stretched his lips wide and pushed his cheeks up to close his eyes.
"Sammalid," said the man with a palace accent, "my name is Loreticus. Do you know who I am?" The little medic shook his head. "This is Selban," continued Loreticus smoothly. He looked behind him, realised that he was alone and coughed angrily. “He works with me for the court and the generals.”
A second man entered and nodded to Sammalid. The man fascinated the little Surranid. The visitor didn't smile, and he paused while Sammalid reacted to his appearance. The doctor ran his eyes over the shape of the skin, the colour of his eyes, his hair. After a moment, Sammalid returned his gaze to Selban's, as if in welcome.
"Bethulia recommended that we speak to you," stated Selban. Sammalid lifted his chin in reaction, unsure whether it was a good or bad thing. He gestured for the two men to sit at his table and closed the door.
"What can I help you with, gentlemen?" he asked quietly, his curling accent sounding affected, given the fluency of his language. "Do you have an injury or a disease that needs treatment? I am glad that the lady recommended me, but she normally sends a . . . different type of patient."
"We are here to talk about one of those patients," said Loreticus. "Tilke came to see you; then you called Sempus."
"Who?" asked Sammalid innocently.
"'Who' to which one?" chuckled Selban. "'Who' to the assassin you patched up, or 'who' to the physician you sent her to afterwards?"
"I think you know who I am," said Loreticus. "I'm not a vain man, but I do know that my name has a certain reputation in this city. You'll know that an amateur’s bluff is not going to cut the muster. What I want to know is why she came to you rather than just returning home?"
Beads of sweat appeared on Sammalid's furry top lip, and he dabbed them away with a small kerchief.
"I'm not a man to break a confidence," he said quietly. He then looked up and smiled boyishly. "But might I instead offer some unrelated observations as a diversion?"
Selban laughed. "No," he answered.
"Go on," said Loreticus, watching his little host curiously.
"You, Master Loreticus, are wearing a lemon-based scent. It has flowers and spices in it from a wide range of countries, but it wasn't mixed in this capital. So I presume that you have sources or travels that take you far and wide. Last night you drank a healthy amount of red wine with paprika and honey, ate beef and onions in your meal and made love to at least one woman. You, Master Selban, recovered from a poison that you perhaps didn't know was consumed Perhaps you have tried cures, but there won't be anything to reverse the effects of the damage. There might be something that slows it down, and I'd like to help if I am allowed."
The spies looked at each other, and Selban chuckled.
“Poison, eh?” he muttered.
"For a different day," reacted Loreticus. "But you can stop worrying. Your remarkable nose is too useful for any of us to cut off, and I'm sure that Selban will want to visit you on his own time. But I am here to understand about the Eduan girl from this morning."
"Last night," corrected Sammalid.
"So be it. Why did she come to you?"
Sammalid looked at them, one at a time, then bent his head.
"Bethulia will kill me if I break her confidence."
"Bethulia will let me hurt you if you keep secrets from us," countered Loreticus in a paternal tone. "She is your client, not your protector. She sent us here. Put the logic together."
The little man nodded.
"She came to me because of the poison in her leg," said Sammalid. "It was a Surranid poison, often used by our own assassins. It's very rare here, and I'm surprised that she knew that I was her best hope."
"And was the weapon also Surranid?" asked Selban.
"It appeared so, but I can't comment. The marks indicated that it was a chain whip. Please tell Bethulia that I did everything I could, but the level of poison was too high. There was no way I could cure her."
"Why did you not send the body to Bethulia's house?" asked Selban.
"Because no one knew that she had come to me, and I didn't want to be involved. Now I am", he said with
a resigned shrug, "and looking guiltier for it."
Loreticus and Selban stood.
"We'll tell Bethulia that you gave us the basics," asserted the spymaster. They turned to leave, and Sammalid instantly jolted out of his chair.
"I told you everything that I know about the incident. She came in; I treated her, and she died. There's not a lot else that I know."
"Nothing about the poison, the weapon, or who the killer might be?"
"No," maintained Sammalid.
