by Daniel Hood
Coeccias was not there, but the Guardsman on duty let him sit on a hard bench in the small, cold antechamber.
"Th' Aedile's to be back soon," the Guardsman said, and left him alone. As he waited, he thought through what he had found, and how he would present it to Coeccias.
If the hooded woman was Necquer's mistress, then he had gotten her pregnant. It would make sense, in a way, for her to want to get rid of his child—it would not do for a prominent merchant to have an illegitimate child in the Warren. Therefore the santhract, which Viyescu had presumably sold her, though he denied it. There was nothing, however, that tied the affair to Tarquin's death, except the fact that the woman had mentioned his name and had, perhaps, visited him.
What did the virgin's blood mean, and the second spell for invisibility instead of total disappearance? It seemed as though he had stumbled on a separate mystery altogether, in which Tarquin's death was only a secondary event. There were too many extras for them all to revolve around one set of circumstances. The hooded woman, he feared, would tum out to be nothing more than a pregnant mistress, and worse, a dead end.
For a moment, he thought about ignoring Necquer's appointment and letting Lons stand guilty. The player's knife and the motive were enough to damn the young man, and Liam could explain to Rora, if he had to, that there was nothing he could do.
He rejected the idea at last, though not because of any debt he felt he owed to the dancer. He admitted he owed her the effort, but the real reason he was interested was because he wanted to know who Necquer' s mistress was. He wanted to compare the hooded woman with Lady Necquer, and even more with his own image of her.
When the Aedile tramped grumpily into the antechamber, soaking wet, Liam had figured out what he would tell him.
"The very sky's cracked, and the gods weep themselves dry in wetting the earth," Coeccias complained, spraying sheets of water from cloak, hair and beard, and taking Liam's presence for granted. "You were not at home when I called. Should you be walking, after your heavy exercise of the afternoon?"
"It didn't tum out to be as bad as it felt," Liam replied, standing up. "I found something interesting."
"Truth, I've news as well, if you'd hear it."
Liam nodded over-graciously for Coeccias to precede him.
"Come in first," the Aedile said. "I've need of something, for it's cold and wet."
Liam followed him into the headquarters of the Guard. It was essentially a barracks, with a couple of rough cots and a number of pegs on the wall, some holding cloaks and hats. Halberds huddled in every comer, and there was a huge keg in the center of the rush-strewn floor. A door in the far wall, bound in iron and barred by a thick wooden beam, hid the jail proper. Two cavernous hearths flanked the room, and the Guardsman who had kindly allowed him to shiver in the anteroom was busy building a roaring fire. He barely nodded at Coeccias, who nodded back and went straight to the keg, catching up two tin cups from one of the cots. He filled them at the keg, and handed one to Liam.
Expecting beer, Liam drank deeply. It was some kind of hard liquor, and he almost coughed it up before it burned out his throat. Coeccias sipped appreciatively, and his eyes twinkled at Liam's distress.
"You'd be wise to drink small, Rhenford."
Liam coughed and spluttered his agreement.
"Now, for what's been discovered to me. Herione relates that Viyescu had indeed been to her house, perhaps twice, but it was long since, perhaps two years. She did not remember what he wanted, or what he did—she sees the whole book and catalogue of vice there, so the sins of a wretched apothecary would not impress themselves strongly on her mind."
"Still, even a single visit would impress itself strongly on a fanatic prude like Viyescu. Particularly if he enjoyed it, or maybe went somewhere else afterwards. Herione's women are expensive, aren't they?"
"To bed a princess or a queen should be," Coeccias laughed, but he was following Liam's thoughts avidly. "Y' are thinking he found out a form of entertainment less dear, and the memory plagues'm?"
"Anyone who knew would be able to hold it over his head. It would destroy his little part as Uris's prime lay worshipper, wouldn't it? At least in his own head, and that's where his devotion carries the most weight."
Coeccias laughed again, this time in half-mocking wonder at Liam's conclusion. "Y'are a seer, Rhenford, better than a bloodhound. Y' are an eagle, peering down into the puny souls of men, and reading their hearts like open books. So, we've some proof that Viyescu may be led by the hooded woman—what of it?"
