In Shade and Shadow nd-7

by Barb Hendee

  The duchess initially struck Rodian as a shattered woman. Only later did he come to know her as strong-willed, private, and protective of her new family. All she told him of the night's boat ride was that she'd turned to peer through the dark toward the distant docks. Being a Faunier and an inlander, she was accustomed to wide-open plains and lush woods, and had never learned to swim. Nor did she know anything of sailing. Getting so far from shore made her nervous.

  When she turned back, Prince Freädherich, third in line to the throne, was gone. She hadn't even heard a splash.

  Duchess Reine passed that night in panic and anguish over her vanished husband as she drifted alone until dawn in Beranlômr Bay. A spotty tale at best—perhaps too much so to be a lie—and more than this had left Rodian puzzled.

  The royal family's belief that the duchess had no part in the prince's disappearance remained absolute. Later he began to share that belief, though he never came to fully understand why. It took time to uncover the few pieces he learned of Prince Freädherich and the reskynna as a whole.

  From questioning dockhands, and any crew and ship out and about at the time, to finding those who knew scant bits of the prince's past, n.

  On two previous occasions he'd been spotted too late slipping away in a small boat. The first time, in his youth, he'd made it to the open sea before anyone knew and was later caught by panicked Weardas upon a Malourné naval vessel. Then, a year before he married Reine, he returned alone along the shore, escorted by a trio of dwarven thänæ. His boat was later found adrift and undamaged.

  And one night Rodian had listened to the sketchy rumors of an elder seafarer.

  The old man spent his days selling his services for mending fishing nets. He said Prince Freädherich wasn't the only reskynna to exhibit such strange behavior. Others as far back as the king's great-grandmother were known for a silent and unexplained fascination with the sea.

  The royals of Malourné were benevolent, and despite Rodian's ambition he took pride in serving them and his people. He'd heard occasional stories in taverns and common houses of the cursed monarchs of Malourné, but he gave them no credence. Folktales abounded in any country, and his faith in the Blessed Trinity of Sentience taught him better than to believe nonsense that defied reason. When his inquiries ran dry and nothing more concrete could be learned, faith was all he had left to lean on.

  And he broke the law for the first time.

  He should've gone straight to the high advocate, before the court, reported that his investigation was complete, and testified before the inquest tribunal. Instead he went to Duchess Reine.

  Rodian told her he couldn't clear her of suspicion, but that he also believed she had nothing to do with whatever happened on the boat. Princess thelthryth was present, quiet and watchful, but open relief filled her aquamarine eyes. When he related tales of the reskynna and the sea, neither the princess nor the duchess said a word.

  At the inquest's closing session, before the tribunal and high advocate, he reported that no evidence of a crime could be found. Not truly a lie, but then he'd said nothing about the "curse."

  Unsubstantiated or not, withholding this was the second time Rodian broke the law. And the very act forced him to remember the day of his acceptance into the Shyldfälches, as well as his promotion to captain, when he'd stood before the high advocate with his sword hand upon an old wooden box.

  Within that vessel was the Éa-bêch—Malourné's first book of the law. Over centuries, the rules and regulations of society had grown until they filled a small library. But the Éa-bêch was still the core of it all. Rodian swore by it to uphold the law of the people, for the people.

  When Rodian left the inquest that final day, his sword hand ached.

  Moral reasoning had told him no good could come from repeating rumors at the inquest. But truth meant everything to him, by both his faith and his duty. He went to temple that same night and prayed—not for forgiveness of the omission, but for relief from doubt in his reasoned decision.

  "If he comes back, I wasn't hereig I wasne."

  The old woman scoffed, but pocketed the coin as she shuffled on.

  Rodian mounted and headed northwest. Strangely, Selwyn Midton's home was a good distance from his shop and the Graylands Empire. And he hadn't been to work in two days.

