by Darian Smith
“Indeed.” Jordell chortled, his eyes gleaming, and he pulled back the sheet on the first table. “Look at them. Look properly.”
The woman under the sheet was in her early twenties at most. Her hair was dull and skin speckled. She'd spent too much time in the sun and probably not eaten as well as she should. She was thin. From what they'd gleaned since the murders, she and the woman she'd been found beside were siblings, and guardians to younger siblings as well. The slashes to her throat had put an end to that.
“Did you check her heart?” Brannon asked. “Was it frozen to glass like the others?”
Jordell tutted his tongue. “Such an impatient boy, jumping to the end of the book when the answers are in the first page. Look at her wounds.”
Brannon bent over for a closer look. The gashes were deep. “Three claw marks,” he said. “They severed the carotid artery. Death would have been swift.”
“And to think I had you teaching a postmortem class.” Jordell rolled his eyes and tapped his finger to the wounds. “You spent too long in the war, Brannon. You're not used to seeing animal attacks. These cuts are too clean. Too sharp and straight, like a cut from a blade. They're positioned like claws but they are not claws.”
The blood drained from Brannon's face. “Ahpra's Tears. Are you sure?”
Master Jordell nodded. “Oh yes. Your supposed frost wolf is a fake. These people were killed by a human.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Natilia fumbled with her keys as she walked, her footsteps a staccato on the pavement. Her fingers trembled even as she resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder. It wouldn't help to look scared. If he didn't know the situation already, a panicked flight would telegraph her failure to any of his agents that were watching. She had to do this without looking as though she'd lost control.
Her ears strained for any indication she was being followed but she could hardly hear her own footsteps over her ragged breathing, let alone those of a pursuer. She turned into her street and saw home up ahead. Her mind calculated how long it would take her to pack. There were three ships docked that had filed plans to sail either today or first thing tomorrow morning. With the right incentive, she could convince one of their captains to move ahead of schedule and take her with them. She could be gone by sundown.
As she reached the front steps, a figure stepped out of the shadows. Natilia jumped back and swore loudly.
“Sorry,” Darnec said. “I didn't mean to startle you.”
“Blood and Tears. What are you doing here?” Natilia gave in to the urge to look behind her. People moved about their business. None seemed to take much notice of her. “I thought you were investigating something upriver. Tracing the gold shipment boat.”
“I was. I just got back. I wanted to check on you.” Darnec glanced up the street as if to see what she'd been looking for. “What's wrong? Gandry hasn't been bothering you, has he?”
She shook her head. “No, it's not that. You shouldn't be here.”
“He won't either, Natilia. I paid your debts before I left. I got an advance on my wages and paid you off too. We're both free of him.”
Her lip curled. “Ahpra's Tears, you idiot. I was free of him already. When are you going to get it through your thick skull that I don't need you?”
“What do you mean? Where did you get the money?”
“None of your business, that's where. Now go! I don't want to see you here again!” People were staring now but she didn't care. She pointed up the street toward the center of the city.
Darnec looked crestfallen. “I just wanted to help, Natilia.”
She said nothing but kept her arm up, finger pointing, message clear.
Darnec took a few steps and looked back.
Natilia turned her back on him. There was a time when his having found a way to pay off her gambling debts would have meant the world to her. Now they were the least of her concerns. Leaving Alapra before word of her situation spread was the only way to guarantee her safety.
She opened the door and hurried inside. The apartment was dimly lit, the windows too small to make the best use of afternoon sun. It suited her need to stay in the shadows. She moved into the living area and took a crowbar from a shelf where she'd kept it tucked behind a row of cloth dolls her mother had made her. They were all she had left of her inheritance, the dolls and the crowbar. Making and selling dolls had been her mother's business and never earned enough to feed her children as well as the gambling habit she’d passed on to Natilia. The crowbar, on the other hand, had fended off many a debt collector over the years.
She took it, pushed aside the painting of the river mouth, and pried three of the planks from the wall behind. They clattered to the floor and she kicked them aside. She reached into the opening and pulled out a large, heavy bag. The gold bars inside it clanked as she placed it on the floor.
“So you haven't spent it all yet,” said a male voice behind her. “Well done.”
Natilia tensed, her body suddenly taut like a sail rope straining against the wind. She took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was sitting in the chair. She hadn't heard him come in. “You came yourself, then? I thought you might send your other minion.”
He steepled his fingers and watched her as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I thought we needed to have a chat,” he said. “It seems you've kept the wrong man obsessed with you, Natilia. Word is that Magus Draeson has moved on.”
Natilia's hands curled into fists. She forced them to relax. “The mage is notoriously indiscriminate with his affections. I held onto him longer than anyone else has and you know it. I got you the information you wanted.”
“Some of it, perhaps.” He stood up slowly, a sinister shape rising out of the dark, and began to pace. “But if he's taken up with someone else, you'll no longer have influence with him. Not in the way we need.”
She swallowed. “I'll get him back.”
“We doubt it. The new player has his own reasons for being there. It's not just a fling. We'll have to pursue a different avenue. One that doesn't involve you.
