The Witness for the Dead

by Katherine Addison

The room was of medium size, furnished with a bed, a dresser, and a table by the window with one spindly chair. Everything had the distinctive air of secondhand furniture. As many people did, Min Shelsin had used the top of her dresser as a tiny shrine with five michenothas to represent the gods and a token from the Sanctuary of Csaivo to indicate that she’d made at least one pilgrimage in Amalo. The shrine was the only character the room showed until I opened the door of the closet and was ambushed by a riot of color: red and blue and gold, a vivid splash of fuchsia, green and blazing yellow and purple. And the fabrics were just as wild, silk and taffeta and velvet and all manner of brocades, gauze and lace and ribbons everywhere. I parted the row of lush and brightly colored gowns and saw that the closet made a right-angle turn with another bar full of hanging gowns, just as peacock-bright as the first row.

  “How far back does the closet go?”

  Merrem Nadaran looked blank for a moment, then made a gesture indicating the width of the room. “All the way to the hall,” she said. “All my lodgers appreciate the closets.”

  Thinking of my own room, I could only nod in agreement.

  Min Shelsin’s room held nothing more of interest. I thanked Merrem Nadaran for her trouble and left, saying good-bye to Min Nadin on my way.

  “Will we see you again, othala?” she asked.

  “Very likely.” I felt no enthusiasm at the prospect, but that closet was a mystery I knew would nag at me.

  “If you come back often enough,” she said, “I’ll make you a quilt.”

  * * *

  I took the tram to General Parzhadar Square, where the novices on duty at the Chapterhouse thought about refusing me entry and then thought better of it. I knew where to find Azhanharad, for I had been here before, and I made my way through the dark, narrow halls to the tiny room he used as an office. He always looked to me like he was on the verge of bursting out of it, like a bull out of a too-small cage.

  “Othala!” he said. “What news?”

  “The dead woman is an opera singer named Arveneän Shelsin. She lived in Cemchelarna. She doesn’t seem to have had any family in Amalo.”

  Azhanharad sighed and said, “We don’t suppose they knew which sect she followed.”

  “She had the michenothas in her room,” I said, “and a token from the Sanctuary of Csaivo.”

  “That does narrow it down,” Azhanharad said, looking marginally more cheerful. “With any luck we’ll be able to bury the poor woman properly.”

  “It doesn’t look like there’s anyone who will know if we’re wrong,” I said, although I knew that was of no more comfort to him than it was to me.

  * * *

  I returned to the Vermilion Opera that evening, still wearing my black silk coat of office, for I had no other clothes fine enough for a box at the opera—and I was certainly not attending for pleasure.

  The staff at the ticket office knew me immediately, and a goblin page boy appeared seemingly out of nowhere to lead me to Pel-Thenhior’s box.

  The box was in the first tier, almost on the stage—not an angle the stage was meant to be viewed from, but I understood at once why it was ideal for someone who wanted to watch what the singers were doing rather than to watch the story. It was also one of the least fashionable boxes, being farthest from the prince’s box at the center back of the auditorium. It was not likely that Prince Orchenis would visit the Vermilion Opera, but the best box in every Amaleise theater was called the prince’s box just in case. This evening, the prince’s box held two elven couples, all lavishly dressed, with jewels glittering in hair and ears. Town gentry, most likely, who could be unnoticed at the Amal’opera or could be peacocks here—and not have to pay as much for the privilege, either.

  After one look out at the rapidly filling auditorium, I retreated to the back corner of the box, where my view was of the flounced and tasseled stage curtain. Less interesting, but it could not look back at me and speculate about who I was. From this vantage point, I could also see the almost invisible door set into the box’s opposite wall, and that explained why this of all boxes was the director’s box.

  I had not been there long before the door opened and Pel-Thenhior—beautifully dressed again, in an evening suit of dark blue and silver brocade with earrings of lapis lazuli—came through. He smiled when he saw me, his ears lifting, and said, “Oh good, you came!”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I wasn’t sure. You seemed a little taken aback.”

  That was true enough. I gave the easiest answer: “I follow my calling.”

