by A J Witt
“Yes, we have.”
“And no one saw this guy?” wondered the chief. “It’s not like he was easy to miss, with the vest he was wearing.”
The room remained silent.
“We’ve got to retrace his steps, figure out where he came from.” Aiden sighed again. “The longer we wait, the less accurate our potential witnesses. Does the other end of the alley lead to the flower market?”
Another junior agent replied. “Yes sir.”
“Then we take it to the next level, and we interview each stall keeper.” The group was not prepared for an order of such magnitude, and Aiden sensed the skepticism in the room. “Need I remind you this is the murdering of Council members we’re talking about?” The chief closed his eyes. He loathed bringing a victim’s social status to the table. All cases are the same, whether a Council member or an indigent. Aiden also knew idealism rarely mattered. He looked over to Criss. She was sitting off to the side, staring at him emotionless. By Gods, she hates me. Not that I blame her for it. “I want our entire team to canvass the flower market today. Someone must have seen him walk through. Anything that can help us establish his identity.” The agents filed out. “And reconvene this afternoon!”
Only Criss remained behind. She scribbled another line into her notebook before shutting it and following the chief out.
“We should review the motives involved. I think we’re missing something here.”
“Understood,” answered Criss.
“I’m still convinced someone paid the man … I mean, these can’t be the actions of a lone killer.” The chief sighed. “The timing was too perfect, and everything points to a predetermined location.”
“Right.”
Aiden felt like shaking Criss to ask what she really believed. He needed her help. Sure, she got the raw end of the stick, but I'm also getting tired of her act. I won’t solve this thing alone, not this time. “The Source-powered explosives indicate a wealthy backer,” he added, hoping to stimulate a constructive response. Silence. “Your average Phaidrosians don’t get their hands on such firepower on their own.” Silence. “Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
The one-word answer caused the chief to clench his teeth in frustration. Not that kind of response. They came upon a spacious corner office which was sparsely decorated, only a cheap Source-powered clock gracing its bare walls and a steel desk pushed near the corner. It too was barren, save a pencil and handwritten notes. A small door on the right led to a balcony with panoramic views of downtown Phaidros. Aiden settled behind the desk while Criss grabbed one of the two metal chairs.
She was the brightest mind in the Battalion, of that Aiden had no doubt. It should have been her sitting in his place, running operations and giving the commands. Several years older, she had shot up through the ranks, succeeding at each required stage in the Main Complex. And like every other woman working in Dominion institutions, her career path had met a ceiling. Criss was a role model to Aiden, and the misogyny made him uncomfortable. After all, she excelled at her job and solved the majority of her cases. And her reward? To work for me? Her junior? Had he been in her place, Aiden would have left. Criss stayed, a decision for which the chief respected her even more.
His second-in-command opened her notebook, a slim leather-bound journal with a thin white ribbon hanging from one end. Short auburn hair fell close to her shoulders, an underlayer of darker brown visible near the top of her head. She had a round face, and Aiden watched as her silver eyes darted back and forth, following the scrawl of her pen. Pity’s a dangerous emotion. Criss was a strong and stubborn woman, one who resented any preferential treatment. In fact, she rejected the privileges he had bestowed upon her during his first days in office, only widening the perceived gap between them. Since then, the chief had managed to accomplish his original objectives more subtly, to the point where Criss essentially possessed Aiden’s power. Just not the title. He sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning.
Criss looked up at him momentarily and buried her head back into her notebook. She uncrossed her legs and crossed them once more, her loose fitting white pants moving like waves in an ocean as she changed positions. Aiden hated the outfit, it made her look like an Overseer. Not like I’m on one side or the other. Overseers, Adepts, and Nobles, they’re all the same. The chief had a job requiring him to remain neutral and detached. And he had no problem doing so.
But Aiden felt purposeless. What’s the point? As a child, he had always been curious, the inquisitiveness morphing into a full-blown existential crisis when he grew into a man. It came and went as it pleased, like a beast striking one day while ignoring him on another. The chief was embarrassed. He had a comfortable and secure employment, and one of the more prestigious titles in the entire Dominion. There are people living in the streets, and I’m struggling with the meaning of life? Aiden despised himself for it and often resorted to suppressing his feelings altogether.
“Chief,” Criss said a second time.
“Umm … yes?”
“You wanted to talk about motives?”
“Oh, right,” he replied, adjusting his glasses. Aiden was born with heterochromia and was known for his disheveled appearance, a permanent two-day beard and messy brown hair. It had almost kept him from being promoted to his current position, though the members of the Noble Assembly had neglected aesthetics in favor of his stellar record and successful crime-solving skills. “Who would cut down those Council members?” He was now hunching in his chair, thinking out loud. “Who, who, who.”
Criss remained silent and flipped back a few pages in her notebook. “There are multiple possibilities.”