"Nothing, yet. We have to know what she wanted of him, other than santhract, and why. And we'll know that when we find out who she is." He paused, he admitted to himself, for effect. "And I think I know how we can do that."
With the cocking of a bushy eyebrow, Coeccias invited him to explain how.
"I may be wrong, but I think the woman will be meeting her benefactor tonight. I'd like to be there." He did not say how he had guessed at the rendezvous. If there was no connection between the hooded woman and Tarquin' s death, there was no reason for anyone to know of Necquer's infidelity.
"To peer deep into her soul and pry her inmost secrets to light? You'll want company, then, I'd guess."
"No," Liam said slowly. "As I said, I may be wrong, and I'd rather be wrong alone, with no one to see."
Coeccias laughed hard and walked over to the Guardsman, who was still tending the fire. "Truth, well said, Rhenford, well said! 'I'd rather be wrong alone,' that's well said. Withal, the Warren at night in a storm's no place for even a bloodhound. You'll take Boult here with you," he said, indicating the kneeling Guardsman with a thick forefinger. Liam began to object, but the Aedile ignored him and began talking to his underling, who had looked up sourly. "And Boult, my lad, if you see anything that Master Rhenford tells you to forget, say, if you see a man going somewhere he oughtn't, you'll clean it from your mind, like a forgiven score on a tavern board, wiped away. Won't you, my good Boult?"
The Guardsman nodded with ill-disguised displeasure, and the Aedile grinned up at Liam. "What time should my good Boult join you?"
"A little before eight." Once again, Coeccias had anticipated him and had understood Liam's sensibilities better than he had himself. Why the Aedile did not solve the mystery on his own was beyond him. The blunt, rough-looking man could be as perceptive as anyone Liam knew.
"Well then, Boult, can you make the schedule?"
Boult acquiesced with ill grace to his commander's lighthearted question.
"Then you'd best to your garret, Rhenford, before the storm waxes too great to walk the streets, and await the ever-cheerful Boult there."
Liam agreed, and left the rest of his liquor untasted on the keg.
Chapter 14
THE STORM HAD moved beyond mere drizzle when Liam left the jail, but it did not achieve its full strength until after he had reached his garret. As he shook out his cloak, thunder exploded and the patter of rain on the roof swelled into a constant drumming, then one continuous rumble, like the passage of a herd of horses. He cursed Necquer soundly for choosing a night like this for a meeting.
It was warm in the garret, and he looked at his bed, thinking how little he had slept the night before. Ignoring the reasons why, he decided to make up for it. He carefully spread out his cloak to dry and threw the rest of his clothes onto his chair, pleased that the new cloak had kept out most of the wet. When he blew out his candle, a flash of lightning lit the room, and he stopped for a moment before settling down on his pallet. The rain was coming down so hard that it was difficult to tell it was rain at all in the darkness, falling like a curtain across his window. It was quite a storm.
Even with the constant rumble on the roof, or maybe because of it, and his own missed sleep, he dropped off almost as soon as he crept beneath his blanket. The last thing he managed to do was turn onto his back, to spare his abused front.
A slackening in the rumble overhead woke him. The worst
of the storm's fury had spent itself. Having been unable to wash Southwark away, it gave up, and wasted itself in a rain that seemed almost gentle in comparison with its previous power. The change woke him, and he thought for a moment as he sat in the dark that the storm had stopped altogether.
He felt more clearheaded for the nap, but his body was a solid ache from neck to waist. He debated dressing in the dark, to avoid seeing the damage Scar and his friends had done, but fumbling for his clothes without a light would undoubtedly lead to bumps that would aggravate his bruises. With a wince at every movement, he fumbled around in the dark for his tinderbox, and got a light the first time.
Bruises had bloomed all over his chest and stomach, a dark purple that was intriguing and revolting in the flickering yellow light of the candle. His body looked like an abstract tattoo, and he shuddered at the thought while he climbed gingerly into dry clothes.
