The Raike Box Set

by Jackson Lear

  The stewards remained where they were, talking quietly amongst themselves and giving me no clue as to where they were heading next.

  The duo from the city watch approached. No spears, only short swords dangling by their sides and a coil of rope hooked to their belts.

  Perhaps I hadn’t been seen yet. I could move across the road and find an alley somewhere, but at a quick glance there wasn’t anything suitable; nothing but a long road of buildings butted up against each other. And if I moved I’d certainly expose myself. Then again, if I didn’t move, the city watch would walk straight into me.

  I had no beef with the city watch, nor did they have any against me. But someone like me lingering beside the army headquarters would provoke questions.

  There was no way around it. I approached the gate house. The city watch were only twenty yards away. Their muttering had softened. The tall one became a little taller, looking my way.

  One of the soldiers emerged from his post. “Yeah?”

  “Commander Lavarta, please.”

  The soldier lifted his chin. “What about him?”

  “I’m here to see him.”

  The city watch slowed. Stopped talking. No doubt listening in to see what business I had here.

  The soldier shook his head at me. “You can’t come in.”

  “Can you deliver a message on behalf of General Kasera?”

  “I am not authorized to deliver messages on behalf of another general. You’ll need to speak to a messenger.”

  The city watch stopped behind me. Two yards away. Out of reach for a punch but close enough to ruin my day if they drew their swords. The waddling woman spoke. “Something the matter?”

  I responded first. “No, he’s only doing his job. I’m looking for Commander Lavarta.”

  “Why?”

  “Those are my orders,” I said.

  “On behalf of who?”

  “General Kasera. His riders came in earlier with Miss Kasera and her escort.”

  The soldier spoke. “You’re not coming in without authorization.”

  Towards the stables, the stewards parted ways, with Martius trudging towards another gate. The fucker. Leather tubes hung from them all, around their waists, but Martius’ were in the way of his sword. A steward his whole life. He was the one I needed to talk to.

  The city watch guy eyeballed me carefully, lifted his chin and exposed his neck to the potential foe. “Where are you from?”

  “Erast.”

  “Yeah? Which part?”

  “Farcourt. You don’t believe me?”

  “I never said that. You just look like you could be from Arlo.”

  Figures. If the governor there has been making life difficult for the mercenaries and black marketeers then they’d head to the richest cities to make their mark.

  He asked: “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for whoever killed Artavian.”

  He let out a long, unimpressed whistle, the name unknown to him. “What are you really doing here?”

  “I’m looking for who killed Artavian. Aide-de-camp of Commander Lavarta’s army. Murdered last night in Verseii. I was led to believe that Commander Lavarta would be here to hand over Artavian before going on leave.” I pointed to the soldier on duty. “Does any of that sound familiar?”

  The young recruit grumbled. “Commander Lavarta’s aide-de-camp did die last night in Verseii and the body came through less than an hour ago.”

  “Good. I’d like to speak with Commander Lavarta, please.”

  “I still can’t let you in without authorization.”

  The taller member of the watch pulled a face, stuck with me knowing a little too much for it to be a coincidence. Still, he gave it his best at shooing me along. “How does someone from Erast know the commander’s aide-de-camp?”

  “I travel a lot.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I have an Erast accent, don’t I? And yet we’re in Torne.”

  He thumped a finger into my chest. Perhaps he wanted me to slice it off. “You watch your attitude. You could just as easily be one of them assholes from Arlo, faking an accent, and causing problems for the fine people of Torne. Since you’re not from Torne let me just say: welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay.” His finger prodded deeper between my ribs. “Now for the warning: If I see you again, I’m going to think that you’re up to no good and I’m going to bring you in for questioning. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Next time you’re going to need authorization.”

  I smiled, bid him a farewell, and followed Martius on something of a guided tour through Torne.

  He didn’t live all that far away. Less than a mile. The streets were busier than usual, the grunts now dressed as civilians and already making a night of it. As Martius meandered through the crowd most of them parted out of his way, recognizing him as an officer and some giving him a friendly-enough ‘hello’. By the time they passed me they were too engaged with their epic plans of drinking and debauchery to realize that someone was following their secretary.

  It wasn’t exactly hard keeping track of the only man dressed like a soldier in a crowd of civilians. He plodded on with his head down, thinking through whatever he was going to do or say next, and looked just as ashen faced as Lavarta had that morning.

  Down one of the main roads, through a plaza, and up to an apartment building. He knocked on the shutters next to the front door. Waited. It gave me time to catch up a little.

  The caretaker emerged, cheering with delight at Martius’ return, crying out loud enough for the whole building to hear him. Maybe that was the intention. Either way he unlocked the front door and allowed Martius inside. He locked the door behind him and walked Martius up the stairs, asking about his travels and news from the north.

