Fires That Forge, page 4
part #1 of Lords of Order and Chaos Series
Lady Evalynne certainly seemed to have the situation well in hand. Had she planned for this situation or was she this adept at manipulating events to turn any set of circumstances to her benefit? If she had planned for this situation, what did that really indicate? What he’d learned in these last few moments would bear up in court just as smoke moves the stone chimney it rises through. Once distilled properly, his predicament came down to evidence and testimony, not innocence or guilt.
“Please, this has given me much to think about,” Silas said, hoping to buy himself some time. “There has been so much already.”
Silas allowed his voice to falter on the last of his words. He had prepared for this very turn of events. He had practiced the sorrowful look that conveyed a young man with more on his shoulders than he could carry in front of the highly polished silver mirror in his quarters. He had rehearsed the voice, beleaguered by short nights and raw nerves, that would further support his displayed illusion. For he knew he must be in absolute control while appearing to teeter on sanity’s edge.
Uriel-Ka measured him with his eyes of varying brown. Would he see through this gambit to forestall? In this potion of dark politics, how many parts were Lady Evalynne and how many Uriel-Ka? What did they know and what could they be guilty of, exactly? He decided this was a faction he must court in the same manner as a hummingbird sips from a carnivorous flower.
Uriel-Ka finally nodded in return.
“Certainly, young Steward,” Uriel-Ka said. “You mustn’t delay for long. I understand your circumstances but now is the time to display to the Lady that you can weather the storm. There is a place in Moras for one that could withstand the gales that you now must face.”
High Cleric Dyllance mercifully stopped his lecture disguised as a eulogy and nodded to Silas. Silas stood and approached. Four housemen of House Morosse lifted the casket which held the already rotting corpse of Killian of the same House. The black glossy wood of the wagon and the coffin creaked as they applied upward pressure on the gleaming silver handles mounted on the sides of the casket.
The wooden house of bones and flesh was raised to the dark cleft of the marble wall. The top quarter of the coffin was slid into carved slots that secured the whole. Silas stepped to the foot of the coffin and pushed his father’s remains into their final resting place, as was his duty as the only surviving son of House Morosse. Once in place, the same four housemen raised a marble slab cut to fit the opening of the stone tomb. Then four silver stakes were driven into the edges of the slab, securing it.
These same four then took up the casket of Lady Helena of House Morosse. Lady Helena, Terror of Fate’s End. Lady Helena, Savior of Glenntheen. Lady Helena, wife, mother, and, on her final day, victim. After her coffin was placed into its own marble cleft, Silas stepped to the foot of it. He was struck by a thought then. Something he should have thought of much earlier when preparing himself for this event.
Silas turned and gestured for Inquisitor Dunewell to join him. There was a murmur throughout those gathered. A familiar murmur that seems to accompany any unexpected act committed in a social setting. To Silas’s knowledge, every faux pas in history had been followed by such a hushed chattering. Let them whisper their gossip, then.
He waved again for Dunewell to join him. Dunewell looked to High Inquisitor Gyllorn who nodded his assent. The gathering parted before Dunewell, for what crowd would not part before this man, as he stepped slowly toward the coffin. Dunewell stood next to Silas and placed his own hand upon the coffin. Silas noted the lone tear that betrayed Dunewell’s stoic visage. Then Dunewell placed his other hand on Silas’s shoulder. Together they slid the coffin of Lady Helena into black that would surround her for eternity.
Silas struggled to refrain from releasing the words that were pressing behind his teeth. Now was not the time. Proper timing on his part was imperative.
The marble lid for the tomb was secured in place and Dyllance began his final prayer.
Silas painted his practiced expression across the canvas of his face but could feel his hate boiling up the top of his spine and into the base of his skull. If he was forced to be near Dyllance for much longer, there would be another murder. Although this one would be rather easy to solve. How many children have you beaten today, priest? was Silas’s only thought for several moments. How many will you beat tomorrow?