  “Then come sit down and let us see whom I can find.”

  I took one of the seats at the front of the box, and Pel-Thenhior sat beside me. He scanned the auditorium with one comprehensive glance and said, “Good house tonight. The Siege always draws them in, old warhorse that it is. And there’s Mer Dravenezh in the Parzhadeise box as usual.”

  The soberly dressed Mer Dravenezh looked out of place but also perfectly self-possessed.

  “Does his employer not attend?”

  “The Marquess Parzhadel is an invalid and never leaves the Parzhadeise compound. But Mer Dravenezh is here most nights. I have never been sure if Parzhadel sends him or if use of the Parzhadeise box is one of the perquisites of his job as Parzhadel’s secretary. He’s probably the most attentive person in the audience, so I hope for his sake he wants to be here.”

  “You have never asked him?”

  “It would be vulgar curiosity, nothing more. I prefer to leave Mer Dravenezh in peace. So. The people you’re interested in are going to be across from us and above us. Arveneän was only interested in men who could afford a box.”

  That was unsurprising; I nodded.

  “She aimed as high as she could,” Pel-Thenhior said. “She allowed burghers’ sons to court her because they have money, but she wanted men like Osmer Elithar”—he nodded across at a fashionably dressed young elven man on the tier above us—“and Dach’osmer Cambeshar, who is sitting in the box on the other side of the prince’s from Mer Dravenezh.”

  I leaned on the railing of our box, and looked over, easily spotting an older elven man, just as fashionably dressed, who was sitting with an elven woman, very beautiful and half his age.

  “Yes,” said Pel-Thenhior to a question I had not asked. “Dach’osmer Cambeshar is a patron of many beautiful young women. Arveneän wanted badly to oust the others, but she never could. He is far too canny to let her have that kind of power over him. Other men are not so wise.”

  He nodded at Osmer Elithar again. “She’s just about ruined him, for all that he maintains the appearance that she hasn’t.”

  “Is that a reason to kill her, do you think?”

  He considered my question carefully, pointing out two more of Min Shelsin’s patrons, Osmer Ponichar and Osmer Isthanar, before he said, “It could be. But I’m not sure Osmer Elithar is the man who could do it—not that I think murder is in any way a courageous action.”

  “No, I understand. Are there any of her patrons you think could commit murder?”

  “Dach’osmer Cambeshar would order it done and not think twice,” he said, “but I simply can’t imagine him caring enough about Arveneän to want her dead.” He pondered a moment. “The trouble is deciding what makes a man capable of murder. We all might be capable of murder in the right—or wrong—circumstances.”

  Which was either a neat evasion of my question or a genuine philosophical conundrum. I didn’t know him well enough to be able to judge which.

  “Perhaps if I rephrase,” I said. “Did any of them—other than Osmer Elithar—have reason to want her dead?”

  “I don’t know that she’d bled any of the others quite as dry,” Pel-Thenhior said, “but—”

  There was a knock on the door he’d come in by. He cursed in Barizhin and said, “I must go, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He gave me a stern look and added, “And there’s no reason for you to hide in the back of the box, either. You are far from the strang
est guest I’ve entertained.” In a swirl of startling crimson-lined coattails, he was gone.

  I kept my seat, pointing out to myself that in fact no one was looking at me at all, and watched the glittering audience, wondering how many of them were like Osmer Elithar and on the brink of penury.

  When the curtain began to rise, I felt a childish thrill out to the tips of my ears, as if I had come to the opera for pleasure. I knew the story of the siege of Tekharee; it was the subject of a long poem which I had been required to memorize as a child. The elves on the battlements within, the goblins on the plains without, the failure of the relief efforts, the growing desperation of the elven officers, the deadly patience of the goblins, the final agreement among the elves that rather than watch their wives and children starve, they would kill them and then burn Tekharee to the ground—and then the horror of the goblins as they find the murdered children among the smoldering wreckage. I had seen the opera before, but found myself as absorbed by the terrible dilemma of the garrison of Tekharee as ever. I barely noticed when Pel-Thenhior returned to the box. I did notice that Merrem Elorezho was sung by a goblin woman—who arguably had the best voice in the company. Her duet with Merrem Devatharan (sung by a sweet-faced elven soprano who was probably fifty trying to pass for thirty) filled the auditorium with a twining harmony so exquisite that we all forgot to breathe. Even the scratching of Pel-Thenhior’s steel nib stopped.

