Black Dawn

by Peter J Evans

  5. MARSHAL

  When Sherrif Roder first ordered his deputy to study the corpse in the alley, the man had been able to do so for only a few seconds before lurching away to vomit. Roder had let him be for a slow count of twenty before hauling him back and forcing him to look again.

  "You were closer, Godwell," he said quietly. "Now I'll ask again: is it him?"

  The deputy nodded, face white beneath his visor. "Aye," he nodded.

  "Well done, lad. Now go to the cordon. Make sure it holds. I don't want any of that rabble crashing about in here."

  Godwell nodded jerkily, and stumbled away, leaving Roder alone with the corpse. He had taken two full patrols to the scene with him, but they were all in separate parts of the market; making sure no one entered or left the section, searching the frozen ground with lanterns and maintaining the cordon. All of them, after catching a glimpse of what lay in the alley, had been more than happy to take on other duties.

  Roder could hardly blame them. The boy was a mess.

  He turned, watching Godwell. The deputy had regained his composure, and had now joined his men at the cordon, making sure the ropes were secure and fending off questions from the crowd beyond. Roder listened hard, trying to hear what was being said, but his hearing wasn't as sharp as it had been. He caught no more than a few words among the murmurs of curiosity and concern.

  There were a couple of dozen people back there, no more: market traders, those who had been given special dispensation to set up their stalls during matins prayer. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement that had grown up between the market traders and the Tabernacle - the traders would pay a penance fee for missing matins, which would go to swell the coffers of the Elect. For their part, the stallholders would catch the early trade, as the population of Igantia filed out of their churches and headed to work.

  Today there would be no early trade. Not in this section of the market.

  The stallholders were still crowding the barrier, peering past the marshals to try and see what the alley contained. That told Roder that none of the men and women standing there had witnessed anything of the boy yet - the two labourers who had found the corpse had been in such a state from the discovery that they were being treated by physicians.

  Roder wasn't as easily sickened. He'd been a marshal for a very long time, and he'd seen some sights but even he had to admit that this was a bad one.

  He moved closer to the cordon, deliberately scraping the toe of his boot on the cobbles. Godwell looked back at the sound, and Roder gestured for him to come over. "Well?"

  "It's not good, my lord. There are a lot of rumours for such a small crowd."

  "I know," growled Roder. "I can smell them festering from here. What's being said?"

  Godwell hesitated. "The usual horse-shite, my lord. Some blame the Endura."

  "Dangerous words." Roder turned his head and spat into the snow. Had the Endura caught the lad while he was alive, they would have done him some harm and no mistake but that would have been elsewhere, behind the stone walls and reinforced doors of the Tabernacle. Butchering him and leaving him to freeze in a back alley wasn't their style. "What else?"

  The deputy said nothing for a second, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the traders. When he did speak, it was without turning back to Roder.

  "There has been mention of the dragon."

  "I knew it!" Roder spun away, choking back an obscenity that would have cost him half his wages in penance fees had he ever confessed it. "Dragons! As if we didn't have enough on our platters..."

  "They're afraid, my lord. Ever since that woman by the Corpse Gate-"

  "I know, I know..." Roder flipped up his visor to rub his forehead. He had been awake a long time, and there was a buzzing ache behind his eyes. "But I tell you, Godwell, those traders aren't the only ones in fear. If this bloody rumour grows any bigger, and the Elect get wind of it, God only knows what they'll have the Endura do. Personally, if the choice came between facing down a fire-breathing demon or Makeblise on one of his purges, I'd take my chances with the hellspawn."

  "And which was that again?"

  Roder snorted. "Careful with that mouth of yours, lad. God sees all, but the Devil hears all."

  "Aye." Godwell raised his hand in salute, smiling as he did so and then made his way back to the cordon.

  Roder was left in the alley. He sighed, his breath white in the frigid air, and then went back the way he had come.