“I know we have business,” Silas said when the final prayer effectively dismissed those gathered. “I must check in at the Sanctum this afternoon but will be home this evening and in father’s office tomorrow.”
“I have something to look into this afternoon as well,” Dunewell said. “I will be around after.”
Silas quirked the edge of his mouth into a smile and sought to keep from wondering if Dunewell’s ambiguity was on purpose or a matter of habit. I must not have guilty thoughts.
“I’ll have a dinner prepared,” Silas said, thinking of the many dangers he must prepare for. “And tea, of course. I assume you haven’t changed your views on wine.”
Dunewell smiled and placed his hand on Silas’s shoulder once again. Silas took great comfort in his smile and the feel of his hand on his shoulder. He was reassured.
“I’ll see you for dinner and tea, then.”
Dunewell turned and began to make his way through the crowd toward the Lord High Inquisitor. Silas turned toward his own coach parked near the iron gates. It was customary for the family to walk behind the dead during the Walk of Return, but now he would be taking a coach for the rest of the day.
For what he must do the coach was as cumbersome as an anchor. However, if he broke from his customary mode of travel it would certainly generate even more suspicion of him. That was the last thing he needed. All other plans would have to drink from the second ladle, as his mother used to say.
Furthermore, he knew he wouldn’t make it to his coach. Not right away, certainly. Those hungry for gruesome opportunity were already positioning themselves between him and his escape. He didn’t fault them for their desires for power. All individuals desire power, even if it is only enough power to isolate themselves from the world. However, the very idea of power via wealth sickened him. To begin with, it showed no imagination, no tact. Furthermore, wealth was fragile and fleeting.
Those who sought power through coin were unimaginative and lazy. True power came from only one source, a person’s will. The will must be continuously exercised, tested, and forged. It was hard work and most shied away from such labor. Those with the discipline to sharpen their mind and use it properly possessed the greatest of all powers. So many of these people who clambered for control could not even control themselves.
“Steward Silas,” came from a houseman of House Jocayn. “It is proper to call you Steward; I hope.”
The young man was a bit shorter than Silas and dressed in the sea green and yellow colors of Jocayn. It was a yellow consistent with a symptom of kidney complications Silas thought. The colors of his garments were, however, appropriately subdued for a show of mourning. He smelled faintly of perfume and wore a dress rapier of fine steel on his hip. The young houseman was just doing as he was told, however Silas visualized striking his scalp with a rough stone just the same.
“Silas is fine,” the young physician managed to maintain his humble and sorrowful tone. The last thing in the world he wanted was to be the Steward of House Morosse.
“Steward Whillyd asks for a moment of your time this afternoon,” the Jocayn houseman said. “He wishes that I convey he knows something of a witness. A witness, he says, that saw a curious smoke from a certain chimney. Steward Whillyd said this information would be of value to you and he would like to discuss the nature of that value.”
“I’d be happy to meet with your Steward,” Silas said, appearing distracted. “I’ll be at the Sanctum this afternoon. He may come there. Pass along my regrets as I already have plans for this evening.”
“Steward Whillyd will be glad to meet you at the Sanctum. Perhaps two hours hence?”
“Very well,” Silas said, offering a weak smile and his hand. The houseman took it briefly and moved off, surely to inform his Steward of his success in securing the appointment.
Silas wasn’t certain of what witness the houseman spoke, however, he could guess. Had Dunewell spoken with this particular witness yet? If so, had he discounted it or was he waiting for the right time to ambush me with this new piece of information? Silas decided that Dunewell would do what he was trained to do, and Silas would do what he must.
What would Whillyd want? That was the more pressing issue. Would he simply ask for some business arrangement that would favor House Jocayn in exchange for the name of said witness? Would he offer to disappear the witness? If so, what would his price be for that sort of work? Would Silas be able to say or do anything to save the life of this unfortunate?
