by Davis Ashura
They also now had a bed. Hal’El glanced at it in disappointment. With Varesea’s distress, it seemed unlikely that it would receive any use today.
“It’s that Shektan girl, Bree,” Varesea explained, taking a seat on the edge of the couch. Her foot tapped the rhythm of her disturbance. “She’s been looking into the murder of Drin Port. She’s even asked to speak to Grasome Verle.”
If she hadn’t before, Varesea now had Hal’El’s full attention. “Has he spoken to her?” he asked.
“No. So far, he’s been smart enough to avoid her; but he can’t do so forever.”
Hal’El sighed. “How much does he know?”
Varesea shrugged. “Very little. Only that Drin was murdered, but not your role in it,” she said.
“Fair enough,” Hal’El said, stroking his chin in consideration. “Will I need to make a personal visit to the good doctor?”
Varesea wavered. “You might,” she answered, looking unhappy. “He’s always been weak. Unreliable. He’ll likely break if the Shektan girl—”
“Woman. The Shektan woman,” Hal’El interrupted. “Let’s not call her a girl. We risk under-estimating her if we do.”
“Woman then,” Varesea said with a scowl. “He’ll talk if she reaches him.”
Hal’El scowled. What a mess. “Then it appears a new medical examiner will soon be needed.”
“Is that really necessary?” Varesea asked, appearing upset. She stood and paced the room. At least, she wasn’t muttering about her dead husband while doing so. “Grasome is one of the few physicians we have in the Sil Lor Kum and the only medical examiner.”
“You said it yourself: he’ll talk. We can’t allow it.”
“I know. I just wish.…” She stopped her pacing and came to rest, standing at the far end of the room. “I just wish you didn’t have to kill again. At least not with it. It’s evil.”
Hal’El crossed the space to her and took her into his arms. “I promise not to use the Knife,” he whispered into her ear.
Dar’El sat in his study with the late afternoon sun pouring in through the windows. The weather was warm, but somehow the sun in winter always seemed weaker, more wan, and less inspiring than in summer. The gardens reflected the change. The brilliant flowers—Satha’s pride and joy—had long since withered away, their stems decayed and brittle. Some shrubs remained bright and verdant, but otherwise the gardens were a sad, lonesome sight.
Winter was here, Dar’El’s least favorite season. He didn’t like it, not even Ashoka’s mild version. His hands and feet were always cold. He much preferred the chili-pepper heat of summer. A warm breeze blew in through the open windows, carrying with it the false taste of spring; and Dar’El half-stood, wishing the heat of summer was upon them. He sat back down with a disappointed sigh and turned back to papers on his desk. He had work to do.
The documents were from Garnet, and Dar’El peered closely at the words, trying to decode the nearly illegible scrawl. The old man’s handwriting had become worse with each passing year. Dar’El sighed. He hoped Garnet’s mind wasn’t also showing a similar deteri-oration, although he feared it likely. The changes were subtle, but they were there. At first, Dar’El had assumed it was signs of fatigue—Garnet was old but still worked as hard as any of them—but it wasn’t the case. There were episodes of confusion, times when his old friend repeated himself, asked questions already answered, or forgot details on an important matter. Such things would have never happened a year ago.
The situation left Dar’El worried and heartbroken for one of his oldest friends. He stared out the window, lost in thought. Why would Devesh do something so cruel?
A tapping came at the door. “Do you have a moment?” Bree asked, interrupting his reverie. “The door was open,” she said in response to his unspoken question about why she hadn’t waited for his word to enter.
Nanna gestured for her to come in and close the door behind her. “What is it?” he asked.
“I wanted to talk to you about Rukh,” she said, slipping into a chair facing his desk.
Dar’El stifled an inward groan. He should have known. While the frostiness in their relationship had thawed, Bree hadn’t entirely forgiven him for what he had asked her to do. Dar’El hoped she hadn’t come here to accuse him anew. At this point, he had long since grown tired of defending his actions. He had made the best he could out of a terrible situation. Mistakes had been made, but in the end, Dar’El was certain that what had ultimately happened to Rukh was probably the best anyone could have hoped for.
