The mind takes in images in little snatches, and sometimes they make no sense at first. It looked like the dog was guarding a pile of garbage. I saw the red, and knew it for blood, and knew from the quantity of it on the cobbles that someone had died badly. But these little pieces of knowledge didn’t fit together right away. There was just the gut anger at an old man beating a dog.
I plucked the stick from his hand on a back swing and rolled it around across his windpipe. He squawked and gagged and clawed at the stick. I pulled him back a few steps, turned him around and planted a boot in his scrawny backside, letting the stick go with one hand. He sprawled to the cobbles, hacking. I guessed he’s stay down for a bit, so I went to check out the dog.
With his skull-thumping at least suspended, Bone had turned his attention to the bloody lump. He was nuzzling what I recognized as a hand. When it flopped back down to the street, I saw that the last three fingers were missing. Cut off cleanly, at the last joint. Of their own accord, my eyes travelled to the corpse’s face.
It was Corbin. He lay huddled at an unnatural angle, maybe a half-dozen steps from his own doorstep. Bone started up that soul-splitting howl again. Shutters were opened here and there. Cautious heads popped out, saw blood, disappeared again as if by magic. I felt a numbness take hold. I turned back to the old man.
“You see a body in the street, and all you can think to do is beat the dog that disturbed your sleep?” I squeezed the stick so hard the tendons in my hand began to creak in protest. He gabbled something unintelligible and began to scramble away from me on his backside, looking like something between a lizard and a crab. His yellowed eyes were wide. Like all bullies, he was a coward at heart. I was surprised he’d worked up the nerve to beat Bone. The mutt was eighty pounds of brindle-covered muscle, with a face that was fashioned for harboring malign animal intent.
I let him scuttle away into his ramshackle house across the street, and I let Bone keep howling. There was nothing to be done about either. As for Corbin, I didn’t cry for him. Bone was doing enough of that for the both of us. I squatted down next to him, realized I was still holding the old man’s courage stick. I threw it at his front door.
I figured I had at least a few minutes, and probably much longer, before what passed for the law in Lucernis made an appearance. I wanted to move on before they showed up.
It didn’t work out that way.
#
Somebody gets cut up at night in Lucernis, maybe the corpse disappears before dawn, before awkward questions start getting asked. Nobody sees anything. Nobody wants to get involved. Not in a neighborhood like Corbin’s. Not usually, anyway.
I took a good look at what they’d done to him. Maybe I had an idea I would like to reproduce it in reasonably accurate detail. Maybe I just wanted to know what I was up against. I don’t know. But when I moved to look over the damage, Bone stood between me and Corbin.
“Too late now. Where were you when it happened?” I realized that was actually a good question. I put my hand out to him, murmured soothing nonsense. He sniffed. I suppose he recognized me, because a little of that murderous look went out of his eyes. But he wasn’t letting me manhandle what was left of his master. I settled for gently rolling Corbin over on his back. Which earned me a rumbling growl.
The damage was extensive. Somebody had worked him over with a knife. It looked as if maybe some of it was controlled, precise. Like his missing fingers. The rest just looked like Corbin had tangled with somebody in a vicious barroom brawl. Slashes on his arms, his face. Rents in his shirt suggested he’d been stabbed maybe half a dozen times, two or three of which, depending on how deep they went, could have been immediate life-enders. I’d know more if I could undress him, but I didn’t really need to know any more, and it wasn’t worth struggling with the damn dog over. Maybe he was the wiser. It was done, and maybe all that was left was to mourn.
I stepped back from the body and looked around. The sky was perceptibly lightening. No crowd yet. They’d show up after the law did. I walked over to Corbin’s house.
The flimsy door gaped. It had been busted open from the inside; that much I could tell. The lock was engaged; the frame had given way first. I supposed an eighty-pound dog could eventually have battered his way through, given sufficient motive. I glanced inside. Heavy furniture, a little dust. I hesitated. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t happened in there. With the neighbors peering out behind curtains, I decided to leave it for the constables.
I ended up wishing I hadn’t.
They came around the corner as I was walking back to Bone. They knew where they were going, and they knew what to expect. Somebody had probably sent their kid down to the local watch station.
It was a pair. A fat, balding one and a young one so tall he looked stretched. Neither wore the entire uniform; Baldy had forgot or forgone his tabard, and Too-tall had substituted his deep blue woolen trousers for a paler, cooler, more wrinkled pair of linens.
Too-tall glanced at me, at the dog, at Corbin. He sighed. Baldy said with a voice like gravel, “Can you shut that mutt up?”
“No.”
He whipped out his billy club and laid it across Bone’s head with a speed that belied all his fat. Bone went down in mid-howl. I took a step forward, fists tightening. I caught myself. Baldy pretended not to notice. He slipped the billy back through the leather thong at his belt and said “So what happened here?”
“I don’t know. I was passing by. I heard the howling. I saw a man beating on something, so I came up behind him and took his stick away. Then I saw the body. I stayed around until you showed up.”
“Just a concerned citizen, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“You know the deceased?”
“No.” While Baldy questioned me, Too-tall was going over Corbin’s corpse. Checking pockets, checking wounds. I watched him from the corner of my eye.
