by Jackson Lear
I waited for Artavian, curious to see who would take his body. A hundred soldiers walked by, no Artavian. Another hundred walked by, again no Artavian. Donkeys and carts moved on, squeezing through the city gates, and still there was no Artavian. The donkey and cart which carried his body along the road to Torne was no where to be seen. The guards at the gates lifted the heavy iron bolts, swiveled the gates closed, and began locking the city for the night.
I was overcome by a round of grumbling. I stopped one of the laborers who had been working on the wall outside. “Hey, whereabouts is the army headquarters here?”
He pointed along the same road the soldiers had just wandered down. “That way, I guess.”
I found someone else to pester. “Is there another entrance to the city down that way?”
There was. Four gates along the eastern wall and three along the western. In the middle was the river.
The next gate along the main road offered no luck in finding Artavian. Neither did the second. The third, however, yielded a result. I can only assume that the high command here had no wish to tarnish the army’s return with one of their fallen soldiers on full display. Thus, Artavian was wheeled in through a tiny gateway, away from the prying eyes of the public, and escorted through the streets by Kasera’s rider, four lightly weaponed young men, and one grunt guiding the donkey.
The foursome bore the insignia of a scroll on their wrist bands. Their packs were uniform, complete with leather satchels for books, ink, and paper, and long tubes for scrolls to be protected against all weather. Artavian’s secretarial brothers, it seemed. Despite returning home for the first time in months, they all plodded on in a somber mood, heads down, still reeling at the death of one of their own. Strange, then, that the three grunts I had walked with on the road claimed that Artavian was supposed to be disliked by many others.
They reached a gated area. Red bricks ran in perfectly straight lines, up to my waist in height. Above that, iron fences. Sharp points. Not impossible to climb up, but your scrotum does tend to shrivel when you’re up there.
Instead of heading through the largest gate, the cart rolled along to the side, towards the stables. A young recruit with a lantern in his hand unlocked the gate from the inside, locked it after they went in, and guided the soldiers towards a large A-framed wooden stables, painted black.
The corner of the army complex was close enough. A thick, brick pillar joined the two iron fences. With a quick heave I was up and over. No one cried out.
The stables was a massive building in itself. More than a hundred yards long, the beasts inside no doubt lived a better life than most of the locals in Torne. My chances of finding a way in were reasonably high. To the rear of the building was an identical door to the one the cart and stewards had gone through. The door was big enough for a war elephant to saunter through.
I glanced left, right, readied myself to run for my life, and strolled forward like I owned the place. Heard a pair of heavy sandals around the corner, avoided them as best I could, and pressed myself up against the stable doors. The river breeze swept through, tickling the inside of my ears. I pushed my blade between the two doors, lifted the heavy catch, and slid one open to slip through. In I went, returning the door to its previous state.
Horses are a unique commodity in Syuss. Back in the Governor’s Hand we had spit-balled the idea of hitting a breeder and ransoming the horses back to them. The problem was, none of us knew the first thing about them. We didn’t know what they ate or how much of it they needed, we didn’t know how to walk them in the same direction or even a common command that would get a reaction. Dogs were easy. A click of your tongue and even an unknown dog would come to check you out. A sharp advance on the dog’s owner would be enough to launch two dozen teeth at your arm.
But horses? Or worse: war horses? I didn’t know if they would hiss at me, snap with their equivalent of a bark, or how they would react now that I had interrupted their dinner. Animals tend to not like an intruder in their home, yet I had just entered the home of war animals, an area they would no doubt protect with overwhelming violence.
And, like an idiot, I had already closed the door behind me.
Chapter Eight
A thin lantern illuminated six people. One was unhooking the straps on the donkey, freeing him from the cart. The young recruit and Kasera’s rider wandered away, the lantern dangling between them. The horse remained with the four stewards while they themselves spent their time muttering in the dim light.
I was too far away to make out anything of value. The stable next to me was empty. Bare floor, no hay, no droppings. I lifted the catch to the half-door, crept in, locked myself inside. I rolled myself over one separating wall to another, making it through three empty pens before I reached my first crisis point.
A black horse stared back at me, positioned dead-on like a demon from Hell, ready to charge at me if thee wall wasn’t between us. I held my hands up like a criminal caught by the watch. It did nothing. I approached. It grunted, clomped its foot on the ground, striking a thin layer of hay. I added another item to the great list of things I was incapable of: sudden empathic communication with a war horse.
I took another step forward. The horse clomped on the ground again, twice now, and backed away in a move that unsettled the both of us. I had no way of reading the expression of a horse in the dim light. My experience with animals was usually: if it’s making a lot of noise leave it alone.
It remained near to the corridor so I moved to the far wall, keeping as much distance between us as I could while still moving closer to the stewards. I kept my actions slow and unthreatening, all the while my pulse thumped in my ear and rendered me nearly deaf. As far as my senses were telling me I was approaching a wolf in the disguise of a horse. It backed away, grunting again. Beyond it, three more horses – each in their own pens – stared me down.