And just as tiresome as Bree’s constant accusations was her self-flagellation. She still blamed herself for Rukh’s fate. It didn’t matter how many times he—and many others—had tried to convince her otherwise, she persisted in believing herself at fault. It was an irrational view, and for someone as steeped in logic as Bree, it was exasperating for those around her. Six months since Rukh’s judgment and Bree had yet to forgive herself.
Dar’El prayed she would—and soon. It wasn’t healthy to carry such guilt, especially when it was unearned. Besides, he carried enough guilt for both of them. If anyone was at fault for Rukh’s situation, Dar’El felt it was himself. “What do you wish to discuss?” Dar’El asked.
“Can Rukh really be brought home?” Bree asked.
Dar’El’s brows rose in surprise. It wasn’t the question he had expected.
“You thought I’d argue with you again about the decisions you made?” Bree asked with a guilty smile. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“You didn’t disappoint,” Dar’El said. “By asking this, am I to assume you’ve finally come to forgive yourself for what happened to Rukh?”
Bree shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” she said. “Only Rukh can truly forgive me, but I’ve at least come to accept that what I did to him might have saved him from an even worse fate.”
Dar’El smiled in relief. It was a beginning, and long past due. “How did you come to this realization?” he asked.
“I talked to Mira,” Bree explained.
“Mira,” Dar’El mused. “Remind me to thank her.”
“I’m sure you’ll remember on your own,” Bree replied. She rapped the table. “What about my question: can Rukh really be brought home? Can you persuade the Chamber to overturn their verdict?”
Dar’El nodded. “I think so. With the Society’s help, I think it can be done. We’re close. With all the other warriors from the Chimera expedition proclaiming Rukh’s greatness, the Chamber may have no choice but to bend to popular will.”
“As simple as that?” Bree asked, not quite in disbelief.
“Not quite, but yes,” Dar’El replied. “I’d be happier if we had something by which to discredit Hal’El Wrestiva. He’s the glue holding the older, more reactionary elements together. Remove his influence, and their opposition will crumble.”
“And this is Rector’s role in House Wrestiva? To learn some damning information about Hal’El?” Bree scowled a moment later. “I can’t believe I ever liked him,” she said, sounding disgusted with herself.
Dar’El smiled. “Consider it the folly of youth.”
“I feel sorry for Mira. I could never do what she has to.”
Mira sat at a small table in Walthall Park, a rectangular, grassy park in the heart of the city. To pass the time—she was to meet Rector later in the morning—she had a cup of coffee and tried to read a book. However, most of her attention was held by those around her. Even this early in the day, there was much to see. A few hardy food vendors already had their carts ready, stationed beneath the canopy of trees along the borders of the park; and the scent of popcorn and puri bhaji filled the air. A few older folks walked the graveled path along the park’s perimeter while children played on the grass, laughing as they chased one another or rode the horse-driven carousel. Their sounds were drowned out by a nearby group of buskers—two fiddles, a guitar, and a singer—playing Muran folk songs.
Mira’s foot tapped in rhyth
m to the music.
Walthall Park was a place of peace; a small emerald gem in the midst of a bustling city that never seemed to slow down. Mira loved it. Walthall was like her own personal oasis, a quiet spot of tranquility. Even the nearby granite hulk of the City Library, with its jagged abutments resembling a menacing, wind-etched cliff, didn’t detract from the park’s grace and sense of rest.
Mira sipped her coffee, enjoying its heat in the early morning winter chill. She went back to reading her book as the sun climbed high, peeking around Clarion Bell, the tall clock tower to the east. As the day warmed, the children left the park and Walthall grew quiet. The city seemed far away.
Mira closed her eyes and leaned back, letting the sun warm her face.
When next she opened her eyes, several hours had passed. She glanced at Clarion Bell, checking the time.
She sighed.