  Eventually Rodian entered a residential sector where the main businesses consisted of food carts, eateries, or bread and vegetable stalls—all the things sought on a daily basis near homes. He was surrounded by small, modest houses, but all well kept, as if the inhabitants took pride in their neighborhood. The farther west he traveled, the larger the domiciles became, until he pulled up Snowbird before a two-story stone house crafted in the cottage style, with a wrought-iron fence across its front. He double-checked the address as he dismounted.

  How could a Graylands Empire moneylender afford a home like this? Such parasites fared better than those they fed upon—but not this much better.

  A young woman in a slightly stained apron came around the house's side carrying two large ceramic milk bottles. As she tried to shift both to one arm, Rodian pulled the gate open for her.

  "Thank you, sir."

  He waited until she placed the empties in her cart and moved on before he stepped through the gate.

  "Snowbird, come," he called.

  She followed him in, pressing her nose into his face. He steered her aside off the front walkway.

  "Stay."

  He closed the gate and approached the house.

  A fine brass knocker hung upon a stout mahogany door. He grew more uncertain that this was the correct home—Selwyn Midton might have given the court a false address. He clacked the knocker, and moments later the door opened. He found himself facing the least attractive proper lady he'd ever seen.

  Tall as himself, she was neither plump nor thin, but rather blockish from her neck to her hips. A two-finger-width nose hung over a mouth no more than a slash above her chin. Her skin was sallow, and her hair, once dark, was prematurely harsh gray. Even worse, some unfortunate lady's maid had tried to dress those tresses upon her head. The result was a mass of braids like coils of weather-bleached rope.

  However, she wore a well-tailored velvet dress of chocolate brown. Small rubies dangled from her thumblike earlobes. And she peered at him through small, hard eyes.

  Rodian realized that his revulsion had less to do with her appearance than the cold dispassion she emanated.

  "Yes?" she said, and her hollow voice left him chilled.

  "Matron Midton?"

  "Yes."

  He had the right house.

  "Captain Rodian of the Shyldfälchiv he Shyles. I've come to speak with your husband."

  "Why?"

  He thought the mention of his division might melt her ice with a little concern, but she remained unimpressed.

  "It's a matter of city business," he returned. "Is he at home?"

  The simple annoyance on her face told him this woman knew nothing of her husband's court summons. She stepped back and grudgingly let him in.

  The foyer was tastefully arranged with a thick, dark rug and a mahogany cloak stand. Squeals of laughter rolled down the hall as four children raced out of what appeared to be a sitting room—three girls and a small boy, all well dressed. They stopped, struck dumb at the sight of him.

  Rodian remembered his cloak was open when one of the girls stared at his sword.

  "Go back and finish your game," their mother said, shooing them down the hall, but she stopped at a closed door and knocked loudly. "Selwyn… a captain from the city guard to see you."

  Barely a blink later the door jerked inward.

  A handsome man holding a brandy snifter leaned out with wild eyes—not at all what Rodian expected. He'd met moneylenders before, and the ones at the bottom of society all tended to be small, spectacled, shifty, and wheezy.

  Selwyn Midton was tall and slender, with peach-tinted skin and silky blond hair. He wore black breeches and a loos
e white shirt. He recovered himself quickly and smiled at his wife.

  "Thank you, dear. Please come in, Captain. Has there been a neighborhood burglary?"

  Rodian advanced, backed him into the study, and shut the door. Then a wide-eyed Selwyn Midton quickly turned on him.

  "I have one more day!" he hissed in a low voice. "The advocate already checked that I'll make my court date. He doesn't need to threaten me again!"

  His light brown eyes were bloodshot, and his breath reeked of brandy.

  "Why have you been away from work for two days?" Rodian asked.

  "Why have I…?" His eyes cleared slightly. "You went to my shop?"

  Rodian gestured at the polished maple desk resting on an indigo Suman carpet. "Hardly a fitting place of business for someone who lives here."

  Midton backed around his desk and settled in his damask chair.

  "I've been preparing documents for my court appearance. What a shame that our legal system puts so much effort into persecuting me. All I do is provide much-needed service to people the banks won't even speak to."

