The Witness for the Dead

by Katherine Addison

  The Pearl Dragon was obviously the gathering place of the ashenoi. The women outnumbered the men by three to one at least, and several of them called greetings to Chonhadrin as we came in.

  She answered them cheerfully but was not diverted from her path to an empty table in one of the oddly shaped niches along the back of the room. “Sit down, Celehar,” she said. “I’ll get the tea.”

  I sat, finding the spindly wooden chair shockingly comfortable. I closed my eyes against the lamplight and did not open them until Chonhadrin said, “And here we go,” setting a tray down not quite with a thump. She dropped into the chair across from me and said, “I ordered stuffed rolls, as well. They’ll be out in a moment.”

  I hesitated in reaching for the tall, rough pottery mug, trying to think how much money I had in my pockets, and Chonhadrin rolled her eyes. “We can divide the bill, or I can pay. I have to eat dinner, too.”

  “You’re very decisive,” I said, and she laughed.

  “The word is ‘bossy.’ But at this point, I don’t think I’m likely to change.”

  I took a cautious sip of tea. Its strong ginger bite seemed to wash some of the dreadful taste out of my mouth, though it could do nothing for the headache.

  Chonhadrin said, “I’m also nosy. What were you doing in that hangar that they wouldn’t let anybody in?”

  I had not been sworn to secrecy. I said, “Othalo Zanarin believes that the explosion was not an accident, and she is seeking evidence for her theory from the dead.”

  Chonhadrin’s eyes widened, and her ears flattened a little. “Oh. And you…”

  “I am a Witness for the Dead,” I said with a shrug and took another sip of tea.

  “How awful,” she said. “Or does it not bother you anymore?”

  “It will always bother me,” I said. “I can’t follow my calling if it doesn’t. If you numb yourself to the horror of it, you can’t talk to the dead at all.”

  Her ears were even flatter. “Are there many old Witnesses in your calling, Celehar?”

  “We burn out,” I said, “like a candle wick drowning in a pool of wax. I probably have five years or so before I can’t hear them any longer.”

  “Will that be a relief?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I was glad that the stuffed rolls arrived then, and not only because I was ravenously hungry. They were very good, soft rolls stuffed with ham and tangy white cheese and then heated just enough to make the rolls crispy on the outside and to melt the cheese on the inside. They were impossible to eat tidily, but the staff brought a stack of napkins to the table with the plate, and the rolls went very well with the aikanaro. My headache began slowly to abate.

  We were silent for several minutes, and then I said, “You wanted to speak to me about something.”

  “Yes,” said Chonhadrin. “I did. Although…”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps it is an inappropriate time for personal concerns.”

  “It is not wrong to wish for a distraction,” I said. “I would frankly welcome one.”

  “I suppose,” she said, but she hesitated a long moment before saying abruptly, “You know, of course, that it is about the letter.”

  “I am at least not surprised. What troubles you?”

  “Everything!” she said, with an exasperated gesture that nearly knocked over her mug. “I do not wish to be unkind to Osmer Thilmerezh, for he seems very lonely and in truth unhappy, but I am afraid that if I answer his letter, I will break my grandfather’s heart. My Deleneise grandfather, I mean.”

  “The man who raised your mother as his child.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “He lives near Cetho. And I have tried to start a letter to him six or seven times.” Her ears drooped sadly. “I do not know what to do.”

  I said cautiously, “Do you feel you need your grandfather’s permission?”

  “No,” she said. “It isn’t that. It’s just…”

  “You must be unkind to either Osmer Thilmerezh or your grandfather, and naturally you wish to be unkind to neither.”

  “Yes,” she said, sounding relieved. “I don’t…” I finished eating while she thought hard for several minutes. A very old prelate in Lohaiso had taught me that people often solved their own problems, if you simply listened to them well enough.

  Finally, Chonhadrin said, decisively, “I must write to my grandfather first. I cannot spring it on him later.”

