by Jackson Lear
“So why is Artavian dead?” asked Zara.
“Probably because of what was inside Muro’s letter.”
“Artavian wouldn’t have read it.”
“What if he did?”
“He would’ve been court-martialed.”
“Doesn’t stop him from reading it. It just means that he would’ve been in a shit storm of trouble if he was caught.”
“He wouldn’t have taken the risk. Stewards aren’t the same as trouble-making closers. They are tested time and time again. Every letter they handle is a potential trap. They know this. Their commanders know this. They are secret keepers above all else.” Zara glanced around the main boulevard. “Where are we going?”
“Back to Muro’s place.”
I could feel the heat of anger emanate from her. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No, I’m actually quite sober.”
“After what you’ve just heard?”
“Yes.”
“Sergeant Muro?”
“Yes.”
“Second in command of the first century?”
“Yes.”
“Second in command to Lieutenant Gustali?”
“Yes.”
“You want to question him?”
“Don’t you?”
“No. That would be stupid.”
“You don’t want to question him? Or Gustali for that matter?”
Zara paused, locking her jaw like everyone in the company tells you to do before a fist fight, lest a stray punch knocks your teeth out. “All right, I do want to question him, but we aren’t going to.”
“We don’t have to do anything.”
“You want to stay on Miss Kasera’s good side?”
“In an ideal world, yes, but I barely know her.”
“You used to.”
“I used to have a lot of friends as well.”
“And did you lose them because you didn’t care who you picked a fight with?”
“I cared.”
“Yet you did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
“And how aware are you of the consequences that came afterwards?”
“Acutely.”
“I’m not saying I doubt it, but those consequences have reached a lot farther than Erast.”
“I know. Two rivals from other cities came along to set up shop in Vanguard’s territory. They wouldn’t have risked that if it wasn’t for me.”
“The doctors also sent someone to look into what happened.”
“I know.”
She finally broke her glare. “You do?”
“I may be reckless but I’m also thorough. I found their guy the same day he arrived into town. Tied him to a tree and hurried away before night fell. By dawn, half a dozen wolves had torn him to pieces.”
“That makes you thorough, does it?”
“I know my methods seem like I smash down doors and drag whoever I find out into the street and bark at them until they confess every last thing they know, but do you know how often that works? Maybe one in ten times, and you won’t know if the person you’re barking at is part of the one or the nine, not until you do more looking. If I was a member of the city watch or some lieutenant in the military police investigating a murder, I’d need to ask everyone involved until I developed a chain of witnesses. Person One knows that Person Two did this, Person Two knows that Person Three was here instead of there, and so on. You spend your time mostly asking where everyone else was and what they were doing. This usually puts the person being questioned into a panic and they’ll volunteer what they were doing at the time as well, since no one wants to look guilty. With a uniform and actual legal authority I wouldn’t have a problem. But I don’t have a uniform. So I have to make do with what I have.”
“Brutality?”
I shook my head. “Charm. Something you seem to be lacking.”
Her hawk-like glare returned.
“Yeah, you can ease off on the jabs against my character. What I actually have is the ability to annoy the shit out of people.”
“You don’t say?”
“I do. So while I spend five minutes just digging into someone and twisting them about, they’ll spend hours consumed by me. Maybe even days. In their mind I’m a much bigger threat than I really am. So I’m going to go question Muro and anyone else related to Artavian’s death.”
“Why? He’s a steward who – in the grand scheme of things – doesn’t matter.”
“Money.”
Zara stared back at me. “Money? You’re doing all of this for money?”
“Sure. And why not? As has been pointed out to me many times since arriving in Torne I’m a good-for-nothing asshole who cavorts with whores, drunks, and brawlers. Of course I’m doing it for the money.”
“Miss Kasera told me what you said earlier.”
“Uh huh?”
“That if anything happened to Artavian, Commander Lavarta would be next.”
“It wasn’t long enough ago for me to forget.”
Zara eyed me carefully, picking apart my motives.
I continued. “So here’s the plan: we question an already agitated Muro and watch him deflect all accusations against himself or Gustali. He might even try to cast the blame of Artavian’s death onto someone else, but he won’t know who so he’ll give us several options and say that it could’ve been any one of those. We leave, hang back, and watch him sneak away to meet with Gustali. Then, within a few hours, word around the army will be that there is a new prime suspect into Artavian’s death. This might even be Lavarta himself.”
It’s hard to believe that Zara’s mood could sour further than an ‘I’m about to kill you’ glare, but it did. “If you force their hand to blame the commander …”
I carried on. “Come tomorrow we’ll discover that Gustali wishes Artavian was still alive. It’ll be very theatrical, of course. We’ll have the chance to corroborate some new alibi with Muro and he’ll clap one hand against his forehead and cry, ‘Yes, I forgot, I did see the lieutenant working late at night in the camp, sending letters to the families of the wounded men and women, praising their efforts and rallying more support for the empire against the troublesome northerners.’ And do you know how to tell if an alibi is bullshit, even when the truth is even more absurd?”
