The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1)

by Deborah Davitt

  “Dr. Yolotli, please. Just speak the truth, as you understand it.” Livorus, in spite of the smells in the autopsy room, could have been at a society function, complete with sparkling Gallic wine and canapés.

  The medical examiner sighed, and put several X-rays up on a board, turning the backlights on with quick flicks of the switches . . . and then pulled back the cover from the body. Everyone in the room had seen death before. Sigrun knew that Adam had fought ghul. Trennus’ dossier said that he had, as well. Neither of them flinched. Ehecatl and Kanmi had both seen active combat, but neither had often seen advanced decomposition, apparently. Kanmi turned his head away, grimacing for a moment, and then swallowed and looked back.

  There shouldn’t have been a lot left; it was a wet climate here, and though the body had been buried eight feet below the earth, out of range of scavengers, decomposition, heat, humidity, and insets should have had their toll. There was, however, a surprising amount of skin and flesh left, tight-wrapped to the bones, as if the body had, against all logic or probability, been mummified, and had turned a dark mahogany color. “How?” Livorus sounded intrigued. “The body should be nothing more than bones, if it has truly been there for six months, in this climate.”

  “That’s our first mystery, but it’s at least explicable,” the medical examiner replied. “In ancient times, in Britannia and other northern countries, human sacrifices were thrown into peat bogs there.” She glanced at Trennus, who held up his hands in a don’t look at me fashion. “The water of these bogs is sufficiently acidic as to prevent decomposition, and the skin was tanned in the process, like leather, becoming a seal against further decomposition. The water runoff from our swamps is slightly acidic as well, and I suspect that whatever energies may have been leaking from the ley-plant may have facilitated the process.” Dr. Yolotli lifted a file folder, and handed them a sheaf of pictures. “This first, the full body image, was this body when we first brought it in. Please note the lack of any damage to the torso, the lack of incisions, cuts, anything of that nature.” She pointed to various salient points on the body as she spoke. “Our subject is a male, approximately age twenty-eight, of Nahautl or Quechan ancestry—though I tend to believe Nahautl, from the extensive tattooing and earplugs.”

  Ehecatl nodded, grimly, looking at the body. “He was a Jaguar warrior,” he said, suddenly. “He has the jaguar tattoos on his legs, the paws and claws on the undersides of his feet, as I do. This was an elite soldier.”

  Dr. Yolotli looked up, alertly. “He certainly was in good physical health at the time of death. His teeth were in excellent condition . . . but his dental impressions are not, however, on file, at least, not locally. I had taken this to mean that he belonged to a tribe that clings to the old ways, out in the hills.”

  Ehecatl shook his head, firmly. “No one but Jaguar warriors receive these tattoos. The ones on the soles of our feet, in particular, aren’t often seen. Anyone who tries to wear them, without being one . . . has to deal with offended Jaguar warriors who might take exception to having our markings worn by an outsider.” His expression was taut, and he bent slightly to pull up his trouser leg, and shucked a shoe, in order to show identical markings there. “You can ask for a records search on dental impressions from the Jaguars’ main facility in Tenochtitlan. Should narrow the search for you.”

  Pulling dental matches was not an overnight process, even in highly urban areas like Rome. The paper descriptions and X-rays weren’t kept in some singular document repository, and each dentist’s office was responsible for cooperating with law enforcement requests in their own time. This still generally required a local law enforcement office to put out a request to neighboring jurisdictions, transmit the description of the dental work, and age and sex of the body to be identified, and wait for hundreds of people to go through thousands of files. Such a search could be sped up if there were known missing persons . . . and an elite solider who’d gone absent without leave would surely be one of those. This would speed the paper chase, as would Livorus’ weight. They couldn't expect much more than this, however; it had, after all, only been two days since the body had been found.

  “Go on,” Livorus said, putting the pictures back down again. “What’s the cause of death?”

