Issue #161 • Nov. 27, 2014
“Sweet Death,” by Margaret Ronald
“We Were Once of the Sky,” by Yosef Lindell
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SWEET DEATH
by Margaret Ronald
In the usual course of activities—in as much as murder can be considered usual—I am the one to call my friend Mieni for assistance. This time around, though, she was the one who had contacted me (by pelting my window with detritus, rather than sending a brass sparrow as was my preference). Despite Mieni’s opinion that my own investigative faculties are adequate though untrained, I knew very well that I had not been asked in that capacity.
It was an ugly scene. The alley was a narrow one in the refugee districts, so cramped that two grown men could not easily stand abreast. The owner of the property abutting the alley, a kobold so young her claws were still gray, stood unwilling to look at the Patrol officer who was questioning her in a hectoring tone. Between us slumped a huge, shaggy form that a careless glance could have mistaken for a human in a heavy coat. But the size, the fur, and most of all the head smashed by a heavy clay pot told me that this was a worse situation than I’d expected. A low drone permeated the entire scene, setting my teeth on edge, and the smell of the pot’s contents mixed with the trace of cold blood to create a heavy, sweet stink.
Mieni beckoned to me from where she stood by the corpse. “You see my difficulty, Mr. Swift,” she said quietly. Her breath clouded and hung in the air, lingering after mine had dissipated. Koboldim body temperature is considerably higher than humans’, and her skin fairly steamed, though that might have been from consternation. “Zio found the body this morning, but because she came to me and not to Patrol, it is not looking good for her.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I answered softly, crouching next to her so that we were at the same height. “But this is a hell of a problem, Mieni.”
“I am very aware of it. Look.” She stepped back, pointing at the ground. The damp earth had frozen overnight, and while Patrol’s clumsy feet had eroded some of the evidence, I could see only the heavy, clawed prints of the victim. Blood and honey from the shattered pot merged in florid swirls. “You see? And the pot bears the mark of Zio’s family. Beekeepers,” she said as I glanced at her. “Here, as they were back in Poma-mél.”
“Seems simple enough to me.” The Patrol officer on duty, Fries, tramped up over the frozen prints. “Bear gets into the goblin’s honey, goblin drops a pot on ‘im.”
Mieni shook her head. “We are koboldim, not goblins. And Zio’s family attests her presence among them till this morning.”
Fries’ eyes narrowed.
“That’s not a bear,” I said to draw his attention.
“Looks like a bear,” said Fries, a City boy who’d probably only seen a bear in storybooks.
I scratched my chin—unshaven, because Mieni had woken me before my morning ablutions—and sighed. “You weren’t in the war, were you?”
He hunched a little under my gaze. “Cried off to take care of my mum.”
“It’s an Ursa Davala,” I interrupted, not caring what his reasons were. There were a lot of good reasons to have stayed out of the war, starting with common sense. Which I had lacked, then and now.
Few enough of us had returned from the war, and few of those had experience of the Ursa Davala, so his reaction was not unusual. The varied races of Poma-mél had taken sides in the conflict, and we humans were simply unlucky that the greatest warriors of that land had allied with the Usurper. They were among the most feared denizens of Poma-mél, and I have a number of dents in my ribcage that attest to the prowess of even one lone Davala.
Though the war was over, our City was still very clearly in opposition to the Usurper, its refugee population and all, and the Davala were known for their loyalty to clan and Usurper both. I would have sooner expected to see a palug prowling through the river district than an Ursa Davala outside the boundaries of Poma-mél.
“So?” Fries said, interrupting my thoughts. “Still looks bearish enough.” I drew breath to point out the differences—the shortened snout, the narrower torso—but Fries sniggered. “Got its head in the honeypot, too. Or the honeypot in its head.”
“Fries—” I stopped and sighed. “Have you ever actually had honey from Poma-mél?”
His mustache lifted in something like a sneer. “I take my tea clear, me.”