I slipped off my coat, held it tightly by one cuff, and draped it inside the horse’s pen, trying to run it along the hay as much as possible. I swapped arms, did the same to the other side. The black demon that towered over me kept watch the whole time.
I held my coat out for it to sniff while projecting: Nice horse. Don’t kill me. I have since learned that horses can sense when you’re afraid of them. I still don’t know how. Nor do I even understand the madness in a man’s mind that says: You see that giant creature over there? I’m going to climb on top, hold on, and whip it until it runs as fast as it can.
Its nostrils flexed. I slid my coat closer. It stomped again. I started climbing the wall between us. It grunted. I kept climbing. Landed. Stayed exactly where I was with one hand holding my coat like it could confuse the smell of a human for hay.
It stared me down.
I lowered myself to the hay, grabbed a handful, started rubbing myself down like it was soap, trying to get as much of that smell onto me as possible. I crept along the rear of the pen while wishing that my pulse would settle the fuck down, and I climbed into the next pen. Squatted down, rubbed myself with hay, moved on. The horses all stared at me like I was an idiot. Somehow I was still alive.
Of course, now I was closer to being discovered by four soldiers who were probably on the look out for an assassin from Verseii.
“They’re going to shut this down faster than you can say ‘Asar’,” came one voice, barely above a whisper.
“You don’t know that.”
“No? Give it a week and we’ll see if anyone else even remembers Artavian’s name.”
“It won’t even last that,” said another of them.
I crept to the front of the pen, hiding behind a wooden pillar. Three of the stewards were huddled close together. The fourth was only two yards away, rubbing the neck of the Kasera horse.
“It’ll be over within a single day.”
“I don’t know. You can only get away with so much,” said the shortest, tubbiest of them. I locked onto him immediately. Drew in his features, mentally picked him apart in case I had to describ
e him to someone on the street.
The taller one scoffed. “Yeah, sure. Who’s going to care about someone like Artavian?”
“The commander cares,” said the shortest.
“He won’t be able to do much about it.”
“He’s married to General Kasera’s daughter.”
“It’d be different if he was married to the governor’s daughter, but he isn’t. Besides, it could still be natural causes. We don’t know what got him.”
They fell quiet. The fourth one returned to the group. “It could also be unrelated to the governor. Artavian’s reputation wasn’t exactly the finest as of late, was it?”
They turned at once towards the far end of the stables. Light breathed in, casting a brilliant amber glow along one wall.
The stewards maintained their whispered conversation. “What do we tell them?”
“Only what they ask.”
“And if they ask us if we know why Artavian was killed?”
“Then we lie.”
“We can’t be a part of that,” said the shortest one.
“If you don’t, you’ll have your head on a spike for treason.”
Kasera’s rider returned. With him was the thirty year old commander from Verseii and a fifty year old soldier sporting a thin, white beard. The new arrival bore the insignia of two spears surrounded by a wreath. He moved with the purpose of a man who didn’t step out of the way for anyone, no matter how old or frail they were. The commander strode along with his mohawk helmet hooked under his arm, moving in identical steps to the fifty year old beside him. He may have been a commiserating man of distress that morning but now he was the personification of a commanding officer, no question there.
The three new arrivals stopped. The fifty year old peered across the four stewards, studying them intently. He spoke quickly, sharply, in a foul mood like he had a hundred better things to do that day. “Who found him?”
The shortest among the foursome raised his hand. “I did, sir. Martius, Third Steward of the Fourth Cohort. The innkeeper woke us at dawn with a knock on the door. We made ourselves ready and came downstairs for breakfast. There was no sign of Artavian. I went upstairs to stir him but there was no answer when I knocked. I fetched the innkeeper. He used his key. We found Artavian lying in his bed, dead.”
“Vomit?”
“Yes, sir. It was in his mouth, down the side of his cheeks, and on his pillow.”
“What color was his face?”
“Paler than usual, but nothing strange.”
“How many beds were in the room?”
“Just his.”
“Did he have company during the night?”
“Not that I know of. And probably not. He feared for his life, last night especially. He was worried–”
“That’s enough,” interrupted the fifty year old.
Lavarta overruled him. “It’s relevant.”
“I’m sure it will be, sir, but I’m here to find out what happened, not what someone feared was going to happen.” The fifty year old turned his attention back to the stewards, though he ignored the shortest among them. “Tell me what he did last night.”
The tallest answered. “We were given permission to leave camp by Sergeant Muro, as long as one steward remained at camp and knew where we were staying. We got three rooms. We ate downstairs, talked for a bit, and when it got late we all retired for the evening. I saw Artavian go into his room.”
“How much did he have to drink?”
“One ale, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
The fifty year old held his stare on the tallest among the stewards before shifting to each of the others. “Tell me again how much he drank last night.”
“… One ale, sir.”
The fifty year old sneered at the answer. “How much did he eat?”
“Half a bowl of stew. He didn’t finish it.”
“Was it foul?”
“No, he said it was better than …” The speaker had crept into a smile before realizing he was about to add ‘better than army food.’ “It wasn’t foul, sir. The rest of us ate a whole bowl each.”
“Then why did he only eat half?”