  In all truth, he could see why rumours of the dragon might have arisen here. It was the Corpse Gate murder that had started them off: that woman ripped open and left to lie in the snow two nightwinters past. No one had yet been apprehended for that crime, but he had no doubt that some common killer had been at work there on the Street of Sorrows. The woman had been robbed after the bastard had cut her.

  Here... The damage to the alleyway alone could chill the blood of a more fanciful man. Those gouges in the stone must have been the result of a violent struggle, someone laying about with a sword or mace, but it would be easy enough to see them as the work of giant demonic claws.

  As for the corpse itself, Roder was having a hard time determining how the boy had died. He'd not seen the like before - it looked as though a pair of rakes had been forced into the lad's chest and then hauled apart. His ribcage gaped like cupboard doors. What they had once protected was spilled into his lap, glistening frostily in the lantern-light.

  Roder paused at end of the alley, drawing the hand-lantern from a loop on his belt. He did so with utmost care - the lantern was a unique thing, and delicate. He had modified it himself, blocking three of its square faces with beaten tin and setting a small glass lens into the open side. With the wick burning merrily, the light it gave out was focused by the lens into an uneven, but quite powerful beam.

  Given what had occurred earlier in the shift, Roder considered it a minor miracle that the lantern was still in one piece.

  He played the beam over the carmine ice surrounding the body, trying to ignore the slick of it around the legs and concentrating instead on the tracks and spatters that littered the alley. It was everywhere, as he would have expected. A fair amount lay at the alley's entrance, which was what had first alerted the labourers. More was on the walls. There was none in the gouges that marred the stone, although the walls themselves were liberally spattered which meant that the damage had been done after the blood was spilt.

  Roder frowned, focusing the beam on the corpse once more, noting how one leg was twisted awkwardly under the other. If the boy had been opened at the alley's entrance, he might have staggered back into it, his heart still beating even as it was tearing free of its moorings. Death would have taken him while he was still standing, his legs giving way under him, turning him so he fetched up with his back to the wall.

  Then, while he sat there cooling, someone had tried to smash the walls down?

  It made no sense. Much in Igantia didn't as far as Roder was concerned, but this death was beyond him. He stepped into the alley and crouched next to the corpse, shining the lantern-beam on the boy's head.

  Tentatively, Roder reached forwards and touched the boy's cheek, feeling the crackle of frost-riven flesh through his gloves. Not completely solid, then. In this temperature, dead no more than two hours. Spilt blood turned to crimson ice quickly in the depths of the nightwinter, but meat took longer to freeze.

  Two hours. Of course, Roder knew that already. He had seen the lad, alive and running only three bells earlier, just before he and his companion had brought a hovel crashing down onto Roder's head.

  There was no sign of the other boy, the one who had threatened him with a bag. Perhaps he had suffered the same fate as this one, and lay with his vitals frozen to the cobbles in another back alley. It was even possible, although Roder couldn't imagine how, that one of the boys had slaughtered the other.

  "No," he breathed, dismissing the thought as soon as it had entered his mind. "Not him. Too little meat on his bones, for one thing..
." He reached out again to the corpse and lifted the head, hearing the soft, brittle noises of ice in the boy's tissues as he tilted the face towards him. The eyes, wide and rimed with frost, still stared in flat, blank terror.

  Roder didn't attempt to close them. He knew that if he tried the eyelids would come off. Instead, he drew back his hand and stood up, stepping away from the body. "Rest easy, lad," he whispered. "No more pain for you."

  The corpse looked unconvinced. Without Roder to hold it up, the head began to droop forwards again, but slowly. It was almost a nonchalant gesture, that long, slow nod: indolent, disinterested in proceedings.

  Roder could understand that. It was up to the living to rush about, he thought, turning away, especially when there was bloody murder to solve and dangerous rumours to quiet.

  The dead could afford to take their time.

