The man before him was doubtless guilty of numerous sins. He could see the pulse in his neck, the sweat on his skin and the way he looked everywhere but directly into the Inquisitor’s eyes and know that.
According to his masters back in Louron, there were three primary skills required of any Inquisitor: Empathy, Observation and Patience. Empathy let an Inquisitor read the intentions and conscience of a subject. Observation allowed for all of the small details that could learn the truth of any circumstance. Patience allowed for terrorizing a subject properly. An angry man could be scary. A patient man who gave away nothing in his expression was usually worse in Darsken’s experience.
He knew, without any real consideration, that the man calling himself Captain Callan was not a murderer. Would he kill if cornered? Most would. Would he kill if his life depended on it or if someone were trying to take from him? Very likely. Would he kill twenty-one men, including a cousin of the Empress?
He doubted the man was capable. His crew could have helped, but there was still a great deal of niggling doubt involved in the notion.
“What did you see, exactly, when the men died?”
“I saw nothing. I wasn’t here.”
Darsken smiled thinly and stared hard into the man’s eyes. He made absolutely certain he was the center of the captain’s attention by tapping the edge of his stick on the deck of the ship. “I doubt that. Think very carefully and answer me again. What did you see when those men were killed?”
Callan looked from him to the stick and frowned. All of the inquisitors carried a short staff of one form or another and most were personalized. In this case there were deeply detailed engravings circling the wooden staff from the foot to the crown. Darsken knew each of them intimately as he had carved them during his lifetime of training.
Callan looked away from the stick, more unsettled than before.
“There were two people that attacked them. They were in the shadows. I didn’t see them clearly. I think one was a woman but I couldn’t say for sure.”
Darsken took one step closer, his eyes locked furiously on Callan’s. His smile faded, and his voice lowered by a full octave. “Why did you lie to me, Captain Callan?”
“Because…” Callan looked away again, trying hard to find the right words that would save him from the Inquisitor’s wrath. “I was scared. I was paid to bring those men here.”
“Who paid you?”
Callan looked away, desperate now, and his eyes sought Tataya. Darsken knew her, of course. They had been associates on several investigations in the past. She shook her head, offering no help.
“I give you a name and that name comes for me. He hires twenty more just like the ones on the dock, only this time around he’s paying them to kill me.”
“Did you know you were bringing assassins into the seat of the Empire?”
“Assassins? I was told they were mercenaries! Bodyguards!”
Had he the time and the patience Darsken knew he could have broken the captain. Instead he nodded his head. “You tell me the name. If you do not tell me what I want to know, I will look more closely at why a ship the size of yours only brought twenty men into the port instead of unloading a great deal more.”
“I–”
Three sharp taps of the stick on the deck and the captain stopped speaking. “I have more important affairs to investigate than your deliveries. Keep it that way. Tell me what I need to know.”
The man looked once more toward Tataya. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“He said his name was Foster. Losla Foster.” Callan’s skin was paler than ever and his pulse was singing in the veins of his neck.
“I am done with you. I appreciate your honesty.”
Callan did not speak, but he nodded and backed away.
Darsken made a small gesture to Tataya, asking without words if she would walk with him.
As she passed the captain she placed a consoling hand on his shoulder and moved to follow Darsken.
Where Darsken walked, the crew from the ship and the City Guard parted to let him pass. Two wagons had been loaded with the corpses from the docks and were already moving away, their cargo hidden under baskets and blankets. People would talk, but the exact scene of the crime was already cleared, courtesy of the guard and the rain.
When they had walked far enough away to suit him Darsken looked to Tataya and smiled mischievously. “Was he sufficiently scared, do you suppose?”
Tataya smiled back and let out a small laugh before she caught herself. “I think he came close to wetting his breeches.”
“He is not the killer. You already knew that, of course.” Darsken paused a moment. “He is also guilty of many crimes, but none I am concerned about.”
“Callan has done favors for the Empire.”
“Which is why I do not care about his many crimes.” Tataya looked at him carefully and he offered nothing but his usual placid smile. The sorcerers never could quite decide what to do about the Inquisitors. The feeling was reciprocated. According to the laws of many areas within the Empire, sorcery was against the law. According to the Empress it was not. Also, and this was important, wizards were extremely dangerous when cornered.
That might have dissuaded almost any City Guard from dealing with the sorcerers, but the Inquisitors, some of them at least, were trained to handle the risks that wizardry offered. Some, including Darsken, used sorcery of their own in cases. There were rumors that the Inquisitors even used necromancy. Darsken did nothing to dissuade such rumors.
“Darsken, we have known each other for a long time.”
“I dare say yes.” He smiled and waited for her questions.
“Do you know anything of necromancy?”
His smile did not change. “If I say yes?”
“I might ask for your assistance with an unusual case presented by the enemies of our Empress.”
“The corpses of the soldiers returned from the Blasted Lands?”
“How do you know about that?” She seemed genuinely surprised.
