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Marina paused, stilling even her breathing, in order to listen. Yes, those were footsteps approaching, and rapidly. Not the soft furtive scrape of soles worn to nothingness, but the sure, swift, tread of boots. Marina looked around frantically. Nothing except the trash underfoot offered any kind of cover in the dark, winding alley. Its high walls did not have windows to press up against; glass was too expensive for residents of the warrens, and no one was fool enough to open a square covered only by shutters onto the smells and type of foot traffic that dominated an alley. The few doorways that opened onto its darkness were flush with the walls and soundly locked.
Only the narrow jut of wall where two buildings didn't meet flush with each other offered any type of protection. It was that or stand stock still and let the stranger run smack into her when he came around the curve. Marina ducked sideways and pressed herself against the scant inches of cover, pressing even the back of her head as hard as she could against the dank bricks. Her hand flicked down and took a hard grip on her skirt, gathering it back against the wall so that even the faint breath of air that stole down the alley wouldn't cause it to flutter, and betray her presence.
And then he was upon her...and passing, never looking back. Marina held her breath, not believing her luck. It was a Makepeace man, all right, and not even an alley beater, with a night stick and whistle, but an officer, with shiny buttons and one of those new-fangled guns flopping at his belt. It looked kinda funny, so short compared to a good, long sword, but Marina felt no inclination to laugh. It was probably his being an officer that had saved her; he wasn't out looking for folks out after curfew, but had more important business. Why he was walking down an alley instead of striding down a street was a mystery, but one Marina had no intention of lingering to find out.
She waited, still holding her breath, until he was around the next curve in the alley and then slipped away from the wall and scurried forward again. The sudden sound of a scuffle and a sharp cry from behind her froze her in her tracks for a moment, and then she began to run. Softly, on quiet, slipper-shod feet. She didn't know what was going on tonight, but she wanted to be far away from it.
She knew she shouldn't have stayed so late at her mam's, but it had felt so good to be home, with the familiar smell of onions and warm fire, instead of incense and cold, heatless lamps, that she had lingered. Her mam had fussed over her, giving her an extra half-bowl of stew, even though she was eating well, now, and even her older sister had stopped fussing over her children long enough to sit and listen while Marina had told her all about the medium's house, making it sound better than it really was. Now she was paying for her folly.
The curfew bells had rung a good fifteen minutes ago and she was still far from Madame's house. If she was caught out, she'd not only lose her job, but the fines might well be too high for her family to pay. Well, she'd just have to make sure she wasn't caught. It hadn't been that long since she had run the streets with all the other grubby urchins of the poor quarter; she just had to pay attention to what she was doing and not clump along with her head in the clouds.
The rest of her run passed without incident. Soon the heavy, cloying smell of fish and dying seaweed filled the air. She skirted the pools of light from the few oil lamps that swung high above the quay and darted towards the middle-class quarter that bordered the busy docks. Finally, she ducked down the alley that led to the back of her employer's house. This alley was much wider and cleaner than the ones in the warrens. Soon she was slipping into the back door of Madame Fertaglio's, and into the equally cloying smells of incense and candles that masked the scent of fish that wafted from the docks. She lit a lamp with the aid of the embers from the banked kitchen fire and turned to lift the heavy night bar across the door.
She was back safe. Her half-day was over, her month's pay was safely in her mam's hands, and the next month, she wouldn't linger so long she was out after curfew!
The next day her mistress was even more demanding than usual. Nothing Marina did was right, from the way she cooked the morning egg to the precise height at which she trimmed the candles.
"You don't understand!" cried Madame Fertaglio dramatically. "The atmosphere, it is all in the atmosphere. It must be just right, or the spirits won't come!"
Atmosphere, my eye, thought Marina. It was all in the drugs with which "Madame" laced her incense. Why else did Marina hear tinny, far off voices and catch glimpses of shadows out of the corner of her eyes whenever Madame did readings in the incense-filled room at the front of the house? And did she think Marina didn't know why Madame had shooed Marina away and opened the back door herself, when that sailor had knocked a few weeks ago? Madame, who never lifted a finger to do anything for herself? She had bought something she didn't want Marina to know about. It had to be either drugs or bought spells, as Madame was no spell-caster herself, and she suspected Madame was too cheap to pay for magic.
But it certainly wasn't for her to complain or be pointing out her understanding to her mistress. Madame had made clear she didn't like questions, and if Marina wanted to keep this job it would pay her to keep her thoughts and observations to herself. Growing up in the warrens you learned not to see what you weren't supposed to see, even when it was right in front of your nose.
So Marina never even raised her eyes when Madame continued to complain about the lunch, and the way Marina's skirt made too much noise when she walked about doing the chores, and the why those gulls had to shriek so, and wasn't there something Marina could do about it.
The latter had Marina biting her lip, thinking of more than gulls' voices she'd like to silence.
It was with relief that she gathered up the basket and headed for the market to buy what was needed for dinner and the evening guests. As she moved from stall to stall, she kept her ears open for the gossip. Madame always wanted to know what was being talked about—some of it had a way of showing up in her readings.
Today the voices were hushed and excited...
