by Daniel Hood
"Uris, Light of Our Dark and Teacher of the World, bless this city and this gathering!"
A muttering of "So be it" rose from the assembled crowd, and every person in the square and the wineshop galleries where Liam stood bowed their head. On cue, two of the acolytes caught hold of the immaculate tarp that covered the image on the litter and pulled it back, so that it slid up the front of the statue and then fell back from its shoulders.
Liam almost whistled, but checked himself. The statue was incredible, an eight-foot-tall woman bearing a book and a lantern and a benign expression. Uris had been rendered in exquisite detail, but what struck Liam was the obvious cost of the image. Carved of wood, barely an inch was free of some expensive decoration, from the cloth-of-gold robes to the chips of jade that were inset in her fingers to stand for nails. Her eyes were multifaceted diamonds, her hair uncountable wires of beaten silver; the book and lantern were gold, and in the heart of the lantern, representing the flame, was an enormous winking ruby. Countless smaller gems glittered from her robes, sewn into the cloth-of-gold.
Absurdly, Liam thought of a thief he had once known who would then and there have resolved to steal the statue, and then made good on the resolution. Thievery, however, was far from the minds of the worshippers in the square, who could not decide whether to gaze devotedly on their goddess or hang their heads in humility.
Once he judged the people had had their fill of the statue, the priest walked down off the platform and allowed the procession to form behind him. Without any discernible scurrying, everyone found their places; the pageboys once again in front, joined by the acolyte with the horn, followed by the priest, the litter, the rest of the acolytes, then Coeccias and his Guardsmen dressed in their ceremonial armor. As the only layman who had made all the processions of the week, Viyescu walked alone next, with the musicians behind him. Last in the official procession came Marcius and his gaggle of prominent merchants.
The horn sounded again, the musicians struck up a tune, and the procession began to move fairly quickly out of the square to the south. As soon as Marcius and his group were past, the general crowd fell in behind them, beginning to raise up songs and shouts. Instruments appeared among the hitherto silent worshippers, and the noise swelled into a happy celebration, loudly heralding the unveiled Uris through the city.
The procession was headed down towards the harbor and moving rapidly, the hundreds of worshippers pressing hard after, bearing their noisy celebration with them.
Liam watched until the last had straggled out of the square, leaving a loud silence in their wake. A long pent-up sigh escaped from the messenger, calling attention to him.
"Where will they go?"
"To the harbor, sure;" the man said, as though it should be obvious. "And then they'll up through Aurie's Park and Northfield, and so back to Temple's Court."
"I've never seen the celebrations for Uris-tide before," Liam said, thinking with pity of the litter bearers and their heavy cargo.
"They're every year," the man said, looking at him like he was an idiot. "How could you not?"
He began to explain, but then decided not to bother. If the man couldn't figure out from his accent and his name that he was a Midlander, why bother enlightening him? Instead, he simply shrugged and sat down at the table, pulling his unfinished wine to him.
The messenger stayed for a moment to bestow a pitying look on him, and then left.
Liam stayed at the wineshop for another half an hour, reflecting on the ceremony through two more cups. Few other Taralonian gods required processions, even in Torquay, which was noted for its zealous maintenance of ancient rituals.
At length, however, he could not keep his thoughts from the investigation, and he felt compelled to do something, even if it was just to walk—which he did, at length.
The procession's taking a long time, he thought as he strolled the nearly empty streets, with even more pity for the litter bearers.
He walked west from the square, past the outdoor theater he now realized was the summer home of the Golden Orb's company, and into the Warren, the sprawl of narrow, twisted streets and tortured lanes that housed most of the city in ramshackle houses that stretched impossibly high. They seemed to rely on each other for support, leaning forward across the streets, almost touching as they reached four and five stories.
Ordinarily he would not have gone there, but the spirit of the celebration must have taken hold, and there were few people in the streets, some of whom looked like they might actually have been cleaned to honor the goddess. Even the ranks of the beggars were thinner, many undoubtedly gone to try their luck with the processors.