  I crept forward. Dropped down the three foot dip to the caretaker’s window. Peered inside. No one there. I slid my blade forward, unhooked the bolt keeping the shutter in place, and climbed in.

  Two rooms greeted me. A nice bed in the next room. A pot of oats and dates was still warm enough for the heat to rise from it. I pushed open the door into the corridor and headed upstairs. I found the caretaker standing in a doorway talking excitedly to Martius and – I presume – Martius’ wife. I continued up the stairs.

  The Martius’ bid a farewell the caretaker. The caretaker muttered to himself all the way down the stairs, a nervous habit perhaps, one where he couldn’t abide the silence even when he was alone.

  I stood beside Martius’ door, pacing, debating, deliberating. What was he up to? Was he washing himself? Having dinner? Going straight to bed? That last one caused more and more anguish as the time pressed on. I changed my potential story a dozen times depending on the length of my wait. At last I couldn’t stand it anymore. I rubbed his eyes until they stung, lined my eyelids with spit, and even slapped myself across the face.

  I knocked as weakly as I could. A slow and gentle tap tap tap.

  A voice called from within. “Who is it?”

  I croaked my voice. “Hello. I’m sorry, I got your address from one of the soldiers. I grew up with Artavian. He hasn’t come back home. The soldier said that maybe you could help.”

  A lengthy delay came from inside, then came a shink of metal before the door eased open. The portly mid-twenties steward stared back at me, his eyes clear but still saddened. His breath coursed with wine, that much was obvious. “You know Artavian?”

  “Yes. The soldier didn’t say what was wrong with him.”

  A pinch of agony crippled my new friend as his eyes cracked, darting to the side as he realized that he had just been dumped with delivering the very worst of bad news. “I’m sorry, something’s … you should speak to the army headquarters. I can’t really say anything on their behalf.”

  I held off blinking for as long as I could, allowing my eyes to water. “Speak to them about what?”

  “He’s …” Martius trailed off, the words stuck in the back of his
throat. Behind him, a woman ten years his senior leaned into view, looking as apologetic as they came.

  I slowly nodded, absorbing the bereavement as poorly as I could. “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night? You mean he made it all the way here after being stationed in the north and it only happened last night? How?”

  Martius turned, looking back into the apartment. The woman mouthed a couple of words to the effect of ‘go’. Martius returned to me. “Do you know Artavian’s family?”

  “A little. What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “I can’t really say much.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s a … an investigation.”

  I pulled back as if stunned, then dropped straight away into: so the rumors were true. “Who did it?”

  He hesitated, no doubt having just come from telling the woman inside but unable to say the same face to face. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’ve had a long few months and it’s my first night back.”

  I stepped in closer, dropping my voice. “Artavian was murdered, wasn’t he?”

  Martius squinted at me, almost dumbfounded at how I had guessed that, but still surprised that someone outside of the military assumed his friend’s fate this quickly.

  I gambled. “He said if anything happens to him I should look at one of the officers.”

  Now he was dumbfounded. “How …?”

  “He sent a letter.”

  Martius glanced over his shoulder once again, trying to forget all about this but desperate to see his friend’s death not go unpunished.

  I held out my hand. “I’m Raike. He trusted me. Maybe I can help.”

  He gripped my hand automatically. “Martius. I’m sorry, I don’t think there’s any way of helping, not unless you’re high up in the army.”

  “Who have they got investigating?”

  “Lieutenant Kace.”

  “That old fart? He’s as disinterested as they come. Not to mention dirty.” That won me a couple of points. “Who’s he protecting?”

  “I’m not sure, but …” He trailed off, still struggling with maintaining a code of secrecy.

  “Lavarta isn’t just going to let it go, is he? He outranks him.”

  “Not for long he won’t.”

  “What do you mean? The commander’s going to be demoted?”

  Martius shook his head, drew in a deep breath, and confessed. “Artavian said last night that if anything happened to him they would go after the commander next.”

  I pushed forward, ever so gently. “Who’s ‘they’?”

  Chapter Ten

  I offered to take Martius to a tavern. He instead invited me into his home. His wife, Cassia, was polite enough to welcome me in, but she eyed me like I was a liar posing as a friend. She offered me a small cup of ale and remained within earshot. The gesture was clear enough: ask your questions and get out.

  Martius ducked into the other room, to his pack, and returned with an unsealed letter. “Can you give this to his mother?”

  A single sheet of paper, one sided. Crisp writing, evenly spaced. Nothing had been crossed out, which was impressive enough considering how often people trip over their words. I could reproduce seven words in total and recognize another twenty or so, which were limited to: Raike, Erast, wanted, magistrate, and the like. I can tell you that whoever wrote this was a verbose writer. Lots of long words which were lost on me. Thankfully there were some numbers. A date. Presumably written last month. And there was a final pair of words before an elaborate signature which probably said: ‘Your son.’

  I handed it back to Martius. “I can’t give this to his mother.”

