by Darian Smith
“Is this him?” he asked quietly.
Magda looked at the face and then quickly averted her eyes. Her hand came up to cover her mouth. She nodded. “Yes. That's Shalyn's father. That's Eaglin.”
Brannon dropped the sheet back over the man's face. “Thank you. I know that can't have been easy. Is there anything else you can tell us about him? Do you know where he lived?”
Magda dropped her hand from her lips. She was a handsome woman, with a slightly masculine face but there was a softness to the curves of it that hinted at the character of the person she was. She'd dedicated her life to caring for children who had no one else. It had both worn and polished her, like antique oiled wood, until she had an inner glow that showed her value.
“I don't know the exact house,” she said. “I always suspected he and Shalyn might be homeless or living out of a basement but Eaglin was proud and he worked hard. He always made sure his daughter was well fed and clothed. And, of course, she had the best shoes of any of my children. I only saw her during the day while he was at work. Several parents in the area need someone to care for their children while they work and they offer a token payment that helps me with the orphans.”
“Did he have any enemies that you know of?” Brannon asked.
Magda shook her head vigorously and a strand of gray hair came loose from her bun. She tucked it back up as she spoke. “No. He was a good man and kept to himself. Have you found Shalyn, yet? She hasn't been back to the orphanage. I assume, since you don't have another body for me to look at . . .” She trailed off. “You don't have another body for me to look at, do you?”
This time it was Brannon who shook his head. “No, no body. Unfortunately we haven't located her either. But that doesn't mean she's come to any harm. It may be that she's hiding at home or with someone she knows. Perhaps she was scared to venture out again. If she was there, she may have seen what happened to her father.”
Magda sighed. “Poor child.”
Brannon couldn't disagree. “We're doing everything we can to find her. We have people searching the area and talking to the locals. If anyone knows anything about what happened, we'll find out.”
Magda turned to leave, then hesitated. “There are rumors,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “People are saying this isn't the first child to go missing. There are others.”
Brannon raised his eyebrow. “Are you sure? Nothing has been reported to the magistrates.”
“I'm sure,” Magda nodded. “Shalyn is the first of them that I know personally, but others have gone missing. Street urchins, mostly; those not often noticed.”
Brannon frowned. “But if people know about it, why isn't it being reported?”
“Because it's nonsense,” Magistrate Gawrick's voice boomed as he entered the room with Draeson and another, scruffier man in his mid-thirties. “Idle talk and fearmongering. If it were real, we would have heard about it before now.”
Magda's eyes narrowed. “Respectfully, I disagree, magistrate. The poor don't always report their troubles to the authorities. They don't always trust those in power to help them—often with good reason.”
Gawrick's lip curled. “Nonsense,” he said again. “If they won't tell those of us who uphold the law, why would they tell you or the Bloodhawk?”
“I care for their children,” Magda said, her spine straight and tall. “Bloodhawk has spent his time since the war training as a physician and volunteers to treat those in need. What have you done to earn the people's trust? A job title is not enough for people who are struggling. They need to see action.”
His face darkened. “Mind your tone or you'll see how I take action.”
Brannon cleared his throat pointedly. “Lady Magda has proven herself very useful in this investigation,” he said, giving the woman the title allotted from her orphanage name, whether accredited or not. “And she has a fresh insight on how people think in the area where the murder took place. I, for one, am very grateful for her assistance.”
Magda turned her back on the magistrate and give a shallow, but perfectly executed, curtsy. “You are most welcome, Sir Brannon. If that is all, I will take my leave. The children need me.”
Brannon nodded. “Of course.”
As she left, Draeson sidled up to Brannon, pitching his voice low enough not to be overheard. “Want me to turn him into a frog?” He pointed his thumb towards the magistrate.
Brannon's eyes widened. “You can do that?”
Draeson shrugged. “I don't know. I've never tried.”
“Maybe later,” Brannon chuckled. “Let's see what his witness has to say first.”
The witness was shorter than Brannon, perhaps as high as his chin, and thin. He had dark circles under his eyes that spoke of poor sleep and malnourishment. His clothes were a wrinkled and dirty mix of colors. Brannon recognized an army-issue tunic that had seen better days, layered beneath a long woolen vest with holes worn through in places. The only clean items were his shoes, which looked new.
“This is Stratton,” Magistrate Gawrick said. “He saw what happened to our victim.”
“Thank you for coming to see us,” Brannon said.
Stratton's gaze shifted to the figure under the sheet. “That him?”
Brannon nodded. “Did you know him?”
“Nah. Saw him around, you know? But didn't know him.”
“You live near where he was killed?”
Stratton shrugged. “In the area, yeah. I move around.” Homeless, then.
“So what did you see of the attack?” Draeson asked.
It was Gawrick who answered. “He saw the victim being mugged by ruffians.”
Draeson glared and Brannon held up a hand to stall the speech. “We'd rather hear it directly from Stratton, if you don't mind, magistrate. It's good to hear things firsthand. I'm sure you understand.”
Gawrick huffed but fell silent. After a moment he waved his hand at Stratton, indicating he should speak.