“Fine.” Natilia tapped the bag with her foot. “I'll just take my portion of the gold and make myself scarce.”
He grimaced, sucking air in through his teeth. “Ah, but that gold was in payment for services not entirely rendered.”
“That's Hooded rubbish.” Her voice cracked. She felt breathless. “I rendered plenty of services. Just as you asked. You wouldn't have known about the shipment times at all if it wasn't for me.”
He gave a little half nod. “True, you were helpful providing information, but the gold—nice as it is to recoup earlier losses—is not our main objective here. I'm afraid you'll need to provide a refund.” He moved in close.
Natilia saw the garrote in his right hand even as his left hand closed over her mouth.
“A refund,” he said, “and a penalty.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brannon avoided the Nilarian ambassador as he left the physician college. She and her machinations were a distraction he did not need for the moment. Not only was he certain she'd taken the swords, but it was Ylani who had first suggested the frost wolf as the creature attacking children in Alapra. Admittedly, she'd done so in response to the chrysalis he'd found, but he couldn't be sure how much of what she said was safe to believe. Not anymore. And he wasn't ready to deal with the chance she would lie to his face.
Instead, he stepped out onto the street with a sense of purpose and clarity. The sun was shining and the sky was clear, vibrant blue. People all around him moved about their business, with their own sense of order guiding each one through the chaos of the street. That was what he would find for himself and his team now: the order in the chaos of events they had been charged to solve.
“What's your priority?” Master Jordell had asked him. It was such a simple question and yet with it, the world seemed to fall back into focus. This was like a surgery. Every system of the body was intertwined and
confusing but each one played a part in the whole. To understand and fix what was broken, he had to avoid getting distracted by the flashy symptoms and focus in on the cause. Everything else could be tackled in turn.
His team needed to refocus. To lay out everything they knew and hone in on what was truly important—the missing children. If the frost wolf was, in fact, a human enemy . . . well, Brannon had plenty of experience with those.
He smiled and people moved out of his way. It was the kind of smile he'd worn on the battlefield. The smile that had helped earn him the name Bloodhawk. Perhaps this planning session would be less like a surgery than it was a war strategy. Either way, he intended to find whoever or whatever was harming Kalan citizens and cut it out.
One of the city guards was stationed at the front of the hospital. Another was on the corner. The more astute of the city's inhabitants might have noticed the increase in protection but they didn't seem to have adjusted in response to it. After a war and then years of rebuilding, it took a lot to spook the people of Alapra.
Brannon approached the guard and quickly outlined his requirements. “Take these messages to Brother Taran and Magus Draeson. Tell them to bring anyone they think is relevant. We're laying out all the information we have and going over everything.” There had to be clues they'd simply been too distracted to see. “Oh, but tell them I'll fetch the harbor master myself.”
Somehow he didn't think Natilia would be in the mood to deal with Draeson after what she'd seen at the Blue Rose. Brannon couldn't blame her. While Draeson's dalliances since acquiring youth were usually of the fleeting variety and held a clear lack of expectations on either side, he'd made a point of the relationship he'd had with Natilia being the exception. The return to his previous status quo had to have been a blow for her self-esteem, not to mention her heart.
Still, Natilia was the best source of information about the details of the gold transport shipment. No one had yet questioned her thoroughly about what had been revealed on the burned documents Taran had bleached. He needed her to be at this meeting and, under the circumstances, that particular invitation would be best handled by Brannon himself.
The harbor master's office by the docks was abandoned, with the door barred and locked and a small group of sailors, commissioned by their captains to wait and file the necessary paperwork, clumped forlornly outside.
“How long have you been waiting?” Brannon asked.
“All afternoon.” The sailor who replied huffed and folded his arms. “She said she'd be back after lunch but that was hours ago.”
“Come back tomorrow,” Brannon advised him. “She's going to be busy the rest of today.”
He left them discussing it and made his way to Natilia's home. The small apartment came as part of the harbor master's job and was walking distance from the docks. When he turned into the street, there was already a crowd of people outside the building. Magistrate guards stood at the steps and held back the onlookers.
Brannon hurried forward. “What's going on here?”
“Let him through.” Magistrate Gawrick stood in the doorway and signaled for Brannon to advance. The man's customary arrogance had been replaced by a weary slump in his shoulders and a pallor to his skin. “You got here fast,” he said when Brannon was close enough that their words would not be overheard. “What did they tell you?”
Brannon swallowed but the tightness in his throat didn't shift. “Nothing. I came because I had questions for Natilia.” He peered over the magistrate's shoulder. More black-robed figures were inside the apartment.
“Ah. We did send for you. This isn't one of your cases but . . . I'm afraid she's dead, Sir Brannon. Strangled.”
“What? Are you sure?” The confidence and determination he'd felt mere moments ago, drained away. Somehow it had seemed that by calling a meeting and formulating plans, he could stop the deaths. But now it seemed even those who might help him could not be saved.
“There's more.” Magistrate Gawrick leaned in closer. “Neighbors heard her arguing with her ex-boyfriend just a few moments before she was found.”
Brannon's eyes widened. “With Draeson?”