  At the intermission, Pel-Thenhior said, “A couple more of Arveneän’s boys came in late. That’s Mer Csenivar in the box directly across from us, and Osmer Olchevar is in the box above us.”

  “Mer Csenivar must be quite wealthy?”

  “To attract Arveneän’s attention, you mean? Yes, he has a generous allowance from his very wealthy father, but he’s also incredibly persistent. If any of her patrons was obsessed with her, he’s the one.”

  The young elven man in the unfashionable box was talking to his companion, another young elven man who was obviously his brother. They had the same shape to their faces and went to the same tailor.

  Pel-Thenhior said, “Do you want an introduction to anyone? Not all of them like me, but we certainly know each other.”

  “No, thank you, although I appreciate your offer. This is not where I want to try to get information out of them.”

  “I see your point,” said Pel-Thenhior, glancing around at the brightly chattering audience. “This is a terrible place to try to have a serious conversation.”

  “They won’t even really see me,” I said.

  * * *

  Perhaps because Pel-Thenhior was sitting beside me, furiously scribbling notes, I noticed things about this performance of The Siege of Tekharee that I hadn’t thought about before: the way that the chorus of the goblin army was swathed in black cloaks and helmets rather than painting their faces, the way the battlements of Tekharee were shown just by a low stone pillar and the acting ability of the officers and wives, who never failed in their pretense that on the other side of that imaginary wall was a fatal drop. The costumes of the officers and wives were magnificent, and I thought of the contents of Min Shelsin’s closet.

  After the end—the goblin army lamenting in lurid red light the deaths of their enemies—and after the curtain calls, as I was sitting and watching Min Shelsin’s patrons collect their belongings and prepare to leave, Pel-Thenhior returned to the box and said, a little breathlessly, “Oh good, you’re still here.”

  “Did you need something from me?”

  “More that I was wondering if you needed anything from me.” He gave me an oddly defiant look. “I hated her, but I didn’t want her dead. If she was murdered, I want her killer caught. And if you are trying to catch her killer, I want to know how I can help you.”

  My face must have been as blank as the wall behind me. He said, “If I offend, othala, of course I apologize, but I thought…”

  “No, no, of course not,” I said hastily. “I am in sore need of help, to be honest. I was just surprised.”

  “Surprised?” he said, surprised in turn. “But does not everyone want killers to be caught and justice to be done?”

  “Many people would prefer the whole thing just quietly disappear.”

  His ears flattened in disapproval. “Such people dishonor their ancestors,” he said, the particular phrasing he used telling me—probably without meaning to—that he was a member of a Barizheise sect which included among the gods a figure called the Grandmother of Grandmothers, the Dakh’dakhenmero, who, they believed, watched over the family. Every family’s Dakh’dakhenmero figure was different.

  “I will gladly accept any help you can offer,” I said. “Certainly, I could use someone’s help in going through her room.”

  “Well, there you are,” he said. “I can help with that. I knew her probably as well as anyone.” He winced. “What a horrible epitaph. For she hated me as much as I hated her.”

  “Did she have any friends? Or only patrons and, um, colleagues?”

  “She was friendly with two of the office clerks. I don’t have their names to hand, but I can find out.”

  I eyed him cautiously. “I will need to talk to everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “The only way to find the person who has the piece of information I need is to ask everyone I can find.”

  “I do not envy you your work,” Pel-Thenhior said. “Well, as long as you don’t mind it being rather piecemeal, you’re welcome to talk to people around rehearsals, when they’re not on stage. It’s the best way to be sure of finding them. They’ll all show up here sooner or later.”

  “All right,” I said. “When can you go with me to her boardinghouse?”

  “Any morning you like.”

