Denevis ran back to the end of the vault and returned pushing a wheeled cart. As he got closer, I saw the autopsy instruments—the scalpels, the bone saw, and all the rest—laid out neatly on a green cloth.
“Many people need some warning,” said Ulzhavar.
“I think Mer Urmenezh was right not to attend,” I said. “He is already distraught over what happened to his sister.”
“Watching this will not help,” Ulzhavar agreed. “All right, Denevis. Tell me where we start.”
I watched while the two clerics worked their way down Inshiran Urmenezhen’s body, examining brain, lungs, heart … Ulzhavar spent quite some time looking at her hands. I followed enough of their conversation to know that there was something unusual in what they were finding, but could puzzle out no more than that before Ulzhavar said, “Dear goddess, look at her liver.” He turned to me and said, “Well, it’s perfectly clear what killed her. This poor woman has practically been pickled in calonvar.”
“Calonvar?”
“It’s a slow poison,” said Ulzhavar with a grimace. “He could have stretched her suffering out for weeks. The vomiting, the scaly patches on the hands—”
I remembered something else. “Was she pregnant?”
“Yes,” said Denevis.
“She might have thought it was nothing more than the early sickness. Until it killed her.”
“The poor woman,” said Ulzhavar. “What did you say the husband’s name is?”
“Croïs Avelonar.” Another horrible thought struck me. “Although who’s to say that’s his real name?”
“It most likely isn’t,” Ulzhavar said grimly. “He cut the sheep out of the flock far too effectively for this to be his first time.”
I nodded. Their calling, like mine, would inevitably bring them in contact with men who were widowed multiple times, women who buried one family member after another, husbands and children and siblings and parents all dying from enteric fever, which poisons like calonvar mimicked so closely. Sometimes one could take one’s suspicions to a Witness who would listen; oftentimes, though, the poisoner moved away to find a new hunting ground. In a city like Amalo, Avelonar wouldn’t even have to move very far, just far enough to find new neighbors, a new cleric, a new prelate, and he could start the cycle all over again.
“Mer Urmenezh never even met him,” I said. “We have nothing but a name he probably isn’t using.”
“Ah, but now we know he’s out there,” said Ulzhavar. “I can tell all the clerics to be on the lookout for similar cases.”
“Do you think you’ll have any results?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “I admit it is not as simple as I made it sound.”
“Still,” I said, “I thank you for letting me attend the autopsy. At least I will be able to tell Mer Urmenezh something definitive.”
“Yes,” Ulzhavar said. “It will be of no comfort, but perhaps it will allow him to rest.”
“Perhaps,” I said sadly, for rest was what Mer Urmenezh most desperately needed and what he would not give himself. “But I doubt it.”
* * *
Outside the Sanctuary’s main gates, I found Mer Urmenezh pacing back and forth to the detriment and irritation of the passersby. He stopped when he saw me.
“Othala?”
“She was murdered with calonvar,” I said, and his eyes welled with tears.
“I knew it,” he said, clearly not to me. Then, recollecting himself, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, then his pince-nez, then said, “Thank you, othala. You have done considerably more than your office demands.”
I said, “The Master of the Mortuary is going to have the clerics of the city watch for similar cases. He thinks this cannot be the first time the man has done this, and it almost certainly will not be the last.”
“Goddesses of mercy,” said Mer Urmenezh, as if doubting such beings existed.
“All the clerics of the city will be looking for him now, and we do not think he is cunning enough to elude them.”
“We suppose that’s true.” He squared his shoulders. “We must go give this news to our sisters. We bury Inshiran this evening. Will you come?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Thank you again, othala. The House Urmenada will remember your kindness.” He bowed deeply and left.
I watched him go and tried not to think about Croïs Avelonar, out there somewhere in the city looking for his next victim.
By now he might have found her.