  "Service?" Rodian repeated.

  "Who else, if not me, gives them enough coin to improve their lives?"

  Rodian took a breath through his teeth. The only shame would be if this hypocrite were found innocent tomorrow, and that wasn't likely. There was no charter on record allowing the Plum Parchment to engage in moneylending. But regarding Rodian's visit, there was also no clear proof that Selwyn Midton had a hand in the death of two young sages.

  Rodian realized he wanted Midton to be guilty of that crime as well.

  It was possible that, to keep Jeremy silent, Midton had killed the young sage and his companion, and then taken the folio to make it look like a theft. Perhaps the break-in at Master Shilwise's scriptorium was unrelated. Stranger coincidences had happened. At the moment it even seemed more likely than Wynn's mention of a minor noble's son making threats.

  Rodian wanted to solve these murders today, and sending this parasite to the gallows would be so much the better. But he checked himself. Such a course went against duty, let alone reason, and hence his faith.

  "When you say 'preparing documents, " he began, "have you been waiting for a young sage named Jeremy Elänqui?"

  Midton's mouth went slack. "I beg your pardon?"

  "He was helping you alter your ledgers."

  "If that boy's been telling lies, I'll raise charges on the guild!"

  Rodian focused intently on Midton's face in this crucial moment. "Jeremy can't tell lies. He was murdered two nights ago."

  Midton dropped the brandy snifter.

  It hit the carpet and rolled under the desk, likely spreading brandy all over that expensive carpet. But Rodian sank—no, fell—into sudden disappointment.

  Midton's bloodshot eyes widened in complete shock; then shock faded, replaced by fear.

  "Dead? But that's not…" Midton began. "You cannot think… I had nothing to do with it!"

  "Where were you the night before last?"

  Midton breathed in harshly. He couldn't seem to get out a word until he jumped to his feet.

  "I was here, at home. My wife, children, our cook, they can all verify I never left the house."

  The cook's testimony would bear the most weight, more than a wife or child's. Then again, Selwyn Midton could've easily hired someone else to do the killing. In fact, that was far more likely, if such a special poison had been used. For what would this coin gouger know of handling dangerous concoctions?

  And yet, how would he even know where to find the rare individual who did?

  Rodian had questioned many who'd committed whatever crime was in question—and many who hadn't. Midton was certainly a criminal, but he'd been taken too unaware by the young sage's death.

  "Don't ask my family to testify!" Midton rushed on. "I swear I had nothing to do with Jeremy's death. If a hint of this comes out I will be ruined, my wife, my family—"

  "After tomorrow you will be ruined. Fines for illegal moneylending are high… if a fine is all the high advocate seeks from the judges. But fortunately for you, hearsay can't be used, and Jeremy won't be joining you for your court appointment."

  Midton appeared to calm a bit, and leaned on his desk with both hands, pitching his voice low.

  "I'll be exonerated, and no one here need know it ever occurred. My wife knows nothing of my business and… neither does her father."

  Rodian blinked. "Your wife has never seen your shop?"

  Midton shook his head rapidly. "She doesn't involve herself. Her family came out strongly against our marriage, but she wanted it. We bought this house with her dowry, but I've managed to give her a proper life. When her father passes she will inherit, unless she is disowned. Any whisper of my involvement in a murder investigation could…"

  His jaw tightened as he dropped back into his chair.

  "I had nothing to do with Jeremy's death," he repeated. "If you pursue me publicly, you will destroy my family for no reason… and no gain."

  The man's background suddenly became clear. Midton had won the affections of a dour, plain-faced woman against her family's wishes—a family of means. He'd hung on by a thread ever since, faking a lifestyle barely affordable as he waited for his wife's inheritance.

  Ruining this man might squash a parasite feeding on the desperate and poor. But ten more would scurry in like cockroaches to fill his place. And Rodian had no wish to destroy the four children playing in their sitting room.