  “Morning?”

  “Afternoons are rehearsals,” he said. “I have to be here. Why?”

  “Mornings, I must wait for petitioners in an office in the Prince Zhaicava Building.”

  “That sounds dreary.”

  Sometimes, I nearly said, but bit my tongue in time.

  “Well, I’ll come petition you,” said Pel-Thenhior. “It feels strange to be taking the place of her family, but they all died in the iärditha epidemic five years ago.”

  “You are an honorable man.”

  “Am I? For wanting a murderer to be caught?”

  “For being willing to take action. As I said, most people simply want the problem to vanish. The witnessing for a murder victim can be a very painful thing.”

  He regarded me with his ears at an inquisitive angle. “And yet you continue witnessing.”

  “It is my calling,” I said. “I tried to stop, but that was far worse, a kind of living death. I could not…” I trailed off, unable to find the words to explain.

  “When I was fifteen,” Pel-Thenhior offered, almost shyly, “and my voice changed, I went from being an excellent soprano to being a quite unremarkable baritone. I tried to quit the opera entirely—wounded vanity, mostly—and I could not. I could only try to find another way into the Empress Corivero’s garden, if you will forgive a rather overelaborate metaphor. So perhaps I understand a little.”

  “Music is a calling,” I said.

  “Not a religious one.”

  “No, and many prelates would disagree with me. But, to take your metaphor one step further, Ulis is the god of dreams.”

  His ears dipped in surprise, almost alarm. “I had not made that connection. You are a poet, othala.”

  I was unsure whether he meant that as a compliment. He might have been unsure as well, for he said briskly, “The Prince Zhaicava Building, you said? I will meet you there at ten,” and he was gone like a rabbit down a hole, leaving only the soft click of the door-latch behind him.

  * * *

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, I found myself wakeful. The moon was approaching full, flooding the world with its cold, beautiful light. Some sleepless nights—for this was a problem I was familiar with—I simply lay in bed and thought about whatever puzzle my petitioners had mo
st recently brought; some nights I lit the lamp and reread one of my lurid novels, accepting the expense I was incurring. Often, I went out walking in the local cemeteries—the small ones, the collective and family cemeteries, not the great bleak precinct of Ulvanensee. The paths were as carefully tended as the graves, and the lingering fear of ghouls, more superstition than necessity in a city like Amalo, meant that I did not encounter clandestine lovers or other night wanderers. Since Mer Urmenezh had come with his petition, I had used these walks to look for Min Urmenezhen’s grave, with failure after failure to reward me. Tonight was the cemetery Ulchoranee, a small collective in a neighborhood close to my own.

  Ulchoranee was laid out in a simple pattern, nothing ambitious or artistic. I walked up and down the rows, reading the gravestones by moonlight, noting that the stone-carving was clear and crisp and the stoneworker had some interesting and recognizable idiosyncrasies in the way he formed his letters. Most collectives had a single stoneworker they patronized, sometimes even entering into a contract to ensure that their gravestones received the promptest attention.

  When I found her, I almost walked straight past her, both because I wasn’t expecting to see her name and because I had become accustomed to thinking of her as Inshiran Urmenezhen, but her gravestone read INSHIRAN AVELONARAN. Beneath it, there was another inscription, ULANU, a suitable name for a dead child of unknown sex.

  I stood stock-still in astonishment for some moments, only now realizing just how much disbelief I had been carrying. I had truly never expected to find her, and I certainly hadn’t expected to find her here.

  “How did you come to Ulchoranee?” I said aloud. In a novel, she would have answered me; in truth, no Witness for the Dead could achieve results without actually touching the corpse they spoke to, and furthermore she had been dead far too long.

  She and her unborn child, and I wondered if Mer Urmenezh was right about murder.

  Mer Urmenezh, a most respectable bourgeois elven bachelor, had come to me in great distress. He had said that his sister was in her mid-thirties, a lifelong and content spinster, a birdwatcher who spent her spare time (when she was not teaching seven-year-olds the first rudiments of history and mathematics) on Lake Zheimela in an unladylike canoe.