“Let me see your hands.”
I held them out, palms down. He took a good look at my nails. No blood. He swirled a fat finger; turn them over. I obliged. No blood in the creases. Baldy looked at me, clearly not believing a word I said. He probably would have worn the same face if I’d mentioned that water was wet.
“Any weapons?”
“Yes.”
He put his hand out, and I gave him two of my more obvious knives. He gave me the eye that he probably used on husbands that beat their wives, kids that cut purses, day-laborers that thumped their bosses and made off with the strongbox. The one that said he knew I was holding out on him. I kept his gaze. Finally he shrugged. “Why don’t you go stand over there by the wall.” It wasn’t a suggestion. I went. He put my knives in his belt and turned to his partner.
“Arwin? Anything?”
“Well, he’s dead, sure as shit. Somebody carved him up like a midwinter roast.”
“Better let’s move him out of the street.”
They hauled Corbin over to the edge of the street, then Too-tall—Arwin—went back and dragged Bone over next to him. They had a muttered conversation, then Arwin went inside Corbin’s house, and Baldy started knocking on doors, questioning neighbors. The geezer came out and started pointing his finger at me. He got in Baldy’s face. Baldy took it for a while, then jabbed one fat finger right into the old man’s sternum so hard he stumbled back, face ashen. Baldy said something, and the geezer retreated back inside his hovel, but I could see him twitch aside dusty curtains every so often.
I could have slipped off, easily enough. I think Baldy half-expected me to. I don’t think he would have cared, especially. It was just another dirty little murder in a bad part of town. He didn’t pin me for it. He was just suspicious on general principles. If it hadn’t been for the damned dog, I would have taken off. But I could see his barrel chest rising and falling. And Corbin had paid me to keep it that way.
Then Arwin came out of Corbin’s apartment, and by the look on his face I could tell things had changed somehow. He called his partner—Jarvis, apparently—and whe
n Jarvis lumbered over, showed him something small enough to fit in one closed hand.
I heard Jarvis mutter “Isin’s creamy tits,” and then “better get the inspector.” And I knew things were about to get much more complicated.
Jarvis made it plain that he now cared very much whether I disappeared, so I settled up against a garden wall that had been whitewashed sometime back in the reign of Orvo VII. Bone started to stir, and when Jarvis looked like he was going to beat him down again, I volunteered to take care of the dog. He shrugged. I hauled Bone up in both arms and carried him over to my spot, and kept a careful hand on his thick leather collar. Old boy was dazed. He kept licking his chops, and he’d developed a tremble. It wasn’t that hard to keep him down.
We waited maybe half an hour. The sun rose higher, and the heat climbed. There was no shade. Arwin had gone off at a trot. Jarvis continued the door-to-door. A couple of night watch I could handle. An inspector would be much trickier. I was reasonably certain there weren’t any little posters tacked to a wall in some constable’s office featuring my face, but I didn’t relish someone with brains and authority knowing what I looked like. Sometime down the road, one and one might be added to make two. But it was too late to do anything about it now. And I wanted to know what they’d found in Corbin’s house.
The hansom pulled up about eight o’clock. There were no official seals on the doors. Arwin jumped out, folded down the two steps, and then a slight, middle-aged man stepped down. His hair was iron gray, cropped short and brushed forward over his long skull. He had a vaguely horsy face; prominent front teeth that his lips didn’t quite cover. His eyes were mild and blue in a face that was very dark for a Lucernan. He was dressed soberly, in deep maroon velvets that were too heavy for the season. They were immaculate, but a bit threadbare. I could see where his white hose had been carefully darned. His shoes were black and polished, well made but worn. The buckles were plain silver. He wore no jewelry.
His only concession to the climbing heat was a stiff collar undone. He glanced at me, and I knew he’d just filed away my face in the library of his mind, for future reference. He spent a minute or so with the body, then went inside Corbin’s house. Jarvis followed him in, leaving Arwin outside.
They spent quite a while in there. By that time a crowd had begun to gather. Jarvis came out and spread a blanket over the body, then went back inside. Three more constables showed up, and Jarvis poked his head out to tell Arwin to go home and get some sleep. Arwin shrugged. He didn't leave.
Finally one of the new constables stepped out, looked at me, crooked a finger. I dragged Bone along with me, heavy and uncooperative and dazed.
They’d done a thorough go-through. Not that there was much there to begin with. I am familiar with the careful search, having done it myself many times. It’s nothing terribly destructive. Furniture shifted to spots no one would consciously place it. Rugs rolled up and put out of the way. Wall hangings taken down. Much like someone was preparing to move house. But of course the purpose is to thump the walls, listening for hidden cavities, and check out all the undersides of tables and chairs and desks, the backs of mirrors and paintings, the mortar between stones, the joins between boards. I didn’t give them good odds on finding Corbin’s hidey-hole, wherever it was. He’d been too much of a professional.
The inspector was sitting at Corbin’s kitchen table, going over some papers. He glanced up, took in me and Bone.
”Constable, see if you can find some water for that dog, would you?” He went back to reading.
Jarvis made a face. And did what he was told.
