by Erin Johnson
Madeline pulled a quill from behind her ear and jotted a note down, then scribbled out a line of text, and passed the sheet to her right, where an enchanted quill scribbled furiously on another sheet of paper.
"I'm on deadline to get out not one, but two pieces. My paper still wants nonstop coverage of the nuptials of course, gossip sells, but Bernhardt's death is a big deal and I'm at ground zero. I've got three other papers interested in buying a piece on it. I've got to get it written before their own reporters arrive by airship to cover it."
I fiddled with an oil lamp that sat atop her desk. "I don't know much about him. Why is his death such a big deal?"
"Hmph." She scribbled out a whole paragraph and wrote some new words in the margins of the paper. "Well, he mingles with royalty and those in power—he had quite a bit himself. He trained fighters here in the Fire Kingdom, well Urs did really, about ten years ago, brought his daughter Elke with him. She and Princess Shaday became quite good friends." Madeline arched a brow, but never looked up from her desk. "So for a friend of the royalty, whose daughter is also connected to the princess, to be murdered on foreign soil? Raises a lot of questions."
It certainly did. Not only did Madeline have something she wanted back from Bernhardt, but murdering him would have given her the extra advantage of getting the scoop.
"I think I saw you two talking last night at the feast…did you know him personally?"
Madeline's dark eyes flicked to my face for a moment, then back down to her work. She sighed. "I do work that gets me paid, but my true passion is writing exposés. For years I've done work on human rights abuses, and it's no secret that Carclaustra under Bernhardt's management was one big human rights issue."
I tried to keep my tone neutral. "Sounds like a terrible guy. Guess you really hated him, huh?"
Madeline straightened up and planted a hand on her hip. She lifted a thin black brow. "I didn't kill him, if that's what you're getting at."
I raised my brows in surprise. Guess I hadn't been as subtle as I thought.
"The prisoners there have no rights, no ability to complain if they're treated badly, which they are. Rumor has it they're kept in solitary for twenty-three hours a day. That's torture, as far as I, and many laws, are concerned." She thumped the desk.
"Rumor? You don't know?"
She shook her head. "No one knows what it's like in there. You can't get in to tour it, and I've tried every angle to wheedle information out of the guards." She shook her head again. "Bernhardt has them taking his secrets to the grave. I've never seen a group of people so tight-lipped in my life. So no, Bernhardt was not my favorite person, but we've met several times over the years, in a professional capacity."
It had seemed like more than that to me last night. I glanced down, thinking it over, and caught something hiding under a pile of papers in the wastebasket beside the desk. I stepped to the side and bent over. Using two fingers, I pulled the yellow-and-pink flowered scarf through one of the openings in the wire and held it up. Madeline's face darkened. Sure enough, a corner of the scarf was ripped and missing.
"I found a piece of this scarf at the crime scene." My heart thundered in my chest. I may be alone in a room with a killer. At least I knew the walls were thin enough that someone would hear me scream if she attacked. "And I saw you arguing in front of his tent. You wanted something back from him. Did you want it bad enough to kill him for it?"
She stared at me, her nostrils flared and her eyes dark for what seemed like eternity. She blinked and straightened up. "I don't have to speak to you."
"Fine, then I'll take this to the police and you can speak to them." Which was probably what I should have done in the first place. I edged backward toward the door.
Madeline rolled her eyes. "I didn't kill him, all right? You can take that to the police, but in the end, that's what they're going to find anyway." She stepped left, and moved around to the side of the desk.
I backed up. "What did you want from him? Why were you in his tent, if you didn't kill him?"
She folded her arms. "Why don't we make this worth both our whiles? I'll tell you what you want to know, but I want some palace gossip. I've got an article to write, after all."
"Fine." I gulped. "You start." I had no intention of giving her any gossip, but I'd have to come up with something.
She lifted her chin. "You saw us arguing because he was blackmailing me to keep me from publishing the article I'm writing about Carclaustra's abuses."
"With what?"
