The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  He thumbed a hidden latch on the bird’s chest and a small door swung open to reveal a hollow perfect for sending notes or small bits of evidence. He folded the note in half and placed it inside, along with the torn bit of paper. With any luck, his wizard friend back in Sigilstar would be able to tell him what the silver substance was and what sort of potion—or spell—the recipe was for.

  Greddark set the bird aside. He’d release it when they left the house. He pulled his map of the city from his pocket and spread it out on the table. Then he began lightly marking the addresses of those he wanted to question. Most of them resided in the same area as ir’Marktaros—the Garden District, a neighborhood whose eponymous parks had fallen into neglect, as had the homes—and lives—of its inhabitants.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Mapping a path.”

  “You’re going to go to their houses and question them? Won’t that take a while?”

  The bard obviously thought he had a better plan. As Greddark mused whether or not to let the overeager human divulge it, he scratched his short beard. At least a sovereign’s width longer than the tight half-inch length he preferred, it was itchy and scraggly and sorely in need of a trim. He hoped this case didn’t take too long to solve. He doubted there were any dwarf barbers in Aruldusk, and his last attempt to do the job himself had left him with an embarrassing scar. There was a reason barbers heated your face first and then shaved you, as opposed to trying to do both at once.

  “If you’re thinking I should question them all at some secret Throneholder gathering, there are several reasons why that’s not a good idea. First, there’s a good chance you’re being tailed. If the Church does have anything to do with all this—beyond just using it to their advantage to get rid of some pain-in-the-ass shifters—then you would be leading them right to the group of people they would most like to destroy. Second, witnesses tend to influence each other, even if they don’t mean to. Get a whole group of them together and we’re about as likely to get the truth as we are to hear “Light the Way” sung in a Karrn brothel. Same thing applies to bringing them here, with the added complication that if they’re being followed and your return has somehow escaped detection, then you’re basically waving a giant red flag and screaming, ‘Here I am!’ to anyone who might want you dead.” The dwarf stopped scratching and looked up at the bard, who had deflated considerably during the course of his speech. “So, unless you have some other idea, then, yes, I’m planning on questioning them all at their homes.”

  Greddark paused, waiting for Zoden to jump in with a suggestion, but the bard remained sullenly silent.

  “No? Very well, then. We’ll start with ir’Sarhain.”

  Arrun ir’Sarhain the elder was a taciturn old man who responded to Greddark’s questions in gruff monosyllables and didn’t offer any information beyond those terse replies. Not even Zoden’s bardic cajoling could get the old man to open up to them, but it didn’t take Greddark long to realize that the aging Throneholder likely had little of value to tell them, at least in regards to this case. However, if he had wanted to know about the activities of the Throneholders in Aruldusk and much of northern Thrane, ir’Sarhain was definitely the man he’d go to for answers. The shelves of his study were lined with political texts, histories of Thrane and old Galifar, and even a leather-bound copy of The Wyvern Reborn by Kievan Helmworth. Originally from Breland, Helmworth had been a seditionist and prolific author whose writings had gotten him burned at the stake by Archbishop Dariznu of Thaliost, ostensibly for heresy. Considering that Helmworth had just written a rather unflattering biography of the theocratic tyrant, the actual reason for his execution remained much in doubt. Most of Helmworth’s books had been banned in Thrane. The Wyvern Reborn, whose treasonous messages were couched in courtly verse, had thus far escaped burning.

  An ir’Wynarn banner hung over ir’Sarhain’s mantle, its rampant black wyvern lit from above by a floating everbright lantern. Below it, and only slightly smaller, was the ir’Sarhain crest, a split field of green and purple behind a crossed set of golden spears, the heads of each having been formed into miniature wyverns, wings back and sharp snouts extended. The mantle itself was lined with nine marble figurines—statues depicting the various deities of the Sovereign Host. This man was clearly no friend of the Silver Flame, and he didn’t bother to hide it. Greddark wondered how much more vocal his son might have been, and how large a role that vocality had actually played in Arrun the younger’s death.

  That was only one of many things that bothered him about this case. The murders were being blamed on shifters, but what quarrel did shifters have with Throneholders? If anything, he would think the shifters would be happy to see the Flame blown out, considering all the persecution they had suffered at the hands of its worshippers.

  And why so many perpetrators? A group of killers working in tandem—or, even more improbable, cooperating with each other? It was practically unheard of, though there had been that village in Karrnath. Located on the Mror River, it had been decimated by residents who had apparently succumbed to some mass psychosis, murdering their neighbors and then turning on each other in a mad frenzy. But this case was nothing like that one, thank the Host.

  Still, no scenario made sense—not the official one presented by the local government, that it was the work of malcontent shifters, nor the counterargument that it was some Church conspiracy to rid Aruldusk of shifters, Throneholders, or both.

  If anything, Greddark thought as he thanked ir’Sarhain for his time and left the man to his machinations, the murders were far more likely to be the work of a single individual, who might or might not be selecting his victims at random. True, there were a relatively high percentage of loyalists among the victims, but that could as easily be the result of the murderer’s chosen hunting grounds as any grudge against Throneholders.