* * *
The Urmenada belonged to one of the city’s collective cemeteries, where a number of families, bourgeois and town gentry, pooled their money in order to avoid the municipal cemeteries. Their prelate was an intense young elven woman, Othalo Bershanaran. Her husband, a broad-shouldered elven man who wore his hair in a braided club as the manufactory workers did in Lohaiso, was the cemetery sexton. It was not an uncommon arrangement for married female prelates.
There were not many mourners. Mer Urmenezh and his sisters, some cousins, some tired-looking elven women, whom I guessed to be Min Urmenezhen’s fellow teachers. Several of them had been crying, as had the sisters. As had Mer Urmenezh.
Seeing no reason to spare expense, Mer Urmenezh had paid for a sunset funeral, and Othalo Bershanaran had been a prelate long enough to judge the timing of the ceremony; she said the last words of the Ul’izheve, the final blessing, just as the last bright sliver of the sun vanished below the horizon. I offered a small prayer of my own that Min Urmenezhen might finally be left at rest.
At the gravesite, Mer Bershanar and his assistant placed the new headstone, with the names of both Min Urmenezhen and her unborn child—and I wondered how greatly it must have rankled Mer Urmenezh to be forced to use the name the child’s father had picked—and Othalo Bershanaran said an older, little-used blessing, the one that prayed for the dead child to stay sleeping in its dead mother’s womb.
I went home, shared sardines among the waiting cats, and went to bed early, although I did not sleep until late.
* * *
In the morning, there was a courier waiting outside my office. I recognized his colors immediately as being those of the Prince of Thu-Athamar; whatever Prince Orchenis wanted to see me about, it was too urgent to wait for the post. I developed a cold hard knot in the pit of my stomach.
“Othala Celehar,” he said, bowing. “We bring you a message from His Highness Prince Orchenis.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the letter, and broke the seal.
To Thara Celehar, prelate of Ulis and Witness for the Dead, greetings,
It has come to our attention that you are involved in the inheritance question of the House Duhalada. We would speak with you on this matter and request your immediate presence.
With all good will,
Orchenis Clunethar
And the prince’s personal signet of a swan was at the bottom, in case I had had any doubt that the message actually came from him.
“Immediate?” I said.
“Those are our instructions,” said the courier.
“All right,” I said, and kept my hands away from my hair.
I was grateful that it was only a few minutes’ walk from the Prince Zhaicava Building to the Amal’theileian. The courier took me in a back entrance and along the servants’ hallways. I could not decide if that was a good sign or a very bad one, and the courier said nothing.
Prince Orchenis had two audience rooms, besides the throne room that was only used for the most formal occasions. I had been presented to him in the Azalea Room, which was a beautiful room full of light and the glowing soft azalea pink of the walls. The courier took me to the other audience room, the Cinnabar Room, which was smaller, dark paneled, with cinnabar tiles flanking the fireplace. It, too, was a beautiful room, but far more intimidating.
Prince Orchenis, elven pale, tall, thin, and with a permanent frown line engraved between his eyebrows, was standing by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. He
was wearing silver-on-gray brocade and was jeweled with diamonds. His secretary, an elven man old enough to be Prince Orchenis’s father, was seated discreetly in the corner by the door. The room was otherwise empty, and the cold knot in my stomach got tighter. This was not a casual interview.
“Othala Celehar,” said Prince Orchenis. “We trust we have not inconvenienced you.”
“Of course not,” I said, as I was obliged to, regardless of truth. “We are pleased to attend upon Your Highness. How may we be of service?”
Prince Orchenis’s permanent frown made him very difficult to read, although I did at least know he was not as ill-tempered as he looked. He said, “We have had a most disturbing meeting with Mer Nepevis Duhalar.” He stopped and for a moment seemed to find it impossible to continue. “He has suggested the possibility of fraud.”
I bit down hard on the inner surface of my lower lip, a reflex I had learned as a novice after several blistering punishments for blurting out what I was actually thinking in response to a question. It was enough to keep me from simply accusing Mer Duhalar of fraud in turn. There was no point to that—if the solution were that simple, the matter would never have reached the prince. Instead, I said cautiously, “That is a very serious accusation. Did he explain why he felt we had committed fraud?”