Did you hear about the Peacemaker.... head bashed in... Peacemaker! killed! not far from here!... they say his head was mashed something awful... brought the sniffers in... say they're looking for a girl... something to do with the sea... a girl! how'd a girl kill a Peacemaker like that?... no, sniffers say to look for a girl, and you know they're never wrong... they're going to be bringing the sniffers to the docks, I hear, on account of the girl having something to do with the sea... how can a girl have something to do with the sea? Can't be no sailor and haven't seen no foreign girls coming on a ship—would have heard about that... death of a Peacemaker... won't be any rest in the city, till they've caught someone for it, right or wrong!
Madame would certainly be interested in this! A death, and a violent one, and some foreign girl! A medium could hardly ask for something better to bring people flocking to her readings! All would be wondering if Madame would hear anything from the spirit world, and Madame would make certain that she dropped mysterious hints that would keep people coming back.
Marina went back to the stall that sold nuts. She would have to bake plenty of the little nut delicacies Madame liked to have on hand for her guests. It was as she was leaving the nut stall that she glanced up and saw the official, blue-bordered notice of the Peacemaker's murder pinned on the market notice board. It had a sketch of the man. Something about him looked familiar, and Marina pushed her way closer to look.
She gasped, as she realized it was the man from last night, the one who had hurried past her in the alleyway.
Marina felt a cold chill move down the back of her neck and settle like lead over her heart. She had been there last night. And now that she worked for Madame, she lived near the docks. And her name—her mam had told her that her name meant a pretty place where ships went, because her father had been a sailor. That had something to do with the sea. The sniffers were after her!
Marina rushed home from the market as if the sniffers were right on her tail. She dropped her basket on the table, and hun
ched over it, panting. Gradually she realized no one had actually chased her, and she still had the chores to do, but her hands shook as she made the little nut delicacies for the evening reading. Her thoughts scurried like mice, over and around and through her head.
I didn't have anything to do with him getting killed... I didn't even know he had been killed... That scuffle. That must have been when it happened. There had been a cry, too....
But why were the sniffers describing her? She hadn't had anything to do with it; she'd just been there. Out. After curfew. Too close to something bad....
Surely she was safe, here, in Madame's house. Could the sniffers find her here, behind a locked door? They say they used magic, that's how they knew stuff. They looked at a body, or went round some place where a crime had taken place, and they just sniffed out knowledge, the way a hound sniffed out scents. She should never have stayed too late at Mam's... now look what had happened ... but surely she could explain she had had nothing to do with his death—she hadn't even seen who had done it!
* * * *
Aian Donal came to the end of the report he had been reading and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. He looked across at the specialist who'd wrote it, one of those the commoners called "sniffers," and asked: "So, none of you have any clue on who actually murdered young Jokcelyn?"
Petrie shook his head. "The 'no see' spell they used was thorough—no thought, no sight, no sound, not even an odor from the actual moment. It's as if it never happened. Except for the fact we have a body, that is. I'd like to know what spell they used to wipe all traces from the scene—I've never run up across anything like it before and we can't work up a counter if we don't know the original spell.
"All we sensed is the girl. Her presence comes across so strong, she had to be involved—either part of murder—though if she was, it seems strange they wouldn't have protected her by the 'no see'—or else she witnessed it. Either way, she's the only lead we have."
"And you've traced her to Madame Fertaglio's house?"
"Yes. Should we pull Madame Fertaglio in for questioning?"
"No. At least, not yet. Madame is a pompous windbag, who is also a tad shady, but by no stretch of the imagination could she be called 'a girl.' No, it wasn't her in the warrens when Jokcelyn was killed. Someone else. Someone who fled to her, or went to her for a private reading, or has some other connection with that house. I'll see what I can do to ferret out what connection this might have with the Madame.
"You and your men go canvass the dock area. See if you can find any trace of the girl there. Or rumors of a new spell-caster, or anything of a nature that would cast some light on this 'no see' spell you can't break."
"Right," Petrie said with a sigh. "Though you know, if someone on the wrong side of the law has the ability to spell something like this, they're not going to be broadcasting it."
"You never know," replied Aian. "Sometimes we get a break. Asha knows we need one on this. I've got the Lord Commissioner screaming about how I could have 'let' one of my officers get killed, and young Jokcelyn's noble relatives demanding information, and nothing to tell either. Other than he wound up dead, with his head bashed in, in a quarter of the warrens he shouldn't have been in, while not another living soul was present within one hundred yards—according to you folks."
"I never said there wasn't anyone else present—just that they left no trace."
"I know, I know," Aian sighed. "But that doesn't help me any. He was supposed to be watching Kiasie, that foreigner that we were warned might be smuggling black magic. Or possibly smuggling something else. Or maybe just 'trouble.' I don't know if Jokcelyn was murdered because he saw Kiasie doing something suspicious, or because he was wandering around the warrens looking for some prostitute to bed, in which case his death could be from a simple mugging!"
"No simple mugger has a 'no see' like that one."
"I know, I know. I'm just saying we don't have anything definitive to tell anyone at this point. Either the Lord Commissioner or Jokcelyn's relatives. At least nothing I'd care to share. Go find me something."