  Following a sudden hunch, Greddark paused at a nearby park bench and pulled out his map. In addition to the addresses of the victims’ families, he had also noted the location of each murder. Seventeen of the murders had occurred in either the Garden District—home to many old noble families, who typically still supported the throne—or the Market or Warehouse Districts. The only anomalies were Zoden’s brother, who had died behind the Cathedral only a few streets away from the Market District; Desekane, who’d been killed in a similar no-man’s land between the Market District and the Gutters—so named because most of the city’s gutters drained there; and Imaradi, the Throneholder who had been slain shortly before he and Zoden had arrived from Sigilstar, his body found in an alley near the East Gate. Desekane’s family had already been questioned by the paladin. That left Imaradi’s family, who lived in the Garden District, two streets over.

  Perfect.

  As Greddark snapped the map closed and stuffed it into a pocket, Zoden asked, “So where are we going next?”

  “Imaradi’s family,” Greddark replied, heading towards Sylvan Street.

  “Umm … I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Zoden said, having trouble keeping up with the dwarf even though his strides were twice as long.

  “Why not?”

  It didn’t take him long to discover the answer to that question for himself.

  The Imaradis were preparing for their son’s funeral, to be held at Aruldusk’s small temple to the Sovereign Host the following day. They were understandably upset about Greddark’s arrival, and even more so when he told them he needed to examine Demodir’s body. Unlike Aruldusk’s Flamers, who routinely sent their adherents to “join the Flame” by cremating their remains, those who followed the Host—particularly, worshippers of Arawai and Balinor—buried their dead. Which meant that the unburied body of Demodir Imaradi was the inquisitive’s only chance at examining something in this case other than files.

  “Please,” Zoden said. “This may be our only chance to discover who is really responsible for Demodir’s death, for Zodal’s, for all of them. I—”

  “We know who’s responsi
ble for Demi’s death,” Kaith Imaradi interrupted angrily. “They’re holding that shifter woman he fought with at the bar.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” When Demodir’s father didn’t answer, Zoden continued on, his voice pleading. “I swear we don’t mean any disrespect—Demi was my friend! But Master d’Kundarak is an inquisitive of some renown, and he comes highly recommended. Very highly.” Zoden paused in his pleading to emphasize that point, so the Imaradis would understand that the dwarf had been sent by the Wyvern herself. “Maybe he can find something the others missed. Please.”

  The Imaradis remained unconvinced. Demodir’s father glowered at them, while his mother bit her lip uncertainly.

  “Please,” Zoden said again, and this time Greddark could feel the persuasion behind his words, almost like a physical force.

  Good. The bard was finally using his magic.

  “I—I suppose it would be all right,” Imaradi’s mother said, still worrying her lip. “If it will help them catch Demi’s killer. Don’t you think so, Kaith?”

  Kaith Imaradi still looked angry, but his anger was tinged with confusion.

  “Ye—yes, dear. If you think it’s best.”

  His wife nodded hesitantly, and Greddark needed nothing more. He followed the wafting fragrance of incense to the Imaradi’s small home altar, where Demodir’s body had been laid out beneath a statue of Arawai. The halfling-sized sculpture showed the goddess in her half-elf aspect, a flickering candle held in one hand and a morning star in the other while her face gazed down benevolently on the cold, blue corpse.

  Demodir was naked, a white sheet arranged discreetly over his hips while they waited for the priests to come and anoint his body for burial. His wounds had been cleaned, leaving pale, ragged flesh where his throat and half of his chest used to be. Greddark cursed the timing. Had they arrived in Aruldusk even a few days earlier, he might have been able to collect evidence that had now been washed away unwittingly by loving hands. He leaned closer to the body, glad of the heavy incense that covered the scent of rot already beginning to set in despite whatever magic was being used to preserve the corpse. The left clavicle had been broken, but Greddark could not immediately determine if it was from the jaws of whatever had attacked Demodir, or if it had happened during the course of a struggle. A quick perusal of the man’s hands and arms showed defensive scratches, so he was inclined to think the bone had been broken while Demodir tried to fight off his attacker. The files Margil had given him indicated that the man had been unarmed at the time of the assault.

  The muscles around the gaping wound were shredded and hung like limp fingers across the exposed sternum and rib cage, which showed signs of having been scored by sharp teeth, like some animal had tried to gnaw its way through their bony protection. The organs beneath were intact, save for the heart, which bore deep gouges beneath the fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs, as if the animal, frustrated with not being able to chew its way in, had resorted to trying to fish out the choice flesh with long claws. For all the seeming ferociousness of the attack, the neck laceration had missed the vital vein, so Greddark guessed that it was one of these deeper wounds that had actually killed the young Throneholder.

  Wounds that were certainly not indicative of a shifter.

  As he peered more closely at the heart and the torn flesh over the rib cage, other inconsistencies became apparent. He pulled out a thin book from his pocket and scribbled some quick notes. Then he motioned to Zoden.

  “Here. Put your head down by his neck, with your jaw out.”

  “What?” the bard asked, appalled. He had been studiously avoiding looking at the corpse, and his face turned an odd shade of greenish-white as Greddark forced him to look at it now.

