The Corpse Thieves

by Charlotte E. English

  Nanda hesitated, her face sad and grim, and a horrible thought occurred to Konrad.

  ‘He… is alive, yes?’

  Nanda arched one brow. ‘Of course.’

  Konrad let out a quick sigh of relief, and mentally blessed Ootapi. The serpent had not been fool enough to carry through his cheery offer of murdering the poison trader, then; for an instant, Konrad had been heart-poundingly afraid.

  But his relief was short-lived, for Nanda added: ‘For now.’

  ‘Um.’ Konrad took a moment to absorb these words. ‘You mean he is alive… for now?’

  ‘Yes. It cannot last long, I am afraid.’

  ‘He fell ill on the road. Oh, Nanda, I am sorry.’ Konrad realised, to his own surprise, that he really was sorry. For all his vicious, gloomy wishes of the day before, he did not truly feel that the man deserved to die, and Nanda’s pain always cut him.

  But Nanda shook her head again. Finally she turned away from the fire and set about making tea and a meal. Konrad assisted her in silence, aware that she needed to gather her thoughts.

  Halfway through their silent repast, Nanda finally spoke.

  ‘Danil killed someone.’

  Konrad choked upon a mouthful of hot tea. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Danil,’ Nanda repeated with slow emphasis, ‘killed somebody.’ She swallowed half of her tea in one go, not appearing to notice its heat, and set down her cup. ‘A few hours ago. We travelled home a little early, hoping to avoid the worst of the weather, and reached the outskirts of Ekamet early this morning. But as we came through the gates, Danil saw someone he knew. A man called Kovalev. And he… snapped, somehow. He took a knife out of somewhere — and I have never before known him to carry a weapon, Konrad — and stabbed Kovalev seven times before he was hauled off him, and subdued.’

  Konrad heard all this in utter disbelief, and did not interrupt.

  ‘Kovalev died, of course, and Danil is taken into custody. But, Konrad… he cannot explain to me what he has done, or why. He doesn’t appear to know. He talks of Kovalev as some kind of rival for a girl he once courted, and appears to hold him in contempt. But not murderous contempt! And he cannot remember having killed the man! He sees the blood on his clothes and frets, because he does not know how it came to be there, and he will not believe anybody when he is told how he came to be in police custody.’

  Konrad felt colder and colder as he listened, his mind making too many chilling connections for his comfort. Between Dubin’s fate and that of Sokol, for a start — no reassuring pattern, that. And Dubin’s relationship to Kovalev struck him as far too similar to his own relationship to Dubin. That realisation could not enhance his tranquillity either.

  Nanda applied herself to her food, and at last it struck Konrad that her composure was strained, her apparent calm only a semblance of it.

  ‘There can be no doubt that he is guilty of the crime,’ she said in a low voice.

  Konrad was late to arrive at the conclusion poor Nanda had probably been tormenting herself over for hours.

  Dubin had murdered someone, in plain sight of many witnesses. Whether he knew what he had done or not, whether he remembered, whether he could explain it: he was a killer.

  And that meant it would be Konrad’s unhappy duty to kill him.

  Konrad’s heart smote him at the idea, and he swallowed sudden bile. He had never imagined that his deplorable duty would someday oblige him to dispense with somebody Nanda cared for.

  ‘Nanda,’ he said. ‘Nan. I promise you: I will do nothing… permanent… until we have unravelled this mystery and learned the truth of Dubin’s behaviour. There is more to this story you do not yet know.’

  She kept her eyes upon her food for the first part of this speech, but raised them to his face at last with the news that there was more for her to hear. ‘Tell me,’ she said, and he detected a flicker of hope in her eyes that had not been there before.

  He related everything Nuritov had said about Sokol. She was as quick to recognise the similarities between the two cases as he, and she visibly revived with every word.

  ‘Where is Dubin now?’ Konrad asked in conclusion, filled with a restless energy to begin upon the case at once.

  ‘The police have taken him somewhere. They said he is a danger to the public, which may very well be true, for if he could kill under such conditions once, might he not do so again? I am glad he is safely away. Oh, but Konrad, he knows his life is forfeit. He knows he waits for the Malykant. He is in a sad way.’