“It’s... different.” The honey had been a delicacy since long before the war, with its taste almost like distant music, the closest that most humans could come to the magic that permeated Poma-mél. I sometimes wondered if my sweet-tooth since childhood had been part of what had drawn me to fight in Poma-mél. “There’s a reason that their land is named half after honey. A Davala wouldn’t seek City honey; it’d be several steps down in quality.”
“Still don’t explain—”
“Send a sparrow to the Quarter, Fries. I want a proper wagon-team for the body, and they’re to do it with respect, mind. Mieni,” I added, turning as Fries muttered away into his sparrow, “can you translate for me if I ask Zio some questions?”
“I fear it would do no good,” she said, turning to look at the smaller kobold. Zio’s young age was apparent from the lack of tufted white hair that Mieni, a grandmother several times over, bore in abundance. In contrast to Mieni’s smart if diminutive suit, she wore a human child’s clothes, several owners away from new. She stared at the body as if afraid it would get up and attack her. “Zio has told me nothing, and would tell you even less.”
“I thought the other koboldim in the City told you everything.”
“I hear what I hear—but truly, Mr. Swift, do you tell your own grandmother everything? I would be surprised if you did, though no less so than she, I suspect.” She sighed and jerked her head towards the scrubbed-stone wall. “And Zio has refused to let your Patrol search her yard.”
Now I could hear koboldim voices on the other side of the wall, muffled further by the heavy drone of bees. “Mieni, this really isn’t good. I can’t prove she didn’t do it.”
That struck a rare anger from Mieni, and her eyes actually flared a brighter gold as she looked up at me. “I can, Mr. Swift, and if you would use your faculties, you too—”
“I can’t prove it to a judge’s satisfaction,” I interrupted. “Not a human judge.”
Mieni closed her mouth so sharply I feared her fangs would cut her lips. “Just so, Mr. Swift,” she muttered, looking away, then frowned. A lone bee, moving drowsily in the cold, crawled out from under the shattered honeypot and stood on the Davala’s broken eyesocket, waving its antennae as if lost. It turned a half-circle, then stopped, wings twitching. “Odd,” she said. “Very odd.”
“Seeking the honey, maybe?”
“A lone bee? I do not think so. You impute more initiative to them than they truly have.” She shook her head, then bent to scrape a little of the bloody honey into a glass jar.
“Mieni!”
“Evidence,” she said, rising to her feet. “Had I all the information... no, there is something I am missing, and Zio will not tell me.”
A new Patrol officer hurried up. “Inspector Swift,” he began, then stopped, staring at the body.
“That was quick,” I said.
“What?” He dragged his gaze back to meet mine. “No, sir. The Quarter sent me—Crighton asked for you specific, and your downstairs neighbor said you’d been called out to the gobl—the kobold streets.”
“My shift doesn’t start till ten. What does Crighton want with me?”
“He said you’d be
best prepared to deal with our visitor. It’s—” The Patrol glanced behind me again and swallowed. “It’s an Ursa Davala.”
* * *
The first misconception that many people make when meeting an Ursa Davala is to assume that because they are somewhat bearish in appearance, they carry some of the same traits that we assign to bears: slow, taciturn, graceless in movement and manner. These are all false; the Davala are large and strong, but they move quickly, often pinpointing an opponent’s weak spot before the fight has begun. Few humans have the chance to correct that impression. I am very fortunate to be one.
Crighton met me at the gates of the Quarter. “Took you long enough,” he muttered as I fell into step behind him. “And what the hell is that doing here?”
Mieni gave him her usual sunny, flat smile. “Your pardon, good Inspector, but I overheard the summons for my good friend Mr. Swift and thought I could be of some use. I, too, have some knowledge of the Davala.”
Crighton snorted.
“She has at least as much experience as I, sir,” I said quietly as we crossed the yard and ascended to the upper cloister. “And it couldn’t hurt to get another opinion from Poma-mél.”
“Right now we’ve got a surplus of Poma-mél opinions. With ambassadors’ immunity, no less—and why the council saw fit to grant that, I’ve no idea.” Crighton yanked a door open and stomped into the hall, not waiting for either of us to catch up.