The chief sat up straight. Okay, here we go. Once she starts talking …
“The most obvious suspect is some high-ranking official at the Academy, if not the preceptor himself. It was done with explosives which are Source-powered and developed by the Academy under supervision of the major source manipulator. And we know Adepts and Overseers wouldn’t be caught dead sharing shadow time together. The two dead Council members were the commandant himself and his greatest Noble ally. So they have every reason to do it.”
“Doesn’t seem to fit the preceptor, does it?” Aiden was eager to feed into what he could foresee turning into a very beneficial brainstorming session.
“Right,” she replied. “And it’s too obvious. Unless they misjudged the backlash, doesn’t seem like the Adepts have gained much from it. Still possible nonetheless.”
“Because?”
“Because the Council is about to undergo a shift in power, one that could benefit the Academy in the long run.”
“Disastrous short-term damage for long-term gain?” asked the chief.
“Sounds more like the preceptor, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does.”
“Which leads me to our second suspect,” Criss continued, “someone else known for her long-term vision.”
“Najara.” Aiden realized he was whispering. “The confidante?”
“Yes. Support for her and the Temple has never been higher following the murders, especially with what’s going on out in the countryside. That should be the focus of our attention, by the way.”
“Yes, I know, I know.”
“If we could send out a force,” she pursued, “and—”
“This case first,” the chief interjected. “And they’re connected, anyway.”
“Perhaps.”
“I know they are.”
“Perhaps.”
Aiden sighed. “Go on.”
“Najara has a track record for shady activities, and—”
“Nothing like this.”
“That we are aware of.”
Aiden said something under his breath, tapping his fingers on the steel desk and making a sound that echoed throughout the office.
“And let me add, her new commandant is no God herself,” said Criss.
“She sure looks like one, though.”
This
time, the chief’s second-in-command was the one to say something under her breath.
“It doesn’t matter, we have no proof showing the Temple’s responsible,” contended Aiden.
“Well, we can’t arrest the Temple. We need proof someone did it.”
“Yes, fine. What I’m saying is we know the Academy and the Temple, as institutions, have the resources to execute this. Ergo, we just need to narrow down the culprit within.”
“Right, but—”
“But what?” cut in the chief, frustrated.
“Aren’t we forgetting the Nobles? A lot of those families could have pulled this off.”
“What would any of them have to gain?”
“Lord Lester was the richest and most powerful of them all,” Criss explained. “Someone must benefit from the fortune he left behind.”
“No, this isn’t financial. Doesn’t make sense. If you do it for that reason, you do it at night with a knife, not in broad daylight with a suicide bomber and expensive Source-powered explosives.” Aiden sighed. “This was a statement kill.”
“Money is a statement.”
“And what, the late Commandant Rex Quintus was just collateral damage?”
Criss nodded.
“What else?”
“It could have also been a common citizen,” she suggested.
“Not a chance, already disproven. Weren’t you listening to me just now? Source-powered explosives cost too much for a common Phaidrosian to afford.”
“I’d say, right now, nothing’s been proven or disproven.”
The chief stared out the window. “It’s not a random citizen.”
“When we know that for sure, then you can cross it off the list.” Criss slammed her notebook shut. “Along with the Nobles you seem so eager to discount.”
“Okay, I get it. Everyone has motives to kill the most powerful men in Phaidros.” Aiden stood up. “That’s why we need to focus on the guy’s looks, figure out who he was. It’s our only chance of connecting the dots.”
“Well, there’s not much left for us to focus on.”
“Yeah, I get that.” The chief’s face lost some of its color. He had been one of the first to arrive at the scene of the crime, and the bits of flesh scattered about the street were still keeping him up at night. “Hopefully, the team finds something at the flower market.”
“And if they don’t?” asked Criss.
“Then the greatest crime in our history may go unsolved.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Elias had risen through the ranks of the Academy despite his meek disposition. Streaks of gray ran through his otherwise dull black hair, and not a trace of a beard could be seen sprouting on his unremarkable face. In fact, the Adept was so unassuming, people would often overlook his presence in a room. Rather than holding him back, the cards life dealt him played in his favor. By lurking in the background, Elias stayed out of the spotlight. He was promoted often, if only because Academy officials had no reason not to. And one day, he became right-hand man to the preceptor himself.
But now, the unimposing physique that had helped Elias climb the ladder was causing him grief, as he failed to prevent the much taller and stronger Edvon from attempting to strangle his younger brother. “Please, step back. This is no way to handle the situation.” Kyran struggled to free himself from Edvon’s lethal grip, and the officer noticed the younger brother’s smirk had yet to dissipate. He’s actually enjoying this? I should step away and let Edvon teach him a lesson. Before Elias could make a choice he would come to regret, the older of the two backed off on his own free will.
“You’re such a geegabrain, Kyran!” Edvon yelled. “What is this now, your fourth trip to the preceptor’s office this month? Don’t you ever learn? Can’t you be more—”
“Like you?” spat Kyran. “Why can’t I be the perfect little Auralus running along the halls of the Academy, teachers fawning over my talents and girls gazing into my beautiful green eyes?”
“That’s not what I was going to say, and you know—”
“That I’m not calm and collected, like you?” Kyran asked.
