Fires That Forge, page 17
part #1 of Lords of Order and Chaos Series
The two housemen, presumably Rugan’s personal guard, lay on the floor. One at the head of the table near Rugan and the other between the table and the doorway. Both wore weapons belts and scabbards, but only the one between the table and the door still had his sword. A short sword was missing from the houseman lying at the head of the table. Dunewell noticed what appeared to be self-inflicted scratches at their necks as though they were choking on something. He also noticed a slight foam on their lips. Closer inspection revealed another scratch on each of them on the back of their left hands. These scratches smelled faintly acrid and the skin had blackened around the wounds. Poisoned.
Dunewell next moved to Rugan’s corpse. His eyes were open and there was an unmistakable expression of rage on his face. Blood had run from his nose and filled his right eye. Dunewell would have his body searched for other wounds but believed, in this case, that to be unnecessary. The wooden skewer from the pork steak had been removed from the dish and pushed several inches into Rugan’s right nostril, and brain. The process would have been a slow one because the thin skewer would have broken should the killer tried to quickly thrust it in. By all indications, this had been done while Rugan was quite alive yet paralyzed.
This gave Dunewell an idea and he reexamined the wounds on the guards’ hands; this time much more closely. One was absent any other evidence, however the other contained a single small sliver of wood. A thorn, to be exact.
Next, Dunewell turned his attention to the wolf. It still wore its muzzle. It also had the houseman’s missing short sword sticking out of its side, low on the body. The sword had been thrust between the ribs and into the heart, apparently cleanly missing the lungs. Whoever had killed Rugan understood the nature of his exotic pet.
Dunewell moved back to the doorway where he began his sketch of the room and to take a few short notes. After completing his sketch, Dunewell moved to the ledgers. There were too many to go through here and he would likely need the aid of a monk or scribe to make sense of them. He would have them brought to his quarters for later study. He took careful count, nineteen. A black number.
Dunewell made his way out of the small space and back into the biting cold that awaited him on the deck. He took a moment to look up at the bleak sky, the same color as the dingy marble that comprised the skeleton of Moras. He pulled his cloak up a bit to better protect his neck from the razor frost winds and turned his attention to his task. He began walking along the rail of the ship. There he found what he was afraid he would. On the river side of the ship there was fresh oil from a rope marking a windlass there. He also found drag marks on the deck indicative of someone moving several crates, roughly the size of the crates stolen from House Morosse, to that same rail. Someone had tied a boat here last night and had likely off loaded the goods Rugan took from House Morosse’s warehouse. His killer had come to the ship from the river side.
Dunewell inspected the cargo of the ship just the same and again found what he expected. No sign of the crates he’d seen in Rugan’s possession days prior. After a lengthy search, he returned to the deck of the ship and addressed the Sergeant of the Watch.
“Sergeant, I’m done with my inspection,” Dunewell said. “Thank you for your attention to detail and professional execution of your duties.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant.
“I’ll need all of the records from Rugan’s quarters removed to my quarters at Blackstone Hall. Every map, ledger, book, and note. Can you see that’s done?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Dunewell walked back down the gangplank and untied both his horse and Keryk’s. After a few minutes of searching, he found Keryk talking to a beggar that had taken refuge from the cold in a battered crate behind a nearby warehouse. Keryk saw him at the end of the alley and nodded. He finished his interview with the poor soul and stepped quickly along the alleyway to rejoin Dunewell.
“Sorry, sir,” Keryk said as he approached. “I confirmed that Rugan has been on his ship for the past few days; conducting business from there. However, none of those I’ve spoken to saw anyone last night.”
Dunewell nodded, handed Keryk the reins to his horse, and stepped into the saddle.
“I must make a report to the Lord High Inquisitor,” Dunewell said. “I’ll need to make another call after that. Check up and down the channels near here and see if anyone saw a boat moving crates like the ones you searched for me the other day. I think our killer took the ones stored on Rugan’s Joy.”
“It’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it, sir,” Keryk said.
“What is?”
“That two Stewards should die on the same night at the hand of two different killers.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Steward Whillyd, of House Jocayn,” Keryk said. “His body was found this morning behind the Marble Flagon. Inquisitor Medaci was called in on that one. It looks to be another vampire attack.”
“Coincidence is a nonsense word,” Dunewell said. “The whole world operates on a pattern of order. The reason it may look random, or like coincidence, is because we are too dumb or lazy to see the order of it. When you’re done canvassing the channel byways, find Inquisitor Medaci and tell him I need to speak with him today.”
“Yes, sir,” Keryk said.
Dunewell stood with all the discipline expected of a top military officer. He had taken a few moments to stop at his quarters and add his new notes to those already placed about his desk and give his armor and boots a good wipe down. Now he stood in front of the Lord High Inquisitor’s desk; the high shine of his black boots contrasting the dull white bearskin rug.
He stood at attention, however his thoughts paced rapidly around in his skull. A Lady and three Stewards killed in less than a week’s time. In addition to them, his witness, Myllon, and two housemen guards of House Theald had been murdered. Furthermore, he’d just learned a houseman of House Jocayn was missing. Moras was a large city and saw its share of thefts, murders, and disappearances. However, these all seemed to tie together somehow. He just couldn’t see the pattern, the order… not yet.
