by Queen, Nyna
“I would feel more inclined to admire it through the bars of a cell,” Stephane growled softly.
“Unfortunately, that won’t be possible.”
Stephane frowned. “Why not?”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Alex echoed incredulously.
In an instant, the room became freezingly cold. Darken’s features turned glacial and dangerous, and Alex wouldn’t have been surprised if the windows had frosted over.
“Belaris—”
“Hey! Don’t look at me, man!” Belaris held up his holo-hands, stemming the enraged torrent of words before it could start. “This time, I had nothing to do with it.”
Darken pondered his best friend for a moment, still hovering on the edge.
“Explain.”
The other Forfeit ran a distracted hand through his blond locks. “After I got your message, as soon as I could get out, I went to Phelps’ place. Nice apartment at the outskirts of Crona City. Nothing overly fancy but not too shabby either. Place was a mess, though. Apparently, its owner left in a great hurry. So great, in fact, that he didn’t have the time to pick up a couple of hundred dollar bills that must have slipped his grip on the way out. Seems like little Dorian was trying to bolt.”
A crimson fire filled his eyes, bathing his dashing face in a demonic glow. “As it is, he didn’t get very far. I was just trying to identify his coach signature when I stumbled upon a cop radio transmission, reporting an ‘accident’ about fifteen miles from Phelps’ home, the victim being—”
“Phelps,” Darken guessed.
“Bingo!” Belaris shot his forefinger at him. “When I reached the scene, the local guardaí force was already finishing up with the pleasantries and the salvage crew was about to arrive. They pegged it as a ‘hit-and-run-accident’.”
“But?” Darken asked, picking up on something in Belaris’ tone.
“But I saw the coach, bro, and I tell you that was no accident. I’ve been ordered to arrange too many ‘accidents’ like this not to recognize the telltale signs.”
The causality with which he spoke about his killing missions gave Alex a chill. Beside her, she heard Stephane inhale sharply. Belaris didn’t seem to notice.
“There is only one single section on that entire coast road of about a hundred yards where there is no safety barrier and where a crash will most likely result in death. Phelps’ coach was hit at precisely the right point to make sure he’d swing off the road and down the crag. And from the dents in the side of the coach, he must have pitted himself against the attacker, at least for a short moment.” He leaned forward. “Your guy was most definitely silenced.”
“Why?” Alex asked, feeling confused.
“Who knows?” Belaris shrugged. “Phelps didn’t strike me as a hardboiled hitman, more like a casual criminal. I’d bet my favorite sword he got chosen for this job because of his position in the palace and was offered such a shitload of money he simply couldn’t resist. Maybe when he heard about Ferhus having been murdered, he got worried that his own attempted crime might be uncovered during the investigation, got cold feet, decided to sing out the instigators, and they somehow got wind of it. Or maybe he got a hunch that his ‘employers’ wanted to punish him for his failure or simply get rid of any loose ends.”
The two Forfeits exchanged a long, meaningful glance.
Yeah, never good to leave any loose ends. Alex knew that lesson. She knew it only too well.
“Anyway, unless any of you can communicate through the grave, I’m afraid it will remain a mystery,” Belaris wrapped up poetically. “Fact is, Phelps is dead and feeding the worms.”
“Well, right now, I’m afraid I don’t feel too sorry for the loss.” Stephane’s voice dripped with disgust. “Given that he tried to kill me.”
“Nevertheless, he might have been able to give us valuable information.” Darken slowly walked up and down before the vis-a.
Which was probably the reason why he had been silenced, Alex reflected. Phelps must have known something. And now he was dead. Just like Ferhus.
As if reading her thoughts, Darken held in mid-stride and faced the rest of them. “Why is it that whenever we finally have a lead, our witnesses end up dead?”
“Maybe you are cursed,” Belaris suggested brightly.
Darken shot his friend a withering glance while his fingers absently rubbed the tattoo on the back of his left hand.
“All of us”—he pointed between the two of them—“are cursed from the moment we are born.”
“Well, then perhaps the Jester just doesn’t like your ugly mug?”
Darken made a sound that reminded Alex extremely of a cat that someone had stepped on its tail.
Despite the gravity of the situation, she just couldn’t help it: she chortled.
Darken turned slowly, fixing his burning gaze on her. “You have an opinion?”
Alex tried to stop, but the giggles just kept coming. Had to be nerves. Or the alcohol.
With much difficulty, she managed to arrange her features in an innocent expression. “Me? Oh no, sugar, I wouldn’t presume to understand what’s going on in the Jester’s very own mind.”
Darken’s eyes narrowed. Likely trying to work out whether her comment said anything about what she thought about his mug. Well, keep guessing.
Luckily, Belaris interrupted. “As I said, this Dorian, he seems like a mere henchman to me, but if you’d like me to find out a bit more about him—”
“No.” Darken waved his hand. “I’ve got something else for you … if you are up to it.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re in the picture regarding the guardaí investigations on Governor Ferhus’ murder, I’m sure?”
Belaris barked a laugh. “Honestly, Dark, I don’t think there is anyone in the entire realm—and probably half of Tharsis, too—who isn’t.”
