Fires That Forge, page 16
part #1 of Lords of Order and Chaos Series
“A death we had nothing to do with,” A’Ilys said.
Silas nodded.
“I assumed as much, given that my father’s death has put you in this awkward situation as well,” Silas continued. “It is possible that one of your number has not been satisfied with the terms of the former contract, but I find that unlikely. Father was keen to build lasting relationships with his partners. I digress. I believe you can offer me something that I’ll likely not find anywhere else. You see, I am a voracious student of the world that surrounds us. I would be very eager to learn whatever you would be willing to teach me in regard to your race, your culture, your medicines, and your magics. I realize you were probably not prepared for a counteroffer at this time, therefore, it may be unseemly. However, I hope you will forgive my direct nature in light of the fact that I am bargaining for my life.”
A’Ilys smiled as almost visible calculations ran behind his eyes.
“You’re certainly not what I was expecting,” Sharrin said, only now relaxing his hand that had hovered near his hammer. “You are Killian’s son after all.”
Silas rose, removed his gauntlet, and extended his right hand. A’Ilys removed his own gauntlet and took Silas’s hand.
“You do understand there will be a swift response to any act that appears as betrayal?” A’Ilys asked. “We have many eyes in Moras.”
“Certainly,” Silas said. “I would expect nothing less from a race with your reputation for efficiency.”
“I will discuss your request with my Queen and her council,” A’Ilys said. “You will receive word when I have an answer for you.”
Silas worked hard to avoid releasing the tension that had gathered in his chest and lungs. A heavy sigh now would show how much they had excited his emotions. He must continue to maintain his composure at all costs.
“You know the other Houses will be emboldened by Lady Helena’s death,” Sharrin said. “Steward Killian was a shrewd man, but it was Lady Helena they feared. Should we assign a guard for you?”
“I think the young Steward has things well in hand,” A’Ilys said. “He has a stiletto concealed in that arm bracer of his. Rather craftily concealed, if I may say so. Are you familiar with its use?”
“Lady Helena and Inquisitor Dunewell have taught me much,” Silas said.
“No guard then?” Sharrin asked.
“Thank you, but no,” Silas said. Then he stopped and turned back to them. “Sharrin, may I ask you a question?” Silas asked.
“Of course, Steward Morosse,” Sharrin said. “It seems I am your man still.”
“Have you been feeling uncommonly tired of late?”
“Some. Yes.”
“That shaving nick, I’ve noticed you’ve been shaving around it for some time now. It’s not healing properly, is it?”
“No, no it’s not,” Sharrin said as suspicion began to gather around his eyes.
“You spend too much time underground,” Silas said. “You’re displaying symptoms of deficiency of sunlight. Beef liver should fix you right up. Eat a serving of it with at least one meal a day for the next ten days. You’ll be feeling much better soon.”
With that Silas offered a slight bow, unlocked the outer door, and exited the room leaving a very astonished Foreman and drow in his wake.
It had been an exciting and astonishing day for the young doctor. However, there was still work to be done.
Chapter X
Which murder?
Uriel-Ka paced in his velvet slippers across the black marble floor of his inner quarters. He walked a specific path just inside the runed circle carved into the stone. The runes protected his thoughts from whatever mental pickpockets might be about and acted as a barrier against those that would scry his conversations and actions. He was a master of those very arts and thus sought to protect himself from same.
He sorted his thoughts, recent events, and the implications they may or may not have. He reviewed, mentally, Lady Evalynne’s contracts; both written and those only spoken. He recited the intricate relationships of each person of importance or exceptional skill that called Moras their home. He still had no answers.
A knock on the sectot wood door halted his pacing.
“Lancher?” Uriel-Ka asked to the closed door.
“Yes, my lord,” Lancher replied.
