Idisio, heart thudding in his chest, did his best to still his trembling hands.
After what seemed an eternity of silence, Scratha let out a long breath, released Idisio's shoulder, and moved towards the bed again. He stood staring down at the spot where his knife stuck out of the mattress, let out another great sigh, and said, “You didn't ask if this girl left anything behind, by chance?”
Idisio edged forward, staring wide-eyed at the scarlet and black stripe twitching limply across the bed. “Marsh asp. You're lucky it didn't bite you.”
“It did,” Scratha said. For the first time, Idisio noticed his master held his left hand cradled in his right.
The words crashed into Idisio like a hurricane wave. “You . . . oh, gods, I'll go get the—”
“Stay here.”
Halfway to the door, Idisio turned in place, feeling rather wild-eyed. “What? You need the healer, I have to go, that thing's deadly—”
“I don't need some village bumpkin of a healer,” Scratha said through his teeth. “Get that thing off the bed.”
It took all Idisio's courage to approach the still-writhing snake, yank the knife free, and use the tip of the blade to knock the thing onto the floor well away from them. As it fell, the head and body parted ways, landing several inches apart; Idisio shuddered and shut his eyes. He prayed silently that Scratha wouldn't ask him to take the snake out of the room. He didn't think he could stand that.
Scratha stumbled to the bed and sat down, pulling his legs into a desert-style fold. His face beaded with sweat and began to lose color rapidly.
“I have to get you help,” Idisio almost whined in desperation.
“Sit back down,” Scratha said, “and shut up for a moment.”
Idisio sank into the one chair and pulled his own feet up, suddenly terrified that more snakes would creep out from the floorboards and attack his bare feet. Realizing he still held the knife, he started to set it aside on the table, but Scratha shook his head.
“Keep it to hand in case of more vermin,” he said. “If that snake was left here on purpose, there's likely more than one slithering about.”
Idisio tucked his feet more tightly against himself and stared around the room, his heart hammering ever louder in his ears. “Why would someone do that?” he gabbled.
“Don't know. Damn stupid way to try to kill someone.” Scratha breathed deeply and shut his eyes. “Probably just coincidence. But stay here,” he mumbled. “Stay here.”
“I will, Master,” Idisio promised, his hands clenched tight around his knees. The man was about to die, and then what? Idisio would be alone with a village certain of his guilt. He shivered and shut his own eyes, not wanting to watch the final spasms as the poison worked through his master's system.
Scratha's breathing disintegrated into a series of hoarse pants. He moaned, coughed violently several times, then, incredibly, spoke.
“Idisio. I'm not going to die. Stop looking so idiotic.”
His voice sounded blurred with pain but strong; Idisio opened his eyes and stared in unconcealed astonishment. Scratha still sat upright, sweat thick on his face, his hands trembling, but his eyes fierce and clear as ever.
“It takes more than a swamp asp,” Scratha said, pausing for breath between each word, “to kill a desert lord. Are there more snakes in the room?”
Idisio tore his fascinated stare from his master's face and scanned the room hastily. “I don't see any.”
“Good enough. Now think: that girl. . . .” Scratha stopped, breathed unevenly for a while with his eyes shut, then went on. “Ground was trampled. Why?”
“Someone was afraid their footprints would be easy to match to a face,” Idisio said, sitting up straight. “There were three sets. One likely hers, small and thin and light; another large and splay-toed, deep in the mud from a heavy person, and a third long and thin, a skinny man, I'd say, not much heavier than the girl.”
“The deep one,” Scratha said. “Not that many large folk here.”
“Still too many for easy pointing.”
Scratha nodded. His breath came more easily now, and some color had returned to his face.
“Washcloth,” he said, pointing to the stand. Idisio scrambled to hand him one of the worn cloths and watched as Scratha wiped the sweat from his face with an unsteady hand.
“Master. . . .” Idisio said tentatively.
“I'll be fine, Idisio,” Scratha said. “Let's go talk to the village master.”
The village master turned out to be a short, stocky man with grey hair clipped short against his skull and wide, blue eyes. His gaze moved to the developing bruise on Idisio's cheek, held Idisio's eyes for a long, questioning moment, then scanned upward to the tall nobleman.
“Can I help you, s'e?” he said without warmth.
“I believe my servant had nothing to do with the girl found dead in the swamp,” Scratha said bluntly. “We will stay until the person responsible is found.” He seemed to have recovered almost completely during the walk to the village master's house, but Idisio noticed that he leaned heavily on any supporting surface available.
“You've not been accused of Kera's death, s'e.”
“I know that,” Scratha said, and shifted casually to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. The long sleeves of his shirt, while undoubtedly hot, served to hide his swollen arm. “But how many here believe us both innocent?”
Silence. The man's blue eyes watched the tall nobleman warily.
“You don't even believe it,” Scratha said.