  I nodded and poured more tea into my mug.

  “But I think I must also write to Osmer Thilmerezh,” she said, “even if my grandfather disapproves. For in fact, since he was exiled, he is not truly to blame for deserting my grandmother.”

  “One assumes she could have gone with him,” I said. “Many wives did.”

  “But she didn’t even marry him, and from his letter, he sounded as if he very much wished she had.”

  “She must have been a…” I hesitated. “A lady very strong in her purpose.”

  “What a lovely way of saying she was a stubborn old pickaxe,” said Chonhadrin. “But, yes. Once my grandmother had made up her mind, nothing could sway her. And she was afraid of nothing that I ever saw.”

  I thought of the young Osmer Thilmerezh, banished to Tanvero and discovering his lover did not love him enough either to fight for him or to follow him. No wonder he had chosen to become town historian rather than marrying.

  “There,” said Chonhadrin, with satisfaction. “Thank you. You are a good listener, Celehar.”

  I smiled at her, although the expression felt stiff and strange on my face. “I am a Witness,” I said. “It is my nature.”

  * * *

  That night I slept soddenly and woke feeling still heavy and slow. I had several petitioners (they came sometimes in flurries), two of whom did not need my help in particular and could be directed to their district ulimeire, two of whom I could not help at all, and one who allowed me to leave my office, however briefly, to find out from his dead wife whether her death was accident or suicide. All morning, I dreaded the afternoon, knowing that if I did not go back to the Second Production Hangar, Othalo Zanarin would merely send a novice to find me. I could not face lunch again, though I knew I would regret not eating.

  It was a beautiful day, sunny, with great billowing white clouds sailing grandly across the sky. Anora would be busy all the afternoon burying the victims of the explosion, and one reason I had to go back was so that the remaining bodies could be buried tomorrow. The families’ grief deserved that much from me.

  Othalo Zanarin looked grim and exhausted. We did not speak to each other. I knelt beside each of the bodies in turn, saying the prayer of compassion for the dead, and touched the forehead. Each body gave me the same answers of pain and terror. None of them had any guilty knowledge. None of them had intended what had happened. After the last body, my head full of noise and burning, I sat back on my heels and said, without looking at Zanarin, “It was an accident. An honest accident, no matter how dreadful.”

  Othalo Zanarin said, “Do you know how many people died, Mer Celehar?”

  “Too many,” I said. “But it makes no difference. A terrible result does not always have a terrible cause.” It still wasn’t worth insisting on my proper rank, especially since my guess was that Zanarin would welcome a fight.

  “Then what happened?” she snarled.

  “That is a question for Witness Parmorin,” I said. “The dead have no answers.”

  “Thank you, Mer Celehar,” she said, her voice colder than ice. “We have no further need of your services.” She walked away, toward where Parmorin was standing surrounded by twisted fragments of airship. Instead of leaving, I followed her.

  Parmorin saw Zanarin approaching and stopped what she was doing to stand, arms folded, and wait, scowling ferociously. “Well?” she said when Zanarin was in earshot. “Did you find your malice worker?”

  Zanarin ignored the question. “What have you found?”
/>
  “Nothing that suggests a mechanical device,” said Parmorin. “And without such a device, no one could have ignited the eisonsar without being caught in the explosion. And we gather”—she cocked her head inquiringly at me—“that no one caught in the explosion bore any responsibility?”

  I shook my head.

  “There was a leak in one of the eisonsar tanks,” said Parmorin, “and then there was a spark. It takes so little to ignite leaking eisonsar that we hesitate to guess what that spark might have been. The explosion tore the Excellence of Umvino apart, sent bits of metal flying in every direction, and started three fires.”

  Zanarin said nothing for a long time, long enough that Parmorin stopped looking angry.

  I said, “No one intended harm.”

  “No,” said Parmorin, “airship work is dangerous.”