Uriel-Ka flicked a hand at the enchanted door, and it swung open with violent force. A force that reflected the master mage’s mood. Lancher, a small but deceptively dangerous man, stepped in quickly; making certain he was clear of the door’s path. He was five feet six inches of wiry muscle. His stringy brown hair hung around his head in loose braids. His face always seemed to have two days’ growth of graying beard. He wore a short sword on one side and a pair of daggers on the other but could kill a man with most anything. Uriel-Ka had even witnessed, via his scrying bowl of course, an occasion in which Lancher killed a man with a bite of chicken. As Lancher and the ship’s captain ate a meal together, Lancher swiftly grabbed the captain’s mouth and nose, forcing him to inhale the lump of chicken in his mouth. Lancher held him fast until the captain, who’d failed to agree to certain terms set out by Uriel-Ka, choked to death.
Uriel-Ka served as advisor, agent, and enforcer to Lady Evalynne, ruler of Moras and all that surrounded it. Lancher served those same roles for Uriel-Ka.
“I am perturbed that I must ask this question,” Uriel-Ka said. “However, did you have anything to do with the death of Lady Helena or Steward Killian?”
Lancher, a practiced liar since he could talk, could not hide his surprise, or his fear, at being asked this particular question.
“No, sir!” Lancher assured. “I wouldn’t do somethin’ like that ‘less it was you told me to do it.”
“Then why have two more Stewards been killed?” Uriel-Ka roared. “Why am I hearing it from the inquisitors and not from you beforehand? Why am I standing, like a complete fool, next to Lady Evalynne when she receives the news?”
“Two more?” The question was out of Lancher’s mouth before the implications could register in his mind.
Lightning danced at the end of Uriel-Ka’s hand; the one that bore the black onyx ring. The flashing light skipped from one fingertip to another and was reflected gravely in Uriel-Ka’s eyes.
“You did not know that two more Stewards had been killed?” Uriel-Ka said in a disturbingly calm voice.
“I only just heard about Steward Whillyd’s body being found in that alley. Same alley where they found one of the others, behind the Marble Flagon. I was on my way to tell you about it when you summoned me.”
“Was Whillyd’s death the work of the vampire?” Uriel-Ka said as the flashes of lightning began to reduce in frequency. He was still debating whether or not to blast Lancher’s thin frame from the face of the world.
“Lots think so,” Lancher said. “His pockets were turned out, but I know who did that. It was the same lads that told me it was Whillyd that was dead. Word is he went there to meet someone. They saw the marks on his neck plain enough,” Lancher hooked his king and middle finger and made a gesture at his own throat. “Said it was the same kind as on the other ones the vamps got.”
Lancher desperately wanted to know who else had been killed but, knew that if he asked, his would likely be the third death of the day.
“Who was he meeting?”
“He’d hired some cutmen to do a kidnapping,” Lancher said. “Word is he wanted to grab up one of the witnesses Dunewell talked to. He hired outside work so it couldn’t get back to House Jocayn. He also went to see that boy, Steward Killian’s boy, at that place of his for sick folk a few days ago. Figured it was just about keeping business between the Houses running smooth, but I don’t know that for sure.”
“Some person or organization has killed three Stewards and one Lady this week and we don’t know who they are or why!” Uriel-Ka exclaimed as much to the ceiling as to Lancher. “What of Hydern? Any sign?”
“None, sir,” Lancher said. “Hasn’t been seen since day before yesterday.”
“Is there anything that ties Rugan to Whillyd?” Uriel-Ka asked.
“Nothing beyond the usual commerce,” Lancher said, guessing Rugan to be the other corpse to have turned up unexpectedly. “There was some row between Rugan and House Despion. Perrage, one of Despion’s better enforcers, had an argument with Rugan on his ship over some crates taken from House Morosse.”
“Yes,” Uriel-Ka said. “Rugan has been wanting in on that deal with the elven trade goods for some time. He took advantage of Killian’s death to get his foot in the door. I spoke to Nyvark about it and that’s been sorted out. It was not he that had Rugan killed.”
“So, it weren’t no vamp that got Rugan?”