And besides, Coeccias had told him that the apartment rented by the hooded woman was in the Warren. He pondered Viyescu's strange behavior once again. For some reason, his questions about the woman had upset the gruff druggist, but Liam found it difficult to understand why. It might have something to do with Tarquin, but it might have been that the druggist was simply unwilling to discuss the intricacies of sin with a priest. He might well have tripped himself up again with his religious imposture, closing off an avenue of investigation with an ill-chosen ploy. Or maybe Uris herself was frustrating him, as a punishment for pretending to be one of her Hierarchs.
Still—Viyescu had wanted to tell him something, and had not. Until he knew what it was, he could not dismiss the inkling at the back of his mind.
His thoughts as aimless as his footsteps, he was well into the Warren before he heard the bells tolling from far to the east in Temple's Court. On hearing them, he pulled up short and immediately turned around. There was little for him and Coeccias to talk about—the news about the rent being paid made little or no difference, and his impressions of his conversation with Viyescu were better kept to himself—but at least his afternoon of waiting was over.
Liam began to hurry through the city to the Aedile's house, and had to concentrate to slow down, to give Coeccias time to get home from the Temple of Uris. He even managed to make himself stop to buy a jug of wine, thinking it appropriate to bring something with him.
He need not have bothered. Coeccias opened the door himself when he knocked, and there was a steaming mug of mulled cider in his hand.
"Ah, y'have brought a small something, have you?" Relieving Liam of the jug, he ushered him in and then led the way back to the kitchen, which was considerably neater than it had been in the morning. Noticing Liam's appreciative glance, Coeccias laughed. "Burus was busy all the day, setting straight for the morrow. Cleaning's forbid on the eve of Uris-tide."
The servant looked up from stirring the steaming pot of cider and smiled sourly, handing Liam a cup without preamble.
"If it please you, Rhenford, we'll save the wine for another time, and finish this batch of cider. I'll not drink it tomorrow, and by the next it'll be fairly undrinkable." He sat at the table, motioning Liam to sit opposite him, and raised his mug. Liam touched his mug to the Aedile's, and they drank in silence for a moment.
"Truth, it's a blessing to be out of that infernal armor," Coeccias said after a moment. He had changed into his usual stained black tunic, though his hair had stayed perfectly in place. As though reminded of it, he ruffled it with his free hand. "I'd just as soon make a trifling donation than march that process again. It's a passing trouble."
"I imagine it must be worse for the men who have to carry the statue."
"Oh, aye," the Aedile agreed. "I'd sooner wear the armor than carry the goddess, but I'd even sooner just worship from afar. Not for me are pomps and displays, I'll tell you, though I'm as deep in for Uris as any other."
Burus apparently decided the cider was sufficiently stirred, because he stood and left the room.
"Now say, Rhenford, what think you of the moneys handed out?"
"The rent? It's paid, so we know for sure that the woman was not Tarquin's—though I never really thought she was. We're still left with Lons."
"Ah, I note y'omit Mar
cius from your accounting, at last. Y'are convinced, then?"
"I can't imagine or prove anything else, though I still think Lons doesn't have it in him."
He did not mention Viyescu. What he had discovered—what he thought he had discovered—he could not put into words. He thought the druggist wanted to reveal something, wanted to come forward, but it was only a fleeting feeling, a hunch. Not worth bothering Coeccias with.
Coeccias shrugged. "I'd agree, for argument, but thinking's no place here—the knowing is all. We know the player had a right good reason, and the knife was that of a player. All points to him, though why he's not fled is beyond me." For a moment, the Aedile stared into the depths of his mug, then looked up and spoke in a different tone.
"There's another thing, though, that'll interest you. The druggist recommended himself to you."
"Viyescu? He mentioned me?"
"Aye," Coeccias nodded. "At the fane, after the procession. He must have seen me post the messenger to you, for he came to me when all was done, and asked if I knew the hierarch. It took a moment, but then I recalled your imposture, and said I did. He said there was something he'd thought of to tell you since your last talk, something that might interest you."
"Well?"