“He wasn’t that hungry.”
The fifty year old nodded, sighed, turned to Kasera’s rider. “You can go.”
“I’ve been asked to look into this, sir.”
“You’ve done your job but this isn’t where you work, is it? You’re an escort for the general’s daughter, not a member of the military police.”
Kasera’s rider remained standing silent.
“Go,” commanded the fifty year old.
The rider dipped his head in quiet defeat, acknowledged Lavarta’s grimace, untied his horse from one of the wooden columns, and led the stallion away.
“Have you alerted the man’s family?” the fifty year old asked.
“Not yet.” Lavarta turned to the stewards, prompting them once again. “You sent a messenger back to camp last night?”
“Yes, sir,” said Martius.
“Who?”
“Tuco, sir.”
Lavarta looked to the fifty year old. “You should speak to him and Gabriella, the remaining steward. Find out if either of them mentioned where the other stewards were spending the night.”
That seemed to be one step too far for the fifty year old. “I appreciate your eagerness to find out what happened to your aide-de-camp, sir, but this is now a military police matter. I thank you for your efforts in getting to me quickly and for your direction, but feeding me with tales of what might have happened and who might have orchestrated what isn’t going to make things move any faster.” He returned his focus back to Martius. “How far have you all walked in the last week?”
“We’ve spent the last ten days walking from Anglaterra, sir.”
“That’s a little over two hundred miles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How far did you walk yesterday?”
“Twenty miles, sir.”
“And Artavian’s room was locked?”
“Yes, sir.”
The fifty year old nodded at Lavarta. “What’s more likely? Exhaustion or murder?”
Lavarta stared back, unflinching. “Since he was convinced that someone was going to kill him before he reached Torne, I’d say murder.”
“The man didn’t have much of an appetite, nor did he drink much during the night. He was – what did you say – morose?”
“Yes.”
“And he had been morose since at least Anglaterra?”
“Yes.”
“So I’ll ask again: what’s more likely? Exhaustion or murder?”
“Murder.”
A lengthy silence followed, broken when the fifty year old growled at the young commander. “Did you find any trace of poison? Or a wound that would lead to a man’s death?”
“No.”
“Then allow me to do my job unimpeded. I will not make mention of anything discussed in private and I recommend you do the same. All of you.”
“Will a doctor examine his body?”
“Of course. I am not incompetent at my job, sir.”
I got the feeling that there was some underlying message in the fifty year old’s tone, beyond the obvious. A hint of spite even. Maybe I was over-thinking it.
The fifty year old snapped a nod at Lavarta. “Good day, Commander.” He stormed away before Lavarta could hold him back.
At long last came a sigh. Lavarta turned to his stewards. “Thank you for staying as late as you have. Go enjoy your time off. You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you sir,” they said.
Martius added: “Will there be a funeral for Artavian?”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have a message posted outside when I know more.”
I dropped out of sight and remained as still as I could.
One of the stewards muttered under his breath. “Well … that was the world’s shortest investigation, was
n’t it?”
Chapter Nine
Ask any soldier, mercenary, or company man what they plan to do on their first night back home after an extended and miserable absence, and the answer will invariably be the same: get drunk and get laid. It meant I didn’t have much time to track down any of Lavarta’s people before they became irrevocably preoccupied for the evening. A city this size would have hundreds of taverns and whorehouses. That would serve the grunts easily enough, but the officers? And the stewards in particular? Some of them would surely be married by now and prefer to drink at home surrounded by family. That would make it even more difficult for me to question them.
I figured it was safer to wait for the stewards to leave the stables before I made my move. As soon as the building plunged into darkness I popped the pen door open and hurried back the way I came. Outside: relatively clear. I crept to the side of the building to see where the short steward was heading.
He stood with the others in the middle of the courtyard, all shaking hands, biding each other a long farewell. Or maybe they were agreeing to tell the same story in case anyone asked them about their friend’s death. I darted to the exterior wall, climbed a pillar and returned to the city street.
Relief. Death by warhorse had been avoided.
I lingered by the edge of the military compound, waiting for the short steward to trundle away. I had to wonder just how much alcohol would be needed before their libidos kicked in, considering that one of their friends had carked it last night under dubious circumstances.
Then a peculiar correction came to me: ask any male soldier, mercenary, or company man what they planned on doing the first night they got back and the answer would be the same. But was that true for women? Some, probably. But the rest?
Zara popped into my head. I was certain she came from a military background, but in what capacity I still didn’t know. Mage? Unlikely. Infantry? Also unlikely. Perhaps one day I’d find out if she ever let her hair down, so to speak.
I scanned both sides of the street and felt my spirits fall in an instant. Two of Torne’s city watch – mages, by the looks of it – were on the approach, talking to themselves like they were trying to pass the time as best they could despite not actually being friends. One ambled along, self conscious of his height and walked with a hunch as a result. The other? Short. A waddler with hips that seemed to shimmy unnecessarily from side to side. She kept her hair back in a tight ponytail. I had nowhere to retreat to, not with the length of the military compound stretching for a hundred yards in either direction.