“I tend to hear many forms of confession, Tataya.”
She nodded her head. “Would you be able to help?”
“Are the bodies here?”
“Some samples, nothing more. Most were in Tyrne, and they were burned even before the city.”
“That is the best way to handle dead things.” He nodded.
“I know you don’t raise the dead, but can you or any of your people talk to the dead?”
Darsken looked away from her, knowing what she would ask next.
“There are ways, Tataya.”
“My sister… Goriah….”
“What is forbidden for you is also forbidden for me.” He walked again, slowly, and she followed.
“So you cannot?”
“That is not what I said. I said it is forbidden. We have ways. Sometimes the need to learn who killed someone requires more than questioning those who might have seen the crime.”
She didn’t actually ask. She didn’t dare.
“We will talk soon, Tataya. If you feel the need. For now, I must find out more about a man who was paid by the Imperial Family to kill at least one member of the same bloodline.”
“Who?” He had surprised her a second time. That was a rare feat.
Losla Foster was the personal assistant to Laister Krous. If what the captain had said was true, the Krous family was very likely to be at war with itself in the near future.
He could have told her. She might have appreciated the information. She might also have run to the man he was about to hunt and warned him and Darsken could not allow that.
“Soon, perhaps. Before I mention more I must confirm certain details.”
She didn’t question him. She knew better.
“Tataya?”
“Yes, Darsken?”
“I am truly sorry for your loss. Goriah was an extraordinary lady.”
No more words were spoken. None were needed.
Despite the incredibly ear
ly hour, Nachia Krous agreed to see the Inquisitor.
He was a dark man, wearing dark clothes, with a square face and a body that most closely resembled an effigy made of tree trunks and a large barrel for ale. She had seen larger men, but few who looked so unsettlingly solid. She could easily understand how he would prove intimidating to most people.
Having been raised in a family of royals, she was not easily intimidated and being tutored by a sorcerer had guaranteed that few could make her uneasy.
The Inquisitor – she had already forgotten the man’s name, but knew that Desh, standing to her right, had not – smiled and his face brightened with the expression.
“I am grateful, Majesty, that you agreed to see me. I am afraid I bring unfortunate tidings.”
She suppressed a shudder. Her mind immediately went to invading armies and the dread that they had moved on to another target so quickly. Still she managed to keep her expression blank of any worries, a skill Desh had taught her long ago.
“What has happened, Inquisitor?”
“Majesty, I was asked to investigate an attack this morning. Over twenty men were killed in the night, near the docks. I am so sorry, but one of them was a relative of yours, Windhar Krous.” He paused a moment while she looked at him and for the first time the man looked uncomfortable in her presence. “He is your second cousin, I believe.”
“Was. He was.” She paused a moment and swallowed. She knew Windhar, of course, but aside from being another courtesan in the family crowd she could not have told anyone much about him. Pleasant enough to look at, but not really much of a conversationalist and hardly the most significant member of her family. Brolley would be upset, however. They had been much closer. “Do you know who killed these men?”
“It is my understanding that these men were brought here by a man named Losla Foster, though I cannot say why they were brought here, I do know that a man with the same name has been employed for several years by Laister Krous. I could not currently say if that is the same man, or if it is merely a coincidence.”
She liked the Inquisitor. He had a way of carefully avoiding making accusations he could not back up.
“I would like very much to know the absolute truth of this, Inquisitor. Until you have an answer for me I must ask that you work only on this investigation.”
The man looked at her for a moment and lowered his head. “I cannot promise discretion in this investigation, Majesty.”
Nachia smiled at the man. “Not at all, Inquisitor. I would not ask that of you. By all means, let it be known that you are investigating the murder of one of my family and that I intend to bring the full might of the Empire down on the heads of everyone involved.”
When the Inquisitor smiled again it was a cold thing, a smile that allowed for no hope of happiness or peace for those who managed to block his path.
“As you wish, Majesty.”
The Inquisitor left the room and Nachia looked toward her First Advisor. “Do you think Laister could actually be that foolish?”
Desh pulled down the hood that had, once again, hidden his face and sighed. “I think Laister is fairly convinced that he is invincible. So, yes.”
Nachia leaned back in her throne, ignoring the way it made her back and side ache.
She stared at the distant wall and shook her head. “Danieca will not be happy.”
“Considering that she has made her support of Laister well known, you might consider getting the information to her by one means or another.” For the first time since Goriah’s death, there was a tone of amusement in Desh’s voice.
“Oh, I plan to. Just as soon as I can.”
Desh nodded his head. “Merros has begun moving troops.”
“Where?”
“He’s clearing a pathway between here and Trecharch for the refugees. He is also planning a few surprises for those who follow them.”
“Will they be followed?”
“I believe it’s already happening, though proving it is difficult. The Sa’ba Taalor don’t quite follow the normal rules of engagement. Their troops move as they will. They do not seem to have supply trains or established routes.”