"Then you told us the basics," repeated Loreticus. They walked to the door, and Selban let in a blast of hot, dry air as he opened it.
"Maybe one thing," said Sammalid. "The poison doesn't keep. It must have been mixed in Surran, and it is only good for a month."
The spymaster nodded and left.
*
As they entered the street, their bodyguards hustled back into formation.
“I’ll not get used to these chaps,” said Loreticus, gesturing with his hand towards the escorts.
“No, but better than the alternative,” suggested Selban. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked up at the edges of the roofs above. “I know what you mean though. I’d feel a lot nimbler without this little brigade and all their noise. Someone standing up there could pop us with a heavy brick before we could even know what’s what. But who is it that the emperor fears so much, and why bother to protect us? We’ve always had our enemies, but normally they’d just stab or strangle us. I don’t know why we’re being minded so much.”
“Gods, you’re a cheery fellow.”
“Loreticus, let’s be honest. You’re not knocking around with me because of my looks.”
“No, I’m not. Nor your personal cleanliness, you grotty little homunculus.”
“Then why is the emperor suddenly so concerned about us?” asked Selban.
“Maybe he wants you to marry the baby princess when she comes of age.”
“Be serious.”
“Because if someone got hold of us, then they would be able to extract a lot of juicy information with just a little torture.”
“Nonsense,” retorted Selban. “I’ll start talking as soon as they start heating the spikes. If I’m talking, I’m talking early. No point waiting.”
“You’re a hero,” said Loreticus.
“I’m a lover, not a martyr.”
“You’ll be a martyr by tomorrow morning unless we solve this puzzle.”
They walked for a few steps without talking, with the noisy clomp of the guardsmen distracting them.
"So we need to look for someone who received a caravan from Surran in the last week," asserted Selban.
"Do you want to do that before or after we see Ferran?"
"After," said Selban. "You just want to put off visiting the rotter. Besides, when have we and not just you seen the Imperial Cousin?"
Loreticus shrugged.
“Heightened times of tension,” Loreticus answered. “If he’s going to use a strop, I’d like to have you in the way.”
They walked, six souls in two symmetrical rows, the crowd on the road absently making space as they clomped through the heat. Out of the palace, back to the palace. This morning was a silhouette of Loreticus' life in full.
Trees spread to cover them with shade as they followed the cardo, the main road which ran through the capital. Loreticus watched the traders in the market, measuring their steps and their smiles as they mixed for business, noting their age, their race and their wealth. Their preparedness for life.
The crowd thinned as they came to the street of the Ferran household. Guards in a distinct livery guarded the massive doors that went through the palace wall. Loreticus' guards waited at the entrance of the street, idling next to their colleagues, mixing with the other uniforms in a small crowd.
Loreticus and Selban passed under the thick red walls and followed the way down a narrow street, which trapped the sharp-flavoured perfumes of ornamental trees and the fly-buzz of discarded food from the numerous morning visitors. In through the grand entrance, which was now cast by the early afternoon sun. In through the ancient reception hall to the splendid waiting salon, a room that focused its entire design on the tall metal doors, to Ferran's inner chamber. Benches lined the walls, and clay pots of flavoured water rested on a table in the corner. A graceful servant met the thirst and the hunger of the guests, who would often spend most of their day in the room. It had a deal-rich environment, with a community of barterers all pretending to wait for Ferran. He was the richest general in the empire, the scion of his illustrious and ancient branch of the family, the official Imperial Cousin. He had also shared an intermittent friendship with the spymaster since their days in the academy.
Everything in the panelled hall appeared beautiful other than the merchants, who were sweating and bumping into each other. Short, tall, fat or slender, they all shared that ugly appetite for arbitrage, sizing up every person by their dress, their hair, their budget.
It depressed Loreticus that he needed to get involved in any way in this dance of monkeys.