"We'll try," Petrie said while smothering a yawn. He got up and shuffled wearily out the door. Aian ran his fingers through his disordered hair once again, as if he could pull clues from its strands.
* * * *
Marina's fingers trembled slightly as she lit the candles for the evening; she still felt chilled to the bone, as if it were mid-winter instead of late spring. Madame bustled about, her mood of earlier forgotten.
"Here, add one drop of this to each of the incense holders," Madame said, handing Marina a small vial containing a clear liquid. "Just one drop, mind you. This costs as much as two client fees!" She hurried away, humming.
Marina went over to one of the incense holders and carefully lifted the stopper on the vial. She almost dropped it, the smell that wafted up was so powerful. Madame wanted this added to the incense? It wasn't a pleasant scent, but maybe, like a powerful perfume, it would smell better when diluted. Or maybe it was one of the drugs Marina suspected Madame used, to play with the senses of her guests. Carefully Marina dropped one drop onto the cake of incense, re-stoppered the vial, and moved to the next holder.
As she was adding the drop to the third incense holder, her hand shook just enough that part of the drop fell onto her finger. She rubbed it off onto the cake of incense, not liking the oily feel of the liquid on her skin, and not wanting to wipe it off on her clothes. Bad enough she had to smell it now, she didn't want it lingering on her all night.
She finished adding the liquid to the incense and went out to the kitchen to check on the nut delicacies she was baking. Madame liked them to be still warm from the oven when the guests arrived. Her finger itched where the oily liquid from the vial had landed, so she scrubbed it hard, both to relieve the itch and also to get the scent out. She wished she knew what the stuff was, but she didn't dare ask Madame if it was dangerous to get it on your skin; Madame would be more concerned with the loss of a quarter of a drop of her precious liquid than anything Marina might suffer from getting it on herself.
The itch went away, and if it was replaced by a dull tingling, Marina didn't notice as she rushed through the rest of the preparations for the evening. Madame may be in a good mood now, but that didn't mean she was any less demanding.
The nut delicacies were safely removed from the oven, the candles were burning at an even rate and the incense was spreading a pleasant (thank heavens!) scent throughout the room when Marina began answering the door to let in the guests. Each discreetly handed Marina their fee, which Marina just as discreetly locked away in the small drawer in the chest placed by the entrance. Madame was too "spiritual" to handle money—at least within sight of the customers.
Mr. Terweg, a regular, a small, birdlike man with watery brown eyes, was the first to arrive. He was followed shortly by Mrs. Hasse and Lady Lorent, both of whom had attended several times since Marina had been employed by Madame. The next man was a foreigner, with strange yellow hair and eyes that were such a light hazel they seemed almost as yellow as his hair. By that time, Madame had entered the room and was greeting her guests effusively. She swept past Marina to welcome the next, a tall, somewhat florid man, whom she greeted as Lord Tiebold, fussing over him as if he were the King himself. Another stranger, at least to Marina, arrived, followed by Miss Sebrings, who came to Madame's readings almost as often as Mr. Terweg.
Marina made sure all those who wanted something to drink were served, and then began ushering them into chairs around the table. Her work for the evening was almost done. Once everyone was seated, all she had to do was sit quietly in a corner and make sure none of the candles burned out, none of the incense holders smoked too much, or no other minor disaster occurred.
She noticed the dark-haired man who had arrived just before Miss Sebrings kept glancing her way, and wondered if he were one of those men who thought servant girls were fair game for their amorous intentions. Well, she'd rather be stared
at by him than that yellow-haired stranger. Something about him gave her the chills as much as the thought of sniffers being on her trail.
The thought of the sniffers made her remember the events of the night before, so much so she didn't notice the humming with which Madame always started her readings. Voices droned behind her, asking Madame and her "spirit" questions, which Madame answered in that strange voice she always used during the readings. More of Madame's "atmosphere."
What would she do if the sniffers came looking for her at Madame's? It wasn't as if she could run very far. They'd find her in the warrens as easily as here. She shivered and glanced over at the candles, to make sure all were still burning evenly, and bit back an exasperated hiss.
One of the guests had left his seat at the table. That wasn't allowed. She was amazed Madame hadn't already called her over to "make the guest comfortable," by sitting him back down.
As she stood to lead the guest back to the table, his face grew brighter. And the chill that still numbed her fingers spread throughout her body.
It was the Peacemaker. The one who had been killed. Standing there, staring at her.
"What are you doing here? Go away!" Marina cried, oblivious to the guests starting to turn and look at her.
"I need your help," the man whispered. He turned, slowly, and pointed to his head. With a shudder, Marina saw the bloody, misshapen pulp that used to be the back of his head. "I was murdered," the man continued.
"I know," moaned Marina. "Just go away! I don't want to see that. I don't want to see you!"
"Marina!" Madame cried sharply, her soothing "reading" voice absent. "Who are you talking to?"
"Nobody," Marina said, thinking if she got rid of... him... fast enough, no one would connect her with the girl the sniffers were looking for. But how could she get rid of him? Why was he here?
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXII Page 3