The Spirit of Solstice

by Charlotte E. English

‘Ah well,’ said Nuritov. ‘Hard to examine a missing body.’ He signalled to his men to depart.

  ‘Nothing of note in here, I take it?’ Konrad asked.

  ‘Some blood.’ The inspector indicated the cheese merchant with a nod: the man, sceptical that anything untoward had occurred in his apparently peaceful establishment, had been confronted with the blood stain upon the dark wood-panelled floor. His flow of good spirits was quite unable to withstand such a blow, and he stood regarding the evidence of violence in appalled silence.

  Konrad regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘No reason to think him involved?’

  ‘Not so far. We will keep an eye on him.’ Nuritov stood with his hands in the pockets of his coat, his pipe in his mouth, deep in thought. ‘Time,’ he said around the stem, ‘to learn more about Madam Narolina.’

  Konrad nodded, but his thoughts were running along different lines. ‘There is one thing the three have in common, and that is the mode of death.’

  Those throat wounds were… unusual. Study them though he might, Konrad had not been able to determine how they were inflicted. They were messy, imprecise, brutal, the throat torn away as though a reaching hand had grasped the flesh and ripped it free. But that made no sense, and it certainly could not be reconciled with the vision of the dark-clad man he had received from multiple sources. What man could rip out a throat with his bare hands?

  How had the laughing man’s body vanished?

  Why had he been so amused?

  ‘If you can,’ said Konrad, ‘Find out why Albina might have wanted to die.’

  ‘Mm.’

  A young man entered the shop, his cloak emblazoned with the police insignia. He made straight for Nuritov and put a folded page of newsprint into his superior’s hands. ‘This the one you wanted, sir?’

  Nuritov unfolded it, and nodded his approval. ‘Very good. Thank you.’ He handed the page to Konrad.

  And there, sketched in sombre black lines, was the face of the laughing man. His grizzled features were harsh, craggy, his swept-back hair wild and unkempt. There was nothing of mirth about this portrait; his face was set in hard, angry lines.

  ‘Is that him?’ said Nuritov.

  ‘You are a wonder,’ Konrad replied. ‘How did you find this?’

  ‘The description you gave was distinctive. That’s from last week.’ He indicated the newspaper in Konrad’s hands with a nod. ‘Thought the hair seemed familiar.’

  ‘Mm.’ Konrad read the brief article through, his eyes skimming eagerly over the headline and the story that followed. ‘You mean to tell me,’ he said when he had finished, ‘That our mirthful murder victim is also a thief.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And he robbed… a library.’

  ‘Mm.’ Nuritov lit his pipe, and puffed thoughtfully.

  ‘The article doesn’t say who he was.’

  ‘Fugitive. Not apprehended.’

  ‘Or what he took.’

  ‘A book, we may presume.’

  ‘Yes, but it must have been a significant book. Nobody robs a library at random. For that matter, nobody robs a library! The whole point is that the books can be borrowed.’

  ‘If one is a member, and invariably one is expected to return the volume by a specific time.’

  ‘So he was not a member.’ Konrad referred to the article again. ‘The Volkov Library. I haven’t heard of it.’

  ‘It is a tiny place, devoted to myth and folklore. Not many people know of it.’

  Myth and folklore? The words sparked a thought, but the idea dissipated before Konrad could take hold of it. ‘Do you know which book he took?’

  ‘No. Their librarian has yet to establish what’s missing. They know that something was taken, for he was seen fleeing the building with a book in hand. But there are thousands of volumes in their keeping. It will take some time for them to discover which book it was.’

  So. Their mystery man had a taste for obscure academic works, and was either unable to secure a membership to the Volkov Library, or in too much of a hurry to do so.

  ‘You’ve known about this for a week, but no one has identified this man?’ Konrad jabbed a finger at the scowling portrait.

  ‘No one has come forward, or at least, not with any credible information. I suspect he had not been living in Ekamet for long.’

  An outsider, a stranger, who travelled into the city in order to procure… a book of folklore, by any means necessary. Who ended up dead in a cheese merchant’s shop on Solstice Eve, only a week later, and who seemed to find the whole sequence of events terribly amusing at that.