She took a deep breath and leaned her hip against the desk, then blew it out. "We had a tryst, over twenty years ago. I was young and foolish and believed his lies. He took photos of us together in bed, without my knowledge by the way. He was threatening to make them public. I'm respected for working on human rights issues. If it came out that I'd slept with the biggest human rights abuser there is, my professional reputation would be ruined."
I frowned. "That's terrible. But it'd give you a huge motive for killing him. Why did I find a piece of your scarf in his tent?"
She shook her head. "Your turn. What can you tell me? Something juicy, please."
I bit my lip and racked my brain. "Um… I overheard some maids saying there might be a mouse problem in the riad."
Madeline lowered her brows. "Really? I want secrets, not pest control issues."
I threw up my hands, the scarf still clenched in one. "I don't have anything else."
She shook her head. "Then you don't get any more information."
I backed up. "Fine. I'll take what I know to the police then."
She smirked. "Go for it. I'll burn the pictures before you get back and then it's your word against mine that that scarf belongs to me." She cocked her head to the side. "And how exactly did you find that scrap of fabric at the crime scene, by the way? Since you're not police, they may have some questions about why you were in the tent."
I gulped. She was right. I sighed. "Fine." My stomach turned with guilt at revealing another's secret, but if it would help solve a murder…. "Shaday has a secret lover."
Madeline stared at me for a beat, then chuckled and waved a hand. "Old news." She stood up and moved behind her desk and shuffled some papers.
I let out a heavy sigh. I hadn't wanted to tell Shaday's secret, and now it seemed I'd done it in vain. I didn't feel too good about myself.
Madeline sniffed, her eyes on her desk. She flipped a paper over. "Now, if you'd told me it was Prince Harry who had a mistress…."
I sucked in a quick breath of air and froze. She looked up and narrowed her eyes. Shoot! She'd noticed my reaction. A slow smirk spread across her face. "You know something."
I gulped and pressed my lips tight together, as if that would keep her from dragging any information out of me.
"Ho ho." Madeline grinned widely and straightened up. "Well now, that is news." She planted a hand on her hip, her elbow cocked wide. "Mr. Goody Two-shoes, Bijou Mer's sweetheart, has a fling on the side." Her gaze snapped to mine. "I want all the information you have. I'll pay you for it, a lot."
I lifted my chin, trying to act more confident than I was. She'd already guessed, and though there was no way I would tell her anything more, I figured I'd at least try to get something for it. "Not yet. Your turn. I want to know why I found your scarf in the tent."
Madeline considered a moment, then sat in the chair behind the desk and propped her feet up. "I went back to Bernhardt's later last night. I planned to flirt my way into the tent, lead him on long enough to dig about and find the photos, and then bolt." She shrugged and her face fell. "But when I got there, the lamps were on inside, but I got no answer. I went in and found him dead, sprawled on the floor, the whole place looked like it'd been ransacked." She shook her head. "Bit of a shock, that one."
"You didn't call for help?"
"He was dead, there was no help for him. And I'd have had to explain what I was doing in the tent in the first place." She shook her head. "I found the pictures stash
ed in his desk, but I was shaken and in a hurry—I mean, the murderer might have returned at any moment. My scarf must have torn in my rush."
I stood in silence for a moment, thinking over what she'd said. "Prove it."
She grinned and lifted a brow. Then she shrugged and opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out an envelope. She tossed it to me and I jerked, but managed to catch it against my chest. I unfolded the flap and pulled out the photographs inside. They moved magically, more like a short video than a human photograph. I squinted. What was…
"Oh!" I stuffed the photos back in and closed the flap. There had been a lot of flesh and gyrating and I didn't need to see anymore. I tossed the envelope back to her.
"Believe me?"
"For now." I shook my head. "And I don't have any information about that other thing." I gulped. "Which isn't a thing, by the way."
"Hank's mistress?"
I wasn't a mistress. I felt my lips purse in anger and willed myself to relax, to not give anything away.