  She did not quite meet his eyes as she said this, and Konrad realised the answer to a question that had been bothering him. Why had she not come to him right away? Why had she sent no word? If he had not been here awaiting her, he would still be oblivious to Dubin’s fate — or he would have heard of it from some other source.

  ‘You do not believe me, Nan? You think I will have Dubin dispatched by tea-time.’

  Nanda sighed, and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I do not know what to think. I know you would not lightly destroy anything of mine, but I am also aware that your duty is all that you live for. Can you say that you have ever hesitated to deliver The Malykt’s Justice, in the past?’

  Never for long, certainly. But most of the cases Konrad had lived through had been fairly clear-cut. Murders had been committed by those of questionable morals (or sanity), for reasons that clearly benefited themselves at the expense of their victims. In such cases as that, Konrad felt no compunction about ushering them out of the world. He did not have to question either his right to deliver such a punishment, or the rightness of his doing so.

  But that did not mean that he killed without thought, without judgement or without consideration. At his secret heart, he was petrified of the day that he committed a mistake — killed someone who did not deserve that fate, whatever reason they might have to claim exoneration. He always took great care.

  He had thought that Nanda had come to accept him fully, at long last, as her friend, irrespective of the horrific things he often had to do. That she trusted his humanity, and accepted that he was not all horror. But his status as the Malykant could still override any other impression he might give, it seemed, and her fear of the brutal side of his nature could still overwhelm her affection for his finer characteristics.

  The realisation cost him a pang, but he set it aside. He would just have to prove himself to her — again.

  It did not matter. If he had to prove himself worthy of her friendship a hundred times over, so be it.

  ‘I swear,’ he said to Nanda, making sure that she met his eyes. ‘I will do nothing to harm Dubin until, or unless, we are both fully satisfied of his full guilt in this matter.’

  She winced a little when he said until, and he sighed inwardly. She wanted a promise that he would never harm Dubin, but that he could not give. If the little poison trader lied, and had killed the man Kovalev in cold blood, then he merited the usual consequences. And Konrad would be forced to deliver them, however he personally felt about the matter.

  He had given the best reassurance he was able to offer. All that remained was to investigate, and to fervently hope that Dubin was as essentially innocent of wrong-doing as he claimed to be.

  Nanda pulled herself together, and when Konrad rose from her little kitchen table she followed suit. ‘I will come with you,’ she announced.

  She meant to do so in order to keep an eye on him, obviously, but Konrad was happy to accept the offer. ‘Have you Read Dubin yet?’

  ‘I have not had the opportunity,’ Nanda replied. ‘He was kept from me, while he remained armed, and soon afterwards taken away by the police. Nobody would let me near him.’

  Her tone was bitter; she obviously resented that interference. But Konrad could picture the scene all too well in his mind, and privately applauded whichever passersby had contrived to keep trusting Nanda away from an apparently mad, homicidal maniac, armed with a knife and covered in the blood of the man he had just stabbed to death in the street.


  ‘We will do that first,’ Konrad decided. ‘Afterwards I would be grateful if you would do the same for Sokol. It seems likely that both speak the truth, when they claim no memory of the event: it would be odd, and too much of a coincidence, for two unconnected men to commit similar crimes almost at the same time, and both claim forgetfulness. But I would like to be certain.’

  Nanda nodded once, and set about readying herself to depart. Konrad regained his own cloak and hat, his thoughts turning busily upon the conundrum.

  The matter of Sokol had been in the papers, of course, but Dubin had only just returned from Marja. The chances that he had read of the case, and been motivated to mimic Sokol’s response to his own crime, did not seem high. Besides, there was the apparently random nature of the meeting — happening to bump into Kovalev at the gates, just as Dubin was passing through himself, would be a difficult thing to arrange ahead of time, supposing the murder both intentional and premeditated.

  But then why had the peaceful Dubin carried a knife?

  The matter was complex, and Konrad blessed Nanda and her abilities now more than ever.