“Sir?” I quickened my steps. “What are Poma-mél citizens doing in the City?”
That got him to turn around. “Read the damned papers once in a while, Swift. The Usurper’s trying to make nice with the council, now that we’re on the outs with the Ageless.”
I grimaced. The Ageless were the reason we’d gotten into the war, and though we’d failed to liberate their lands from the Usurper, they had settled here in exile. Only recently had that become a problem, and I’d had something to do with it. Mieni nodded. “It is like the masca, to jump on such a chance—but why here?”
“You tell me.” Crighton sighed. “This damn visit is the last thing I need.”
A Patrol officer hurried around the corner, then skidded to a stop as she saw me. I noted Fries’ sparrow in her hand. “Actually, sir, I think this message is the last thing you need.” Crighton shot me an irritated and puzzled look. “Exactly what do you want me to say?”
“Just find out what the hell they’re doing here.” He waved over the Patrol, then stopped and turned back, leveling a thick finger at Mieni. “And that goblin stays out of the conversation. You can eavesdrop like the rest of us.”
Mieni curtseyed as if she’d received an actual compliment. “I would be honored to do so.”
The Quarter receiving-room barely deserved the name, being mostly where we stowed visitors until they could be shunted in the right direction. It did, however, have a decent tea service. The Ursa Davala at the far end of the room turned, a delicate cup held carefully between thumb and foreclaw. Seen close and in life, the resemblance to a bear was passing, less important than the piercing green gaze, the expression like a smile on a snout blunted for speech, and the posture that did nothing to diminish height and bulk.
“Ah,” it rumbled. “Arthur Swift. I am called Isto of the Three Claws, first of my ranking and clan. I understand you stood challenge to another of the Three Claws; therefore I may speak on equal footing with you, without my colleague as go-between.”
“Equal may be an overstatement,” I said, and gestured to the largest of the chairs. “After all, I did lose.”
It ignored my offer and settled instead on one of the benches, elbows propped on knees. It wore three blue sashes wrapped crossways round its—her—torso, indicating both gender and rank, and the loosest of these sagged as she sat forward. “Lose, win. You are alive. That puts you ahead of most who face the Davala. I know few enough names in your City who may speak on such footing.”
I nodded and settled onto a chair, aware of the wall behind me that was mostly paper and lath. It allowed eavesdroppers to hear much of what was said in this room, and undoubtedly Mieni and shortly Crighton would be behind it. “What brings you here?”
Isto took a lingering sip of tea, vapor condensing on her bristles. “Opportunity alone. The White Queen thinks that reconciliation may be possible between your City and our lands.”
“I doubt it.” From behind the wall I thought I heard Crighton curse. “However, I didn’t mean the City so much as the Quarter. Why visit us, specifically?”
She bared her teeth a moment, an unsettling sight even though I knew it was meant as a smile. “Personal curiosity. My co-envoy does not much care for your methods of keeping the peace, but I find the Quarter’s honor-pattern intriguing.” Porcelain rang as she set down her teacup and reached into her sash. “Here. In recognition of the knowledge I seek—and the position I have put you in—I offer mead of our making.” She brought out a small clay flask, then frowned.
I hesitated—the mead-offering was a gesture of respect, but I wasn’t sure whether I merited it. “Have I offended?”
“No, this....” She raised the flask, stamped with the Three Claws’ sigil. “My brother Ayio gave this to me at the border, as his new endeavor. If I gave approval, he would produce it for the rest of our clan. I would have done you the honor of the first taste, had it been unopened. But—” She turned it around and showed the broken wax. “Odd.”
That was all we needed, for someone to mess with a Davala’s mead. “I know clan leaders carry many flasks,” I said hesitantly. “Is it possible that you—”
Isto whuffed a laugh. “You think I would not know my brother’s mead? For all the trouble Ayio has given me, it is a temptation. But no, my co-envoy and I shared another flask last night but did not open this one.”