She sighed. "Well, if you think of anything, my offer stands. I'm willing to pay more than you'd imagine for this woman's identity."
Ice shot through my stomach, fear of this information ruining Hank, and my guilt for revealing it, even though it'd been an accident. I backed up, the scarf still in my hand, and left without another word.
10
The Moon Movement
I crossed the main square and headed back toward the palace. People milled about, the crowds as thick as ever in the deepening shadows of dusk. Bats dove and flitted overhead and colorful silk and metal lamps sprung to life, one by one, at the many carts and stalls that lined the square.
The crowd thinned in front of the palace, and I hesitated a moment before the main gate. I decided, even though I had cleaned up, to take the back entrance. I figured I had less chance of running into Hank. I knew if I saw him, I'd spill everything, from speaking to Horace, to sneaking into the tent, to accidentally telling Madeline our secret.
I sighed as I stepped into the dark alleyway between the riad and the next building over. The moment she'd latched onto it, I realized the power that information held to cause trouble for Hank. My stomach twisted with guilt. What a weird day it'd been.
As I neared the intersection to the alley that ran behind the riad, a woman in veils passed by, heading away from the palace. She turned for a moment and I recognized her as the servant with the towels who'd spilled on Bernhardt at the feast last night. She jumped when she recognized me and covered her face with her head wrap, then hurried on.
When I reached the back alley, I paused. I could head right, go back to the palace for some dinner and catch up with my friends… or I could follow the servant to the left. The way she looked over her shoulder every few steps and kept to the deep shadows close to the walls made me suspicious. And if I believed Madeline that she hadn't killed Bernhardt, this woman could very well have done it. She'd been there the night of the murder and had some reason to dislike the man. Maybe I could suss out why that was.
I turned left and trailed her, keeping to the shadows and leaving some distance between us. She never entered the main square, but instead stuck to winding alleys and narrow side streets. I trailed her to a dingy bar with neon lettering in a language I didn't understand. Two men leaned against the wall outside the door, smoking, and looked me over as I entered. Inside, music with a heavy bass beat thumped at a deafening volume and bodies packed tightly against each other with barely enough room to stand. I rose on my tiptoes to look over the heads of the crowd and spotted the servant's black veil moving not toward the bar in the back, but to the right, down a hallway.
I sank back down and slowly shouldered my way through the room. By the time I reached the hallway, she'd disappeared. I popped into the ladies’ restroom, but found only a young woman I didn't know applying crimson lipstick in the cracked mirror above the sink. All the dingy stalls stood empty. I exited to the hallway and looked around. The only other door led to the men's restroom, and I didn't expect to find her there.
I planted my hands on my hips. Where could she have gone? Did she know I was following and had given me the slip? I grinned to myself—the slip. I was starting to think of myself as a real investigator. I spotted a symbol that caught my eye and walked to the end of the hallway. Graffiti covered every inch of the wall and even the ceiling.
It was a crescent moon, spray-painted in gold, that made me curious. If I turned my head to just the right angle, the paint seemed to shimmer in the hazy, smoky light. I touched a finger to it and jerked back as a I got a little zap of electricity—magic. I squinted and looked closer and found the outline of a door. The cracks were barely visible in the dim light, camouflaged among the black paint and graffiti.
I pressed on the door, then tried digging my fingers into the crack and pulled. I huffed—it didn't even budge. The symbol might be enchanted to keep the door locked. Too bad my magic skills were lackluster at best. I'd never be able to crack a spell. I'd bet the servant had gone through there. Maybe there was a secret password, or a key, or— I gasped as I remembered the same crescent moon symbol tattooed on her wrist.
If I was better at magic, I could probably spell the symbol onto my own, but instead I patted around my shorts pockets for a pen or marker to draw it on. No such luck. Maybe the bartender had one, but I'd have to fight the crowds.
At that moment, the door to the ladies’ room banged open against the wall, and the young woman I'd just seen strode out.
"Hey!"
She looked my way, her lids half closed. "Yeah?"