  As they left the house, a stray thought drifted into Konrad’s mind: Tasha. She had told him today would be momentous, and she could not possibly have been referring to anything other than the very problem he now faced. How had she found out about Dubin’s crime before he had?

  The only possible explanation was that she was watching Nanda, too — she or some colleague of hers. The thought angered him, and he made a mental note to interrogate the interfering little lamaeni at his earliest convenience.

  Chapter Three

  Tasha, of course, made herself scarce just when he wanted her. That or she was ignoring his attempts at attracting her attention, which was possible. The serpents could not locate her either, and Konrad soon gave up. Tasha could wait.

  He and Nanda went straight to Nuritov. Konrad judged it their best course of action; they would benefit from having the Inspector’s visible presence and support if they wanted to visit the two condemned men.

  Konrad also thought it high time that he introduced his two friends to one another. Being able to number his friends in the plural felt odd, but good, and he felt a need to somehow cement the agreeable situation by making them known to one another. Particularly if they were to be united, for a time, in investigating the strange cases of Sokol and Dubin.

  Nuritov did not seem surprised to find Konrad at his door. Nor was he much puzzled by Nanda’s presence. He ushered them both inside with his usual quiet courtesy, and made his bow to Nanda with particular friendliness. ‘Miss Falenia. It is a pleasure to welcome you.’

  Nanda curtseyed. ‘I wish it had been possible to meet you under better circumstances.’

  Nuritov’s friendly smile became a frown. ‘Indeed. Your friend Dubin is in a poor way, I am afraid. He will be glad to see you. And we are happy indeed to have your services. Do you know how rare Readers are?’

  ‘I have some idea, considering that I have rarely ever encountered another.’

  ‘Shall you mind practicing your arts upon Sokol, as well?’

  ‘Mr. Savast and I are eager to visit both gentlemen. It seems clear that the two cases are connected.’

  Nuritov glanced at Konrad, and nodded. ‘I believe they must be, indeed, though it is impossible to say how. Dubin and Sokol have never encountered one another before, so I understand. You are not aware of any connections between the two?’

  Nanda declined any knowledge of such, as did Konrad, and Nuritov nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘It is well to ask the question. Never mind. Let us proceed to Dubin.’

  Konrad and Nanda followed him out of his office, whereafter he led the way down a great many corridors and a few sets of staircases. Konrad judged that Dubin and Sokol were being kept somewhere far beneath the police headquarters, probably in an area designed to be far removed from other prisoners — or, indeed, their jailers.

  Nuritov confirmed this surmise when he finally came to a stop. He paused before a stout door of solid oak and iron, at the end of a corridor which featured no other doors at all. He said, with an apologetic air, ‘It has been necessary to confine them with the utmost security, I am afraid. Though neither appears to be harbouring any violent tendencies now, the extremity of their recent behaviour is such that we cannot take any chances.’

  Nanda looked grim. Konrad felt the same as they passed through the stout door into a small sequence of cells, each one iron-barred and comfortless. Most of them were empty.

  Dubin sat, alone and disconsolate, at the back of his cell. His hands were in heavy manacles. His blood-stained clothes had been exchanged for the nondescript grey of a prison uniform, and he looked unkempt. He did not look up as Nuritov stopped at his door.

  ‘Mr. Dubin,’ said Nuritov, his tone friendlier than Konrad might have expected. ‘I have brought visitors.’

  ‘I will see no one,’ said Dubin.

  Nuritov coughed slightly. ‘One of them is Miss Falenia.’

  Dubin looked up at that, though he did not seem at all delighted by the prospect of Nanda’s near presence. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘Of all people, I would least like to see her!’ He shuddered, and corrected himself. ‘Or of all people, I would least like her to see me.’

  Nanda stepped forward, her face grimmer than ever. ‘I saw everything, Danil, but I have come anyway. Does that not tell you that I do not condemn you?’

  Dubin covered his thin face with his hands, as though he could block out the fact of Nanda’s presence along with his sight of her. The gesture was childlike and oddly heartrending, and Konrad felt deeply uncomfortable. ‘You should go,’ said Dubin, his voice muffled behind his hands. ‘Please.’