"Truth, he mumbled and muttered and jigged around it, saying he'd only come to tell it through pure meditation on Uris and a lot of other pious rambling, but the pure and straight of it is that 'the woman' had come to him again, just the other day, and begged once more a dram of the poison from him. Now this is our woman, is it not?"
"Yes, but we already know Tarquin wasn't keeping her," Liam said, shaking his head.
"Remind me: what was the herb?"
Santhract, but it doesn't matter. Tarquin was dead, not pregnant."
"That's true," Coeccias admitted. "Though here's more on it: this hooded and cloaked beldame must've put a mighty fright to our druggist, for that he was shaking leaflike, and pale, and looked around him oft."
"So?" Liam could barely restrain his frustration. Viyescu's information was scarcely to the point, gone the way of his interviews with Marcius and his decanter of virgin's blood. Wasted breath and effort poorly spent. He was annoyed with the business, and with Viyescu. The puritanical druggist's problems had nothing to do with Tarquin's death, of that he was suddenly sure. Lons was the killer, though he did not want to believe it. "So some temple-soft fanatic is frightened by a woman? It's not proof, it's not knowing, and the knowing is all, isn't it?"
Was that what Viyescu had wanted to tell him? That he was frightened of the woman? It did not matter.
He regretted his tone, but fortunately the Aedile did not take it amiss.
"Truth, you've the right of it. More like Viyescu was afraid to talk with me, or to utter ungodly thoughts in Uris's fane. The knowing is all, and we know it's our player. Perhaps we'll clap him tomorrow." He fell to pondering his cup of cider, and when he saw it was almost empty, lumbered over to the fire to refill it, taking Liam's cup as well. Bending over the pot, he muttered heavily. "I'll say, though, that I'm wondering wherefore he hasn't fled. If I were him, I'd to the heath before we were a street away."
Liam accepted his refill. "He has probably guessed you have someone watching him, and that the proof is circumstantial. It is circumstantial, though damning."
"Enough to hi,mg him, if need be, though I'm loath to do't," Coeccias said ruefully, resuming his seat. "A confession' d do my heart good."
"He probably guesses that as well, and is hoping we'll give up. Or maybe he thinks my warning was all the punishment he'd get."
"Ah," Coeccias said, his eyes lighting with malicious humor, "then that was the matter you had when you let him off! To keep him off the Lady Necquer!"
Nodding miserably, Liam cursed himself. He had bungled it, bargaining with their best suspect for an unimportant tangent.
"Y'have a soft spot for the gentler sex; Rhenford, that much is clear. Perhaps he thinks we'll not take him for the murder because you're overfond of his sister, eh?"
The jibe stung, though a smile lit Coeccias's eyes, and Liam hung his head.
"Well, on the morrow we'll clap the player, and the matter'll be done."
Liam drank unhappily to the resolution. Strangely, he thought of Fanuilh. With Lons's arrest, he would have fulfilled his part of the bargain, regardless of his numerous missteps; he wondered if the dragon would carry out his part as ineptly.
They sat for a while, drinking the cider. Coeccias refilled the mugs twice, and Liam's face flushed with the spiked drink.
Suddenly the Aedile boomed out a laugh and slammed his mug to the table.
"Why sit we here like maudlin old crows?" he shouted, his teeth beaming hugely in his black beard. "We've conned and caught our killer! It's done! We're done with it! On the morrow he'll take up residence in the jail, and I' II to clearing drunken tars out of taverns, and you'll to your books! We're clear! Come! Bring the pot!"
The Aedile jumped to his feet and careered out of the kitchen. Liam stood more slowly, and felt the blood rush dizzily in his head. He had drunk more than was good for him, but lie had the sense to use a rag to hold the hot ring of the pot he took from the fire. Coeccias's sudden good cheer both surprised and amused him, and he gratefully allowed it to distract him from his melancholy mood.
Calling for Burus to light a fire in the parlor and to bring food, Coeccias then saw to the fire himself, and cursed the servant good-naturedly when he appeared.