It was time to leave. She and Rector were supposed to attend an early afternoon gathering at the home of Siramont Pindle, a Cherid of note. It was all part of their façade as a couple in love.
Mira grimaced at the thought.
She couldn’t wait to be done with this masquerade, and it wasn’t because she despised Rector Bryce. Strangely enough, she no longer felt much antipathy toward the man. In the months since the two of them had taken on the role of a courting couple, she’d actually grown to tolerate his presence. Her dislike for him had faded, and while she probably would never consider him a friend, at least he wasn’t so insufferable anymore. There were even moments when she found him pleasant to be around.
The truth as to why she wanted to be done with this charade was far simpler. Mira abhorred the lies she had to tell. She hated them; just as much as Rector hated having to pretend to be a loyal member of House Wrestiva.
Mira briefly wondered if Rector might have anything new to relate to her. The sooner he did, the sooner the two of them could be rid of their pretense. Unfortunately, his position as the manager of a small warehouse in the Moon Quarter didn’t allow him to discover much about Hal’El Wrestiva’s fortune. In fact, since Rector’s finding of the missing henna and poppy seeds, he had provided precious little information.
Rector was frustrated with his lack of progress, but his generally bleak outlook had brightened when Mira had explained about the low probability of flooding ruining the warehouse’s records. When she had done so, Rector’s eyes had lit with a thoughtful suspicion, an expression she couldn’t recall seeing on his face ever before. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been surprising. Rector lived for mysteries. It was his lifeblood. He’d once told her investigations had been his favorite role as a member of the City Watch. Some of the stories he told.…
It had been good to see him show curiosity and interest, even amusing as Rector raced off like a hound after a rabbit when he’d heard about the records. She just hoped his newfound knowledge would allow him to develop another avenue of research into House Wrestiva’s inner workings. She prayed it would.
Her mind distracted, she didn’t hear it the first few times her name was called out. She startled when Rector suddenly appeared before her.
“You must have some serious thoughts to cogitate,” Rector said. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last minute or so.”
Mira frowned, confused. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to escort you to Siramont Pindle’s gathering,” he answered.
“No. I mean how did you know where to find me?”
Rector gave a self-deprecating smile. “You talk about Walthall so much,” he said. “It wasn’t much of a guess to figure out you’d be here.”
Mira was impressed he’d remembered. “Is it already time for your Cherid friend’s gathering?”
“I wouldn’t really call him a friend,” Rector said. “He’s someone I helped out once during my work in the City Watch. He’s felt an obligation to me ever since.”
“What did you do for him?”
“Nothing special. I just helped him find something he’d lost.”
Mira suppressed a sigh. Rector could be so obtuse. “How did you help him?” she prodded.
“It was nothing,” Rector said. His grin clearly indicated that it was something more than nothing.
“Rector.…” Mira said, her tone hopefully warning him of her fading patience.
He finally seemed to catch her meaning. “Oh, right. Do you remember the story I told you about the stolen diamond?” Rector asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “The diamond was the Sea of Ashoka—”
“Wait. The Sea of Ashoka,” Mira interrupted. “You mean that giant blue diamond? The one the size of a robin’s egg?” Rector nodded, and she whistled in appreciation. “Someone stole the Sea?”
“Not someone. Something,” Rector corrected. “A magpie. The owner of the Sea is Siramont Pindle, and it was his wife’s magpie that stole the diamond.”
“Siramont Pindle?” Mira questioned. “Our host? And that’s why you wanted me to wear my opal earrings and necklace.”
Rector grinned. “It’s the only jewelry you have that’s close in color to the Sea. Siramont will understand the joke.”
Mira laughed at Rector’s prank.
As she chuckled, Rector wore an intrigued countenance. “Is it possible I’ve actually earned a laugh from you?”
Mira smiled. In the last few meetings, Rector had been in a good mood, no longer griping or whining about the unfairness of his fate. It made interacting with him a lot easier. Still. She couldn’t let him get in the last word. “And is it possible you actually have a sense of humor under that dour exterior?” Mira countered.