  “There is no damage to the skull,” Dr. Yolotli said, with precision. “No signs of blunt-force trauma to incapacitate this person. There are ligature marks at wrist and ankles, indicating that he was a prisoner at some point.” She held up a hand to stay the questions on everyone’s lips. “Remember, that there were no incisions on the body when it was brought in. I took an X-ray of the chest cavity,” she pointed up at the screen, “and noted that there was something missing.” She paused. “His heart.”

  Sigrun’s head snapped up. The X-ray was a mass of shadows to her; she couldn’t read it. “I then proceeded to make the usual Y-shaped incision,” Dr. Yolotli went on, “and, indeed, there is no heart in this body. It was removed, by some method that left no visible marks on the sternum, the ribs, or the surrounding tissue. The blood vessels around the heart do not look to have been cut, either. If anything, the tissue is striated, and deformed. As if the heart were pulled out, still beating, through the surrounding tissue.” Dr. Yolotli shook her head, clearly rattled. “This should not be possible, by any method.”

  A chill uncoiled across Sigrun’s shoulders, and in spite of herself, for one of the few times in her life, she actually shivered. Livorus sighed. “Magic, then.”

  “Magic,” the medical examiner agreed. “And murder.”

  “When the two are found together in this part of the world, a third word is usually involved,” Livorus murmured. “Sacrifice.”

  “I cannot speak to that, dominus. His head was not removed for display on a skull-rack—”

  “Well, that would be rather obvious,” Kanmi muttered, under his breath.

  “—which was traditional throughout the region for sacrificial victims, particularly ones taken in battle. And if he truly was a Jaguar warrior . . . being taken in battle is the only way he would likely have been made prisoner.” The doctor wrung her hands a bit. “Which means they could have kept him long enough for the wounds to heal, or—”

  “Or someone dosed his pulque with poppy-juice,” Ehecatl muttered. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone was rolled in a taverna that way.” His expression was dark. “But if he was sacrificed . . . . he was the highest sacrifice that could be offered. A strong warrior, in the prime of his life.”

  “And if it was done to somehow derive the energy at the platform site,” Trennus said, suddenly switching to Hellene, “that suggests that we may have broken whatever bargain that the performer of the sacrifice wanted to make. That means that another death might be owed. And more victims, suitable strong warriors, will need to be found.”

  Adam grimaced. “Is there any way of telling who did this, or what?” he asked, in Latin, addressing the doctor, directly.

  She shook her head rapidly. “I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, frankly. “This is not my area of expertise.”

  “Preserve the body,” Livorus told her, briskly. “I think we have enough here to bring in both Xicohtencatl for questioning . . . and high priest Tototl as a. . . hmm. Consultant. We’ll let that be the official reason, for the moment, anyway.” He waved a little. “Let us make it so, shall we?”

  ____________________

  Iunius 10, 1954

  There was a knock at the connecting door between Adam’s room and Sigrun’s, just before dawn on dies Veneris . . . Frigedæg. Adam struggled upright in the sheets, reaching for his gun on the nightstand, until he realized what the noise actually was. “Yes?” he called across the room.

  “Adam,” Sigrun’s voice was apologetic, “Sorry to wake you, but Livorus just got the call. The Jaguar warriors got back to the medical examiner late last night with a possible match. Quauhtli Citlali, a young forward optio, apparently, or whatever the local equivalent rank is. Went missing se
ven months ago while on leave down here with family.”

  Harah. “By family, do you mean—”

  “Wife and two children, yes. Ehecatl’s close to cutting open his hand and swearing blood vengeance. And I don’t blame him.” Her voice held a grim note. “Get dressed. There’s more.”

  “It’s not even five antemeridian yet. What else could there be?” Adam started dressing anyway.

  “Local gardia—all Nahautl, of course—up in Tenochtitlan can’t find Xicohtencatl and Tototl. Get dressed, I can’t shout all of this through a door.”

  Adam grinned, and prevented himself from telling her she could open the door from her side any time she wanted, and in any state of dress she preferred. She probably wouldn’t be terribly amused, and this wasn’t really the time for jokes.