“If your co-envoy is a Davala,” I said slowly, “perhaps he partook of it?” I had no gift for subtlety, but that seemed a fair way of inquiring whether she was the only Ursa Davala in the City.
Isto’s snout lifted in a laugh. “Ah, no. No, two Davala on a mission? The honor-patterns would be impossible to untangle. Why do you ask?”
I cursed inwardly. “No reason.”
“Of course.” Isto pulled the broken seal away and sniffed at the clay. “Smells just like yesterday’s plain mead. Ayio’s estimate of his skill has gone downstream. Too poor to share, I am afraid.” She put it away with a disgusted snort. “May I speak frankly?”
“If you don’t mind being overheard.” I nodded to the wall. From behind it came a noise very much like Crighton strangling himself and Mieni stifling one of her belly laughs. I ignored them; there are a few things that go along with having survived single combat with the Davala, and one is respect enough to tell the truth.
“If I did, I would not have come here in the first place.” She leaned forward, lacing the claws of her hands together in a gesture more human than ursine. “My co-envoy believes that the current state of affairs harms both our societies. The green land misses those who left. This is a city of men; it is not meant to hold so much of the green land.”
There were those who agreed, certainly. But those same who deplored the presence of koboldim would often in the next breath lament the lack of able-bodied men to perform the jobs that our new refugee populations had taken. “I think you underestimate our City.”
A shrug on a Davala is something to see, very much like a furry ripple from nape to waist. She rose in the same motion, all nine feet towering over me. “I reserve judgment, myself.”
I rose as well, moving close to Isto, closer than I would stand with most humans—a challenge, if not a spoken one. “Are you truly the only Davala in the City?”
“You have seen more?” she said, quickly and quietly. Her gaze shifted to over my shoulder, and she stepped back. “No, I think you are mistaking rainclouds for bears.”
I started to speak, then paused, aware that someone else had joined us. A young man, delicate-featured and handsome if not for his scowl, stomped in
to the room, or would have stomped had he more weight. “Where have you been?” he demanded of Isto. “Do you realize I had to talk to their representatives to find you? And not even the council—their servants, of all people. I can’t believe you’d willingly spend more time with these fanga—”
“I had conversation,” Isto said calmly. “With my honor-mate, Arthur Swift.”
I bowed, unsure what gesture of respect to make to this envoy. “Of the City Inspectors—”
The youth flapped one hand at me as if I were only a fly. Something on his back blurred, and I realized that the shimmery blue mantle that I’d mistaken for a jacket was a carapace, covering wings like those of a beetle. With the realization came a visceral chill and the knowledge that this was no child.
When the war began and City men like me volunteered, this young man was what we’d expected to face—angies, what the vulgar call “flower-fairies.” We did so, but to our sorrow; they were many, and they were vicious. Even a Davala might yield to one, and as for me, it took a effort of will not to check that my pistol was in place.
Luckily, the angie took little notice of me. “You think I like having to wander all over this sham of a city, this jumped-up parody of the green land?” he snapped at Isto. “We have work to do in this sterile ground, and I can’t do my job if you’re off playing honor-games.”
This last came out with such contempt that I thought surely Isto would call challenge—but the angie’s rank must have been considerably higher than hers. Instead she simply folded her hands. “Your pardon. I was seized with curiosity as to how order is kept here, in this as you say sham.” She inclined her head to me. “Good cover to you, Arthur Swift.”
The angie’s eyes narrowed at my name, and he turned a scornful glance on me as Isto strode out. “The White Queen may see some value in speaking to the likes of you,” he hissed, “but only because she’s never seen how stunted this place is. A blight on you and your City, ironblood.”
I said nothing, only drew myself up, imitating Isto. I had two feet and at least a hundred pounds on the angie, although that would mean very little if it came to it. The angie spat—not at me, or I would have lost my resolve and flinched—but on the floor. The wood sizzled faintly as he glided out, the sound merging with the drone of his wings as he glided out. I exhaled slowly.
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #161 Page 1