  ‘I need to remain,’ said Nanda gently. ‘We are here to help you. You must permit us.’

  ‘No one can help.’ Dubin removed his hands at last, though he could not meet Nanda’s gaze. He sat looking at the floor, and Konrad could not tell whether he had registered the fact that Nanda was not his only visitor. ‘Do you not understand?’ he continued. ‘I am told there is no possible doubt. I was seen to kill, by many witnesses. Yourself among them! I am a murderer! And there is only one fate that awaits murderers in Ekamet.’ He gave another, strong shudder. ‘If I have indeed killed, then it is the fate I deserve.’

  ‘You remember nothing?’ Nanda enquired.

  ‘Nothing,’ Dubin repeated. ‘I was passing through the gate with you, cold and hungry and ready to be home at last. Then I was restrained, held down by people I could not see. Everybody was upset, afraid, shouting. My clothes were bloodied. The police came and took me away, and only later, much later, did I learn why.’

  Konrad’s heart twisted, a feeling he deeply resented considering the object of it, but he could not help it. Poor Dubin. His confusion was palpable, and Konrad could well imagine his terror at the treatment for which he could find no explanation, and the reason for which was not made clear to him until he had had plenty of time to suffer under it. And when he was told what he had done, what then? How must that have felt?

  Nanda looked ready to cry, and Konrad wanted to comfort her. But he knew she would not welcome such a gesture, under the circumstances, so he held his peace.

  ‘Danil, please give me your hand,’ she said.

  Dubin looked up at last, surprise making him incautious. He flinched as he met Nanda’s gaze, and saw there the pain she was suffering on his account. Though perhaps the lack of condemnation gave him courage, for he swallowed and got to his feet. He wore manacles around his ankles, too, and his gait was awkward as he approached the barred door. He slipped one hand in between the bars, which Nanda immediately took.

  ‘I do not doubt you,’ she told him gravely. ‘But my arts will confirm everything you have said, for the benefit of the police.’

  Dubin shook his head. ‘It is not the police whom I fear. It is the Malykant who now holds my fate in his hands, and can either of us suppose that any testimony in my favour wi
ll invoke mercy from him? I am a doomed man, Nan, and you waste your time.’

  She did not reply. Her eyes were closed; she was lost in her perusal of Dubin’s mind, gathering every possible glimpse of his recent memories, his thoughts, his impressions. Konrad knew that the art was imprecise; Dubin’s mind was not fully laid open to her. She could not read his every thought, access his every memory, understand his every action. But she could reap some clues: his most powerful feelings, his most persistent memories. The memory of a recent, violent murder ought to be at the top of that list, if he held any such recollection.

  The silence gave him plenty of time to reflect upon Dubin’s words. The man’s impression of the Malykant echoed Nanda’s, though he could have no idea that he stood in the Malykant’s presence at that moment. If he had, his terror would have been palpable. Konrad knew that the Malykant’s public image as implacable, ruthless and unavoidable was carefully cultivated by the Order. It had to be, if his existence was to serve as a deterrent. But he recoiled from this vision of himself: heartless, without conscience or will of his own. A tool for killing, and nothing more.

  Should the day ever come when his own behaviour matched and justified such an image, he hoped that somebody would be obliging enough to kill him. And that The Malykt would be merciful enough to let him die.

  Nanda opened her eyes at last, though she did not release Dubin’s hand. She held it still, though her intention seemed more to comfort him than to Read him, for she laced her fingers through his and held tight.

  ‘No memory whatsoever,’ she said, more to Nuritov and Konrad than to Dubin. ‘The events of this morning are clear enough, but it is as though… there is a gap, where the murder should be. His mind remembers just as he has said: he got down from the stagecoach outside the gates, and came through them with me. We exchanged a few words. The next instant he remembers himself in the grip of strangers, frightened and covered in blood, but with not the smallest idea how he came to be so. It is as though everything that happened in between has been neatly sliced out.’