  The meeting in the propraetor’s room found most of them grainy-eyed and nursing cups of local coffee. Livorus himself looked, as usual, well-rested and calm. Adam had no idea how he did it. “Let’s go through what we know, thus far,” the propraetor said. “We know that the various civil authorities cannot seem to find either Gratian Xicohtencatl or Tlilpotonqui Tototl.”

  “I’m not surprised about them not being able to find Tototl,” Kanmi muttered. “He’s probably god-born. There are people who’ll protect god-born just on that basis, let alone the political power he has.” The Carthaginian rotated a rectangular piece of paper in his fingers, rapidly. “Xicohtencatl, though . . . I wouldn’t have thought he could hide worth a damn.”

  Ehecatl’s lips pulled from his teeth for a moment. “What do you remember about his skills?” he asked the sorcerer.

  Kanmi snorted. “He’s a traditionalist, when it comes to his actual sorcery. Which is to say he’s an elementalist. He didn’t take the courses that I did, in physics, in thermodynamics, any of it. As far as raw sorcery goes, he’s fine with there being four or five elements, as if we’ve learned nothing about the way the universe works since Aristotle walked the earth. A hundred or more elements in the periodic table are just too confusing for the traditional mindset. Traditionalists don’t care why things work, just that they do.” He held up a hand when Ehecatl opened his mouth to reiterate the question, and went on, “That being said? He’s damned good at the elemental specialties, particularly fire, as best I recall. It’s a typical specialization for someone who expects to go into military work. I never really sparred with him, but I’d expect rapidly-expanding bursts of flame that he can land anywhere he wants, with very good accuracy—”

  “By rapidly-expanding, do you actually mean explosive?” Adam asked, quickly. “Like a grenade?”

  “Yes. Almost exactly. Problem is, to create a rapidly expanding exothermic event once reaching a target area, you need to start with something that has explosive potential—a thimbleful of black powder, in a cloth bag works nicely—and then you can just expand the yield of the explosion . . . or you have to pull all the ambient energy in the environment together and . . . it’s tedious and the yield you get is more just . . . a wash of fire than anything really damaging.” Kanmi grimaced. “Now, typically, this isn’t all they can do. And he’s also a technomancer. Which means he should be carrying batteries, like I do, for stored energy. He might do things as disparate as a stream of fire arrows, or . . . engulf someone, head to toe, in a pillar of flame. Depending on his skill, power, and resources, he might be able to get that fire up to about seven hundred degrees. Enough heat to melt lead, at least.” Kanmi sighed. “The good news is . . . . ”

  “There is good news in this?” Sigrun asked, raising her eyebrows. Adam could see a shudder go through her, where she leaned against a wall, her arms crossed. He remembered that she had mentioned that fire hurt more than any other kind of wound, and was the slowest wound to heal.

  Kanmi grimaced. “Somewhat. He’s going to be powerful, but his training has . . . limitations. I’ve been trained in . . . concepts. Physics. Whatever he can do, I can undo, just by re-directing the energy.” He rubbed at his face. “It’s . . .very difficult to put in layman’s terms.”

  “You’re more powerful than he is.” Ehecatl shrugged.

  “No. Not more powerful. More flexible. I’m not limited to a half-dozen things I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. I understand the systems that make the universe work, and I use them.” Kanmi sighed. “It’s easier to show than to tell, but we don’t have time for this right now.” He looked over at Trennus. “Suffice to say, Matrugena and I both have resources that a traditionally-oriented sorcerer lacks. But Xicohtencatl is a technomage, as well.” He flipped the card around in his fingers again.

  “What is that?” Sigrun asked, pointing.

  “This? His business card, if you can believe it. I tried calling the number this morning. No answer. Not exactly a surprise.”

  “Your spirits couldn’t track him using it, could they?” Sigrun asked Trennus.

  Both mages’ eyes widened. “No,” Trennus said, “but that’s a very good idea. In this case, it’s just not personal enough of a belonging.”