“Does that mean I am wrong to assume you might have certain … deeper … insights?”
The smile he got in return was the epitome of smugness. “And again you’re being insulting. You know very well that I have my sources. They would be shocked if they knew just how many little mice are reporting back to me right from the top secret centre of the guardaí’s headquarters.” He shrugged. “However, while I can tell you a lot, there’s nothing revealing in this particular matter. Our dear guardaí, our friends and helpers, are very much stumped themselves. Crona Palace is supposed to be the most secure place in the Republic, and someone just walked in with a knife, stabbed one of the royal guests, and then walked away while they were still scratching their asses and wondering why their oh-so uncrackable security system was suffering several glitches that conveniently jammed all the safeguards for almost an hour. It makes them look pretty stupid, and you can imagine how much they like that.”
“So, they really don’t have any lead?” Darken wanted to know.
“Nope.” Belaris grimaced. “Well, except—some of them are still hoping that you might confess…”
Darken’s lips curled. “That’s what I figured.”
Belaris slowly wagged his head. “They don’t like to be the laughing stock of the entire country. If they cannot nail a suspect soon, this is gonna turn into a witch hunt. You know what that means.”
“I know.”
Alex felt their eyes on her. She shivered as she realized what the comment meant. The more they started turning things over, the likelier it was that they would discover something about her. They just had to run the genetic profile of ‘Lady de Nuy’ against the guardaí crime database, and her goose would be cooked. It didn’t seem like an obvious option to match one of the royal guests against a shaper profile, but people came up with strange ideas when they got desperate.
Darken turned back to Belaris and steepled his hands, resting his forefingers against his chin. “I want you to do an in-depth check on the deceased governor. Find out what you can about him, and why anybody would have an interest in murdering him.”
&nbs
p; Curiosity sparked in Belaris’ eyes. “Can do. What am I looking for exactly?”
“Anything.”
Belaris just looked at him.
Darken waved an impatient hand. “Anything that strikes you as odd or that might be connected to his murder.”
“I simply love it when you’re that precise,” Belaris commented drily.
A lazy smile curved Darken’s lips. “I wouldn’t want you to get bored.” The smile faded and his eyes grazed Alex again. “Start by looking for connections to the name Maria.”
“Maria. Right. Maria … who?” When no more input came, Belaris raised his hands as if to stop a non-existent word flow. “No, please, don’t give me any more information, I might actually find something.”
Darken rubbed his temples. “Just do it, Belaris, alright?”
“Alright, alright, fine, man. I’ll do it. But only because you asked so nicely,” Belaris said scathingly.
He opened his mouth to say something else, then his head whipped to the side and back.
“Need to go,” he hissed. “Just don’t expect any miracles. This might actually take a while.”
The projection flickered and Belaris was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
A WHILE turned out to be more than a week. An entire week of pretended normalcy while the gossip factory in Arcadia was working overtime.
The governor of the Southern Provinces—murdered! And not just that, but inside the Royal Palace of all places, that fortress of security! A breach in the surveillance system nobody could explain! And still no suspects!
It was a scandal of unequaled magnitude. People were whispering of terrorism, of shaper risings, and of a pending new war with Tharsis.
The guardaí had interrogated all of the over eight hundred guests of the Summerball plus the palace staff—some even multiple times—yet as far as the public was aware, they were still no closer to solving this murder than they had been the moment the governor had breathed his last. It was casting a poor light on the Department, and the situation was getting rather tense.
While the trueborn elite kept spinning their tales of hellfire and doom, and Stephane and Edalyne were pouring their efforts into mending Stephane’s banged up image in the election campaign, Alex and Darken were trying to keep as close an eye as possible on their remaining two suspects while they waited for Belaris’ feedback.
It proved about as difficult as expected. Like most of the realm’s high functionaries, both Devilier and Roukewood were limiting their public appearances to an absolute minimum, and whenever they left their mansions, they were surrounded by a battalion of bodyguards.
Their only consolation for the setback with the Bluetail Grand Theatre was that the joint had lost its license and had been closed down. The best they could hope for right now was that the Master would be so furious about the loss of his recruiting office that he got carried away and made a crucial mistake.
Unfortunately, so far neither Roukewood nor Devilier had demonstrated any connection to the theater or had acted in any other way suspiciously. Not that they had expected the Master to suddenly turn careless, but one could always hope.
Both men attended Governor Ferhus’ funeral which was held at the beginning of the week following the Summerball, as did the vast majority of Arcadia’s royal families, including the Dubois and Alex. Even Tyler, who had finally been released from hospital, made an appearance, although he still looked pale and shaky and ready to collapse at any moment.
The funeral ceremony was a long and pompous affair, complete with arduous speeches and ceremonial spellgun shooting. From among the sea of black-clad mourners, Alex noticed the three young girls in black veils at the side of the casket—Ferhus’ granddaughters—weeping silently as Prime Gerald himself honored the deceased governor with grand words for his accomplishments, investing him with the Valorian Cross fourth grade for services to the Republic, one of the highest decorations one could get around here, as Alex was told. As if some stupid piece of metal was any consolation for those kids!