“He alleges,” Prince Orchenis said, choosing his words carefully, “that you are in the pay of his brother Pelara in a plot to take over the company.”
I stared at the prince. “Why should we do such a thing?”
“The prelates of Ulis and the Witnesses vel ama are notoriously poor,” Prince Orchenis said. To my disbelief and horror I saw that he was actually blushing, and the cold knot in my stomach knew what he was going to say before he got the words out: “There are also allegations of … misconduct.”
My heartbeat roared in my ears, and for a moment I truly thought that I was going to faint. I had learned the breathing meditations in Lohaiso and I called on the simplest of them, steadying my breath until my heartbeat calmed and I could say in a level voice, “Your Highness, you must know that we would never do such a thing.”
Prince Orchenis’s frown had deepened, and he was looking past me instead of meeting my eyes. “It is not a matter of our personal beliefs, othala. Mer Nepevis Duhalar is an influential voice in our government, and we cannot simply ignore his allegations. And he has already threatened to go to the papers.”
“What about the allegations that he is a fraud? Can you ignore them?”
And then I cursed myself for saying exactly the thing I had sworn I wouldn’t.
Prince Orchenis did look at me now, a level and disapproving stare. “We have asked the Amalomaza to look into the matter of the documents. That is not what is at issue here. We are considering your actions, othala. For it is entirely possible that both Duhaladeise brothers are frauds. Pelara’s claim is legitimate only upon your testimony.”
“But if they’re both frauds, where is the genuine will?” I protested.
“Destroyed,” Prince Orchenis said, so curtly that I understood he had had such cases come before him. “The Duhalada have surrendered the entire matter to our judgment. We have not, as yet, said anything to the Amal’othala.”
“He will have heard,” I said bleakly.
“Of course,” said Prince Orchenis. “But he will not take notice until he has to.”
Prince Orchenis knew the Amal’othala better than I did; I would trust his judgment on that front. But that left me trying to prove a negative to the Prince of Thu-Athamar.
My head was full of Evru. Our love had been “misconduct,” and I knew there were prelates who still thought I should have been barred for life, although the Archprelate disagreed. But in the end I had remained true to my calling, and whether I had thereby betrayed Evru was also a matter of opinion.
I said, “Your Highness, we have committed no fraud. We have not betrayed our calling. Tell us how we may prove it to you.”
The prince said, “Mer Nepevis Duhalar demands that you submit to trial by ordeal.”
“The Amal’othala will definitely take notice of that,” I said.
“If we concur,” said Prince Orchenis, “the Amal’othala will be obliged to take notice of a great many things. But we have no belief in trial by ordeal. Nor, we think, does Nepevis Duhalar.” He eyed me for a few moments, then said, “However, we think it would be wise if you were … unavailable for a few days, and we would ask of you a favor.”
“A favor?” I said, terrified, infuriated, and now also baffled.
“We are receiving reports of a ghoul in Tanvero. The local othas’ala seems to be incapable of action, and although the Ulineise prelates in the area are devoted to their parishes, none of them can speak to the dead.”
“You want us to go to Tanvero,” I said blankly. Tanvero was a mining town high in the Mervarnens—at least two days’ journey from Amalo and those two days not comfortable ones.
“You know as well as we do,” Prince Orchenis said, “the problem with ghouls is that they don’t stay satisfied with dead meat.”
I did know. Ghouls, the plague of the northlands, had been a frequent problem in Aveio, where the graveyards far exceeded the reach of any single prelate. And Prince Orchenis was right; sooner or later every ghoul turned from the dead to the living. During the tenure of the prelate in Aveio before me, an entire family had been found, mostly eaten, in one of the far-outlying farmhouses. The reason the othas’ala of Aveio had tolerated me as long as he had was that I was capable of quieting a ghoul by myself. I couldn’t stop them rising, but I could halt their progress before their hunger drove them to living victims. I could listen for their names and have them reburied during daylight with a proper stone. It was repulsive work, for ghouls clothed themselves in the bodies they ate, but there was a grisly sort of satisfaction to it as well.