  Cassia shot me a look of suspicion.

  “Please?” stammered Martius. “It might be easier coming from someone who knows her.”

  Cassia rolled her eyes and huffed to herself.

  “Okay, I’ll do what I can. And I’m serious: I can help.” I directed that towards Cassia then returned my attention to Martius. “I just need to know what trouble surrounded Artavian.”

  I tucked the letter away while Martius sipped his ale, staring into the distance like everyone he knew was heading into a life-ending storm and he could either join them or remain safely behind but at the expense of his soul. “I don’t know what happened. Really, I don’t. Artavian got along well with everyone. He was good at his job. Dutiful. He was the ideal steward.”

  I prompted Martius along. “But lately he began fearing for his life.”

  Martius nodded. “He was sure he wasn’t going to reach Torne alive. When he first started talking like that we all thought there was someone in Torne he had pissed off. A jilted woman, a fight with someone he shouldn’t have fought with, that kind of thing. But then the commander started paying him close attention and talking to him in whispers. It started to sound real.”

  “Was Artavian awkward or afraid of the commander?”

  “Not at all. I mean, if we ever have a problem with someone in the camp, the commander assures us that we can talk to him about it.”

  “And how often is that true?”

  He hesitated, trying not to speak ill of his boss.

  “I see. A good commander in name only.”

  “No, it’s not like that. The commander is in charge of six hundred people and you don’t go straight to him if you have a problem. There’s a hierarchy. First I’d need to speak to the century sergeant. If I had a problem with my sergeant then could I bother the lieutenant. But everyone has a problem with the sergeants so you just deal it. Never – and I mean never – should you bother the commander with a problem without trying to resolve it through your sergeant and lieutenant first. But Artavian did just that. He leapt over the senior-most lieutenant and the fallout between them both was severe.”

  “But the commander was fine with it?”

  “I think so. He’s a good one, but that made things worse because the lieutenants started talking about a court martial for Artavian and the commander refused.”

  “So what did Artavian tell the commander that started this mess?”

  Martius stared into his drink and shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. There are certain accusations that will have you court martialed in an instant. Like …” Martius held his hands up defensively, “this is only an example, okay?”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Cassia didn’t look so sure.

  “If for example there is talk of treason or mutiny or that kind of thing, you will be instantly court martialed. There will be an investigation just on a rumor. But if you openly accuse someone of treason and it can’t be proven during a court martial … you die.”

  “So if Artavian learned something and told only the commander then how did the sergeants and lieutenants learn enough about it for a fallout to occur?”

  Martius hesitated once again.

  I pushed a little more. “What happened?”

  Martius sank lower. It seemed as though he had finally decided to enter that storm after all, against his better judgment. “Lieutenant Gustali.”

  “The governor’s son?”

  He nodded. “He’s the lieutenant of the First Century, the second highest ranking officer in the cohort. I don’t know what exactly happened but four months ago I found Artavian in our tent, going through the letters and papers as fast as he could like he had lost the most important letter of them all. Sergeant Muro barged in. He’s Lieutenant Gustali’s sergeant. He looked over both of us – angry like – and told Artavian to report to Lieutenant Gustali. Artavian tried to pass it off, saying he was busy and didn’t need to go with the sergeant, which is true since Artavian outranked him, but if this was at the request of Gustali …” Martius trailed off, a haunted look falling upon him. “I had never seen him act so brazenly like that. Muro told me to get out, which I did. I hid behind one tent and watched the front of mine, hoping like hell that I’d see Artavian emerge alive. A few minutes passed and Muro emerg
ed. I went back in, not sure what I’d see. Artavian looked like a ghost had just walked through him.”

  “Did Muro hit him?”

  “No. But later Muro returned and asked politely – as though nothing had happened – that Artavian speak with Lieutenant Gustali at the end of the day. He left without incident. Artavian finished up his work and looked like he was stalling, unwilling to leave the tent. When he did he was gone for less than an hour and came back a changed man.”

  “Where was all of this happening?”

  “In the north.”

  “In a barracks? Tents? City?”

  “We were building a fort along the northern-most border.”

  “Did anyone unusual come into camp during your time there?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Anyone unusual camped outside your fortifications?”

  He hesitated. Cassia’s jaw tightened and she made some excuse about staying in the other room.

  “Who was there?” I asked.

  “Caravan merchants. They follow us around. Sometimes the troops sneak out, buy some ale, gin, or the like, and come back. Sometimes men and women of the night offer their services, you know?”

  “So it’s a regular traveling carnival, catering to the young, bored, and isolated men and women of the imperial army?”

  Martius awkwardly nodded, giving me a look that I should move away from that line of questioning while his wife was nearby. She returned and spent her time glaring at me, hurrying me up so I’d leave.

  I asked, “Did someone die in this carnival? A prostitute strangled? Someone fallen pregnant? A debt that couldn’t be paid?”