“Well, pretty much like the magistrate said.” Stratton shifted uncomfortably, staring at his feet. “I saw some thugs robbing the dead guy.”
“Eaglin”
“Sure. Eaglin. I saw them asking him for money but he didn't want to give it to them. I would have helped but it happened real fast, you know? I didn't realize what was happening at first. Then they just stabbed him and ran off.” He looked up. “I yelled though. I yelled and they ran off with the money. But he was already dead.”
“So he was alone when they approached him?”
“Yes.”
Brannon scratched at the scar on his cheek. “How many of them were there?”
“Two or three.”
“Well, which is it?” Draeson asked. “Two or three?”
“Sorry, it was three,” Stratton corrected. “One was in the shadows so I didn't see him right away. I was scared, you know? It happened so fast.”
Brannon and Draeson exchanged a glance.
“What happened next?” Brannon asked. “When did you report what you'd seen?”
“I went to see if he was all right,” Stratton said. “To see if I could help. But he was already dead. And then the patrol came and we tried to find the guys who had done it but it was too late.”
“So the patrol came while you were trying to help him?” Draeson's eyebrow raised. “But he was already dead and you were right there . . . they didn't think maybe you were the one who'd killed him?”
Stratton shook his head vehemently. “I don't have a sword. How could I have killed him?”
“Good point,” Brannon admitted. “Magistrate Gawrick, is that how your men reported it?”
Gawrick nodded, tight-lipped. “It is.”
Brannon turned back to the witness. “And you only saw them strike him the once? They gave no warning and went straight for the kill?”
Stratton licked his lips. “Yes,” he said.
Brannon smiled. “Thank you. Could you give us a moment? I need to discuss something with the magus. We'll be right
back.”
Stratton nodded.
Brannon led Draeson over to Eaglin's body, a few steps away from where the witness and magistrate waited. He spoke quietly. “You have a spell to make blood glow, right?”
“I can make blood from the royal line glow,” Draeson said. He nodded toward Stratton. “This guy smells like the king of a garbage heap but I don't think he's related to Aldan, do you?”
Brannon shot him a filthy look. “I was meaning the victim's blood, Draeson. To see if it's on his clothes.”
“Same problem,” Draeson said. “But it doesn't look like those clothes have been washed any time recently and I don't see bloodstains, do you?”
“No.” Brannon scratched at his scar again. “But I don't believe his story either.” He lifted a corner of the sheet that covered the body to reveal the dead man's personal effects tucked in next to his feet. No wallet. Filthy shoes with worn through soles. “Strange footwear for a cobbler, wouldn't you say?”
Draeson glanced back at the clean, pristine shoes on Stratton's feet, at odds with his otherwise disheveled and dirty appearance. “Indeed.”
Brannon crooked his finger at the witness, encouraging him to come closer.
Stratton hesitated, then did as he was bid, moving in a sudden burst of speed like a boulder unbalanced on a hill.
“It's time you started telling us the truth,” Brannon said.
Stratton's eyes widened and he stammered. “I am! I didn't do anything.”
“Ssh.” Draeson jerked a finger to his lips and Stratton fell silent.
“What's going on?” Gawrick demanded.
“You shush too,” Draeson said.
The magistrate glared.
“There are some inconsistencies with the story you're telling us, Stratton,” Brannon said, keeping his voice level and calm. “We know Eaglin wasn't alone when he was killed. He had his daughter with him. And we know there are three cuts on his shoulder that suggest more of a fight than what you describe.”
Draeson spoke up. “We also know that he was killed by something that stopped his heart before he was stabbed.”
“Which makes us wonder if the sword stroke was to hide that fact,” Brannon added. “And we know you have his shoes, which makes us wonder what you were really doing there.”
Stratton's face paled. He turned and bolted back toward the door.
“Let's have none of that.” Draeson flicked his hand and the door slammed itself shut. “Unless you want to see what I can really do.”
Stratton pulled on the door handle but the door wouldn't budge. Finally, he gave up and turned back to his inquisitors.
“It's okay,” Brannon said. “We just want to get to the truth. What really happened?”
Stratton glanced at the magistrate, who stood with his arms crossed, the muscles in his jaw clenched tight. When there was no effort to save him forthcoming, his body sagged. “I don't know,” he said. “He was already dead when I found him, and when the guards came and found me with him I panicked. I said I'd seen the attackers so they wouldn't try to pin it on me.”
Brannon raised an eyebrow. “And?”
Stratton stared at the floor. “And I took his money and his shoes. It's not like he was going to need them anymore.”
Brannon sighed. There was a ruthless practicality to life on the streets. More soldiers than he cared to admit had found themselves living that life after the war. On the battlefield, the dead had no property rights when the living had needs. But here in the city things were different. And there was a little girl whose needs were now urgent.
“Did you see his daughter? What happened to her?”
Stratton shook his head. “I'm sorry. There was no one else. If I'd known there was a daughter, I would have left the money.”
“Sure you would have,” Draeson snorted.
“Is she all right?” Stratton asked.
“That's what we're trying to find out,” Brannon turned to the magistrate. “We're going to need as many of the city guard as you can spare, searching the area for this girl. She could be injured or alone. Ask anyone who might have seen where she went. If she hasn't gone back to Magda's orphanage and there's no one at home to take care of her, then she could be in very serious trouble.”