Sunlight from the stained-glass windows behind the Lord High Inquisitor’s desk shone on his blond beard and freshly polished armor. The clouds were beginning to break apart outside to allow a bit of warmth and light onto the cold city of stone.
“Thank you for waiting,” Lord High Inquisitor Gyllorn said as he entered the room from a side chamber. “Much has happened this day.”
Gyllorn walked across to his desk and took his ease in the large plush chair behind it. At his nod Dunewell relaxed from standing at attention.
“Your report,” Gyllorn said.
“My witness in the Morosse case was murdered last night in his home less than a furlong from House Morosse,” Dunewell said. “Likely a professional disguised as someone of trusted office. Steward Rugan was murdered aboard his ship along with two of his guards and a rust wolf that he kept muzzled and on a leash. Also conducted professionally.”
“You mention them together,” Gyllorn said. “You believe them to be linked?”
“I do, sir,” Dunewell said. “My investigation of the House Morosse murders led me to discover a theft from one of their warehouses. The theft was committed by Steward Rugan.”
“That is a dangerous accusation to make against a Steward.”
“I witnessed the theft, sir,” Dunewell said. “Counterfeit or stolen elven jewelry.”
Dunewell didn’t understand why, but for some reason the Lord High Inquisitor seemed pleased to learn of this discovery. His words chastised Dunewell for the line of inquiry, but his manner indicated relief. Dunewell pushed this thought into a cubbyhole in his mind alongside what Silas had said about an association between the Lord High Inquisitor and Steward Killian. There was something else that belonged with them. Another piece of information that tied together in the same vein. What was it?
“I’d like to request the bodies of Steward Killian and Lady Helena exhumed, sir,” Dunewell continued. “I believe there was an additional wound on the bodies that was missed the first time.”
“That is ridiculous. Have you any idea what High Cleric Dyllance would say if we proposed to violate the sanctity of the grave?”
“Their bodies were redressed and posed in their bed, sir,” Dunewell went on undeterred. “Their night clothing had not been slept in. I’m sure of that. Someone worked very hard to make the area appear as though they were both killed instantly with a single stab to the throat.”
“It sounds to me as though Steward Rugan intended this theft for some time,” Gyllorn said as he moved his hand to rub at an invisible itch on his lip.
Dunewell knew the Lord High Inquisitor was lying, or about to lie. He couldn’t articulate his knowledge, but his belief was as sure as the stone floor on which he stood.
“He hired a professional assassin from beyond the walls of Moras to kill Steward Killian and Lady Helena so that his theft would go unnoticed and perhaps unrequited,” Gyllorn continued. “When it was time for Steward Rugan to pay this assassin, something went wrong. Perhaps he also tried to cheat his hired cutman. The assassin then killed Rugan and his guard before leaving the city.”
“My request for the exhumation?”
“Denied,” Gyllorn said, obviously irritated that his conclusions were ignored so completely.
“Yes, sir,” Dunewell said. “Anything else, sir?”
“You have the truth of the matter,” Gyllorn said. “I’ve just explained it to you. Search for this assassin. Find him and bring him to justice. I expect your completed report on the crimes by the next Holy day. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Dunewell said, no trace of the insubordination he felt coming through in his tone.
Less than an hour later Dunewell stepped lightly up the winding walkway that led to House Theald. Brown and orange banners bearing the trader’s mark of the house were set into place on both sides of the walkway and whipped violently in the cold wind of the day.
Dunewell had made a number of death notifications before, but this one was different. In many of the others, he’d known and loved those who’d passed. Never had he been tasked with notifying a family member he knew. Lady Erin was soon to become Stewardess Erin of House Theald. Her life would be changed in ways that she could not begin to fathom.
She was strong, however. Dunewell had always admired that about her.
Always? he thought to himself.
She possesses a unique strength of character and a commitment to her true self and the betterment of the peoples of Moras that you love, Dunewell, he seemed to think but… those weren’t his words, his thoughts.
Loved?
He supposed he did, although he couldn’t remember why. He could admit that to himself; it was easier admitting it. He did love her. He thought of her open, expressive face ever void of any sort of deception. He thought of her complete absence of anger. When others might express indignation or even hatred at another, she seemed to feel only disappointment, expressing sorrow for them instead.
She will make a fine Stewardess, came from somewhere in his mind. She will need a good man beside her, though. For her to survive the slings and arrows of Moras politics, she will need someone like you. She would also make a fine mother.
Mother? Where had that thought come from?
“Inquisitor Dunewell?”
Dunewell was still extinguishing that last notion from his mind when he was surprised by Lady Erin’s sudden appearance at his side.
“Forgive me, Lady,” Dunewell said. “I didn’t notice you there.”
She was sitting on a marble bench in a small garden spot to the side of the path that led to the magnificent entry of House Theald. Her blonde hair tumbled over her neck to the fur lined cloak that wrapped her. She quirked a smile at Dunewell. He felt it pierce his breast as surely as a lance.