  Sigrun held out her hand. “May I see it?”

  “Be my guest.” Kanmi held it out to her, indifferently. Adam moved to look at it over her shoulder, and shook his head. Red-embossed lettering on a white background of cardstock, with a black and yellow bumblebee perched in the corner.

  “Why a bee?” Adam asked.

  “I think his house name means ‘angry bumblebee,’ or some damned thing. He wears a bee-shaped clasp for his cloak, too.” Kanmi shrugged.

  For some reason, Sigrun’s hand was shaking as she passed the card back to Kanmi. “So,” she said, rubbing at her eyes, “we have no way to know where they are right now. But we have every indication that they are both guilty of something. Innocent people rarely hide.” She tapped the side of her fist against the wall in frustration. “And no leads here.”

  “We do have other things yet to attend to,” Livorus reminded them all. “Dealing with the local rebels, which was Governor Dioscuri and Emperor Achcauhtli’s direct request to me. These two can’t hide forever. Sooner or later, they’ll be sniffed out. For now? Everyone, dismissed.”

  The various lictors turned to file out, and, in the hall, Adam caught Sigrun’s elbow, lightly. “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something about that card is bothering you.”

  Sigrun shook her head. “It’s . . . nothing.” Under her breath, and angrily, she muttered, “There is no fate. There is only wyrd.”

  Adam stared at her. “All right. If you feel like talking about it . . . you know where I am, right?”

  That got him a surprised smile, which actually lit up her face and eyes. “Always.”

  Chapter VIII: Secrets

  In the modern Empire, there are three forms of subject state: two of them are provinces, and the third is the so-called 'subject kingdom.' Almost every subject state that exists today has moved back and forth from one status to another. Let us examine these terms for greater clarity.

  The first type of province is directly governed by Rome. Local government barely exists. Gaul, Britannia, sections of Germania, Hellas, Byzantium, Carthage, and other regions have been provinces; Gaul remains one. Carthage was turned into a province at the end of the Second Punic War, when their line of kings was severed. Egypt, for all that it was a kingdom, where the rule of the pharaohs extended back for thousands of years, was first a subject kingdom, and then a province, a status it retains to this day. The entire continent of Australia, for example, is currently a Roman province.

  Some provinces attain a degree of autonomy and self-rule. They retain a Roman governor, who helps regulate all imperial-level matters, such as imperial taxes, the levying of troops, and diplomacy with neighboring nations, but can govern themselves internally more or less as they wish. Novo Gaul and Nova Germania went through periods in which they had local tribal leaders for their various cities-kings, not to put too fine a point on it-but also had town hall meetings, or, in Gothic parla
nce, "Things." This led both provinces to adopt direct democracy for city and regional governance. Judea, by way of comparison, was a theocracy, run by its priest caste, when it was first taken in hand by Herod. When the Judeans rebelled, and refused him as a king, Caesarion the God-Born allowed them a degree of autonomy, and permitted their theocracy to be reinstated . . . so long as they obeyed the laws of Rome, and their appointed Roman governor. The priests chafed, and there were periodic minor insurrections for about three hundred years, but by and large, it has been a stable province since. Judea has, over the centuries, taken on more of a republican form of government, adopted from Roman norms. The landed elites, such as priests and rabbis, and professionals like teachers and engineers, form a senatorial class; the remainder of the population comprises their plebiscite. They have some interest in democracy; they maintain that every citizen, male and female alike, must serve in their army, for example, and they permit women to volunteer for front-line positions. To call this nation a 'subject kingdom' is clearly laughable.

  The term subject kingdom is a product of a different era, and a term that has not been altered to subject nation or subject state in the nomenclature of the Empire partially because reprinting 750,000 different government documents, laws, and periodicals that include the term would be prohibitively expensive. That another generic term has not entered popular parlance is possibly the result of laziness of thought on the part of most speakers of Latin, but the term also reflects a genuine historical confusion as to what these regions actually are. For again, many of them have changed their status over time.