by Darian Smith
Brannon opened his mouth to protest that Roydan wouldn’t do such a thing, but a part of him knew it could be a lie. It would be a much more practical thing to have an heir who was grown and capable of running such an important province as Sandilar. The king himself might even suggest it.
“And even if Roydan keeps Tommy as heir,” Latricia continued, “there’s no guarantee he’ll continue to support me. As Keldan’s wife, I was guaranteed a place and standing as the next Duchess of Sandilar. As his widow, I exist entirely on Roydan’s charity. He could put me out in the street at a moment’s notice with nothing but the clothes on my back.” Her dark eyes were chips of rock. “You may think I had a motive for wanting my husband dead. I had many more motives for keeping him alive.”
“I’m sorry to upset you,” Brannon said, choosing his words carefully, “but we have to explore all possibilities. If it wasn’t a business partner and it wasn’t you . . . what about Keldan’s mistress? What do you know about the woman he was seen with?”
“Nothing at all. It wasn’t something we discussed.” She reached for the tea service again and filled her cup at last. She cradled it in both hands, lifting it slowly to her lips.
Brannon leaned forward. “Anything you can remember would be a help. Even if she didn’t do it, she may have seen something that will help us find out who did.”
Latricia looked at him over the teacup, and Brannon was struck with how red-rimmed her eyes were. The energy seemed to have drained from her, leaving her hollow and weary. “I think I’ve been as much help as I can be,” she said. “If I find anything among my husband’s things that might be useful, I’ll let you know. But for now, I think you should leave.”
Brannon couldn’t help thinking she was probably right. He set down his cup and began to stand. “Of course. I hope we haven’t offended you.”
Latricia shook her head, rising to her feet as well. “Not at all. It’s a painful situation is all. Please, finish your tea while I find my son so he can bid you farewell. If he’s going to be Duke of Sandilar sooner than expected, he’d best remember his manners.” With a sad little smile she walked across the lawn in the direction of the rose-covered arch.
Brannon watched her go, unable to decide between pity and suspicion. Was she a grieving, defensive widow or a clever manipulative murderer? The black of her gown slipped into the shadows without a trace as she stepped beyond the arch.
“You don’t think she did it?” Draeson said.
He sighed. “I don’t know.”
“In my three hundred years of experience,” said the mage, “when there’s a murder, it’s usually the spouse. Especially when one of them was cheating.”
Brannon turned to look at him, still unnerved by Draeson’s new, young face. “That makes sense, but why do it in such an elaborate way? Not to mention that Keldan’s death puts her at risk of losing everything. If infidelity was enough of a reason, she’d have killed him years ago.” He traced the edge of the scar on his cheek. “We’re still missing too much information.”
Draeson frowned. “I expected you to be much more slash-and-bash about this. Somehow it’s affecting you personally.”
“Of course it is.” Brannon felt a flash of annoyance. “Keldan was the son of one of my oldest friends. Roydan, Aldan, and I fought together for years. You might not remember—I suppose it’s not much out of three hundred years—but, for us, most of our lives were spent together, bathed in blood. That’s not a bond that breaks in peacetime.”
“I suppose not.” Draeson’s eyes grew distant. “I do remember, you know. The three of you were practically inseparable, always riding off into the thickest part of the battle. Madness when he was the heir at the time! But how everyone cheered when you came back. Thousands of people calling for Bloodhawk and the prince. Him for his royalty and you for your violence. I’ve never known anyone to be quite so bloodthirsty.”
Brannon looked away and swallowed. “Not anymore.”
The garden was uncomfortably quiet, despite the muffled sounds of the city beyond its gates. The water in the pond gently rippling in response to the movements of the fish just beneath its surface. The movement of the leaves on the surrounding plants. Beyond the garden boundary, a horse and carriage clattered along the cobblestoned street. A dog at one of the neighboring townhouses barked.
A child’s voice called out, “Mama!”