He had never been given to such frivolities. He had never deigned to look along a young lady’s neckline. Dunewell wondered where these thoughts, these impulses were coming from.
“Do you think it will snow soon?” she asked turning her eyes, such heavenly orbs, back to the hedges that surrounded the small garden. “I hope so. The snow makes the hedge so much more beautiful and has a way of softening the stone walls and iron gates of Moras.”
“Forgive me, Lady,” Dunewell said. “I’ve come to tell you of your uncle’s death.”
“Yes,” Erin replied, not taking her gaze from the hedge. “A houseman told me this morning. I was probably told before you were. I didn’t like him very much, but he was my uncle and I loved him as I suppose only family can. May I offer you a cup of coffee?”
She scooted over on the bench and Dunewell sat down next to her. She gestured to a houseman standing nearby.
“My Lady… my Stewardess, I shouldn’t leave you here alone,” her armed guard said.
“I’m far from alone,” Erin replied. “I have Inquisitor Dunewell here with me. Please, another cup of coffee for me and one for the Inquisitor here.”
“My Stewardess, times may yet be dangerous for…”
“As I said, Inquisitor Dunewell is here with me. I’m quite confident in his capabilities.”
With a bow the houseman stepped off toward the manor of House Theald. Erin turned to face Dunewell and he felt more uncertainty then than he had in any charge he’d ever led. This woman could fold a regiment with just her smile.
“Do you believe I have anything to fear?” she asked, a little too demurely he thought.
“No,” Dunewell said. “There are many theories about the motives for the… for what happened to your uncle, Steward Rugan. None of them involve a proposed continued hostility toward you or your House. Do you know any details of his business of late?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. He’d made arrangements with some of his foremen and captains for continued operation in his absence. He was planning a venture to Lavon hoping to establish some new line of trade. However, I’ve no idea what it might have been. He was much on his ship these past several days.”
“May I offer you any service?” Dunewell asked.
She smiled again. A light curve of the lips just as enchanting as any spell in a master mage’s arsenal. Spell, there had been a spell…
“You are a fine man, Inquisitor Dunewell,” Erin said.
“Please, let me be Dunewell to you. Or, just Dune, if it please you.”
“Dune it is, and I Erin to you. You’ve sworn a term of service to the King, yes?”
“I have.”
“I am young and have time,” Erin said. “When will your term of service expire?”
“I am due to renew my oath by this time next year,” Dunewell said, not following this line of conversation at all and more concerned as to where these alien thoughts kept coming from.
“In that time, I will have my House in order and will be prepared to marry,” Erin said.
“I suppose so…” Dunewell said as genuine confusion expressed itself on his face.
That expression was transformed from confusion, to surprise, to a remarkable joy and passion in rapid succession as she pressed her lips to his.
“Do you think it was your vampire?” Dunewell asked.
“Outwardly it certainly appears to be another of its victims,” Medaci said as he took a stick from the fire in the iron stove to ignite the contents of his pipe.
Medaci was a man of lithe build and clever intellect. He had not yet reached his fortieth year; however, his hair had almost gone completely gray. He’d spent two years as a watchman when promoted to assist a former inquisitor and, for the last two decades, he’d served the city in that capacity. In that time, he had captured several criminals including two notable assassins, a powerful wizard, and one vampire.
“But you doubt it was the same vampire?” Dunewell asked from his chair next to Medaci’s stove.
He took another sip of coffee and placed the tin cup on the stove to keep it warm.
“It was not a vampire at all,” Medaci said. “The marks on the neck were consistent with a vamp attack right down to the slightest detail. There was even a holy symbol cast aside to make it look as though the victim was attempting to employ it as a defense. However, there was no smell of that strange perfume. Furthermore, the blood was not right. It was still a bright red and not the customary black. Whillyd’s body was near the site of a previous scene, and this vampire hasn’t done that before. There is something else. I’m not sure how it figures into it but I’m confident that it does. Each of the victims had something on them with the initials ‘BT.’ Some scraps of manifests, some notes in a coded script, and some a bill of sale made out to ‘BT.’”
“A holy symbol?” Keryk asked from his post near the door. Then he began to rifle through his own notes retrieved from a leather pouch at his waist.
Medaci raised his eyebrow to Dunewell who responded to the questioning gesture with a nod that encouraged patience.
“Here it is,” Keryk said. “A silver-plated symbol of Fate’s Tome. Is that what you found?”
“Indeed,” Medaci said, smiling and turning to the young watchman. “What do you know of it?”
“A talisman like that was taken from the body of Myllon, the murdered witness from this morning,” Keryk said. “It wouldn’t be like a Steward to carry around something so cheaply made. Oh, and Myllon had let his attacker into his home. Someone whose dress or station might lend them credit in his mind.”
“Odd that Steward Whillyd’s other possessions were stolen from his body, yet the necklace was left behind,” Dunewell said, prompting young Keryk.
“There are a few street thieves who harbor a superstition about stealing holy symbols,” Keryk began as he walked through his thoughts out loud. “They might have even missed it. You said it was discarded to the side?”
“Yes,” Medaci said.
