Kalanon's Rising

by Darian Smith

  “You should see what eats the creagor spiders,” Taran told her and was gratified when she laughed some more.

  “Is it true that the Assassin House likes to put creagor spiders in people’s beds?”

  He shrugged. “That’s the rumor. I guess it’d be effective as long as the thing stayed put until the person went to bed. Usually they move around a lot though. There are probably more efficient ways to kill someone.”

  “Speaking of which . . . ” She looked at him expectantly and for a moment Taran’s mind went blank.

  “Oh, the test results! Yes, we should be able to do the final confirmation right now.” He led the way to the central workbench and checked the beaker in which the swab had been soaking. The leaching fluid was a gentle shade of pink. That fit loredin, but also a range of other poisons and drugs. They needed to be more specific.

  “He was definitely given something,” he said, reaching for the tongs and using them to lift a boiling beaker away from a flame. “But three drops of this solution and a piece of gael stone will let us know if it’s loredin or not.”

  He used a pipette to suck some of the steaming solution away from the beaker, then carefully added the three drops to the leaching fluid.

  “Nothing happened,” Jessamine said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Not yet.” Taran took a jar of purple pebbles from a shelf and held it out to her. “Would you like to do the honors? Drop it in gently and stand back.”

  She took a gael stone between her thumb and forefinger and gingerly dropped it into the mix.

  Immediately, the fluid turned a brilliant green, like new leaves, and froth bubbled up over the rim.

  Jessamine looked from the beaker to Taran with wide eyes. “Is that it? Was it loredin?”

  “Yep, that’s it.”

  She punched the air. “Yes! You’re a genius! That was brilliant!”

  Taran felt himself beaming foolishly under her regard and searched for something else interesting to say. “How has the rest of the investigation been going?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Well, I think. It’s hard to say. So far it’s been a lot of asking questions of a lot of people. I think I’ve interviewed everyone who ever worked at the Blue Rose. Brannon and Draeson are interviewing the more interesting people themselves.”

  Taran gave her a sly look. “I’m not interesting?”

  She laughed again, delighted. “You’re not being interviewed! You’re one of the team, not a suspect.”

  “Oh. I’m glad to hear it!”

  “Ooh, there was something promising this morning actually,” she said, touching his arm. “Just before Brannon and Draeson went to meet with the Nilarian ambassador, Master Jordell sent word that they found the body of an unidentified woman in a rubbish heap. We think it might be Prince Keldan’s mistress.”

  “Really?” Taran was very conscious that she hadn’t yet moved her hand away. “How can you be sure?”

  Jessamine spread both hands in a shrug. Taran felt the cool air rush in where her warmth had left. “I don’t know,” she said. “We just have to hope that things match up. Maybe she’ll have something on her from the crime scene. We’re going to the morgue to look when Brannon and Draeson get back.” She paused and looked at him thoughtfully. “Actually, you should come with us. Maybe whoever killed Keldan used loredin on his mistress as well. You’re the only one who could tell.”

  Taran swallowed. “I’m not really the only one. Anyone could check to see if . . . ” He trailed off. Somehow he couldn’t let himself tell Jessamine to taste the dead woman’s lips. “Ah, I suppose I could come though. That’s probably best.”

  She beamed. “Good. We can wait for the others in Brannon’s apartment and tell them about the loredin test results together.”

  “Okay.” As he followed her to the door, Taran touched his chest where the “king’s pass” rested under his clothes. He rarely left the monastery, but when he did, he liked the comfort of knowing the amulet was with him. He’d never had to use it yet. In fact, the closest he’d been was when he’d first met Jessamine and Sir Brannon at the Blue Rose. A good example of how he could let his enthusiasm make him sloppy. He took a deep breath and followed her through the labyrinthine corridors of the monastery and out into the city.

  “You know,” Jessamine said cheerfully, “when I first arrived in Alapra I would get hopelessly lost. Now, though, it’s just like home.”