Brannon jerked alert. “Something’s not right.”
Draeson opened his mouth but, before he could speak, a woman screamed.
Brannon ran for the rose-covered arch. Beyond the love seat it sheltered was an ivy-covered stone wall that edged the Sandilar property. A shadowy path ran parallel to the wall in either direction, hidden from the rest of the garden by the shrubbery.
“Latricia? Where are you?”
Her voice came from the right. “Help!”
Brannon could hear Draeson’s crunching footsteps following his own on the pebbled path as they ran toward Latricia’s voice. He drew his sword, keeping the point low as he rounded the corner.
Latricia stood to the side of the path, almost in the bushes, her widow veil completely torn off and her hair wild. She held Tomidan to her chest with one arm. Her other hand pointed urgently toward the wall. “There!”
Brannon looked, just in time to see a figure disappear over the wall. He turned back to Latricia. “Are you all right? Are either of you hurt?”
She shook her head. “No, we’re fine. He was in the garden. Watching us.”
Draeson had caught up now. He stood with his feet shoulder width apart and held out his hands toward Brannon, fingers wide. The dragon tattoo circled his wrist now. “Hold still.”
It felt as if the air around him had somehow thickened to take hold of his body. For a moment, Brannon worried it might crush him, but it remained soft and then he was lifted up and over the wall. His feet touched down on the cobbles as gently as if he had taken a step.
The street was deserted. The intruder was gone.
Chapter Six
Master Jordell tied off the end of the bandage he was wrapping around a young man’s forearm almost without looking at it as he watched Brannon and Jessamine approach. Brannon felt sure the old man could perform all but the most complex of surgeries blindfolded. Brannon’s own skill was wasn’t nearly as good—although he was fairly certain he could have found his way around the hospital wing of the College of Physicians without sight. In the latter part of his training, he’d spent more time here than in his own rooms in the palace.
The hospital was divided into wards, each with five or more beds lining the walls and space in the middle for the physicians to move back and forth. Trolleys of equipment waited at either end of the ward, their soft bandages and hard knives a startling contrast. The whole place smelled of sickness and bedpans and antiseptic. Volunteers brought flowers to try to lighten the scent, but the smell of the hospital was stronger.
“No,” the old physician called, tucking his patient’s arm under the bedcovers. “You cannot return your apprentice.”
Brannon chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not. She’s turned out to be very useful—although she’s not really learning anything from me. I did warn you both that it wasn’t a good idea.”
Master Jordell straightened up, frowning at them both. “That right, girl?”
Jessamine shook her head. “Actually, I’m learning lots of things. We’re investigating a murder.”
“We’ve done nothing medical at all,” Brannon protested.
Jessamine shrugged. “No learning is ever wasted. Plus, there were medically based clues at the scene—like the lack of rope burns and amount of blood being an indicator of when he died. And anyway, I still put in my hours here at the hospital.”
Brannon tried to remember if he’d intentionally taken the time to teach those things.
“So you’re both happy with the situation,” Jordell said.
“Um,” said Brannon.
“Excellent. Follow m
e.”
He led the way out into the corridor. Brannon and Jessamine hurried to keep up.
“Actually, Master Jordell, we’re here for your assistance with the investigation. Has anyone strange shown up seeking medical attention?”
Jordell stopped at the doorway of one of the small, private rooms. “After this.”
Inside, there was only one bed. The walls painted light green but unadorned. Around the bed stood a man in magistrates’ robes, and two armed guards. Darnec Raldene lay on the bed, bandaged and in chains. When he saw Brannon, he groaned and pushed himself backward on the bed, only to be stopped by the manacles on his wrists which held him down.
Brannon felt his stomach go hot. “What’s this?”
Master Jordell spoke up first. “Sir Brannon, as a physician, I’d like you to assess this patient and make recommendations as to his care.”