The inspector pointed to a chair, and I sat, still keeping hold of Bone’s collar. Jarvis found a bowl and, after a second, an earthenware jug that sploshed. He put both down on the table in front of me, a little harder than was necessary. I sniffed. It was water.
“Thank you, constable.” And after a second, “I’ll call you if I need you.” I poured while Jarvis trudged out of the kitchen. Bone wasn’t interested. He sort of folded up at my feet, panting, eyes glazed.
The inspector finished the page he was reading and placed it face-down on the table. I doubt he believed I could read, but he’d noticed me glancing at the paper. Careful bastard. All I could tell from my momentary, upside-down vantage was that it was Corbin’s handwriting, and that it looked like a letter.
“My name is Kluge. Why don’t we start with a few simple questions. What is your name?” He wasn’t taking notes. I got the impression he didn’t need to.
“Marfa Valence.” There were probably ten thousand Valences in Lucernis, and a goodly portion were likely named Marfa.
“Occupation?”
“None.”
“Place of residence?”
I gave him an address to one of the bolt-holes I kept the rent current on. Which of course was about to change.
“What was your relationship with the deceased?”
“No relationship.”
He just kept looking at me with those mild blue eyes. I could see that his pupils were ringed with a thin band of azure. Pretty. He spoke first.
“I’m going to tell you a few things, Marfa, and then we’re going to start again.” He stuck out his thumb. “Judging by the wounds on the body, we are looking at two separate attacks. Three fingers were removed some hours before the fatal wounds were inflicted. That suggests torture, and I can think of too many scenarios that might fit to make this some random street slaying. If I had to guess, they tortured him, and then they let him run for a while. All the way to his house, within sight of safety. Then they finished him off, messily.”
“Why would anybody do that?”
“Who knows why? Maybe for the sport of it.” He sighed. I started to say something and he said in a quiet tone, “I’m not finished yet.”
He held up an index finger. “The man out in the street is Corbin Hardin, known to some by the rather unfortunate moniker ‘Night-Wind’; a thief with a penchant for stealing rare art of all types.”
Middle finger. “Corbin Hardin was also known as Corbin Hardin det Thracen-Courune, second son of Count Orlin det Thracen-Courune. Father and son have been estranged for some half-dozen years.”
He reached into a pocket and set a heavy gold signet ring down on the scarred table, one with a noble coat of arms on its flat, beveled-edge top. I didn’t try to hide the flicker of surprise that crossed my face.
Ring finger. “Corbin Hardin was a source of deep shame and embarrassment to his family while alive. But now that he’s dead, that is most definitely about to change. I guarantee you, Marfa, the father will want blood. Gallons of it. And he’ll get it.”
Little finger. “I’m the poor sod who caught all of this in his lap, which is what I deserve, I suppose, for coming into work early. Your cooperation in this matter will ensure that any involvement you may have had will remain confidential. And you are involved, somehow. I don’t think you did it. Tell me what you know, and I’ll do my best to convince Count Orlin’s people that you were just an innocent passer-by.”
He smiled wearily. “Now, let’s start again. Your name is Marfa, you’ve no occupation, you live at Borlick’s rooming house on East Southcross. Now tell me again what your relationship was with the deceased?”
He was good at what he did. I didn’t try to get too tricky. I gave him an abbreviated version of the truth. Corbin had stopped by, told me he had business that might get ugly. Told me he’d been away in Gol-Shen on a commission. That the customer had tried to stiff him. Asked me to look after his dog if he hadn’t turned up by dawn. No, I didn’t know what the commission was. No, I didn’t know who the customer was, where they were meeting, why anyone might want to kill him.
I tried very hard to make him think I was telling him the whole truth, by telling him part of it in great detail. I described the shape Corbin was in when he came to see me. I told him what we drank, tried to remember word for word some of the things he’d said. I did my best to seem both reluctant to be telling the
law anything, and eager that once I’d said my piece, I’d be forgotten. And of course I didn’t say anything that might implicate me in anything. I gave the slight impression that Corbin and I had a now and again relationship of an intimate nature.
I kept the statuette out of it, and any mention of the Elamner Heirus and his flunky Bosch. I wanted them for myself. If the constabulary went barging in, the bastard would disappear if he hadn’t already. And so would the other statuettes. I didn’t think he was going anywhere, though. Not without the toad. Not if he was willing to kill for it.
Maybe Kluge thought I was holding out, maybe not. His face was unreadable. He presented an air of weary competence, an honest man doing his best in a job that didn’t pay enough. He was going to do a kindness to someone caught on the periphery of something ugly.
Right.
I had no doubt he’d toss me straight into Havelock prison if he thought it would get him farther along. A dirty little street knifing had turned into the death of a noble, albeit a disgraced one, and people with enough clout to bury Kluge in an unmarked grave—literally—were going to be second guessing his every move soon enough. He was going to cast me back, just to see where I might lead him. I was going to have to look over my shoulder every damn where I went.
When he finally waved me away with the admonishment to make sure I was available for further questioning, he’d managed to give me sweaty palms. He got up and walked me to the door, hand politely at my back. When he stuck out a hand to shake, I took it.
The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye Page 24