  Taran nodded, careful to keep his face neutral. Home wasn’t quite the comforting concept to him that others expected it to be. He supposed that was why he liked the monastery. It didn’t fit the traditional idea of home, but it was quiet and safe—aside from the occasional visiting bishop.

  “It’s amazing how quickly the mind picks up new information,” he said. “You find your way from one place to another just a couple of times and suddenly you know it.”

  It sounded stupid to him when he said it out loud, but Jessamine didn’t seem to think so. “Exactly,” she said. “I suppose it’s like you with all your animals and potions. Most people wouldn’t know what a creagor spider eats or what loredin is, but you’ve learned it and now . . . well, now you’re a very valuable man to have around!”

  Taran shrugged. “I guess.”

  She went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “That’s why I wanted to become a physician. Well, part of it anyway. There’s so much to learn in the world. I want to take as much of it in as I can.”

  They were now within the grounds of the royal palace but not within the palace itself. The royal household was supported and surrounded by a number of important buildings—official offices like the courthouse and taxation department, but also barracks and training areas for the palace guard and key members of the army, and housing for important dignitaries and support staff. Many members of the nobility chose to maintain their own town houses in the better neighborhoods of Alapra, but the King’s Champion had always remained in one of the basic apartments provided for specialist army officers. It was one of the things Taran had always admired about the man’s reputation.

  Jessamine led the way to a modest stone and plaster building, not unlike Taran’s monastery in design, although the monks preferred to leave the stone exposed. Inside, a simple woven rug followed the path from the door to the stairs and, one flight up, continued down the hallway.

  Jessamine stopped at the third door and knocked. “Brannon said if they’re not back, to just wait inside. I have a key.”

  The lock was a fairly simple one. With or without a key, Taran knew it wouldn’t take much to open it. Brannon didn’t seem the type to keep a lot of valuables around. There was a second flight of stairs at the other end of the hall. Two exits. Sensible.

  Jessamine knocked again, each bang sounding very loud, and when there was still no answer she began searching her pockets for a key.

  There was an odd silence to the place. Taran felt some instinct prickle the back of his neck. He gently nudged between Jessamine and the door, pressing his ear against the wood. “Sir Brannon? Are you in there?”

  No response.

  He tried the handle and the door swung ajar on silent hinges.

  Jessamine stopped looking for the key. “That’s weird.”

  Taran nodded. “Maybe he forgot to lock it.”

  The rooms inside were simply laid out and empty of life. The entrance led into a sitting room area with three straight-backed chairs, a small, low table and wide windows, opened to the fresh air. The kitchen was spotlessly clean and tidy, almost as if it hadn’t been used, although the wood piled beside the burner indicated otherwise. In the bedroom area the bed was perfectly made, covers tight. Around it, each against a separate wall, were a wardrobe, a desk stacked with medical textbooks, and a rack for armor and weapons. There was little else in the way of decoration. Sketches of the human body, with muscles and bones labeled, were tacked to the wall above the desk. One end of the armor rack had a spike, on which hung a number of medals and commendati
ons. Taran wondered if Brannon ever wore them.

  “Bloodhawk and the physician, side by side.” Taran had been taught that a man’s home told a lot about his personality.

  Jessamine shrugged. “Plenty of men still have that army way of doing things. But the war’s over so they need something else to do. Why not make it something positive for the world?”

  Taran nodded. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing.” He paced the apartment slowly, still a little unnerved by the unlocked door. Still, there was no sign of anything awry.

  “I know.” Jessamine paced with him in slow, graceful steps.

  Taran caught himself watching her and pulled his eyes away. “How long do you think they’ll be?” he asked, drifting over to the weapons rack. There were some fine things here.

  “I don’t know.” Jessamine headed toward the desk with its treasure load of books. “I guess it depends how much the ambassador has to say.”

  The creak of movement pulled Taran’s attention away from the weapons and medals and he turned to see the door of the wardrobe slowly open. Jessamine shrieked as the figure of a woman slumped forward out of the wardrobe and fell, with a sickening crack, onto the floor.