The shackles pulled both shoulders down and out of alignment, and Brannon could see fresh blood seepage through the dressing over the wounded one. The young man’s skin was damp with sweat and the bandages on his stomach and thigh were grubby around the edges and black with dried blood in the middle. Clearly they hadn’t been changed since he’d arrived. The skin around the thigh bandage was puffy and pink.
Brannon felt his anger and disgust rise. “Well, for starters, I’d suggest removing the heavy restraints that are pulling on his shoulder wound. If he’s kept like this the muscles won’t have a chance to heal properly. All the wound dressings need changing and he should be bathed with antiseptic. Why hasn’t that been done already?”
The magistrate, a sharp-faced whip of a man, looked embarrassed. “The prisoner is a convict, Sir Brannon. You, of all people, should know that he was found guilty in trial by combat. We’re not yet certain of his sentence or whether we should allow him to be treated. He may yet go to the mines.”
Brannon fixed him with his best dressing-down-subordinates glare. “I thought losing a trial by combat was its own sentence.”
“Well, yes, but that’s because losing usually means death. That’s the problem. Should we allow a prisoner who technically should be dead, medical attention? We’re waiting for a ruling.”
Brannon felt the pressure of his clenched teeth as an ache low in his jaw. “And in the meantime, you’re preventing the physicians here from fulfilling their oath to care for anyone who needs it? That oath is sworn to the king so his is the only ruling that could overturn it. Is it King Aldan you’re waiting on? Because I will go and talk to him right now if it is.”
The magistrate’s eyes widened in horror. “No, Sir Brannon. The High Magistrate is listening to arguments from the boy’s father and those he stole from. We didn’t think . . . ”
Darnec looked from Brannon to the magistrate and back again, his breath shallow and fast.
“Apparently not,” Brannon growled. “In the king’s absence, I think I can safely say that the physician’s oath takes precedence and that Darnec’s defeat was sentence enough. Justice in trial by combat is handed out by the King’s Champion. If anyone has an issue with that, they should challenge me directly. Is that clear?”
The scrawny magister nodded several times. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll carry the message back to the court. Thank you for the clarification.” He gestured to the guards, who unlocked the shackles and carried them away.
As they left, Darnec rubbed at his wrist, made as if to get up, then fell back down to the mattress.
Brannon sat on the edge of the bed. “I just stuck my neck out for you, Darnec Raldene. I’d like to see you make it worthwhile. Will you?”
Darnec’s eyes were bright. His face was flushed, as if slightly feverish, but his expression was determined. “Yes, sir.”
Brannon laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Good. I’ll put a word in for you with the palace guard. Let’s put those skills with the sword to good use. When your shoulder heals up, you’ll be an asset to your country.” Military discipline would do the boy a great deal of good.
“Thank you, sir. Would you . . . ” He looked away. “Would you speak to my father as well? Let him know how I’m doing?”
“If you do well, I’ll make sure that he knows it.” Brannon said. “Now rest and let the physicians here do their work.”
The boy nodded and his eyelids slid shut. In a few moments his breaths evened out into sleep.
If only my own worries could be sorted so easily, Brannon thought. He stood and indicated to Jessamine and Master Jordell to follow him out into the hallway.
“I assume that’s all the consultation you needed from me for this patient?”
Master Jordell lips curved very gently upward. “I’m sure we can take it from here. Now, what was it you were so keen to ask me about?”
“You’ve heard about the Prince Keldan murder?”
“Of course.”
“We have two people we need to find in connection to it. A tall, slim man with light brown hair, and an attractive woman.”
Jordell snorted. “Pretty thin descriptions to go on.”
Brannon sighed. “Yeah. But they’re all we have. It’s possible one or both of them may have sought help from a physician in the last three days. The woman was with Keldan the night he died. She could be his attacker or she could be an innocent bystander. Either way, it’s possible she was injured in the process. The man was caught spying on Lady Latricia. She thinks she scratched his face, and he might have picked up some other injuries getting away over a wall. Have any patients come through here that might fit?”