One perfect-looking servant gestured to another, who whispered to a manicured man by the metal doors. The man turned, was admitted through the hallowed porch without a word and disappeared into the sacred lair. Two moments later, just enough for Loreticus and Selban to cross the room, a pale and damp merchant was thrown out through the widening doors, and the congregation fell quiet. The merchant tugged his tunic into place, looking roughed up not by something physical but rather by his lost moment with his patron.
Ferran came through, his vibrant presence pressing the silence deeper, quieting even the singing birds in their cages. He glanced around, swinging his large nose back and forth until he saw the spymaster. He grinned, a large genuine smirk of a boy in an adult's face, and Loreticus found himself returning the expression, cheeks squeezing upwards. They clasped arms around each other, and Ferran returned to the room, one arm around Loreticus' shoulders, the other reaching out for Selban. The doors closed behind them, and the bartering between the merchants started again.
Loreticus and Selban hadn't said a word to each other since turning towards the house, and Ferran kept the silence intact. He poured three large glasses of black wine, sprinkled salt into them and passed one to each of his guests.
The spymaster shook his head. Ferran looked at him and squinted, smiling. They stared for a moment, then Loreticus laughed and took the glass. Selban took his without making eye contact.
"You can go, Jessan," said Ferran to his secretary. "We're going to gossip, and I think you're far too pure for it."
"Of course, master," a large dark man responded from the corner. He wore a blue dot between his intelligent eyes, identifying him as a religious man. "Thank you for keeping me so pure for so long." He turned, comfortable in his sarcasm, and walked past the long murals of the Ferran family, out into the bright sunshine on the peristyle.
"Very useful chap," said Ferran. "Knows my every deed."
"Where did you find him?" asked Loreticus.
"A friend had him employed in his trading company. I borrowed him."
"I won't ask," smiled Loreticus. Ferran had a penchant for taking other people's staff without advance request or payment. He had a collection of the best educated and the most desirable and glamorous slaves in an empire that frowned upon the vassalage.
"Don't." Ferran drank from his cup, indicating to them to sit on the high cushions arranged by the wall. He then half sat, half lay and put his bare feet up on the large glass table. "What have you done now, Loreticus? You don’t ever come to see me to tell me any good gossip anymore. It’s just to wheedle information for one of your plots. Why can’t we talk to each like we did when we were children?"
"Shame on you," said the spymaster, hamming up his tone slightly for his old acquaintance. "Fatty, do you know of anyone with strong ties to Surran?"
Ferran turned to Selban. "′Fatty Ferran′," he said. “I was
plump for a year or so as a child, and this country oik won’t forget it. He does tend to forget that we're neither children nor fat anymore." He turned back to Loreticus, examining the spymaster’s face. "Why Surran?"
"Someone used something they shouldn't have last night. We have a suspicion that the item in question is fresh off a caravan from the south."
"Definitely Surran?" asked Ferran.
"Definitely."
Ferran patted his foot on the table as he thought, his dirty sole grazing the cool glass.
"Claisan." He and Loreticus exchanged a silent look again. "He has a troop of mercenaries from down there. They're specialists in running around streets stabbing people. A bunch of dandies."
"Really? When did he recruit them?" asked Loreticus.
"Oh, he's had them for years. So has my uncle, but now that he's as simple as a bean stew, I doubt that he uses them anymore. They were once very fashionable as certain troops can be.” He laughed, lifting an open palm as if in confession. “You know I once had a troop that consisted only of men and women shorter than five feet in height. I was convinced that they would be able to chop up the enemies' knees and ankles, then hide behind their shields."
"I didn't hear about that," said Selban, who soaked in the trivialities. This was fruit to his palate.
"Well, you probably wouldn't have. I was very excited before their first battle. They survived the archers who just couldn't find the sneaky little targets when they hid behind their shields. The initial attackers simply got confused and slowed down, making themselves easy pickings for our own archers. But I didn't count on the cavalry. So my glorious experiment got thwarted in the first outing itself. Hobbled most of the horses though."
"Glorious indeed," drawled Loreticus sarcastically. "So are these Surranids common? I thought that we tended to avoid contact with that part of the world. Too chaotic and too expensive. It's a country built on very thin foundations."