  A wine merchant, also slain, with the same horrific wounds in his throat. A man who did not want to pass into The Malykt’s care, as everyone ultimately did; who pleaded to remain with his shop, dead though he might be.

  And an old woman, found alone in the snow, who was relieved and thankful to die.

  ‘None of it makes any sense,’ Konrad sighed. ‘But that’s normal enough.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Nuritov.

  ‘It’s not boring.’

  ‘Never that.’

  Nanda appeared at Konrad’s elbow. He felt her warmth, discerned a trace of her familiar scent upon the air, and a knot of tension eased. ‘Somebody mention a book?’ she murmured.

  Nuritov removed his pipe from between his lips. ‘Have you found one?’

  ‘Something of that nature.’ She held out her gloved hands. Nestled in her cupped palms was the charred remnant of a slim, leather-bound volume, its pages burned to ash. Only the spine remained, and that was blackened almost beyond legibility. Unwilling to touch it, Konrad craned his neck, trying to read the obscured letters.

  ‘It says “folk” and “of”,’ Nanda reported. ‘That is all I could read.’

  ‘Folkore, probably,’ Konrad sighed. ‘Of somewhere. Damn.’

  Nuritov regarded the forlorn, blackened spine with interest. ‘Why would he burn it?’

  ‘Where did you find that, Nan?’

  ‘Storeroom upstairs. Doesn’t look like anybody uses the place much. There is a grate, dusty but otherwise clean, save for the remains of a single fire. And this.’

  ‘I wonder if he had anywhere to stay?’ Konrad mused. Finding himself regarded with puzzled curiosity by Nanda and Nuritov both, he realised his leap of intuition had not been universal. ‘Well, Nuritov thinks he was not local, and consider the circumstances. Our proprietor, eager to get home for his revels, forgets to properly secure the door. But it does not seem likely that he also left lanterns alight, and a fire burning in a storeroom upstairs. Laughing man is looking for somewhere to go for the night, finds the door unlocked…’

  ‘Possible,’ said Nanda. ‘But does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, because if he lacked a residence that makes him part of the street flow. And we may be able to use that to learn more about him.’ Konrad looked to Nuritov. ‘Still have Tasha in your employ?’

  ‘She’s around.’

  ‘What do lamaeni do at holidays?’ Nanda murmured.

  ‘Same things as the rest of us, probably,’ said Konrad. ‘I’ll have to interrupt Tasha’s party.’

  Nuritov smiled faintly. ‘She won’t be happy.’

  ‘Life is pain.’

  Chapter Five

  Tasha presented herself at the station with decidedly ill grace. ‘Yes?’ she said, slouching into Nuritov’s office with her cap pulled so low over her face, Konrad saw nothing but her nose and lips.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ said Konrad.

  She lifted her chin, and cast him a most unfavourable look. ‘You couldn’t have chosen a better time, I suppose? It had to be tonight?’

  ‘Murderers are not usually considerate about things like holidays.’

  Tasha brightened at the word “murderer”, her resentment fading a little. Wretch. Lamaeni she may be, but she was only fourteen. ‘You are far too young to be so bloodthirsty,’ Konrad informed her.

  ‘Oh yes? At what age did you begin?’

&
nbsp; Nuritov intervened. ‘Please try to be vaguely polite to our associates, Tasha.’

  She flashed Konrad a swift grin, and doffed her cap in acknowledgement of the inspector’s words. ‘You have a job for me, I take it?’

  ‘One of our victims was on the streets for a while,’ said Konrad. ‘We need you to find out about him.’ He described the laughing man as minutely as he could, though he left out the mirthful part. Better not encourage Tasha’s macabre side too much.

  ‘Ivorak,’ she said immediately.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s his name. Ivorak.’

  ‘You know him.’

  Tasha took off her cap and stuffed it into her pocket, tousling her flattened hair with her fingers. ‘He made himself memorable. Prowling around the city all night long, asking for volk, volkov. His Assevi was decent but sometimes uncertain and he spoke with a thick accent. Nobody took the trouble to understand him, so no one knew what he was after. Until he robbed that library.’