  “Blood of the Wolf,” he swore.

  Jessamine screamed again, and backed up against the far wall. “Ahpra’s Tears!”

  Taran could feel his heart thumping as he crept toward the dead woman, his breathing fast. Her body was twisted and broken. Her skin was gray and her face was hacked like butcher’s meat. Her clothes had once been fine but were now torn and filthy. Taran could see maggots where her eyes should be.

  His shocked mind was alert for any twitch. The wardrobe was empty of other surprises—a few shirts and pants hung innocently in their places.

  Taran bent down to check under the bed—nothing there.

  The dead woman lay like a grotesque doll.

  “What in the name of the Hooded is a corpse doing here?” Jessamine was trembling, but her composure was returning fast.

  Taran frowned. “You said you’d been asking questions about Prince Keldan’s mistress. Apparently someone is making sure you get answers.”

  Chapter Eight

  Obtaining an appointment with the Nilarian ambassador was a tricky business. Even now, having arrived at the scheduled time, Brannon and Draeson were left to wait.

  The suite provided for the ambassador’s home was a luxurious one in the palace proper. Efforts had been made to smooth difficulties and clasp the representative of the now peaceful neighbor close to the royal heart. It also allowed for better protection from those who still held a grudge in the general populace and a better ability to be watched by those who still held a grudge in the royal court.

  The room in which they waited was barely recognizable as Kalan. Charcoal-gray silk panels were draped across the ceiling and walls, giving the impression of being inside a large, expensive tent. Each panel was edged in a thin border pattern in a different color. At eye level, each had a word in fluid Nilarian script as large as Brannon’s hand.

  Brannon stared at them, slowly summoning what he had learned of the enemy language when trying to decipher messages from intercepted spies. “Courage,” one of them said. Others were “honor” and “wisdom” and “patience.” At the last one, Brannon rolled his eyes and stopped reading.

  Draeson was dressed in very tight pants and a peacock-blue shirt in the style of very young men at court. He lounged in the soft embrace of an armchair as though it were his bedroom.

  “You’re dressing to match your new age, I see,” Brannon commented.

  Draeson grinned, his teeth very white. The dragon was nowhere to be seen today. Somewhere under his clothes, no doubt. “I’m embracing it. It takes an old man to fully appreciate youth.”

  Brannon sighed. “That’s true enough.” He’d certainly not appreciated the extra energy he’d had as a youngster at the time. Nor, of course, had he had things like wisdom or patience. It would be nice to have the mind he had now in the body he’d had then.

  “Speaking of youth,” Draeson said. “That apprentice of yours is an attractive lass.”

  “Nobody says ‘lass’ anymore. Your vocabulary’s still old.”

  “Fine. The girl who checks with you if the sun will rise—are you and she an item?”

  “What?” Brannon felt his mouth fall open. The room felt very warm. “No, we are not! Blood and Tears, even if she wasn’t my apprentice, she’s half my age!”

  The mage shrugged. “When you’re as old as I am, age doesn’t really matter anymore. And as for the apprentice thing, well, more than one of my masters didn’t let that bother them.” He chuckled softly. “Well, if you’re not interested yourself, do you mind if I . . . ”

  Brannon leaned forward, surprised by the sudden protective fury he felt. “Magus Draeson, if you lay a hand on that girl, I will cut you three times for every wrinkle you used to have. Are we clear?”

  Draeson held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “All right, all right. I was just asking. A young body has young needs, is all.”

  “Well, see to them elsewhere,” Brannon growled. “Not among the people I work with.”

  He was saved the necessity of hearing the mage’s response, by the return of the servant who had asked them to wait. He bowed deeply, the tassel on the top of his hat making a sweeping motion from side to side. “Gentlemen, I present the honorable Ambassador Ylani Shaylar.”