  “I need to compare the bite marks with a jaw roughly the same size as a shifter’s. Obviously I can’t use my own, so get your mug down here and let me sketch it out. Unless you’d like me to go ask his mother to do it?”

  The goad worked as Greddark had anticipated. As craven as the noble might be, there was no way he would stoop to having a woman—and a grieving mother, at that—do his job for him. With a look somewhere between nausea and petulance, the bard did as he was bade, bending down low over the corpse and aligning his clenched jaw with the jagged flesh edging Demodir’s wounds.

  Greddark pulled out a ribbon of fabric with measurements marked off regularly on its surface and gauged the size of Zoden’s jaw versus that made by whatever had attacked his friend. He wrote the numbers down in his book, noting that the bite marks were both wider and shallower than the human’s jaw line. As he wrote, Zoden made a small groaning sound.

  “Are you done?” the bard asked between clenched teeth, the muscles in his neck standing out as he strained to keep from falling headfirst into the clammy mess. The petulance was gone, replaced entirely by bilious impatience.

  “What? Oh, yes. You can get up.”

  Zoden straightened and stumbled over to the doorway, drinking in the incense-laden air in great, noisy gasps like it was pure ambrosia.

  Greddark tucked his tape away and pulled out a thin metal rod, similarly marked. With the utmost care, he inserted the rod into the wound between the fourth and fifth ribs. It went in easily, and Greddark stopped when he felt resistance, copying down the depth of the wound in his book. Then he did the same with the gouge between the fifth and sixth ribs. The rod sunk deeper this time, by another three inches, through the heart entirely and out the other side. Greddark withdrew the rod and wiped it off discreetly on the underside of Demodir’s sheet, then pocketed it again before recording the numbers.

  “How long would you say an average shifter’s claws are?”

  Zoden turned from the doorway.

  “I don’t know—two inches? Maybe twice that if you’re dealing with a razorclaw. Why?” His curiosity overcame his repugnance and he stepped closer to the corpse.

  Greddark didn’t answer, instead grabbing the candle from Arawai’s hand and bending close to the body once more. He used his quill to gently lift the flesh around one of the gouges, shining the candlelight down into the shallower wound. As he suspected, it was ragged all the way down, evidence of a claw forcing its way in and twisting about as it tried to find anchorage. Repeating the process with the deeper gouge, he noted that the unevenness went to the same depth as in the other wound. Beyond that, the flesh was smooth, as though parted with a keen blade.

  “What are you doing?” Zoden asked, his tone reflecting simultaneous horror and fascination.

  Greddark thrust the candle at him.

  “Figuring out who killed your friend,” he replied as he finished up the last of his notes.

  Zoden replaced the candle in Arawai’s outstretched hand, automatically kissing his fingertips and placing them to her lips in a reverential gesture. Then he turned back to Greddark.

  “Who? Not what? Even I can see that the bite marks are too big to belong to a shifter—”

  At Greddark’s raised eyebrow, he hastily amended his comment.

  “—once you pointed it out to me, of course.”

  “Of course. True, the bites are not those of a shifter. The marks are more consistent with some sort of large cat, bigger even than what I would expect to find in the forests around here. Certainly too big to be wandering around the streets of Aruldusk without attracting any notice.”

  “A cat? I remember thinking Zodal’s killer might be a big cat, at first.”

  Greddark shrugged.

  “Possibly a bear, but that’s even more unlikely.”

  Zoden snapped his fingers and smiled, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

  “That’s it! I think you may have just cracked the case, Master Greddark! There is a House Vadalis compound not a half-day’s ride east of here, on the shores of Lake Arul. And I happen to know they’ve been training a magebred ghost tiger for King Boranel’s court. One of the handlers is a regular at the E’erful Well.”

  His smile exploded into an ear-to-ear grin.

/>   “I think we’ve just found Demi’s killer,” Zoden crowed, “and maybe Zodal’s, too!”

  Greddark let the “we” pass without comment, instead making another note in his book before tucking it away.

  “Well, I’ll agree that it’s likely the tiger attacked Demodir, but that’s not what killed him.”

  Zoden’s smile faltered.

  “It’s not?”

  “No. Demodir was killed with a blade, most likely a sword. Possibly a long knife. So unless that tiger is exceptionally well-trained, it’s not our culprit.”

  Zoden’s disappointment was palpable.

  “Then who is?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’d say the next person we want to question is that handler. Which way to the Well?”

  The handler, Kyrin d’Vadalis, was not at the E’erful Well, nor was the Well actually all that full this evening. Greddark did find himself a talkative scullery maid who was more than happy to part with all the Market District gossip for a mug and a coin.

  “Shame about the Imaradis. Demi was their last son. Lost two others in the War, and a daughter to childbirth. The baby died, too.” She leaned close to Greddark, so that he could see the wrinkles around her pale blue eyes. “It’s on account of them turnin’ away from the Flame, it is. You know what they say. Trouble follows those who follow the Host.”

  Greddark nodded noncommittally, though he had not, in fact, heard the saying before. It must be peculiar to Aruldusk, an observation that did not surprise him in the least.