  Nuritov was disapproving. ‘You told me nothing of this.’

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ replied Tasha with a shrug. ‘And it was not relevant, before. I have no more idea than you do why he robbed the library, or which book he took. I never saw him with a book.’ She paused, and added, ‘Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him since that robbery.’

  ‘Apparently he found volkov,’ Konrad said. ‘Or specifically, the Volkov Library. He had no further need to go looking.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Tasha frowned, and seemed about to say something, but she changed her mind and remained silent.

  ‘He spoke with an accent?’ Konrad prompted. ‘So he was foreign. Do you know where he was from?’

  ‘I didn’t recognise the accent, but I don’t as a rule.’

  Konrad mulled that over, but his thoughts did not carry him far. Ivorak. It was good to have a name for him besides Laughing Man, but it was of little help. And they had already known that he was interested in the Volkov Library. ‘Think, Tasha. Did he ever say anything that might hint at what kind of book he was looking for?’

  To his disappointment, Tasha shook her head immediately. ‘He hardly said anything at all, at least in my hearing.’

  Konrad sighed. ‘I have a feeling that Ivorak is the key to this whole business, and it’s damned thin.’

  ‘Why, Konrad?’ said Nuritov.

  ‘Because we had three killings in quick succession and then… nothing. It’s been hours. After Ivorak, it all stopped.’

  ‘It might be a bit soon to conclude that,’ Nuritov pointed out.

  ‘Let us hope not.’

  ‘The burned book.’ Nuritov uttered only those three words, then stopped. He sat in his chair, pipe in hand, gaze fixed upon nothing.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘We assumed that Ivorak burned it, but what if his killer was the one who threw it on the fire?’

  ‘That is possible,’ Konrad conceded.

  ‘Perhaps it contained something the killer did not want Ivorak reading.’

  ‘Something to do with folklore?’ Konrad could not keep a note of scepticism out of his tone.

  ‘Too far-fetched?’ Nuritov restored his pipe to his mouth and puffed. ‘Mm. Could be.’

  It did seem unlikely, but Konrad tucked the thought away anyway. In his line of work, the unlikely frequently proved far more likely than he would prefer.

  The remains of the book in question lay in a drawer in Nuritov’s desk. Konrad wanted to take it to the Library to see if anybody recognised what was left of it; a long shot, but the attempt must be made. It would have to wait until morning, however. Nobody would be at the library tonight.

  Then again, nobody would be at the library in the morning, either. It was Solstice.

  Konrad heaved himself out of his chair, his limbs protesting at the effort. It was past midnight, and who knew when he would be able to go to bed. He stubbornly suppressed his weariness. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured. ‘I am going to break in to a library.’

  ‘I will pretend I did not hear that,’ said Nuritov.

  ‘Good point. Perhaps one ought not to announce such intentions to the police.’

  ‘All in a good cause.’

  Konrad bowed. Tasha had turned for the door; he caught the back of her coat before she could leave. ‘Tasha. You’re with me.’

  She sighed deeply. ‘Why? Cannot you manage to get into a poorly secured building by yourself?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But I am going to need help searching, and I can hardly ask the Inspector to come along.’

  ‘Why not? I bet he’s brilliant at trespassing, and if you get caught, who better to have along?’

  Konrad ventured an enquiring glance in Nuritov’s direction, but the Inspector shook his head. ‘With regret, I must decline. Going a bit too far, there.’

  ‘That’s why he needs people like you and me,’ Konrad said to Tasha. ‘Come along. If we hurry, we might be finished by sunrise.’

  Tasha slouched into the folds of her heavy dark coat, a vision of abject misery, and Konrad briefly felt guilty.

  He suppressed that feeling, too. Tasha was an official police employee, albeit one they did not widely advertise. Sometimes work required sacrifices.

  ‘Albina Olga?’ he said to Nuritov on his way out of the door.

  Nuritov nodded and hauled himself to his feet, with about as much enthusiasm as Konrad had shown. ‘I am working on that.’

  Tasha was not such congenial company as Nanda, and Konrad was ungrateful enough to wish for an exchange, as they walked to the Volkov Library in sullen silence. But Nan had left a houseful of guests behind at her home, and Konrad had not had the heart to detain her from them any longer.

