“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Though I’m not sure why he didn’t seek out his family alone. Maybe he was afraid they would murder him before he got a chance to speak.”
Lieman nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed. I’m beginning to understand. Hunter was very rational about everything he did, little though he appeared it. You are right to say that suicide does not seem characteristic.”
My breakfast arrived just then, soft-boiled eggs and a millet roll with raspberry preserves. I thanked the manservant and busied myself in cutting and spreading jam on the roll. I did not want to think of the day of Hunter’s death. The memory was still too raw.
“Why do you think this raiser of the dead wanted to kill Hunter?” Lieman ran a finger around the rim of his mug, watching me carefully.
“I don’t know. Maybe Hunter knew too much. Maybe he tried to steal the secret for himself. I have no idea.”
Lieman nodded. “And what do you plan to do now?”
“Find out what happened and—” I had nearly said ‘kill the professor.’ That was certainly on my mind, but Lieman might be horrified to know I would even consider such a desperate act of revenge.
“Do you want to set the story straight?” Adalia asked.
“Yes, but only when I know the truth myself.” I bit into the roll, not wishing to discuss the matter any further. If I had my way, I would march up to the University gates with a knife up my sleeve, demand entrance, and stab the professor in his sleep.
To my relief, Lieman and Adalia allowed me to finish my breakfast in silence. I was in no state to formulate rational plans right now; every particle of my being lusted for revenge. I was devoid of reason.
Once I finished eating, I stood and folded my napkin. “Thank you so much for looking after me. And…everything. I think I should return home now and set things right.”
Lieman and Adalia both embraced me and bade me visit before long.
As I walked the familiar road home, my mind was clearer than it had been in days. I had a purpose now—to learn more about the professor and bring him to justice.
Chapter 14
W hen I let myself into our—no, my—cool, stale-smelling hall, I half-expected Hunter to poke his head around the kitchen door and ask for a treat. Instead I was met by silence. Refusing to dwell on this, I fetched a paper and began organizing my thoughts. First I listed everyone I ought to talk to: the idiot reporter who had spun this nonsense; Hunter’s family (though not until later, since they terrified me); Samara, if I could track her down; and lastly, the professor. Any confrontation with the professor would be delayed until the last possible moment. If he knew I was on his trail, he could make life very difficult for me.
For the same reason, I resolved to stay in the sculpture garden, rather than returning to my parents’ home. They should not be involved in anything potentially dangerous.
I had barely finished this list when someone rapped at the door. I considered ignoring the interruption, though it could be someone who was genuinely concerned for me. Maybe even my father.
It was a stranger. I knew he was a journalist even before he spoke from the way he held a notepad along one arm like a shield.
“Milady Fenwood,” he said, flashing his teeth in an insincere smile. He was slim and tall, like a reed that would blow over in a single gust of wind. “You must be the most sought-after woman in Baylore just now. As Hunter’s traveling companion and pretend sister, you are a highly desirable news source.” He raised an eyebrow and gave me a look that was almost obscene.
“Beg pardon,” I said. “I’m busy.” I tried to close the door on him. To my irritation, he had slipped one toe into the doorway, so I could not budge him without giving him a boot down the steps.
“Please, Milady. I insist you join me for tea at Lady Marla’s.”
He seemed the type that might resort to force or bribery to get his way. But I had a better idea. “Will you allow me to correct the hideous lies printed in the Baylore Daily and the Palace Times?” I asked sharply. “I will only consent to speak to you if you give me your word.”
“I will listen to anything you say with fascination.” He gave me another unconvincing smile. “As to the stories that are printed, that is up to the newspapers to decide. The more convincing your tale, the likelier it will reach the presses.”
Muttering under my breath, I slipped on my shoes and latched the door carefully behind me.
As I hastened along behind the reporter, I thought perhaps it was not the best idea to remain in the statue garden alone. I had no one around to ward off unwelcome visitors, and my status as a resident of the Gilded Quarter was questionable enough that the royal guards might overlook anything untoward that befell me.
Lady Marla’s Teahouse, it transpired, was a posh, frilly, cushion-filled little shop just a block from the central square. Four large tables rose just off the floor, with matching groups of equally posh and frilly ladies seated on pillows around them, and spread through the corners of the room were smaller tables with spindly little seats. The reporter made for one of these, pausing halfway through the teahouse to kiss the owner on the hand. Clearly this was a regular haunt of his.
“Once again, most pleased to make your acquaintance, Milady Fenwood. Or Milady Cady, I might say. Has a nice ring to it.” He did not notice my scowl. “The name is Pelton. Just Pelton.”
He waved to the matron and asked for a pot of lavender tea, “with as much sugar as you can spare.” Then he returned his unnaturally white smile to me. “I’ve wanted to talk to you ever since the papers began preparing Hunter’s story. I knew there was more to the man—the legend, really—than just madness. And you seem to be the best candidate to expose the raw truth.” He dipped his chin to me. “So, if you were never Hunter’s sister, what were you? His cousin? His mistress? His concubine? Were you living with him out of convenience, or was it something more?”