“How are they managing that, Desh? How are they getting where they need to be without forming proper columns?”
“Here’s the thing, Majesty. They are adept at moving through the Blasted Lands and surviving there. As I understand it the main sources of meat for the Sa’ba Taalor have always been hunted in that wasteland. They hunt and kill and live off the meat of the Pra-Moresh.” He paused to make sure she understood how insane that concept was. She did.
“After that, finding food to eat in virtually any part of the Empire must be the easiest thing in the world for them.”
Nachia remained quiet for a long while, her brow knitted in thought and her mouth working silently at what words she might need to say.
Finally she responded, “What can your magics do to make that more challenging for them?”
Desh looked at her hard for a moment, his expression almost tempestuous, and then he laughed. “I had never thought of that. Not a once.”
Nachia smiled. Her smile was exactly as warm as that of the Inquisitor before he left her presence. “Give it a great deal of thought, Desh Krohan. I want to make their lives more difficult as soon as possible.”
Desh nodded his head and started across the chamber. “With your permission I wish to speak to a few of my associates. Corin is more of a specialist in these matters than me, but I suspect we can come up with something… appropriate to your needs, Majesty.”
Nachia waited until he left the vast room and then got off the throne. She preferred walking when she was thinking and she had so very much to think about if she wanted to save her Empire from the Sa’ba Taalor.
Ten
The town of Jorhuan was fortified. Many of the larger cities had forgotten about the previous wars, but Jorhuan was not among them. Surrounding the actual town were two walls. The first was made of stones and rose a staggering thirty-five feet into the air. There were two gates, both of which were currently being guarded against any strangers. The North Gate faced Trecharch and had been sealed, because if there was to be a siege the last thing needed were people asking for assistance. They would have no food and would be of absolutely no use to Jorhuan.
It was a harsh life lesson, to be sure, but better that strangers stay out and move on than that they clog the streets.
The South Gate remained open, but was guarded against any enemies. Members of Jorhuan’s City Guard were currently spaced along the walkway for the outer wall, carrying loaded crossbows to discourage anyone foolish enough to try attacking, and they were alert for anyone attempting to come their way from the north or the west.
The nine followers of Wrommish came from the south. They walked, and not one of them carried an obvious weapon.
That they were Sa’ba Taalor would have been obvious to anyone looking carefully. They did nothing to hide their appearance. They had light gray skin and they were dressed in common enough fashion.
Because they approached on foot and bore no weapons, the guards on the walls paid them little attention.
The guards at the gates were a different matter. The first of them was bored. He had been on duty for over four hours and there had been nothing out of the ordinary, not even anyone coming from the north trying to gain entry. They had been warned, of course. The birds had been sent out with messages notifying all that Trecharch was fallen and to expect refugees and to offer them aid.
That aid would not be forthcoming and the guards all understood why. The Imperial Army was on the way and would soon be engaging the enemy, but Jorhuan was not a large city and they could expect remarkably little by way of assistance, though they were on the made pathway from Trecharch to Canhoon. First look to yourselves, then to your brothers. Offer aid when you can, but anyone who would risk their own lives to help strangers was surely addled.
It was a philosophy that had always suited the tem
perament of the people of Jorhuan.
The second guard was younger and dreamed of fighting the enemy. He had no idea what the enemy might look like, but Sherea was young and beautiful and she liked the notion that he might save them all from the enemy. In order to impress her he would gladly kill a hundred men.
All men are young once, and even those who are older are often made foolish when a woman smiles.
He was thinking of Sherea’s smile when the strangers approached. That meant he was ready for trouble.
“Lem. Look at these ones.” He felt his blood surge as they came closer. The Sa’ba Taalor were supposed to have gray flesh and these folks looked gray to him. Though not as gray as he’d have expected. He had thought their flesh would surely be the same color as granite, but no.
Lem looked his way and stifled a yawn. He knew of the younger man’s affections for Sherea – and she was worthy of a few stray thoughts, though his own wife was much more to his liking – and he shook his head.
“What am I looking at then, Kell? More tradesmen? More mercenaries?”
“I think it’s them. The enemies.”
Lem’s eyes wandered toward the strangers. There were nine of them. Hardly an invading army. He was about to say as much when he looked more closely at the one leading them. The man was lean, but hard. His body seemed nearly sculpted and his tunic showed a series of scars on gray flesh. The scars seemed to make a design, but he could not see it clearly. The man’s face was equally lean and another deep scar ran across his left cheek. He had a thick braid of hair running down his back.
He carried no weapons, but the way he moved was predatory. Cats moved that way when they were stalking birds or butterflies to torture. He hated cats. They were nasty creatures, but he had to tolerate them as his wife loved the damned things.
Despite the fact that Kell had made a dozen inaccurate claims regarding the invaders earlier, Lem now stood tall and reached for his club. Lem was a very large man and most people upon seeing the stout club he’d carried for years decided it was best to remain calm, lest he decide to bounce it off their skulls.
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