“Vampires are not known for going out of their way to also kill wolves,” Uriel-Ka said. “Not even rust wolves. Vampires have a way about them. A means of controlling beasts like that. Almost all things unnatural bend to their will.”
“What should I do?” Lancher finally asked when it seemed Uriel-Ka was regressing into his own thoughts.
“Tell me about this young watchman, Keryk.”
“Keryk, with me,” Dunewell called impatiently from outside the extravagant inn. “Come, I’ve brought you a horse.”
Keryk ran from the lobby to the carriage stand near the front door where Inquisitor Dunewell waited. He took the reins offered by Dunewell and swung into the saddle of the chestnut gelding.
“Your first day keeping pace with an inquisitor is going to be a busy one,” Dunewell said over the sound of horseshoes rapidly striking the cobblestone streets of Moras. “Two Stewards were discovered dead not an hour ago. One will be investigated by Inquisitor Medaci; the other is ours. We have another stop to make on our way though.”
“An errand before investigating the death of a Steward?” Keryk asked with justified hesitance.
“Yes,” Dunewell said with no promise of further explanation.
As they turned onto the street that led to House Morosse, Keryk thought he understood the nature of this other errand. Perhaps they were going to detain the suspect first. Keryk was confused when they rode past House Morosse and continued on to find a plank shack, door standing open, with a watchman standing guard at the door.
“No body’s been in, just like you said Inquisitor,” the watchman said. “The others that live here got back from their dock work and were pretty mad we wouldn’t let them in.”
“What was their reaction to the announcement their good friend and fellow was dead?”
“Angry, mostly,” the watchman said. “They said he was likely killed for the silver necklace they all pitched in for. They figure it was stolen.”
“Thank you,” Dunewell said as he dismounted.
Dunewell stepped from his horse and handed the reins to the watchman. Keryk followed suit. Both stepped inside, Keryk just behind Dunewell. Keryk was vigilant and followed Dunewell’s gaze wherever it traveled in the small room.
No chair was overturned, no candle knocked aside, no recent scratches on the floor indicating the table had been violently shifted. No marks on the simple wooden board that secured the door as a lock, no pry marks on the nails that secured the door in place, and no foot marks or splintering evident on the outside of the door.
Dunewell looked all around for track or trace of the killer but found none. Then he approached Myllon’s corpse. His body had crumpled to the floor, from a standing position Dunewell guessed. He was not knocked backward or forward. It looked as though he was simply standing still and then slowly crouched to a sitting position. A small dark patch of blood could be seen on his shirt just to the left and below the bottom button of his pullover shirt. Directly over his heart. Dunewell had seen the wound a few times before. The assassin was a professional. A single puncture to the heart, or large vessel above it, and all strength would drain from the victim. This method typically resulted in a swift death and, for the most part, a painless one. Furthermore, it resulted in an immediate loss of strength. Dunewell noted that Myllon’s cherished necklace was not about his neck.
“What do you see?” Dunewell asked, not looking around to Keryk.
“No evidence of a break in,” Keryk said. “No indication there was a fight of any sort. That suggests he knew his killer personally. I only see the one wound which means the killer is likely an experienced assassin.”
“Good work,” Dunewell said. “However, who else might this fellow allow into his home so trustingly?”
“An official, I suppose,” Keryk said. “A watchman, a member of the clergy; someone like that?”
“Good. Or someone disguised as a watchman or other trusted professional.”
“So, likely a skilled assassin who is also adept as disguise?”
“Yes,” Dunewell said. “Those are sound observations. However, we must not manacle ourselves to theories just yet. We must keep our minds open to receive new evidence; should it be discovered.”
Dunewell took another look around the room, attempting to memorize the details should he require them at a later time. Then he stepped past Keryk and out into the dreary light of the cold morning.
“You may release the body and scene to his friends and family now,” Dunewell said to the watchman as he stepped into the saddle. “We must be off to the dock now.”
Myllon could have been incapacitated, as he now believed Lady Helena and Steward Killian had been, but he doubted it. His thoughts moved quickly from the scene he just left to the one in the bedroom from days before.