“No, and stop interrupting me while I speak.”
“Only when you stop comparing us.”
“I’m not comparing us!” Edvon shot back.
There was a pause, and Elias attempted to add something yet failed to get anyone’s attention.
“What are you getting at then, huh?” pursued Kyran. “That I’m always getting into trouble? Well, there’s only room for so many suck-ups at the Academy.”
Edvon took a step forward. “Just because I work harder than you doesn’t make me a suck-up.” They stood there for a moment, until Kyran dissolved into laughter. Were Adepts graded on their ability to provoke and aggravate, the younger brother would have been at the top of the Academy.
“Look, your bickering will solve nothing,” said Elias. “I think this is best left to—”
As if on cue, the door to the preceptor’s office swung wide open. Kyran cringed in anticipation, while Edvon felt relief at the sight of a man he had come to value as a mentor and friend. Marrek was standing still, a calm look on his aged face. He considered the siblings with an unrevealing demeanor and beckoned them to follow him in. The young men obliged, with Kyran requiring a slight push by Elias. Swiping the hand off his back, the Adept took in the familiar sight. Manuscripts overflowed from shelves and books were stacked on an assortment of smaller tables scattered about. The office was lit naturally through skylights and a dozen large Source-powered crystals hanging from the ceiling. Marrek’s desk took up half the room and was stacked with tomes, most notably all ten volumes of Ikbar’s Chronicles of the Dread Shepherds, handwritten notes, as well as modern technological tools and objects. Most unique to the office was a sweet aroma emanating from the small indoor garden. It was replete with a growth of vegetables and wild flowers, a testament to the preceptor’s favorite hobby. As soon as Marrek had settled into his comfortable leather chair, Edvon spoke up.
“Sir, I want to apologize for the scene outside your office, and—”
“That’s quite enough,” interjected the preceptor with a wave of his hand, his deep and soothing baritone voice overtaking Edvon’s. “We have much to discuss, and brotherly love is the least of our concerns.”
“I’d hardly call it love,” muttered Kyran.
“And what would you call it?”
The young man was taken aback by the question. How in the Gods did he hear me?
“If you think Edvon has ill-intentions toward you,” Marrek proceeded, “then let’s hear what they might be.”
The preceptor spoke in a manner which had the effect of dispelling much of Kyran’s anger. How does he do that? I was so angry walking in here and now, I’m … not. “Well … umm … he just yelled at me without even knowing what I’d done.”
“You’re definitely not up here for something good,” Edvon replied in defense of his own actions.
“And why not?”
“Elias was giving you an earful when I walked in. If that’s not enough of an indicator, I don’t know what is.”
“Yeah, well … I … well …” stammered Kyran. “I still didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Oh, you were the victim again? If I—”
“Enough,” Marrek declared.
Suspended above them, a Source-powered kinetic sculpture rotated upon itself.
“Anyway, maybe I’ll get going,” said a voice in the back of the room.
Kyran jumped from his chair, while the startled preceptor clutched his chest. Edvon spun around, bracing himself for the worst.
“By all the Gods!” Marrek exclaimed.
“I … wh—what’s wrong?” asked Elias.
“We didn’t realize you were still here. You frightened us.”
Elias held up his arms in confusion. “You were, like, facing me directly, sir.”
“Right, right, of course,” said the preceptor. “Thank you, I’ll handle it from here.�
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Elias opened his mouth yet said nothing. He then bowed and vanished from the office.
There was another moment of silence, and the young Adepts made a concerted effort not to laugh. Marrek stared at them with his brown eyes, he too suppressing a chuckle. Edvon caught the slightest trace of a strange emotion, one he had never seen manifested by the preceptor. Apprehension? He looked again, but it was gone. Anxiety? Too difficult to tell.
The brothers had been living at the Academy as long as Edvon could remember. Most Adepts joined at a young age, separated from their families as soon as Source manipulation capabilities were discovered, unless the child was born in East Phaidros in which case the only way to join the Academy was to run away. By the time one was old enough to make that conscious decision, his or her powers would have already disappeared. Without proper practice and refinement within the walls of the Academy, Adepts turned into nothing else than common citizens.
Students were sometimes allowed several days to visit their families. If the family even wants to see them. Not that it matters. The preceptor himself had taken in the brothers during one of his visits to an orphanage. With a bald head and traces of white hair around the edges of his ears, Marrek was the closest they had to a parent. Edvon considered himself lucky because he doubted very much he would ever meet an individual as clever as the one sitting in front of him.
Older teachers would often tell stories of the preceptor’s youth, when he excelled in his studies and rose to the top of the Academy’s ranks. Perhaps most impressive was Marrek’s unrelenting desire to remain active. Early mornings, he could be seen walking the grounds of the Academy, garbed in his usual sand-colored robes and often accompanied by students or younger teachers picking his brain on various matters of academia.
“Kyran, I know you find your courses boring,” the preceptor said. “But they are a foundation, a bedrock as you begin to venture out into the Dominion.”