“You've obviously got a temper, s'e,” the village master said, face expressionless.
Scratha opened his mouth, face darkening, then slid a glance sideways to Idisio and sighed.
“True enough,” he said. “But it's a far cry from that to sticking a knife in a girl's stomach.”
“Nobody in this village would have killed Kera,” the master said. “There was no reason.”
“We had no reason, either,” Scratha retorted, his dark eyebrows scrunching again. “Would you be so kind as to listen to our account before making up your mind?”
Thin lips pursed for a moment; then the man nodded once.
Scratha rapidly summarized his own and Idisio's movements since arriving in town.
“I'll swear to the truth of those words on my blood,” he finished. Idisio almost groaned aloud. That phrase was only ever used by southern nobles.
The village master's expression changed instantly from skeptical to shocked. He backed up a step, staring at the tall man.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he stammered. “I meant no offense . . . please . . . the blood oath isn't necessary. You don't need to stay until this is all sorted out.”
Scratha closed his eyes briefly, his lips tightening.
“No offense taken,” he said at last, looking at the man again. He swayed a little, caught himself against the doorframe. “And I will stay, because I want to clear my name and that of my servant.”
“Your name is without stain,” the man said hastily, looking ever more confused and afraid. “We would not dare accuse—”
“Let's skip all that. I'm s'e Gerau Sa'adenit, nothing more or less.” He glared until the man gave a shaky, wide-eyed nod of agreement. “One of the prints my servant saw was made by a heavy man, barefoot, with wide-set toes. Who here matches that description?”
The old man lowered his gaze to the floor, frowning as he thought for a time, then said, “We have perhaps ten large men in the village. Four of them might have been foolish enough to walk into the marshes at night barefoot. Two of those are married, and one of them has been ill for the past three days with fever.”
He paused. “But none of them ever had words with Kera, or even a hard glance at her that I heard of. Asti Lashnar is very protective of his daughter's honor. He'd planned on finding her a good marriage in Bright Bay his next trip.”
Scratha snorted and opened his mouth. Afraid of what might emerge, Idisio cut in first, ignoring
his master's sharp glare: “Men, you said. Are you counting boys?”
“Boys,” the village master said slowly, drawing the word out. “No, I can't think of any.”
“How about the one tripped me up and roused the village?” Idisio said.
“Oh, Karic?” the old man said, eyebrows rising in apparent surprise. “Well, yes, but . . . well, yes. But he was tending merchant Lashnar's mare all of last night, and he's gone to deliver news to the next village on.”
“He was working with another boy, wasn't he?” Idisio said. “Baylor?”
“Yee-ess,” the man said, his frown deepening. “But—”
“Let's go talk to Baylor,” Scratha suggested.
Face wrinkled in clear reluctance, the village master finally nodded and said, as he shut the door behind him, “He'll be at the stables.”
“What, Lashnar's trusting him with the mare again?”
“There's nobody else, with Karic out of town,” the village master said. His lips thinned as though he'd regretted saying that much, and he stalked towards the stables without looking back.
“No,” Baylor said positively, this thin face hard and hostile as he looked at Scratha and Idisio. “He was here, with me, all night. Lashnar tol' him to stay an' make sure everything was good, as he don't trust me with his mare no more.” The boy's expression suggested a fair amount of money had been involved in the lost job.
“Thank you, Baylor,” the village master said in a tone of poorly hidden relief, and started to turn away. Scratha didn't move from his spot on a hay bale. Neither did Idisio.
“All night?” Idisio asked. “Not even left to go empty his bladder?”
“All night,” the stable boy repeated, glaring at Idisio.
“How about you?” Idisio said. “Did you wander out for a bit?”
“No!” the boy said, indignant now. “What are you, deaf? I said we was both here all night!”
“I smelled wine on Karic's breath, when he knocked me down,” Idisio said. “How can you drink and not have to piss?”
“We don't drink around the horses,” Baylor said, but his eyes flickered to the village master as he spoke. A child could have caught the lie.
“Then where did he go to drink?”
“He didn't! I didn't! Look, I've work to do. I can't stand here—”
“You're not done yet,” Scratha said as the boy started to turn away.
“Let him be!” the village master said. “He's answered your questions.”
“He lied,” Idisio said with absolute certainty. ”Kera's the one ran to her father and lost him the position of caring for Lashnar's mare. A few drinks and he'd be angry enough to take it out on her.”
Baylor's ears were turning pink. “I'd never hurt Kera!”
“Your prints led into the swamp,” Idisio said. He pointed to the ground near the boy's feet. “And your feet are still muddy. What were you doing out there?”
“I wasn't—” Baylor scuffed his feet, a panicky look on his face; he stopped abruptly and stared at them, eyes rimmed with sudden dampness.