“What, the Master of Investigations needs my help now?” Gawrick sneered.
“You really want to quibble when the life of a child is in the balance and your witness has been lying this whole time?”
The sneer vanished from Gawrick's face. “No. I'll see to it immediately after I lock up this Hooded street rat for theft.”
“Before that, please,” Brannon said. “And thank you for lending us your resources.”
The magistrate left with a scowl, taking his witness—now his prisoner—with him after Draeson released his magical hold on the door.
“What a pair,” the mage muttered as the door closed behind them. “I really need to practice that turning people into frogs thing.”
“Let's just hope that little girl turns up alive,” Brannon said. “My guess is, after she saw her father killed like that, she ran away and just didn't stop. Ahpra knows where she ended up.”
The door creaked open again and Master Jordell poked his head inside. “Did you get what you needed out of that?” he asked.
“Not really,” Brannon told him.
“Ah.” The old physician grimaced. “Well, this news isn't going to help your day. When our porters went to pick up Duke Roydan's body from the arena this morning, it had already gone. But it didn't come here, and apparently hasn't been sent to any other facility to prepare it for burial or cremation either. Nobody knows where it went. I'm sorry, Brannon, but Roydan's body is missing.”
Chapter Seven
The sun shone hot and bright on the island of Gradinath, the light sparkled on the ocean and warmed the earth as Ula walked barefoot among the markers of the graveyard. She trailed her fingers over each one as she passed. Some were made of driftwood, twisted by the ocean and painted bright colors. Others were chunks of coral, lifted from the nearby reef. Still more were baked clay, sculpted into decorative shapes. Each was marked with a rune to indicate the age of the corpse located beneath.
She considered her selection carefully. Too fresh a corpse and the kaluki she called would have too much power as a Risen. Too old and it would burn out all its strength in repairing the body enough to animate.
Ever since the incursion in Kalanon, the kaluki were restless. Selecting the right vessel to make into a Risen was especially important. They had gained a taste of freedom and they wanted more. If she or any Djin shaman were to make a mistake in their duties, the kaluki would take their chance and gorge on this world. Ula had seen it begin and the memory of it kept her awake at night with a tight chest and hot sweats. The flood of kaluki had been almost impossible to turn back. She never wanted to face that black tide again.
She selected the grave containing the body she would use and set her bag on the ground. Crouching beside it, she withdrew the items of ritual: the chaff she would burn, the tinder and flint, the bowls to put at the corners of the ritual space. The familiarity of it was a comfort. She could feel the earth spirits with her, supporting her as she worked. She held back her dreadlocked hair and leaned forward, letting her saliva drool into the earth and felt the spirits welcome the gift. When she released her hair, the clacking sound of the beads woven into it was like a wind chime in the breeze. The rush of the kaluki ran through her, cool against the warm day, slipping into the body she summoned it to with ease. Almost as if she could have called it without the elements or ritual.
Ula frowned. Thoughts like that were dangerous. She let her gaze focus on the tattoos twining up her arm, black ink against the dusky purple skin. The runes and rituals were this world's protection. To release a kaluki into the world without the proper precautions was foolish, even here where many other shamans could quickly undo such a mistake. To even think it would have most apprentice shamans expelled. She was to
o old and experienced to be that overconfident . . . and yet, she could feel the strong hold she had over the kaluki as it took hold of its new body. The ritual had bound it well and without any of the struggle sometimes required.
She shrugged. Thoughts were merely thoughts, after all. She wasn't a fool.
“Kaluki,” she said, her voice firm. “You are bound and must obey. Rise and follow me.”
The earth churned and the animated corpse sat up, lifting itself from below the surface. The Risen was a kaluki of below average strength, in the body of a middle-aged woman. The body had been in the earth a long time and the kaluki wasn't strong enough to make it seem fully alive. Parts of it healed, flesh pulling over exposed bone and loose muscle, but there was no mistaking the decay. It stood and bowed to Ula and for a moment the prioress wondered if the kaluki knew what she had done during the incursion and if it feared or respected her for it. “I obey, Djin. What would you have me do?”
“Follow me,” Ula replied. She turned and walked toward the beach, away from the graveyard. She didn't look back to see if the Risen did as she'd commanded. She could feel the tether she had over it as its summoner, pulled tight. The kaluki inside didn't struggle. It focused its power on moving the body it inhabited.
They passed a small group of apprentice shamans, their tattoos barely begun, as they sat at the edge of the grass, practicing extending their senses to touch any nearby earth spirits. They nudged each other as Ula came near and nodded respectfully as she passed. “Prioress,” they murmured.
Ula nodded in return and walked out onto the sand, feeling the warm roughness of it embrace her feet until she reached the water's edge and cool waves spent their last burst of life to wash across her toes. The salty ocean breeze set the beads in her hair clacking against each other again, wood against coral. “You are my fishing rod, kaluki.” She pointed out across the ocean. “Go fish.”
The Risen walked into the water without a word, an unwavering straight path, deeper and deeper, until the waves closed over its head.