  ‘Cheer up,’ he said to Tasha. ‘Worse Solstices have been had.’ Fittingly, a flurry of wind blew a spiral of air around his face as he spoke, and he received a mouthful of snow.

  Tasha merely grunted.

  ‘What were you doing, before?’

  ‘Street folk were gathering at Parel’s Bridge. There was wine. Vasily’s gave out a couple of kegs.’

  ‘Vasily’s? You mean the wine merchant?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably?’

  How she could fail to see the connection flabbergasted Konrad — until he realised that their questions had centred around Ivorak. Had they remembered to mention Vasily at all?

  ‘He was killed tonight,’ Konrad said.

  Tasha stopped. He felt her gaze on him, though he could not see her face in the darkness of the street. ‘Same case?’

  ‘Yes. Died the same way. Almost certainly the same killer.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Tasha walked on, and said nothing more.

  ‘Were you there long? Did you see Vasily bring in the kegs?’

  ‘No, I showed up late. I didn’t see him, I just heard people repeating his name. It was impressive largesse. Good wine, not slop.’

  ‘I take it you did not see Ivorak there, either?’

  ‘No. But he might have been there, before I arrived.’

  Konrad abandoned the questions, permitting himself a brief sigh. This particular picture was coming together fraction by fraction; pieces kept dropping into his lap but none of them seemed to fit together. If Ivorak and Vasily had both been at the Parel’s Bridge gathering, what did that mean? Did it matter? Perhaps it was only a coincidence.

  ‘Did you see an old woman dressed all in red?’ he hazarded.

  ‘No,’ Tasha said sourly. ‘Something else you haven’t told me?’

  ‘Third victim. Or second, in order of killing. Albina Olga Narolina.’

  ‘I don’t remember anyone like that but as I said, I was late.’

  Konrad thought quickly. ‘How would you like to go back after all?’

  ‘Huh? I thought you wanted help storming the library.’

  ‘I do, but I also want help scoping the bridge party before it’s over.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of work!’

  ‘I thought so. Ask around, see if Ivorak was there. If he
was, I’d like to know when he left and why, if anyone knows. Same question about Vasily. And see if anybody remembers Albina being there.’ The latter was improbable, for he had no reason to think that Albina Narolina was homeless. But it was worth a try.

  ‘On it!’ said Tasha enthusiastically, and darted away.

  ‘Try not to get too drunk!’ he called after her. Only belatedly did he remember that lamaeni did not precisely consume food or drink the same way he did; they dined upon the raw energies of the living. Could they get drunk on wine? She would probably be feasting upon the living guests, instead. A little sip from each of many guests would cause no harm, though he hoped there were not too many lamaeni at the bridge.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it!’ Tasha carolled back, and he smiled.

  The Volkov Library was unassuming in character. Situated on a residential street, sandwiched between rows of moderately prosperous brick houses on either side, it looked like a private dwelling itself. Only its grand stone portico hinted at its higher calling.

  Konrad veered around to the rear of the building, and applied his talented Malykant’s fingers to the icy-cold lock. A soft click sounded as the mechanism bowed to his will, and the lock sprang open. He stepped inside.

  Light, please, serpents, he asked — speaking silently, just in case anybody lingered at the library. He did not think he had company. The building had a reassuring air of emptiness, a heavy silence that suggested he was as alone as he could wish.

  Eetapi and Ootapi exuded their faint, horrible glow. It was pallid and sickly and quite disturbing, especially when encountered as the sole source of light in an empty, pitch-black building well after midnight. But at least he could see.

  The back of the library housed a series of storerooms, Konrad soon discovered. Boxes and boxes of books, neatly labelled, lined wall after wall in chamber after chamber, and the sight made Konrad blanch. How could anybody find anything in here? He gave up after a while, and walked straight through to the main hall. This proved to be small, and not at all imposing, but its walls were lined with handsome shelves filled with dust-free, leather-bound books, as a library should be. Near the front was a desk, and inside that desk was a huge tome. Konrad hauled the massive volume out and spread it open.