  It took two junior marshals with prybars to get the body up, and it didn't come away from the wall in one piece. Once all the fragments had been collected, Roder ordered them wrapped in sackcloth and carried back to the Custodium in a wagon. There was a mortuary there, a sealed vault kept deliberately unheated, where the dead could be kept until they were identified and sent down the Street of Sorrows. There would be no danger of the boy thawing out while he was there.

  He left the job of clearing the scene to Godwell. His first instinct was to supervise the whole job himself, but it had been a long, cold shift, and Roder wasn't a young man. Besides, he needed to detail what he had seen and heard in the Custodium journal, and more than likely prepare a report for the Elect. There was much to do before he could rest his head.

  If it could be done in the shelter and warmth of his office, then all the better.

  The Custodium was in the centre of Igantia, a squat structure of hewn stone set just in front of the Tabernacle. Roder took half his force with him, leaving Godwell and the second patrol, and marched back along the open roads. On other days he would have done so at a punishing double-time, but his right leg was paining him. When that hovel had come down a roof-timber had sledged into his thigh, catching him under his surcoat and putting him onto his back for almost a minute. By the time he had been ready to give chase, the pair were long gone.

  He'd not expected to see either of them again, at least not until he went looking properly. It was a foul surprise indeed to see one of them carved open less than three bells later.

  Compline had ended by the time he reached the Custodium, and the streets were starting to fill. Roder led his men inside, ordering them to their barracks until the next shift. The barracks were on the lower floor, close to the kitchens and the refectory. The marshals could warm themselves there, and take a meal before trying to grab a few hours sleep. It wasn't long until the next shift.

  No such comforts for their sheriff, however. Roder went to the second floor, up a spiral staircase that set his bad leg aching, and finally headed for the locked door that led to his office.

  Except that the door was not locked.

  Roder slowed as he neared it, drawing his sword. The blade was smooth and oiled, as well kept as any in the city, and it came free without a sound. His footfalls would have given him away, he knew that, but from this point on he wanted his actions to be as much of a surprise as possible to whoever had opened that door.

  With the sword held at the precise angle to be of most use in a confined space, Roder stepped into the office.

  It was dark inside, as the lanterns had not been lit, but a fire was glowing in the hearth. There was a man standing in front of it, between Roder and the fire, so that his robed form was silhouetted by the meagre light of the flames. As Roder came through the doorway, he turned.

  "Sheriff," he said quietly.

  Roder lowered his sword and slid it back into the scabbard. "My lord Makeblise," he replied. "I see my fire is lit."

  "I had one of the junior marshals prepare it for your return." Makeblise stooped, reaching out to prod the fire with a poker. Sparks rose to spiral up the chimney and away. "There doesn't seem to be much fuel. I was afraid it would burn out before you returned."

  "It's been a busy shift." Roder stepped past him, towards the fire. There were tapers in a container beside the hearth; he lit one, acutely aware that Makeblise was very close to him the whole time, and carefully walked the tiny flame over to his desk. There was a lantern there, suspended on a chain. Roder opened the glass door, lit the wick and carefully turned the flame low before closing it up again. After a few seconds, there was almost enough light in the office to see the far wall by.

  While Roder had been busy with the taper, Makeblise had left the fire and moved closer to the desk. He stood there now, hands held together with the fingers pointed downwards, as though in a state of contemplative prayer. His robe was so clean and white it almost shone in the lantern-light, a complete contrast to Roder's stained surcoat, and its hood was thrown back to expose his shaved scalp. He looked for all the world like a wealthy but harmless holy man, a sage who could afford the luxury of pious meditation. From the soft, liquid quality of his gaze to the smoothness of his unblemished hands, he appeared no more connected to the hard realities of life in Igantia than a newborn.

  Roder knew better. Makeblise worked as hard as any man in the city, in his own way.

  "Forgive my intrusion, sheriff," the man was saying, his voice soft and measured. Roder had never heard it sound any other way, "Especially after such a trying shift for you and your men but I come here on a matter of utmost urgency."