I did not even wish to reply to the man. But knowing the nature of newspaper stories, especially those printed by the sensationalist and unreliable Palace Times, I preferred to dispel the worst of the rumors. “I was no concubine,” I said coldly. “I traveled with Hunter as his assistant, documenting his work and his rise to fame.”
“And?” Pelton prompted.
“That is my own business. I would thank you not to spread rumors of my personal life.”
Just then, the matron arrived with a pot of tea and two fragile cups. The scent of lavender rising from the pot was so strong it was almost sickening.
Pelton’s expression told me he would assume the worst. I should have lied and said Hunter had been no more than a business relation. Pelton dropped four sugar cubes into his empty cup while he waited for the tea to steep.
“So. What inside knowledge can you give us about Hunter’s suicide? What prompted such a tragic mistake?”
“It was no suicide,” I said. “I’ll admit the flying stunt was a scam, but Hunter was wearing a flying cloak. It was perfectly functional that morning. He never meant to die.”
Pelton raised an eyebrow again, with that thin-lipped expression of disdainful curiosity. “Witnesses at the scene saw no trace of a flying cloak. Have you succumbed to the same delusions that took hold of Hunter?”
I crossed my arms in frustration. “The cloak had been reassembled into a coat. Again, it was perfectly functional earlier that morning. I watched Hunter test it. But after his fall, I saw that someone had ripped a row of stitches from one side. Someone wanted Hunter to die.”
“Fascinating!” Pelton said. For once his enthusiasm sounded genuine. “The public will love to hear that. Though his mental stability remains in question. After all, did you read about his troubled upbringing? How did you react to that shocking bit of news?”
I frowned at Pelton, arms still crossed. “I already knew about his family. He left them long ago, and has made his own way for the past ten years. Their misfortunes had no bearing on his present life.”
As I said that, however, I re
alized it was not strictly true. Hunter had spoken more than once of being haunted by something he had done in the past, a bit of unfinished business he could not ignore. It must have been his sister’s death that unsettled him so. He would never rest easy unless he found a way to bring her back.
That thought led to a realization that was more disturbing still. Perhaps Hunter had expected to die soon, if not in the manner he had. Perhaps he had been afraid his family would still exact revenge on him, whether or not he managed to bring back his sister. Exposing himself to them once more would have put him in danger, professor or no. Hunter had known the danger, and had tried to save his sister regardless. His guilt had weighed that heavily on him.
I was so distracted I missed what Pelton said.
“Pardon?” I said.
He slid a cup of tea in my direction. “I merely wondered whether Hunter’s entire career had been a lie, or whether he truly was on the verge of coming forth as the miracle prophet, barring his untimely death.” Pelton stirred his tea—which was more sugar than tea—with spidery fingers. “If you know, that is. How close were you two?”
I wanted to leave the stifling tea shop and get as far away from Pelton as possible. But if I walked out now, he would draw his own conjectures, and most likely not the sort I wanted. “Hunter did many remarkable things,” I said, deliberately vague. “Whether he could raise the dead or not, I cannot say. I never witnessed such a thing myself.”
To forestall any further questions, I pretended to concentrate on my tea as I stirred in a sugar cube and took a long sip. Pelton watched me smugly.
“Do you have anything to say regarding Hunter’s reputation as a lady-chaser and a handsome flirt? How did his escapades affect your relationship?”
“What did I say about probing into my personal life?” I said sharply. I could not believe I had actually intended to seek out the audience of a journalist. I should have known such a sensational story would be abused and twisted in whichever way suited the writer best. “I must go now. This interview is at an end. If you want to report anything, let it be the truth—that Hunter did not kill himself. I swear it by everything I hold dear.”
“Thank you for your time,” Pelton said, giving me another too-wide smile.
I rose and departed with barely a courteous nod, leaving my tea half-finished on its doily.
After buying a few vegetables to replace the ones that had gone limp in their basket in the kitchen, I spent the afternoon at home, trying to come up with a more coherent plan. I wanted Hunter to be remembered as a hero, not a troubled suicide, but dealing with the professor was more important. How deeply did he suspect me to be involved in Hunter’s affairs? There was a chance he might come after me, if he thought me a danger.
And more importantly, was Taldo’s killer still on the loose? I could not think of a way to speak with Samara without involving the professor.
I had barely been home an hour before another reporter came knocking. This one was a plump, grey-haired woman who looked far too simperingly kind to be trusted. To my relief, she did not press me when I begged to be left in peace.
The next reporter was a young woman, hardly more than a girl, who was so eager for any story—and so stoutly convinced I was the voice of truth regarding Hunter’s death—that I nearly agreed to talk to her. But before I could usher her inside, I saw another unfamiliar man turning down my walk and changed my answer mid-sentence.
After that, I stopped answering the door. I did not light any lamps that could be seen from the garden, and I drew the curtains closed around the kitchen, where I bided my time.
The following morning I intended to hunt down Samara. I did not know how this could be done without provoking the wrath of the University gateman, but she was the least intimidating of my possible sources of information. Just as I was about to step outside, however, I noticed a bundle on my doorstep. It was the Palace Times, tied up with twine and paired with a folded and sealed piece of parchment.