Certainly, if Silas expressed any interest in the future of the unnamed subject in this future negotiation, Whillyd would seize upon it as an opportunity to further exploit him. This was blackmail, after all.
Innocence was his best play.
Chapter III
The Ritual of Investigation
Inquisitor Dunewell stepped to the side and Doctor Morosse shuffled past him on bare, almost frostbitten, feet. He tracked moisture from the morning dew across the polished black and white marble floor of the inquisitor’s quarters. Dunewell noted that, despite the walk from Morosse House to Blackstone, Silas’s feet also stained the marble with traces of blood.
Dunewell did note, out of training and habit, that Silas’s route, assuming it was a direct route, would have taken him right past an inn, a stable, several shops, a tax house, and the Keep of Lady Evalynne. How many eyes had caught the young doctor on his conspicuous morning walk? Dunewell thought of the heavy fog that settled over Moras that morning. That fog might be a blessing.
“Dune, they’re… they’re dead…both of them…murdered,” Silas finally managed as Dunewell closed the door. “She… mother… and my father, they’re both dead.”
Grief assailed Dunewell immediately, unabated. He knew Silas well, perhaps better than anyone else did, and had not seen him shake or heard him stammer since the young doctor was a child. He felt the flash of contagious panic and hysteria burst in his breast but muzzled that wild beast quickly.
“Killian and Helena?”
“Yes,” Silas said as he downed his head. “I didn’t know…I hope… I hope I was right to come to you first. I… I trust you. I’m sorry… I know… there’s no other way to say it.”
Silas took a faltering step and Dunewell moved quickly to catch his arm. Between the shock of what he must have seen, the cold of the morning, and the long walk from House Morosse, Silas was weakening rapidly.
Dunewell remembered the first time he had seen a man killed. It was an accident of training in the academy which, unfortunately, happened from time to time. Two older students were sparring with the blade protectors removed; for that is how Silver Helms train. One made a thrust that fell short of its mark until the other took a misstep, rolling his ankle over a stone and fell forward onto the blade. Dunewell remembered every sound and scent of that morning. He remembered the smell of disturbed chat dust mingling with the odor of feces as the young man’s bowels loosened upon his death. He remembered the bright red of the blood on the sallow white of the chat-rock that layered the grounds. He remembered the gurgling, choked hocks as the dying boy struggled to be heard and understood one last time. He remembered the taste of vomit in his own mouth and his shame at showing such a weakness. He remembered the struggle of swallowing that vomit lest his tender heart be discovered by his instructors. He no longer remembered the name of the young man but marked his death well. Dunewell, veteran of Tarborat, had seen many deaths since. But that first death, that first instance of a life extinguished, stayed with him.
Dunewell steadied Silas and lowered him to a nearby stone bench.
“You’re sure it was murder?” Dunewell asked. “That they are dead and not just injured?”
Silas opened his mouth to speak but was only able to nod vigorously in the affirmative.
Dunewell handed Silas his own cup of coffee that he had only just begun to drink. As Silas took the warm drink into shaking hands Dunewell turned and went to the door.
“Watchman!” bellowed from his throat.
“Yes, inquisitor,” came from somewhere out in the courtyard.
Dunewell spotted him then, barely able to make out his shape in the fog.
“Send word to the Captain of the Watch that House Morosse must be secured immediately. Send another to find the Lord High Inquisitor and tell him I’ll be at House Morosse. And ready a coach for me promptly.”
The watchman moved with a lack of hesitation demonstrated best by those that clearly understood the chain of command.
“We will be going to the scene soon, but first I must know a few things,” Dunewell said.
Silas visibly braced himself and sat up a bit straighter. After a moment he nodded.
“Remove the cloak,” Dunewell said. “It’s soaking wet.”
Dunewell offered Silas a change of clothes, although they were far too big for him, and a heavy cloak that Dunewell only wore when traveling in the mountains outside of the city. Silas accepted graciously and changed quickly; shivering the whole time. Dunewell needed answers but knew the combination of shock and being wet and cold would make obtaining those answers much more difficult.