The moment the gravediggers picked up the adorned casket, the youngest of the girls, hardly older than eight, broke into heart-wrenching sobs and threw herself at the nearest heaver, yanking and clawing at his legs, trying to pull him away from the casket. She kept bawling until a man came forward, picked her up and carried her thrashing body away, her eerie screams echoing through the shocked, heavy silence at the graveyard. Alex felt sick and cold and so utterly reminded of herself at her sire’s funeral that she had to return to the coach, unable to join the procession to the governor’s final resting place.
Nobody seemed to notice that something was amiss except for Darken, who gave her a long look when the others finally returned to the coaches and protectively hovered over her during the entire funeral feast, shielding her from anybody who might have wanted to approach her otherwise.
Alex had no words for her gratitude. She only wished he could have held her, maybe it would have dispelled the lingering chill inside her soul.
After the funeral, life among the elite returned to normal with shocking speed. Sure, people were still eager to loudly exclaim how shaken they were by the events, but the time for quiet grief and piety was over, resulting in a rapid inflow of event announcements and invitations.
It meant that Alex had to show herself in public with the Dubois family again, including another prolonged shopping trip with Edalyne and Josy in Ciradell’s finest boutiques, which made her purchases in the Pacified Zone look like a steal.
Worse, it also meant having to be seen with her dearest benefactor, Heloise, an undertaking which put all of them to an acid test. While they kept up their smiles in public, the tension between the two of them was growing so thick that by the end of the week, it seemed only a matter of time until one of them would murder the other. Alex actually started dreaming of suffocating the old bitch in her sleep.
Needless to say, Alex was beyond relieved when the family finally set out for Helton Manor for the weekend—as the Dubois were known to do on a regular basis—and Heloise, due to several incredibly important appointments, had to stay behind at Ciradell.
“ANYTHING suspicious yet?”
Alex raised her eyes from the holographic projection she had been watching to find Darken towering in the doorway to the family parlor.
She snorted. “If you consider him going to the bathroom three times during the last two hours ‘suspicious’, then yes, sugar, I think we’ve nailed him.”
Darken chuckled softly as he glided into the room, and Alex reached forward to deactivate the sequence on the Echeranion Sphere, glad for the excuse to take a break from her drudging task. Putting it on the table, she squashed a yawn.
“I get the feeling that dear old Alistair is as bored by the speech as I am.”
For the past two hours, she had been watching a recap of Senator Devilier attending a scientific conference on sustainable economy through a spell bug that Darken had planted at the convention centre after they had found out that Warlington’s senator would be present at the conference.
Through the zoom function of the high-grade military device, Alex had a decent view of Devilier from above and could also hear him breathing, yet if she expected him to spill any state secrets, she had a feeling she would have to wait for a long time.
So far, the most interesting thing the man had done was yawn a couple of times while trying to cover it up with coughing. When he had taken out his communicator, Alex had felt a short spike of excitement, yet all he had done was message his wife, informing her that he would be on time for dinner—seriously, who messaged someone to tell them that they would be on time?—scheduled a tennis match with his friend Lord Grayborn, and finally ordered some flowers for one of his housemaids who’d given birth. No secrecy, no cryptic messages, not even a single joke!
Honestly, the guy was so spot-on, it was sickening. If he really was the Master, Alex doubted that he would be sloppy enough to give himself away while being at a pu
blic event. Unless, of course, he went to the bathroom to send his secret messages…
Wow, you’re really getting paranoid, sugar! Alex rubbed her forehead. More likely, he just had an enlarged prostate or something.
Great, and now she was contemplating a man’s urinary habits. Yuck! What’s next? Following him to the bathroom?
Between trying to keep up with their suspects and not freaking out about the murder investigations, Alex had the feeling she was slowly losing her mind.
She pointed her chin at the scroll of gossamer papers Darken had clasped loosely in one hand.
“Any more luck with Roukewood?” At this point, she didn’t even dare hope.
Darken settled in the armchair opposite of her and flipped through the pages.
“He cancelled his weekly barber’s appointment on short notice.” His eyes skimmed over the delicate paper. “Apparently it’s something he never skips…”
A vain streak, Roukie, huh? Well, all people had their oddities. Some liked to have groomed hair … and some liked to employ murderers and kill off their competition.
Darken shrugged his broad shoulders. “Might be something worth keeping an eye on.”
“Sure.” Alex testily flipped a strand of blond hair back behind her ear. “That’s what we figured about everything one of them has or hasn’t done over this past week, and where has it gotten us? Nowhere!” And she wasn’t frustrated by it. Not at all.
“We just have to keep going,” Darken said distractedly, turning another page. “One of these days, the Master will make a mistake and we will be there to catch him when he does.”
“That, or he’ll catch us spying on him and have us arrested for violation of privacy or something along those lines.” Which would lead straight to her execution.
“Oh, that’s not gonna happen,” Darken said with his gaze still fixed on the papers.
“How can you be so sure?”
Really, how could he be so sure? Just how could he sit there all devil-may-care when they could be busted any day? His calm demeanor was like oil on Alex’s burning frustration.