"Damn your slowness, Burus! I've the fire in hand! You to the food, and mind you bring your pipes as well, and a third mug! Now, Rhenford," he called when Liam came in, carefully carrying the pot, "hang it on the fire, and see yourself to another mug!"
Burus came back with a huge tray covered with cold meat, cheese and bread, and a flute under his arm. Liam perceived through the rapidly descending haze of the cider that the servant's smile was sour by a trick of his face, and that he was well acquainted with his master's sudden moods. He left the food on a chest that stood by the fire, and stood back to check his flute.
Though his lunch had been large, Liam attacked the platter, both because the spiked cider had given him a new appetite and because he was afraid of the haze it had imposed.
"Now, Burus," Coeccias said while Liam stuffed sausage, cheese and bread indiscriminately down his throat, "it's not yet Uris's appointed fasting time, and Rhenford and I've finished up a business the like of which I've never seen in my office, and there's most of a pot of cider to down. So, you'll have a mug, and we'll have a tune." Gesturing imperiously, he filled the extra mug and thrust it at the servant, who took a deep draught before setting it down and commencing a high, lively air on his flute.
Coeccias burst out laughing and applauding at once, and stamped his feet in a ragged approximation of time.
"Go to, go to, Burns! He knows," the Aedile bellowed confidingly to Liam, "that that's my favorite." Liam was busy with the food he had heaped in his lap, but he managed to look up and nod appreciatively, though he had never heard the tune before.
By the end of the song, Liam had finished a large portion of the food on the platter, refilled his mug and begun beating out the rhythm on his knees. Burns was more than a fair musician, and Liam recognized his next song with a bright grin and an emphatic nod of approval. The servant had . started in on "The Lipless Flutist" over the strenuous objections of Coeccias, who wanted to hear the first song again. As soon as he saw that Liam was engrossed in the song, however, he stopped shouting for the old one, and came and sat by him, slurring his question slightly.
"It likes you?"
"Very much," Liam replied, running over the obscene words to the song in his head and noticing the mischievous glint in Burus's eye as he cocked his head over the plain wooden flute. It seemed as though the servant was daring him to sing.
"Then sing it," Coeccias roared in his ear, swaying perilously.
"I can't sing."
"Play?
" When Liam, wanting only to hear the song and recall its lyrics, ignored him, the Aedile grabbed him and shouted his question again. "Can you play?"
"Yes, yes."
"The lute?"
"Yes, the lute, a little," Liam said, willing his friend to be quiet. To his great disappointment, however, it was Burns who was quiet, laying aside his flute and looking at his master with an unvoiced question. Coeccias lurched to his feet and went to the chest. Dropping the platter on the floor, he flung the lid open and rummaged for a moment, coming up with a much-battered lute case. He opened it tenderly, and revealed a rosewood lute of tremendous craftsmanship, with ivory pegs and silvered edges. He presented it to Liam and then took a seat on a caned chair off to one side of the room.
"Will you, sir?" They were the first words Liam had heard Burus say, and he was surprised to hear a courtly voice issue from the sour face. He noticed suddenly that Burns was older than Coeccias, the thin hairs that straggled across his bald head a dirty gray.
"I suppose, yes, just let me tune it."
"It'll need no tuning, sir."
Shrugging, Liam picked out the first few notes of "The Lipless Flutist," and heard that Burus was right. Encouraged, he went on more confidently, and the servant joined in soon. After a few minutes, the rust in Liam's fingers wore away, and the two matched each other. Coeccias started singing the most common verse once they had run through the main theme twice. His range was poor, and he shouted more than sang, but the words came out clear and loud, and the words were the most important part of "The Lipless Flutist." Liam entered the singing almost right away, and though the mix of the two men's voices was hardly pleasant, it was not outright offensive, and seemed to fit the ruder lines quite well.
The variations on the song's basic theme—the adventures of a flute—player with no lips—were almost endless, and Coeccias and Liam diverged radically after three verses. The Aedile tried to return to the beginning, but Liam went on, into a verse he had once heard in Harcourt. Coeccias joined him on the refrain, though, and they brought the song to a rousing finish, shouting and laughing, with the heavy official jigging across the parlor.