“Are you ready?” Dunewell asked.
Silas nodded, still shivering a bit, and took another sip of coffee.
“When did you see them last?”
“You mean before… you mean while they still lived?”
“Yes,” Dunewell said.
“Last night,” Silas said. “Dinner. Mother, you know how she was, wanted a quiet meal with just Father and me. The servants were released for the evening and I prepared the meal, fish with an egg and wine sauce. Things were not often easy between father and I; you know that. However, since the Sanctum has been opened, we have gotten on better than we ever have before. We finally found a way for my pursuits to profit House Morosse; so, he was pleased. Sorry, I’m wandering, aren’t I? We ate our meal in relative peace and then I went to bed. I was up early this morning; before the servants. Father has… had a habit of being the first about in the morning and making his own coffee. There was no coffee this morning and no sign of anyone having been in the kitchen. After I left the kitchen I went to their rooms. The door to their hall was locked, so I used my key. The door to their rooms was standing ajar. I could smell… there was blood. A lot of blood. They were in their gowns; both of them in bed facing each other. I guess I stepped in the blood,” Silas said as he noticed his own tracks across Dunewell’s well swept floor.
“I immediately thought of you,” Silas said. “I wanted to run from the house but thought it best to walk.”
“You weren’t afraid the killer might still be in the house?” Dunewell asked.
“No,” Silas said as a mild furrow developed on his brow. “That never occurred to me.”
“How did you leave the house? By the front door?”
“No. The hidden side door, the Cully Door, near their rooms. It was the closest.”
“Was it locked?” Dunewell asked.
“I… yes,” Silas said; the furrow in his brow growing deeper. “I believe it was. I’m almost certain.”
“Did you see anyone, other than Helena and Killian, since your meal last night? A servant, a steps merchant, a drunken sailor, anyone?”
“No,” Silas said looking up from the bloody tracks on the floor. “No one in the house, I’m sure. On the streets on the way here… none that I remember.”
“Has anything unusual happened in the last few days or weeks?” Dunewell asked. “Anyone threatened them, or you? Anyone particularly angry at Killian?”
“There are always deals being made, ventures falling through, other Houses being underbid or cut out of one arrangement or another,” Silas said. “Nothing beyond daily business, though. However, I don’t exactly follow the daily business. I might not be the best to ask about that.”
“Who should I ask?”
“There was some arrangement between Father and Gyllorn… I’m terribly sorry, forgive my plain speech. The Lord High Inquisitor, Gyllorn, had some business with Steward Killian. It was ongoing and has been ever since I can remember. I always assumed father trusted him, you know there were few that he trusted, and asked his advice frequently.”
This last statement struck Dunewell. If there was a business arrangement between the Lord High Inquisitor of Moras and Steward Killian of House Morosse, he of all people should have been aware of it. He should have been made aware of it. The fact that he had not could indicate many possibilities. None of them good to Dunewell’s thinking. Bribery leapt to his mind first; quickly followed by blackmail.
Dunewell almost made an outward show of the physical force he exercised on his thoughts just then. Stop jumping to conclusions. Interview, collect evidence, make observations and notes, and let those direct your thinking, he commanded himself. Follow the evidence, don’t force it to fit your own theories.
“How do you know it was murder?” Dunewell asked. He disliked using the trick with Silas, but it must be done. If a witness was lying, they usually memorized their lie in a certain order. By forcing them to jump around in their story, a skilled interviewer could expose the inconsistencies.
“So much blood,” Silas said. “It had to be murder. I’m not aware of any natural death, and I’ve seen my share, that results in such blood loss. The fluids of the body make their way past the barrier of the skin in time but that takes several hours. Furthermore, it was only their blood and… well, blood, urine, and feces. There was no bile or other fluids though. No vomit.”