“Now let’s not get carried away,” Rector said, wearing a patronizing expression. “I’m told a miracle would be required to grant me a sense of humor.”
“Perhaps Devesh will see to your needs if you pray hard enough,” Mira suggested.
“Perhaps,” Rector said.
His humor left him, and Mira knew why. If he were to pray for anything, it would be to have his life returned to his own care; to live as he wanted with no subterfuges or deceptions.
“And why waylay me here at Walthall Park?” Mira asked, changing the subject and hopefully distracting him from his frustration.
“We’re supposed to be a couple. It would make more sense if we arrived together.”
It did make sense, but Mira wasn’t sure how Rector had come up with the idea on his own. He was usually too self-centered to see anything beyond his own needs. “Who suggested it to you?” she asked.
His brows furrowed. “No one. It’s simply the proper thing to do.”
“Even though it means spending more time in the presence of someone Tainted?” Mira asked. She knew her question would annoy Rector, but she was unable to stop herself. In fact, she didn’t want to stop herself. While she might be able to tolerate Rector Bryce more readily, there were still deep fissures of disagreement between the two of them. He should know she hadn’t forgotten about them.
Rector grimaced. “I don’t know the truth of what happened between you and Jaresh, and it’s none of my business. Can’t we just leave it at that?”
“But if something had happened? Would I not be a naaja? Tainted?” Mira asked.
“So it is written in The Word and the Deed.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think.…” Rector sighed. “I don’t know what I think.”
“You don’t know what to think?” she asked, unsure if she had heard him right. “Just a few months ago you were so certain of everything.”
“Maybe your bad influence is rubbing off on me.”
“What do you mean the original documents are still unavailable,” Bree asked, trying to quell her rising frustration. She stood in the waiting area of the medical examiner’s office, a bright room with windows letting in the sunshine and scented candles that failed to mask the odor of blood and fluids that pervaded all such places. She had come to review the pathology report on Drin Port’s
death, but according to Trivel Poorna, the mousy Sentya in charge of records, the documents had been checked out—again.
To say Bree was annoyed would be an understatement. She was furious. And she had yet to get ahold of Grasome Verle, the physician who had done the actual autopsy on the late Mr. Port. He kept rescheduling their meeting or was unavailable on the several occasions when Bree had stopped by his office unannounced. At this point, she had to believe it was done on purpose. Dr. Verle was avoiding her. After all, how busy could one physician be? Surely the man had ten minutes to spare in which to see her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Shektan,” Trivel said, sounding scared. “According to the logbook, the records were checked out by Dr. Grasome Verle a week ago. He hasn’t returned them yet.”
Bree’s eyes narrowed. So. The good doctor did have something to hide. A look of anger swept across her face. Grasome Verle would see her, and this time she wouldn’t be put off by timid excuses from his secretary and staff. Devesh help them if they tried.
She realized her outraged expression was frightening the poor Sentya record-keeper. She shoved her anger aside. “Thank you, Mr. Poorna. You have been most helpful,” she said, flashing him a brilliant smile.
His mouth gaped open. He was likely unnerved by what he took to be her rapidly changing moods: furious one second and happy the next. At least he didn’t appear frightened anymore. Eventually, he managed a nod.
Bree gave him a final smile before turning to leave.
Just as she was about to exit the office, Trivel called out to her once again. “There is one other thing, Miss Shektan,” he said. “Dr. Lindsar might be able to provide some help. He might have been present during Mr. Port’s autopsy.”
Bree slowly turned around. Finally, some good news. She knew Dr. Lindsar. He had been the one to do the autopsy on Suge Wrestiva. “Is he available?” she asked.
“Let me find out.” Trivel bowed briefly before scurrying out.
A few minutes later, Dr. Step Lindsar came into the waiting area. He appeared much the same as before when she had last seen him. He was in his late forties, sloop-shouldered, but his walnut-colored skin remained unlined. His hair was pleated into long braids; his lean, angular face was clean-shaven; and in his hands was a folder full of papers.