“Do you think Karic will back you, if you're accused of murder?” Idisio said before anyone else could speak. “Do you think he'll step forward to save you?”
“That's enough,” the village master said, but Baylor crumbled.
“I didn't hurt Kera,” he said, tears spilling down his cheeks now. “I didn't. I swear it. I don't know who did. She ran into the swamp after dinner, crying, and I followed her to see what was wrong. She wouldn't tell me, and I was supposed to meet Karic at the stables, so I had to go back.”
Idisio shook his head and wished he dared interrupt to call the boy a liar; but Scratha's mood still hung too chancy, and collecting another bruise for insolence seemed too likely.
Unheeding, Baylor went on, “Karic was at the stables, and he was in a bad mood, and after a while he said he had to take care of something, and he left. And next thing I heard from him, he was shouting to rouse the village about a thief.” The stable boy looked at them with wide, imploring eyes, and sniffled, wiping his sleeve across his nose.
“How did you know where to find her?” Idisio asked. He'd seen the best cons in Bright Bay collapse in wholly fake tears before; Baylor wasn't impressing him.
The tips of Baylor's ears reddened again. “There's a place she goes sometimes.” He looked away and swallowed hard. “Went, I mean. I like wandering around in the swamp, it don't scare me. She asked, a while back, if I knew a place where you could be alone. I had a place I went, sometimes, not far out, but real private, and when she asked I showed it to her. I thought, well, maybe. . . .”
“You thought she wanted you to be alone with her,” Scratha said.
The boy nodded miserably and wiped at his nose again. “But she didn't. She said thank you and never mentioned it again, but I saw her go into the swamp sometimes at night, and. . . .” He faltered again, and looked at the ground.
“And you followed her,” Idisio said,wondering if he might be wrong after all. Desert lords were supposed to be able to smell a lie, but Scratha seemed to be accepting the story. Perhaps living on the streets had made Idisio too cynical. “You wanted to know what she was doing.”
The boy shrugged, not meeting their eyes. He kept his gaze on the ground and shuffled uncomfortably in place.
The village master had looked steadily more horrified as the tale went on.
“Baylor,” he said, voice hardly more than a whisper, “was she . . . meeting someone out there?”
Baylor swallowed hard and nodded.
“Was it. . . .” The village master faltered, then fell silent.
“Who was it?” Scratha said, much more sharply.
The stable boy looked utterly miserable as he wiped at his nose again, glancing around as if searching for an escape.
“Karic,” he said at last.
The village master let out a faint moan. “I told him. . . .” he said. “Damn the boy. Lashnar's going to kill him.”
“He's a right, if Karic killed the girl,” Scratha said without sympathy, and turned away from the trembling boy before him. “He won't be back.”
The old man bristled but, under Scratha's dark stare, said nothing.
Idisio almost hissed in frustration. He knew Baylor was still lying, but Scratha and the village master seemed to be accepting the story without reservation.
“Why would Karic kill her?” the village master said, rallying. “If they were lovers, why would he kill her? I'd sooner believe her father killed her for dallying outside his plans.”
Scratha shot the village master a curious look, a mixture of puzzlement and contempt. “He'd kill his own daughter for taking a lover?”
The village master blinked, flustered. “Well, wait, no, that's not what I—”
“Did she have any friends that she might have talked to?” Idisio interrupted, afraid of where this would lead. Scratha frowned at him but let it pass without further reaction.
“Her father didn't let her have any friends,” the village master said with poorly concealed relief at the change in subject. “But she worked at the inn; maybe the innkeeper knows something of who she talked to.”
“She was friends with one of my serving-girls, Seshya,” said the innkeeper. He shook his head, his chins quivering. “I don't know what I'm going to do without Kera. She was the quickest hand at changing the linens and cleaning a room, and the only honest one I could find to mind the till.”
“Don't let Lashnar know she talked to that woman,” the village master said dryly.
“You think I'm a fool?” the innkeeper said. “She wasn't allowed to talk to any girls, stand up to any of the dances, join any sewing circles, smile at any boys. Villagers weren't good enough for her father; he wanted a marriage to some noble lord of Bright Bay. He didn't want anything to sully her reputation. Seshya was the only one that would risk Lashnar's anger and spend time talking to the poor girl.”
“A whore with a heart of gold,” the vil
lage master said with a sigh. “That's an old story.”
“And usually a false one,” Scratha said tartly. “Let's go talk to this woman.”
The serving-girl's expression was as sulky as it had been the night before, intensified by a certain disordered appearance from having just woken up. Her clothing had been loosely fastened and not too thoroughly at that; as she swayed sleepily against the doorframe to her small room, flashes of round, soft skin showed through.
“Whaddya want?” she said. “Pardon, Master, but I'm only just asleep.” “Busy night?” Scratha said. She narrowed her eyes at him over the village master's shoulder and sneered.
Secrets of the Sands Page 14