Unlike proving a negative, this was something I could do. But I had other obligations.
“We are witnessing for two women,” I said.
“They are dead,” Prince Orchenis said bluntly. “The dead are patient.”
“Very well,” I said. “When would you have us leave?”
* * *
Prince Orchenis was more thoughtful than I had expected. His secretary had found me a place with a caravan taking dry goods to Tanvero. The caravan masters were glad to have me; they had heard about the ghoul and were understandably nervous. They were leaving at first light the next morning, so that I was able to attend Arveneän Shelsin’s funeral, which had finally been arranged for noon. Min Balvedin and Min Nochenin were there in shabby, much-dyed black dresses they had most probably borrowed from friends or cousins. Pel-Thenhior was there like an austere and elegant shadow. No one else came.
The municipal ulimeire of the Airmen’s Quarter was a dreary building, soot-stained red brick on the outside and yellowed, cracking plaster on the inside. Anora, goblin-boned, tall and heavyset, and goblin dark except for his pale, nearsighted eyes, said the service for Min Shelsin with simple sincerity.
I watched Min Shelsin’s assembled mourners, Subpraeceptor Azhanharad looming behind them like a louring storm. I couldn’t imagine Min Nochenin or Min Balvedin as murderers, and while I thought Pel-Thenhior capable of murder, I did not think he had murdered Min Shelsin. For all that she hated Zhelsu, she clearly hadn’t intended to threaten not to perform, and beyond that—itself an empty threat—she seemed to have had only the power to exasperate him, not to drive him into a killing rage. And an elaborate, coldly thought-out plan to hire her murder was even more ridiculous. He had wanted her alive and singing.
After the funeral service was complete, I managed to catch Pel-Thenhior for a moment to tell him I was going to be gone for a few days, but that I was not abandoning the investigation.
“I did not know yours was a traveling position,” said Pel-Thenhior, frowning in perplexity.
That in itself was a slightly vexed question. I said, “There are reports of a ghoul in Tanvero, and the
most effective way to deal with a ghoul is to get a Witness for the Dead.”
Pel-Thenhior still looked troubled. “Isn’t that, I don’t know, awfully dangerous?”
It was kind of him to be worried, and an unfamiliar position for me to be in. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I said. “Ghouls are very slow, and it usually takes two or three months for them to transition to attacking the living.”
“Your idea of reassurance could use a little work,” Pel-Thenhior said, but he looked like he wanted to laugh.
“I’ve dealt with ghouls before. I’ll be fine.”
“That was better. May I expect to see you at the Opera when you return?”
“Of course,” I said. “I have to talk to your principal soprano, if nothing else.”
“Excellent,” said Pel-Thenhior, and bowed farewell.
The same conversation with Azhanharad—who also needed to know why I would be disappearing for most of a week—went quite differently. Azhanharad listened, frowning, and said, “We have heard nothing of a ghoul from our chapter in Tanvero.”
“We hardly think Prince Orchenis is lying to us,” I said sharply.
“No, of course not,” said Azhanharad. “We merely wonder how reliable his sources are. You may end up traveling all that way for nothing.”
“The best outcome with a ghoul,” said I.
Azhanharad scowled. “A ghoul is not something to be taken lightly.”
“We take ghouls and the duty they represent very seriously,” I said, bowing, and we parted miffed on both sides.
I talked briefly to Anora, who echoed the other exhortations to be careful.
“I will be,” I said. “I don’t know why everyone is so convinced I won’t be.”
“It doesn’t take a very long acquaintance with thee to see that thou dost not value thine own life,” said Anora. “I understand their concern perfectly.”
“Anora!”
“I do not mean that thou’rt careless, Thara, for thou art not. And thou wouldst never endanger another soul. But thou carest not whether thou wilt live or die. I fear for thee.”
The Witness for the Dead Page 10