Nervous, I picked up the paper and returned to the kitchen. First I opened the letter, which read,
My dear Cady,
Thank you for your time. It was a pleasure speaking with you. I thought you might wish to see this straightaway—your article was chosen for the front page. Enjoy!
Your faithful friend,
Pelton
The note made me cringe. I was tempted to throw the newspaper on the pile of kindling without reading it. Knowing who had written the article, it could not be good. At least it was printed in the less-reputable Palace Times.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I slipped the newspaper free of its binding and settled back to read the article splashed in bold type all across the front page.
HUNTER’S LOVER
EXPOSES CONTRADICTIONS
Wandering Prophet’s death provokes controversy
Cady Fenwood, reputed to be Hunter’s long-time lover, has given her own account of the circumstances leading up to the death of the legend. She claims his death was not a suicide but instead a deliberate murder.
Of course, Cady herself may still be emotionally troubled following the death of her lover. Sources report that yesterday was the first day she was sighted publicly following Hunter’s leap, and prior attempts to contact her at home were unsuccessful. In her sole interview, she refused to divulge personal details, though she was offended by the mention of Hunter’s legendary womanizing.
The question remains, though—who could possibly be responsible for murdering the disgraced hero? Is Cady’s claim as deluded as Hunter must have been? Or has Cady unwittingly let slip her involvement?
Beneath the article was a disturbingly realistic engraving of the scene of Hunter’s death. The cathedral was suggested by faint lines in the background, while the artist had taken great care to depict the blood and cracked skull and a pair of onlookers who had fainted.
Disgusted, I threw the paper aside. I hoped no one who knew me would read the story. Agreeing to Pelton’s interview had been a mistake from the start.
Wary though I now was about leaving the house, I fetched my coin-purse and stomped down the front steps. The warm spell that had begun on midsummer’s eve had held, and the grey cobblestones were sun-bleached and radiating heat. I hurried down the block to the University gates, eyes lowered in the fear that someone would recognize me and stop me for another bout of unwanted questioning.
Seated below the stone archway, just as I had feared, was the same burly guard who had told me I was not allowed back on the University grounds. Now that I was likelier to be recognized, I did not think I could simply lurk alongside the street and watch for Samara. And even if I did, there was next to no chance she would appear. That would be far too convenient.
Instead, I walked down the block to the end of the University wall before turning around and retracing my steps, slower this time. The entire way I was searching for inspiration.
When I was halfway down the block for the third time, and beginning to worry the guard might notice how oddly I was behaving, a young man approached the gates from the inside and was let through. I decided at once to follow him. He was wearing plain but well-cut clothes, rather than his school uniform, with a mop of shaggy brown hair parted sloppily to one side. I guessed he was going home to visit his family in the Market District. From the stories I had jealously begged of my Weaver neighbors skilled enough to attend Baylore University, I knew students usually ate in a large dining hall and slept in a block of dorms. Perhaps this young man had the day off.
After we had passed the central square and turned down a side street paralleling Market Street, I summoned my courage and hurried to catch up to the young man.
“Excuse me,” I said, falling into step beside him.
He looked at me in surprise, which doubled as he appeared to recognize me. “Sweet seducer! You’re Hunter’s lover, are you not? I saw you at the square!”
I sighed. It was not worth arguing with him. He still had the soft features of youth; his
assumption was likely innocent. “I just wondered if you knew a woman named Samara. She’s a Drifter, and she either studies or works at your University.”
“There aren’t many Drifters at the University,” the young man said, slowing as he thought. “Can you describe her?”
“Tall and beautiful,” I said, “with long hair. Probably in her late twenties. Older than most students, I would guess.”
“Oh, you mean Sammy!” he said. “No one calls her that to her face, of course. She’s far too intimidating.” He grimaced.
My heartbeat quickened. “Do you know where I might find her?”
“No,” the young man said, “but her friend might. His name is Elden, and he lives in the Garden District. He often comes to the University to visit Sammy, and he’s worked a few days in the dining hall.”
“Do you know where he lives, exactly? The Garden District is enormous.”
He chewed his lip for a moment before responding. “There’s a school in the Garden District, a big one. I believe he lives somewhere around there. He’s mentioned the school a few times.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. “Thank you! I truly appreciate it.”
The young man grinned. “Good day, Milady. Can I tell my friends I met you?”
“Do what you like,” I said.
It was a long, sweaty trek through the Garden District to the children’s school at its heart. The district itself sprawled forever, comprising the longest arm of the city, from just past the central square until the far western wall. I was not precisely sure where the school was, but once I was deep enough into the district, I began asking everyone I passed for directions.
Eventually I reached the tidy brick-and-wood school building, built in the style of some of the most attractive village houses. Most Market District children began their apprenticeships long before they had a chance to attend public school, but one of my close friends, suspected at a young age to have Potioneer blood, had been sent to this school in hopes she would make something more of herself. And she had. After graduating from Baylore University at the tender age of twenty-one, she had established her own apothecary close to the palace, where she sold only the rarest and most valuable of concoctions. If only I had been so fortunate.
Hunter's Legend_A Baylore High Fantasy Page 12