Master Jordell shook his head slowly. “Not that I can think of. But not everyone comes here. There are plenty of physicians operating independently of the college. Once their training is complete, they go where they’re needed.”
“What about unexplained bodies?” Jessamine spoke up. “They might have turned up in the morgue.”
“What a delightful notion. No, there hasn’t been anything like that, I’m glad to say. Although we do get unidentified bodies from time to time, but usually someone comes along with a claim and an explanation.”
Brannon rubbed at his scar. “Well, it was a long shot,” he said. “If something does show up . . . ”
“I’ll send word at once,” Jordell finished. “Of course. And I’ll spread the word around the other physicians in the city. If they’ve treated anyone that fits what you’re looking for, I’ll hear about it eventually.”
“Thanks,” said Brannon. “It seems the majority of our clues require waiting. Wait to hear from Djinan, wait to speak to the Nilarian ambassador, wait for Brother Taran’s test results. It was never something I was very good at.”
Master Jordell gave a little shrug. “Wisdom comes with age, they say. Not patience.”
“I’m not even sure about wisdom.” Brannon started to say more, then stopped himself.
“Spit it out,” Master Jordell said.
Brannon hesitated, touching his scar again, then spoke. “Do you know Brother Taran, at all? He claims to know about drugs and poisons.”
The older man crinkled his face. “From the Third Alapran Monastery? I know of him. He makes some of our medicines. Very young and reclusive, I understand, but quite brilliant. I don’t know of anyone else who can brew the kinds of things he does. Why?”
Brannon sighed. “Because I don’t know him at all and it seems I’ll have to trust him anyway. So much for wisdom.”
Chapter Seven
Brother Taran had once heard his laboratory called “a collection of abominations that behave in a most peculiar and inappropriate manner.” The phrase had been delivered with venom from the tongue of a visiting bishop. Taran couldn’t help but smile whenever he thought of it. Though he’d meant to insult, the bishop couldn’t have come up with a better description for Taran’s lab, as viewed by an ordinary man.
The large, stone walled chamber in the basement of the monastery was indeed filled with oddities. Glass jars of powders, herbs, and minerals filled the shelves, each carefully l
abeled and kept in its place, the more toxic of them kept near the chimney so that their vapors could be expelled quickly when unstoppered. Larger jars and tanks contained exotic and usually poisonous animals—spiders, snakes, scorpions, and the like—which had mostly been imported from the desert at great expense.
There were several workbenches throughout the laboratory, each with its own set of equipment, much of it in motion. There were beakers of liquid that appeared to boil with no flame near them, metal wheels that rotated without being touched, Bunsen burners and steam valves sending jets of mist high into the air, and pipettes that measured careful dosages of one chemical into another—often with dramatic and colorful results.
To a scientific mind like Taran’s, however, everything behaved exactly as it should. It was in his laboratory that he was able to forget the life he had come from, forget the limited existence of his exile to the church, and enjoy the wonderful secrets the gods had hidden in the world.
He was so wrapped up in his enjoyment, in fact, that he almost failed to hear the footsteps on the stairs until they were right outside the door. As the handle turned, he continued writing his notes with his right hand, but slid his left beneath the workbench to grip the handle of the dagger strapped to the underside.
The door opened and a pretty blond girl stepped inside. “Brother Taran?”
“Oh.” He let go of the knife. “Oh, Jessamine. Hello. I didn’t realize you were coming. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, everything’s fine.” She looked around the room, eyes darting from object to object with every step. “Brannon said you were expecting to have the results of your tests today and I said I’d come and see while he interviews the Nilarian ambassador. To be honest, I’ve been curious to see where you do your work.” She squinted into one of the larger tanks. “Are they locusts?”
Taran nodded. “The creagor spiders like to eat them.”
She looked at him to see if he was joking, then burst out laughing. “Amazing! You have such interesting things here.”