"Can I borrow your lipstick for a quick sec?"
She handed it to me, but frowned as I used it to draw a half circle on my wrist. She snatched it back and shot me a look as she walked back into the noisy dive bar. I didn't blame her. I probably seemed like a total weirdo. And maybe I was, but this was worth a try.
I walked back to the end of the hallway and glanced back to make sure no one was watching. Then I pressed the hand with the tattoo to the symbol on the door and waited. The gold painted moon shimmered and the panel of wall swung open, revealing a rickety wooden staircase beyond. I grinned, it worked! I stepped inside and the door swung shut behind me and clicked into place. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. Voices rose up to me from below, and the damp chilly air brought goose bumps to my bare arms and legs.
"We should celebrate!" A man's deep voice shouted from below and cheers answered him. It sounded like there was quite a crowd. I squinted and carefully navigated the creaky wooden steps down into the cool air of a basement. Footsteps thudded overhead in the bar and the thumping bass sound rattled the few lamps that hung from the low beams of the ceiling. A crowd of at least a hundred huddled together, sitting on overturned buckets and crates of beer. Brooms, mops, and bottles of cleaning supplies stood piled in a corner, and the whole space had a slight smell of bleach. The group of mostly women formed a loose circle. As I moved closer, a few turned to give me a quick glance, then focused again on the center of the circle, where the servant I'd followed now stood.
She raised her arms, her moon tattoo visible. "This is not a victory."
"Bernhardt's dead," a woman shouted from the outer ring of the crowd. "Damn straight it is." More cheers went up.
The servant shook her head and motioned for quiet.
"Who is that?" I whispered to a woman wearing big hoop earrings beside me.
"You new?"
I nodded.
She smirked. "That's Lilya, everyone knows Lilya."
"She big in this, uh—" I racked my brain. What was this? "Organization?"
The woman laughed. "In the Moon Movement? Yeah, she's one of the original fighters for equality."
As the crowd quieted, Lilya continued. "My brother is still imprisoned, merely for holding and publicly expressing dissident views that the government wanted to suppress. So, you tell me. Is this a victory? Bernhardt Beckham may be dead, but Urs Volker has already taken his plac
e."
The crowd grew quieter. "And if Urs goes, there will just be another to replace him. Changing wardens is not enough—we need institutional change!" She pounded a fist into her palm.
"Yeah!" Cries of support rang out from the crowd.
"We need a voice, we need equality, we need rights."
"Yes!" The woman in the gold earrings shouted and raised her fist.
"This movement isn't just about the right to express unpopular opinions anymore. I started it as that, when they took my brother away." Lilya's dark eyes burned with fierceness. "But it's grown. It's about equal rights for women, for shifters, for everyone!"
The basement broke out in cheers.
"I know we all met just last night, so I thank you for making time for this emergency meeting. But I wanted us to come together to reemphasize our values. While others may resort to violence, we will not. And let us not use Bernhardt's death as an excuse to go back on our values."
I nudged the woman next to us. "This is, uh, my first meeting. You guys met last night? Is this where you usually meet?"
She nodded. "We were here last night, yes. The week before we met at another bar. We go where they'll host us. Lilya will tell us where and when the next meeting will be before we leave. We move around to different locations to keep it secret."
I frowned. "So Lilya was here? All last night?"
She nodded. "Well, she has a day job, we all do. When she got off she came here—probably around eight o'clock. We were here till after midnight."
Huh. Then she probably hadn't killed Bernhardt, unless she'd snuck back after the meeting. But it took almost an hour by camel to get out to the encampment by the oasis, and then she'd have had to get back into the palace unseen. I supposed she could have done it in the morning, but then that would have put her entering the tent and leaving it in broad daylight. Plus, if she meant what she said, she didn't consider Bernhardt's death to have accomplished much. She may have spilled on him as a way to vent some of her frustration, but that was a far cry from killing him. I sighed. It was still a possibility, but my gut told me Lilya didn't do it. I was back to no suspects at all.