He was confident Lady Helena and Steward Killian had been redressed, either while paralyzed somehow or after their death. Why would someone need to redress them? What evidence could their clothes have provided that would indicate the killer? Silas testified that he had seen them in the same robes after dinner that they were discovered in. Did that mean they changed clothes for some reason between the time he last saw them and the time of their death?
Dunewell reined in his horse from full gallop in the middle of the street. Keryk barely avoided a collision with him as he followed suit to bring his own mount to a halt.
“Sir, are you well?” Keryk asked.
“It wasn’t the clothing,” Dunewell said. “It was what the clothing concealed. There was blood on the clothing in splatter patterns consistent with the apparent wounds. So, I looked no further. There must be other wounds, telltale wounds on their bodies that would reveal more.”
“Sir?”
“There was a trace, a scent, of tarp oil,” Dunewell said. “It must have been used to protect the bed and surrounding area of the scene from blood and other fluids resulting from the initial wound. They were struck a mortal blow, redressed, and then blood was sprayed about to make it look as though the throat punctures were the killing blows. Still, there were no signs of combat which means they were disabled, paralyzed, by some other means.”
“Sir?” Keryk asked again.
“We must be quick today,” Dunewell said. “We have much to do.”
Minutes later Dunewell and Keryk arrived at the dock where Rugan’s Joy was moored. Dunewell’s mind was viciously gnawing away at his newest revelation. He must now set that aside. The murders must be linked; Killian’s and Rugan’s. However, he must focus his efforts on this scene before him.
Six watchmen were stationed on the dock itself and three more were standing on the upper deck of the seagoing vessel. Each stomped his feet and roughed his hands together; a weak defense against the brutal cold that engulfed them.
Dunewell dismounted and tied his mount to a nearby wagon. Keryk did the same.
“Sir, we’re right back to where you gathered me from earlier,” Keryk said. “The inn where I was stationed is only a few streets that way.”
“Yes,” Dunewell said. “However, I expect this scene to be more complex. The other was relatively straightforward. These murders are linked; I’m certain of it. We are now armed with information we would not have had if we’d come here first.”
“Watchman,” Dunewell said to one of the men aboard ship as he stepped off the gang plank and onto the deck. “Have any of his housemen been accounted for?”
“Yes, sir,” the watchman, a sergeant by his sigil clasp, said. “Two to be exact. Them and that wolf are in there with him. All dead.”
“Any crewmen to speak of?”
“None, sir,” the sergeant answered. “We haven’t spoken to all of them yet, but the ones we found said they were sent about their separate ways yesterday afternoon by the ship’s captain. The first of them returned this morning to find… well, they found what’s inside, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Dunewell said as he moved past him and through the hatch.
Dunewell stopped then and turned around.
“Keryk, you know this area. Roust anyone that would have been here yesterday evening and find out if anyone, anyone at all, was seen going onto the ship.”
“Yes, sir,” Keryk said as he turned back toward the docks and warehouses.
Lanterns burned low along the corridor at the foot of the few steps down below deck. Dunewell found the ship below deck cramped and was forced to bend forward considerably to move his large frame through the narrow passages. Fortunately, the doorway to Rugan’s quarters was close to the hatch.
Dunewell found the room’s furnishings to be much what he expected. It was rather large, for ship’s quarters, with a stout oak table and chairs for six to the left of the door, a large bed with an overstuffed mattress to the right, and a large desk, also of oak, directly across from the door. Behind the desk stood a large cabinet containing several ledgers, books, and maps. There was also the familiar smell of blood, urine, and feces.
The table had been prepared with two place settings. There were three dishes in the middle of the table of seasoned potatoes, pork steak, and grapes. On either side of these dishes were two silver plates, two sets of forks and knives, two napkins, and two wine goblets. One goblet was empty and dry while the other sat on the side of the table where Rugan slumped, his rust wolf dead yet still tied to his chair. It still held a swallow or two of red wine.