“Through a chain of witnesses who know otherwise?”
“That, and: when people lie, they embellish. They know far more than they should. If Muro says, ‘The lieutenant was writing letters.’ ‘And what time did he finish?’ ‘I don’t know. I came in at about nine o’clock, told him – whatever – and left,’ then he’s probably telling the truth. But when would a sergeant ever ask what their commanding officer is writing and to whom?”
“Never.”
“Exactly. But he’ll tell us that only if he’s a smarter than usual liar. If he’s not, he’ll give us a full story. He’ll know who the lieutenant was writing to and why. He’ll recall the mood the lieutenant was in, know details of the tent and surrounding visuals, and he’ll know who else he spoke to that night, in what order, right down to the finest detail. And he’ll volunteer all of this because he’s lying. So let’s go question him and hope that he fucks up.”
“You know he’s protected, right?”
“That’s not as much of a guarantee of safety as you might think it is.”
“He’s protected by the governor and the military.”
“Then that’s even less of a guarantee. He’s a sergeant. Sergeants aren’t worth shit. The moment a problem lands in front of the governor he’ll burn every bridge connecting him to Muro.”
Zara sighed beside me. “You’re putting us both at risk by doing this.”
We headed into Muro’s building, up the stairs, and knocked on each of the second-floor doors. No one answered. I asked, “Do you know exactly where he lives?”
“I know what floor he’s on.”
“Are we on the right floor?”
“I’m not telling you.”
> I knocked on a few more doors, up and down the remaining floors and got a few weird looks from neighbors who confirmed that Muro had a brother who lived on the third floor.
We ventured outside, leaned against the wall facing Muro’s building, and waited. I handed over a strip of cured meat.
“Thank you,” said Zara.
That’s all we said to each other for another hour until – at long last – Sergeant Muro strolled along the street. Taller than average. Sizeable shoulders. Heavy footed. I turned away, held my arm against the wall and shifted myself to look like a lothario getting cozy with Kasera’s assassin.
Muro went inside. I dropped my arm. “Ready?”
“This is a mistake,” said Zara, as we headed inside and back up the stairs.
“Don’t worry. If anything goes wrong you can blame me.”
“I’m already blaming you.”
“Good. Get ready to look angry.”
“I’m already … wait, why?”
I thumped on Muro’s door as loud as I could and bellowed. “Oi! Asshole! Open up!”
Chapter Eighteen
The door swung open. A fierce and resolutely pissed-off Sergeant Muro stared back at me, his dark eyes bristling with rage. Spittle had formed in the corner of his mouth. He clutched his sheathed sword in one hand and lifted his chest up, rising himself to the full force of a man who was used to cracking a whip. “What?”
I glanced over his shoulder, taking in a good long look at his apartment. Several pairs of sandals lay on the floor next to the door. Different styles. Different sizes. He didn’t live alone.
He leaned to the side, intercepting my gaze. Ever so slowly he squinted. A flicker of recognition. He knew me but he didn’t know how. Considering that his hands had been shaking with venomous anger the moment he yanked the door open I was willing to bet that he had just found the note I sent him earlier.
I held my copy of Artavian’s letter to his family between us, eye level, then handed it over. “Read this.”
Puzzled, Muro plucked the letter from my fingers. He still held his sword at the ready but now he was at an impasse. His hands were busy and he was being called upon to use a skill that he probably wasn’t very good at. “What is it?”
“Artavian’s final words.”
It clicked. He had seen me on the road heading to Torne. He remembered me as a potential trouble maker, some kind of low-life scum who flew in the face of authority, but never in a million years did he expect me to know anything about Artavian. His bravura ebbed away as he dropped his attention to the letter, fumbled to open it, and glanced over the writing.
His eyes moved at a snail’s pace. Strained. He recognized some of the words but not enough of them to form a complete picture of what was written. Even so, I snapped the letter out of his hands before he was finished reading.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” I asked.
He strained his eyes again, enraged that I was an imposing mystery in his life. He drew in a deep breath, ready to snap at me.
I got there first. “Artavian knew he wasn’t going to make it back to Torne alive. Even so, he had no intention of going quietly. He wrote down everything he knew as insurance against the people who were coming for him.” I leaned in, temping him into a fight. “You can tell Gustali that he’s fucked.”
The moment I mentioned his boss’ name, the sergeant was back. A man of military command, a trained soldier, and one who had chewed out every recruit in his charge. “How dare you! How dare you come to my home and belittle me and the most powerful family in the province!”
“Vampires.”
He faltered.