  "Indeed?" Roder moved to the other side of the desk and sat down. He took off his helmet and found a place for it among the parchments and paper forms that littered the desktop. "In which case, I'm surprised not to have been summoned to you."

  "There was no time. Once I was informed..." Makeblise trailed off, his gaze turning inward for a moment. "Sheriff Roder, I need you to tell me of this diurn's events. In detail."

  "I have yet to write my report, my lord."

  "A verbal report will suffice at present."

  Roder raised an eyebrow. "That's very irregular. I'm sure the Elect would disapprove. Besides, my lord, why would the discovery of a murdered boy concern the Endura?"

  Makeblise frowned at him. It wasn't a deep frown, or an angry one but more the expression of a man who has found a spelling mistake in a page of unimportant text. On the face of Lord Willem Makeblise, though, it could have a very different weight.

  "Four bells ago, sheriff, your patrol intercepted two Daedalus operatives, one of whom later turned up eviscerated in an alley. Those are the bare facts, and from those alone you should know that this is an Endura matter."

  Roder folded his arms. "You say the boys were Daedalans?"

  "They claimed to be."

  "I'm afraid your spy-network has failed you, my lord. The boy who spoke only claimed to be running an errand for the movement. The other said nothing."

  Makeblise leaned forwards to place his hands on the desktop. He was very tall. "A petty difference, sheriff. Daedalus is my responsibility, not yours."

  Roder leapt to his feet. "Bloody murder on the streets of Igantia is my responsibility, whether the victim is a heretic or not!"

  The frown had deepened, very slightly. "Sheriff, I find your manner obstructive."

  "Really? After the diurn I've had I'll not trust myself to tell you how I find yours!"

  Makeblise appeared to consider this. He straightened, once more wedding his hands as if in prayer. He almost lost control, Roder realised, startled. He's fighting to regain it.

  When Makeblise spoke again, his voice was as calm and quiet as it had ever been. "You answer to me in this matter, sheriff."

  "I answer to the Elect."

  "Not today. The provost herself has given me a dispensation to requisition you and your men. She considers it best dealt with as a combined operation."

  Roder almost smiled. Makeblise had been forced to come into the Custodium by the Elect, and he hated it. There was no love lost between the two f
orces at the best of times, and for Makeblise and his elite to be ordered into co-operation with the marshals must have stung him.

  On the other hand, it was obvious that something big was going on. The Endura would have handled it alone if they possibly could.

  "Very well. As soon as the second patrols come back from duty I'll have the first at your disposal."

  Makeblise shook his head. "This begins now, sheriff. Have your men ready within ten minutes."

  "Are you insane?" Roder gaped. "They've just come in from an extended shift as it is!"

  "Sheriff, there is no time for argument. Daedalus is putting plans into operation that could jeopardise the safety of the city, and draw down the wrath of God on us all. You will make your men available to me, so that together we may avert the threat." Makeblise reached up, and drew his hood forwards. "I understand that you have had a trying few hours. You may regain your strength and, I can only hope, some measure of inner peace, while I bring this matter to a close."

  "No you don't, Makeblise." Roder stalked out from behind the desk and picked up the helmet, all pretence at politeness gone. "If anyone's leading my men out on their third shift without rest, it's going to be me!"

  Godwell met Roder outside the barracks, and together they led the patrols back out into the city.

  "This is a bloody nightmare," Roder told him. "The Custodium's damn-near empty, the men are exhausted, and that bastard won't give me a clue as to what all this is really about. He's up to something, lad, mark my words. Daedalus my arse!"

  "Are you sure this comes down from the provost?" Godwell was nervous, walking with his visor down and constantly looking around. "Makeblise has plans for the marshals, I'm sure of it. Ever since he took control of the Endura he's wanted us out of the way."

  "That's as maybe, but I've seen the dispensation."

  "A forgery?"

  "Are you saying I'd not know the difference?" Roder smiled at him. "Calm yourself, lad. I'd believe anything of Makeblise, but I also know the provost. This is as it seems, at least in that respect."