  Finally, Zanarin said, although she sounded as if it hurt her, “So we shall say in our report to the Amal’othala.” She bowed, barely, to Parmorin, and stalked away.

  Parmorin and I stood, looking at the wreckage around us. “Sometimes that is all you can say,” said Parmorin.

  “Sometimes there is no malice to be unmasked,” I said.

  “No,” said Parmorin, “there is no evil at work here. We are sorry it took Othalo Zanarin so long to accept that.”

  I shrugged. “What if she had been right?”

  Parmorin said, “She wasn’t right, and she knew it yesterday. She was just too proud to admit she was wrong.”

  I sighed and pushed my hair back from my face. “And your investigation, Witness Parmorin? What will you say in your deposition?”

  “The truth,” said Parmorin. “It was an accident.”

  * * *

  Although Zanarin seemed to have forgotten about the matter of depositions, Parmorin and I went together to the Amal’theileian and gave depositions before Judiciar Erimar, Parmorin having formally asked me to make a supporting deposition. All that negative evidence Zanarin had amassed was, on its obverse face, important supporting testimony for Parmorin’s findings. Afterwards, she thanked me, saying, “We believe that your part in this investigation was even more unpleasant than our own.”

  “It is our calling,” I said.

  She gave me a stern look. “That nonsense had nothing to do with your calling and everything to do with Othalo Zanarin being a fanatic. Don’t play word games with her part in this.”

  “It is no matter,” I said uncomfortably.

  “Why?” said Parmorin, with a Witness’s gift for asking the worst possible question. “Because you were the only one suffering?”

  “We weren’t—”

  “We have eyes,” she said sharply. “We were convinced more than once yesterday that you were going to faint. Your proper calling isn’t meant to be used like that, and you know it.”

  “No,” I said reluctantly, “it isn’t.”

  “You should make a complaint to the Amal’othala.”

  “We don’t need to,” I said. “Zanarin’s failure will hurt her prestige enough.”

  “Maybe we should make a complaint,” Parmorin said.

  The idea was horrifying. “We beseech you, do not.”

  She gave me a long, measuring stare, and finally said, “All right. We will let it go. But only because the idea seems to distress you so greatly.”

  “We want the Amal’othala to notice us less, not more,” I said, with more truth than I had intended.

  She laughed. “We can understand that. Good day to you, Othala Celehar, and be well.”

  “And you,” I said.

  She went left; I turned to go right and walked straight into a knot of newspapermen: Goronezh and Vicenalar and two others whom I did not know.

  “Othala Celehar!” Goronezh said, plainly delighted to have a target. “What can you tell us about the Excellence of Umvino?”

  “The explosion was an accident,” I said. Erimar had ruled it as such before we even left his office. “Nothing to do with the Curneisei or the Wisdom of Choharo.”

  “Are you sure?” one of the other newspapermen said. He sounded disappointed.

  “Quite sure,” I said. “The investigation was most thorough.”

  “Is it likely to happen again?” asked Vicenalar.

  “That is a question for the Amal-Athamareise Ashenavo Trincsiva,” I said.

  We all knew the answer was yes.

  * * *

  The next morning brought—along with the newspapers and the varying degrees of skepticism with which they regarded the verdict of accident—an elven family who wanted to bury their great-grandfather according to the old forms, but it had taken all their money to buy him a burial plot in a cemetery with the proper consecrations. They could not afford the prelate’s fee, even for a burial at noon.

  I was paid by the Amalo prelacy. I cost my petitioners nothing.

  This petition was not strictly within the scope of my mandate, but there was nothing that forbade it, either. And I wanted to do something that was simple and straightforward. I agreed.

  With great relief, the new patriarch of the Selimada told me that as the prelate was the only thing lacking and his great-grandfather had now been dead several days, they were prepared to hold the funeral that evening. I said truthfully that I had had no plans, and therefore could not be inconvenienced. He drew me a careful, well-labeled map of how to find the cemetery from the nearest tram stop. I thanked him, we bowed to each other, and I was left with the afternoon free.