“You sent a letter from the old fort. A man like you, having never sent something like that before in your life, decides to send one just after you learned about the vampires in the north. And that letter traveled hundreds of miles, all the way down to Torne, was received, and then an answer was sent back to you as quickly as possible. How many hands do you think those letters passed through? A dozen?”
Muro growled back at me. “When the governor finds out about this you’re as good as dead.”
“How shit is your memory? I just told you to tell Gustali that he’s fucked, so of course he’s going to find out.”
Muro’s eyes shifted to Zara. “I know you. You’re one of General Kasera’s.”
Zara nodded. “That’s right. What exactly did Artavian mean when he said that if anything were to happen to him then Lavarta would be next?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
I dangled the letter in front of Muro’s face. “I do.”
“So do I,” said Zara.
I carried on. “Everyone in the whole cohort knows that you’re an asshole and had it in for Artavian. Then, somehow, you were unusually nice to him the night you reached Verseii. You allowed the stewards to leave camp. You even knew where he was staying. Artavian is dead because you allowed it to happen and you weren’t as discreet as you think you were. Even dumber than that, you allowed Gustali to remove himself from the chain of evidence, leaving you to do all the incriminating work. Let me ask you: who is a judge more likely to sentence? The governor’s family who ‘adored’ Artavian as a good friend and find his death is a devastating loss to the army, or will the judge sentence you, Sergeant Muro, who took it upon himself to hire an assassin and tell them where they could find Artavian? You know your perfect plan of doing something memorable and surrounding yourself with witnesses that night? The thing about being unusually memorable is that in retrospect it looks like you were deliberately setting up an alibi. But alibis aren’t worth shit when you’re up against a dynastic family. You know what they do? They find a loyal grunt to do their bidding and if anything goes wrong it’s the grunt who takes the fall instead of them. Do you see how being memorable is a problem for you?” I leaned in closer. “I’m here to find the person responsible, not the person who is blamed for it. Where’s the assassin?”
Muro seemed to chew on his whole tongue before saying, “There wasn’t one.”
“Who gave the order to have Artavian murdered?”
“Fuck you.” He shifted his glare onto Zara. “And fuck you too.” He gripped the handle to his sword, ready to unsheathe it. “Now, unless you want to die on my doorstep, you two should fuck off and go kill yourselves before the full force of the Gustali family comes after you.”
“And you remember that you’re the one they’re going to throw to the hangman.”
Muro drew his sword, a leathery snick of the blade as it rejoiced with freedom.
I stepped back. Zara did the same. Muro held his stance, wanting us to leave rather than facing a fight. A wise move, since Zara and I had an open hallway to move around in whereas Muro still had to make it through his doorway. I stepped away, keeping my attention firmly on the sergeant. He sneered at me, maintaining his lock on us until we were down the stairs, around the corner, and out of sight.
The mid afternoon blinded me with the sun and blasted me with heat. I kept to the side of Muro’s building, making it harder for him to see me from whichever window he leaned out of. I snuck a glance upwards, learned which window he favored, and moved on.
It was only when we reached the first corner that Zara was able to speak to me. “What the hell is wrong with you?! You call that a reasonable questioning?”
“That was step one.”
“Like hell it was! You can’t just bang on someone’s door, swear at them, and then expect to be warmly received.”
“It worked for me every day in the company.”
“You’re not in the company anymore. You’re in polite society where consequences can bite not just you but those around you in the ass. Me, Miss Kasera, Commander Lavarta ...”
“We had a situation and I handled it.”
“You created the situation! What the hell am I supposed to say to Miss Kasera and the commander when they ask how today went? Do you think I’m going to lie to them to cover your ass? You’ve be
en in Torne for a whole day and you’ve already built a long list of enemies. Do you even realize how fucked you are? All Sergeant Muro has to do is tell the military police about you threatening the Gustalis and they’ll have you arrested. The city watch as well. They’ll realize it was you in Erast and you’ll be dead by the end of the week, and all for what? To go down in a blaze of glory over some steward you’ve never actually met? Do you think that’s going to make Miss Kasera proud of you? Or are you just suicidal?”
I remained silent, keeping watch on the road.
She thumped my shoulder. “Hey!”
“You know, for an assassin you sure do draw a lot of attention to yourself.”
“Were you even listening to me?”
“Every word.”
“And?”
“And I’m using you to time him.”
“Time … what?”
“Him. Muro. He’s got to be pacing around that apartment right now, working through a fire of adrenaline and fury just like you, but the apartment is too small to get it all out. Worse still is that he needs to report this to Gustali or whoever is the equivalent as soon as he can. He’ll be too riled up to think straight so he’ll do something dumb. If he goes to the city watch he can try to have me arrested but he has no real legal grievance except that I annoyed him. Maybe he can get me on disturbing the peace. Is that a thing in Torne?”