Boult had not arrived yet, so he presumed it was before eight, and he was glad he had not had to be woken by Coeccias's surly Guardsman. He wondered what time it was, and a knock at his door satisfied him. It would be Boult, and it was time to go to the Warren. He went to the door.
Not expecting Rora, he stood for a moment in shock while she slipped into the room. Her cloak left a trail of water behind her, and beads of rain gleamed in her thick golden hair.
"Master," she said breathlessly, nestling close to him.
Speechless, he backed away, holding her shoulders to keep her at a distance.
"Forgive me, I could not stay away," she pleaded, ignoring his shock. "Have you bespoke the Aedile?"
What was she doing there? He forced his frozen jaw to open, and to speak. "No—yes, in a sense. I've spoken to him, but—"
"You've not!" The fury in her eyes at his betrayal, and the accusation in her tone, frightened him.
"Yes, yes I have, but in a different way." He hurried to pacify her. "I couldn't just tell him not to arrest Lons; he'd have been suspicious. I have to find out who really did it, or at least come up with enough evidence to suggest that it might have been someone else." He wanted to shout at her, to push her out, but the anger in her eyes stopped him; and yet she was pouting in a way that was irresistible. And the memory of her, panting over him in the dark, rose like an ugly ghost in his mind. What time was it? When would Boult get there?
"But what if you can't find the killer? What then?" She spoke with an effort, though he could not tell if it was because of her anger or the fact that the possibility frightened her.
"Then I'll make Coeccias leave Lons alone," he lied, unable to say anything else. "But not till I've tried to find the real killer."
"Who did it, think you?" The question, and the intense way she asked it, startled him.
"I don't know," he stammered. "I have an idea, but I need time to prove it." That was a lie as well: he had no ideas, only clues that did not lead to conclusions. What would Boult say if he saw Rora there? Would he tell Coeccias?
To his immense relief, she relaxed. "It was wrong to come, I know," she said sorrowfully, then looked at him with forlorn hope. "But you'll help, will you not?"
"Of course I will," he assured her, and began herding her to the door. "Now you must go; I'm expecting someone who must not see you."
"I'll go. I must to th'Orb in any case." Without warning, she flung herself at him and kissed him soundly, feverishly, letting him go reluctantly. "Grace you, Master," she said, and slipped out the door, her large, promising eyes turned over her shoulder at him until she was out of sight down the stairs.
Liam let go an explosive breath, and walked shakily over to his chair to collapse. While she was there, he had been aware of her closeness only because of the stupid desires it had raised. Now his chest throbbed painfully where she had hugged him. He could not slump, because it bent tortured muscles, so he had to sit upright. Instead, he heaved several sighs.
Gods, I'm a fool, he thought, a lucky fool, but a fool nonetheless. He offered several undirected prayers of gratitude that Boult had not walked in on the middle of the conversation. He had no idea what he would tell her if he could not prove Lons innocent, and could only hope it would not be necessary.
To avoid wondering about it, he forced himself to think about the night's business. If he could find out who Necquer' s mistress was, it might give him a start. He doubted it, but would not allow himself to consider the doubt.
The hooded woman was pregnant, most likely by Necquer. She had told Viyescu she would go to Tarquin, and then done it, speaking to the wizard in a seductive voice. She had presumably commissioned a spell, an invisibility spell that would have been cast on the Teeth, because there was no other model in Tarquin's workroom.
That, he thought with consternation, made little sense. Whether Lons had intended it or not, it was the spell cast for him that had saved Necquer' s life. If the hooded woman wanted Necquer dead, why not just entice the wizard to cancel the spell entirely? Why choose another spell that would make it look like Lons's had worked? And where had the virgin's blood come from? A pregnant woman would obviously not have any virgin's blood around her. He imagined the woman as he pictured her, nine months gone, handing Tarquin the decanter over her swollen belly and calmly proclaiming it virgin's blood, and her own.
Liam listened to his own laughter, and was scared to detect a note of hysteria in it.
Two hard knocks on his door steadied him, and he took a deep breath before granting entry.
Boult came in, dressed in a heavy riding cloak and high boots, as unconcerned with showing his unhappiness as before. "There's still a heavy storm, and the gutters run like a river in spate. Y' are sure you wish to attempt the Warren this night, Questor Rhenford?"