  "I require a written statement from your wife," he said, "that you were at home on the night in question. How much truth you tell her to explain the need is up to you. Have it ready for her to sign in the presence of my lieutenant when he comes tomorrow. I will speak with your cook and your business neighbors myself. Your current legal issues with the high advocate are your own problem."

  Gut feelings or not, Midton still had a strong motive for murder—even stronger than Rodian initially realized. Hiding illegal moneylending, along with his scheme upon his wife's inheritance, was certainly motive enough. But Rodian's words washed anxiety from Midton's expression.

  "Thank you," the man breathed.

  "Call your cook," Rodian commanded. "I will speak to her alone."

  Selwyn Midton hurried out the study door.

  Rodian already knew the cook would tell him that the master of the house had been home. That left him with one more lead to pursue… and he did not wish to.

  After a sparse lunch, Wynn shuffled through the guild's inner bailey. She stayed near the wall as she passed through the idt througsmall arboretum close to the southern tower. Beyond the wall she occasionally heard people come and go. But not many, as the Old Bailey Road wasn't a main thoroughfare.

  When the castle's outer bailey wall had been opened long ago, a double-wide cobbled street had been kept clear, running along the outside of the inner bailey's wall. Only the backs of buildings across that road were visible from the keep. All those faced the other way, toward other shops across the next streets and roads. But if one stopped in a quiet garden or copse of the inner bailey, an occasional passerby could be heard beyond the wall.

  "Get, you mutt! Stay out of my garbage!"

  That angry voice interrupted Wynn's sulking, and she peered up the wall's height, greater than a footman's pike. Some cook in an eatery must have come out back and shooed off a stray dog. Wynn moved on through the remains of a garden.

  The tomato bed was barren, its last harvest sun-dried for winter storage. Deflated by Premin Sykion's refusal to let her see the texts or her journals from the Farlands, Wynn contemplated what to do next.

  "Why do they deny these crimes have anything to do with the translation work?"

  Wynn pulled her cloak tighter as a late-autumn breeze sent aspen leaves raining down around her. She talked to herself too often these days.

  High-Tower and Sykion hadn't made her life easy since her return, but they weren't fools. Even if they wouldn't accept what she suspected, that the kill
er might be an undead, surely they recognized that guild members carrying folios might be in danger.

  Half a year of work had passed, and now someone or something was clearly desperate to see material recently touched upon. Whoever it was could read the Begaine syllabary; otherwise the folio pages would be worthless.

  But how had anyone outside the guild learned enough about the folios' content to want to see them at all? Most of the guild, besides those involved in translations, knew even less than Wynn did of the content of those old texts. Unless…

  …someone within the guild—at a high level—had already read something of importance.

  But what could drive someone to kill for it?

  She passed through the narrow space between the wall and the newer southeast dormitory building. Beyond it and the keep's wall was the old barracks and her own room.

  Wynn shook her head at the notion that the murder might be someone within the guild. If a vampire was living among them, she should've spotted it long ago. Once, she'd been deceived by Chane, but looking back she remembered all the signs. He'd always visited at night, never ate, and drank only mint tea… his pale face… and his strange eyes, sometimes brown… sometimes almost clear.

  Still, there were the moneylender and the young man who'd threatened Elias to consider.

  No, the murderer had to be an undead, and one that killed without leaving any marks, and it had to be outside of the guild's population.

  She rounded the east tower and peered along the keep's back at the near end of the new library. Every side of the keep but the front had an additional building added on. Only the spaces around the four towers, as well as the front side, were left open for gardens and other uses.

  The two-story library, barely more than two-thirds the keep's height, was tall enough to view the surrounding city from its upper windows. Although its new stone was pleasant compared to the ancient castle's weathered granite, the library contained only the best selected volumes copied for use by the guild at large. Wynn had always been more drawn to the catacombs beneath the castle—the master archives.

  She remembered the sight of Jeremy's and Elias's ashen skin and rigid, horrified expressions. They'd died quickly but in terror and agony.