“No, not the magus.” Gawrick shook his head. “With your young protégé. Darnec Raldene. It seems he's back in Alapra. Can you think of any reason he might cause Natilia harm?”
Brannon swallowed. Could this truly be happening again? Could another of his apprentices be a murderer? “She told us he was still gambling but we couldn't find evidence of it. But . . . there has been some suspicion since he left. It's possible he's been involved in the gold theft somehow.”
“Well,” said Gawrick. “It's looking more than possible. He ambushed our young harbor master and was last seen heading toward the palace.”
The very place the rest of Brannon's team and witnesses were gathering, unaware Darnec had just murdered one of their number to keep his secret. And if he could murder one person, what was to say he wouldn't murder more?
“Blood and Tears!” Brannon turned and ran toward the palace.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The door closed behind Taran with a soft thump. The war room was little used now and had become a museum of sorts, a monument to the battle that, at the time, had seemed endless. Tapestries depicting various victories of note adorned the walls and several of Kalanon's heroes were represented by life-sized stone statues, including the king and his champion, Sir Brannon. A large circular table, topped with a map of Kalanon and the countries at her borders, stood in the middle of the room surrounded by high-backed chairs with thick cushioned seats. The men and women who had sat in those chairs had spent many hours planning the defense of Kalanon. The fabric was worn shiny.
Blood pooled on the wood surface of the table, oozing and shifting itself into various shapes. First it was a dagger, then a star. Then it was gone and the table was dry. Taran blinked.
Prince Tomidan sat at the table, his legs dangling like wind chimes in a breeze. He slid off the chair and ran to hug Taran. The priest patted the boy awkwardly on the back. “Good to see you too, Your Highness.”
“It seems you're popular.” Darnec Raldene pushed himself up from the wall he'd been leaning on and crossed the room.
Taran frowned. “You're here?”
“Just got back,” Darnec said. “And I'm still the first one to arrive.”
“Are you?” Taran squinted at him. There was something about the young guard that gave him pause. Some reason to be wary. But he couldn't remember what it was.
Darnec shimmered and became a teenage boy in blood-soaked clothing. “Why didn't you stand with me, Taran?”
“Mud?”
Mud's face twisted in pain. “Who?”
“I didn't mean to . . .” Taran shook his head. Mud was dead. He fumbled for the little leather pouch Master Jordell had given him, took out one of the dried leaves, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed it, the crushed leaf releasing a bitter flavor that washed over his tongue and his senses. When he looked again, Mud was gone. Darnec Raldene and Tomidan stood together, their faces lined with worry.
Taran closed the pouch with trembling hands. He still knew enough to take the medicine. What would happen when he no longer recognized hallucinations for what they were? It couldn't be that far off. And if he didn't know what he was facing, he wouldn't know to take the remedy. “You're real, aren't you?” he asked quietly.
Tommy reached out and took his hand. The small fingers squeezed Taran's, solid and warm.
Taran smiled. “Thank you. How long before Sir Brannon and Magus Draeson join us?”
Darnec shrugged. “Presumably they're bringing in other witnesses. Perhaps the cobbler or Lady Belania.”
“What about—” Taran stopped speaking and stared. A figure moved in the shadows. One of the statues? Taran pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The bitter taste of Master Jordell's leaf was still there. The movement was real. He hated not knowing when he could trust his own mind.
She moved fo
rward and the light from the hanging candelabra chased away the remaining traces of his confusion. It was a palace serving woman. She'd come in through the servants’ entrance. Of course. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, her voice high-pitched. She had a round face framed with a headscarf and an apron lined with lace. “But . . . would you like anything?”
“Not right now,” Darnec told her. “Perhaps when the others arrive.”
The woman hesitated and cleared her throat before she spoke again. “Also, I'm to inform Brother Taran that dead men don't keep secrets.”
Taran frowned. “What?”
She reached her hand toward him. “I'm sorry. They made me.”
An arm reached around from behind her and cut her throat with a cleaver. Blood sprayed across the room in an arc. Her body tipped forward like a felled tree and struck the table with a thud. Blood flowed across the map inlay, a red flood over the River Tilal and all the way to Alapra.
Marbella leapt onto the dead woman's back, cleaver still in her hand, and bounced like a child playing at horse riding. “Giddy-up!” she said. “Bad horsie.”
“Whoops,” said a male voice behind her. “Another one down.” Fressin moved into the light. He moved in long, easy strides. The skin around his lips was cracked and dry but he looked very much alive. He held a guardsman's severed head in his hand. His fingers had crushed both the helmet and the skull it protected. He brandished it at Prince Tomidan. “Bring back any memories? Dear old Mommy, perhaps?”
Taran saw Tommy's face go white. The boy's eyes were wide and his lip trembled. “Blood and Tears. You can see that?”
“Yeah.” Darnec drew his sword and placed himself between the prince and the intruders. “We can see it.”
The bitter medicinal taste rose in Taran's throat and crushed his chest. He pulled the daggers from the sheathes hidden in his sleeves. “Then run,” he said. “Take Tommy with you and don't look back. Run!”