"Questor?" He was used to the indiscriminate way the people of Southwark flung titles about, but he had never heard this one attached to himself before. Questor was an old name used for special agents of the king in Torquay; it had lain unused for decades. As long unused, Liam realized, as the title Aedile.
"Aedile Coeccias said I was to call you that, for that it signified you were an officer of his, and gave you the right to command me." Boult could not possibly have cared less, and Liam found he liked him for it. He was almost perfectly average for Southwark-black hair shorn to just below his ears, neither short nor tall, skinny nor fat, with a blank face and heavy-lidded, black eyes. He looked bored, in a way that suggested he could be put to better use.
"Well, I'm afraid there's nothing for it, Boult. There's something I need to see in the Warren, and the good Aedile doesn't think I should go there without an escort."
Boult shrugged, with more than a hint that Coeccias might be right.
"I appreciate your confidence, Boult," Liam said sarcastically. "Let's go." Secretly, he was delighted with the taciturn, insolent Guardsman: He would not be the sort to talk about what he saw.
Boult had exaggerated his report of the weather: the gutters were full, but not overflowing, and the storm had resolved itself into a steady, icy downpour. The drumming gave rhythm to the gurgling melody of the rushing gutters. Snug in his cloak, with the Guardsman at his side holding a shielded lantern, Liam was strangely elated. The prospect of discovering just who the hooded woman was filled him with excitement. He began to feel confident that it would solve the mystery to his satisfaction, and he would be able to fulfill his obligations to Coeccias, to Rora, and to Fanuilh. He envisioned the explanation in vague terms, and saw himself giving it to each in a suitably modest way. He smiled behind the hood of his cloak.
The rain, though still thick, allowed the light of the lantern and the glow from the occasional window to play over the street. There was· no one to be seen, and the hissing and drumming of the water closed in on his ears, shutting off all other noise, but twice he faltered, an itch between his shoulder blades. He felt watched, but put it off to the rain and the dark, and submerged the anxiety in thinking of what was to come.
Once they reached the Warren, Boult let h
im take the lead and the lantern, winding through the streets heading for the courtyard. It seemed to take longer than he remembered, and he was afraid he had gotten them lost in the maze of streets, when suddenly the swinging beam of the lantern showed the mouth of the alley he remembered from the afternoon. Breathing his relief, he turned down the alley, Boult at his back.
Lights showed in many of the windows surrounding the courtyard, but none on the ground floor. The yard was left in darkness, which suited him well. He had not given much thought as to how they would wait for Necquer and the woman, and he began to plan.
Beckoning for Boult to follow, he squeezed around the left side of the pile of wreckage, jabbing his sore body several times, and once walking hard into a piece of wood at chest height. He had to stop for a moment, tears springing to his eyes, before he could go on. It had looked much easier in the dry daylight, and the lantern did not help much, illuminating only a tiny section of the heap. Finally, however, he was around, and standing before the door of the tenement, which sagged on leather hinges. He handed the lantern to Boult and pushed at the door, which moved a few inches and then ground to a stop. He could see from the gap between door and jamb that it was neither locked nor barred, so he grabbed at it and shoved up and back. It moved easily, lifted over a pile of unseen rubbish. A single candle flickered high on a wall in the room beyond, casting suggestive shadows over a railless staircase and more rubbish, heaped against the walls like talus at the foot of a cliff.
Not the most likely place to house a mistress, Liam supposed, but convenient to Necquer's warehouse, and well out of the sight of his social peers on the Point.· He only took a few steps into the room, to look up the stairwell. It rose in flights far up the building, to the top floor as far as he could tell. There seemed to be no other entrance to the stairs. Boult prodded at a large, unidentifiable mound with his toe, and muttered, "The Warren," with disgust.
"All right," Liam said in a low tone, "here's what we'll do. We wait outside. When the person we're looking for arrives, you follow them inside, at a decent distance, and .go up the stairs with them. Find out which door they go to, and pass them. As soon as they're in whatever room they're headed for, come back and tell me. Clear?"