  It was a chance for which I was grateful, as I had wanted for some time to talk to the president of the collective of Ulchoranee and find out how Min Urmenezhen had ended up in their cemetery. After eating lunch at the Red Dog’s Dream, I walked to Ulchoranee, where the placard at the entrance told me the president of the collective was one Mer Ozeva Trathonar. I set out in search of him.

  It did not take long. An inquiry at a neighboring shop gained me the information that Mer Trathonar was a butcher two streets over, and his shop was in fact impossible to miss, for the sign emblazoned TRATHONAR AND SONS was nearly the same size as the shop window and painted in cream and scarlet, which I thought perhaps a slightly untactful reminder of the bone and blood that were Mer Trathonar’s livelihood.

  Inside the shop, I found a tired-looking elven woman, her hair escaping its pins, and her attention clearly divided between the front of the shop and the back room, where a child was crying. “Good afternoon, othala,” she said. “How may we help you?”

  “My name is Thara Celehar, and I am a Witness for the Dead. I am looking for Mer Trathonar.”

  “He isn’t here,” she said. “He’s probably in the Bramblepony, if your business is urgent.”

  I felt my eyebrows go up, and she blushed rose-pink. The Bramblepony was a teahouse notorious for also being an illicit gambling house. The rumor was that the proprietor paid the Vigilant Brotherhood not to investigate too closely.

  I said, “Actually, you might be just as able to help me.”

  “Me?” she said, taken aback.

  “I’m interested in a young woman named Inshiran Avelonaran. She was recently exhumed from Ulchoranee.”

  “Yes,” said the elven woman. “Ozeva—that is, Mer Trathonar was very upset. I’m sorry, othala, just a moment, please.” The child’s crying had suddenly reached a new intensity; she disappeared into the back room. I heard an exchange of voices over the crying, which slowly began to taper off. Then Merrem Trathonaran—for she could be no one else—said, “No, it’s not your fault,” and reappeared with a white-haired elven toddler on her hip, and an older elven child, maybe five or six, following her, although he stopped at the doorway. The toddler’s breath was still hitching, but his blue eyes were wide with interest, and he had clearly forgotten what he had been crying about.

  “Your sons?” I said.

  She smiled shyly and said, “Ozevis and Panezhet. And I am Mevizho Trathonaran. I can tell you about Inshiran, at least a little bit.” She hesitated, then seemed to make up h
er mind to something. “Would you like some tea?”

  * * *

  She closed the shop and led me up the tiny corkscrewing staircase at the back to a cramped flat, slightly chaotic in the way that any residence of a small child is chaotic. She put a five-zashanei coin in the gas meter and lit her single burner, then filled the kettle at the tap and put it on to heat.

  We sat down at the small table, Merrem Trathonaran with the toddler on her lap and Ozevis standing hesitantly behind her, watching me as if I might prove to be a danger. I said, “I am witnessing for Merrem Avelonaran on behalf of her family, and they are naturally anxious to learn what they can of how she died and how she ended up in Ulchoranee.”

  “Of course,” said Merrem Trathonaran. “I do not know very much, for they did not live here for very long before she died.”

  “How long?”

  “Three months? Maybe four? And she was sick for most of that time. She said it was the early sickness, and it may have been, for women do die of that.”

  It was a moment before I decided how to answer her, but I was witnessing for Inshiran Urmenezhen, and that meant not telling lies about her. “Actually, she was murdered.”

  And Merrem Trathonaran said instantly, “Mer Avelonar killed her.”

  “You are very certain,” I said.

  “I did not want to think it,” she said, “and indeed it is terrible to think that she could be murdered so slowly and no one do anything to stop it, but he was very callous, both about her illness and about her death. He arranged her funeral as quickly and cheaply as he could, and he haggled with Mer Cremorezh, the stoneworker, about the cost of adding the child’s name to the stone.” She was clearly still shocked by this.