  He stepped aside and the ambassador glided into the room, her every movement smooth and graceful. She was tall for a woman, and slender. Her hair was delicately curled and hung down past her shoulders in dark waves. A miniature red top hat perched on her head at an angle and trailed crystals on three long wires, like glittering feathers. Smaller crystals lined the cuffs of her gown, which was pale silk trimmed with red to match the hat. It was long and sleek with a hem that brushed the polished wood floor with yet more of the sparkling crystals. Her skin was smooth with just a hint of color, making her lips and long-lashed, deep brown eyes stand out like jewels.

  She nodded slightly to each of them and took a seat, gesturing to them to do the same. As she brushed past, Brannon noticed she smelled of spice and vanilla.

  “Welcome to you both. Sorry for the delay,” she said, with barely a trace of accent. Her lips formed a little half-smile. “Sir Brannon Kesh, I never expected to have the Bloodhawk in my parlor. Am I to be skewered on your stolen sword?”

  Brannon blinked. “Ah, no, nothing like that. I’m not sure if we’ve been introduced at court, ambassador. I hope you’ll forgive us for intruding. We’re only here to ask a few questions.”

  Ylani waved her hand. “Of course. You must forgive me as well. I know who you are from your reputation. Back home, we use you to scare our children into behaving. And in Government House, we use you to scare the adults!”

  Brannon felt his stomach burn. He forced himself to put on his court smile. “I’m only scary in defense of Kalanon, ambassador. So I’m sure you have nothing to fear.”

  Ylani nodded graciously. “Thank you. Does the magus show the same restraint?”

  Brannon saw startlement cross Draeson’s face before he could hide it. His head tilted to one side. “You recognize me?”

  The little half-smile returned to the ambassador’s face. “I like to know who it is I let into my parlor, magus. Surprises can be messy.”

  Draeson’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed.”

  Brannon cleared his throat. “Draeson and I were both in the army, ambassador, but the war is over. Your role here wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t. We’re not interested in making you uncomfortable but we need your help with our investigation. If you’re not involved in Prince Keldan’s death, then we’ll leave you alone.”

  Ylani watched him for a long moment, then visibly relaxed. “Very well,” she said. She gestured and the servant who announced her turned and left the room. It was then that Brannon saw he’d been carrying a small crossbow behind his back. “Please understand, I must
be careful. Not all of your countrymen are happy to have a Nilarian in the palace.”

  “I can’t say I’m happy about it either,” Draeson muttered, barely loud enough for Brannon to hear.

  “I was waiting to meet with your king last week,” Ylani said, “and one of the courtiers told a joke. ‘What do you call half the Nilarian army drowned at the bottom of the Tilal?’”

  “A good start,” Brannon said softly. It was an old joke that hardly seemed funny. Bloated and waterlogged bodies had clogged the shoreline for weeks. Even now, fishermen sometimes pulled up bones or pieces of rusted armor. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mean to be maudlin. As you say, the war is over. You said I can help you solve the death of your prince. How?”

  Brannon pulled out the samples of silk cloth and held them out to her. “Do you recognize these?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Can you tell us about them?”

  Ylani chewed her lip a moment. “There are delicate trade issues involved.”

  “There’s the murder of a Kalan prince involved!” Draeson snapped.

  Brannon shot him a look. “We’ll make sure to keep things confidential, if we can.”

  “Thank you,” Ylani said. She stared across at one of the word-panels for a long moment before speaking again. “Your Prince Keldan was one of several Kalan nobles interested in establishing a trade agreement. His father was the first.”

  “Duke Roydan?” Brannon was still surprised that Roydan would have anything to do with the Nilarians, let alone be first in line. But then, he wasn’t one to pass over a good business opportunity either.

  “Yes. Duke Roydan approached me shortly after I arrived to suggest that the time was right to introduce Nilarian silk back into the Kalan market. Since the war, trade has been . . . limited. And silk is such a distinctly Nilarian commodity that it wasn’t welcomed—nor did we want to share it.”

  “But that’s changed?”

  “Roydan believed so. He wanted to establish exclusive rights to import silk from Nilar. He thinks a monopoly will ensure the exclusivity of the product and help it retain its value. Supply and demand.”