The Betrayed

by Igor Ljubuncic

In order to survive both as a person and an idea, he had fought tooth and nail to keep the academy neutral. Luckily, he was a rich man himself, and his own capital and influence allowed him to stay afloat in the turbulent waters of Sirtai politics. Huge wealth, amassed in many a successful endeavor by his colleagues and himself, had helped him expand his services, recruit more investigators, and even establish a sort of an independent police that protected the academy.

  Today, Sirtai was a civilized society. Political murder had replaced physical murder. While rich people would always dread ostracization and bankruptcy, they could now almost be sure to stay alive even if their rivals stripped them of their last shred of honor and money. As a backlash, the new reality had also bred some of the most cunning criminal minds and most spectacular crimes, but these only served as inspiration for Armin Wan’der Markssin.

  In Eybalen, they had armed him with letters of recommendation to ensure cooperation by various circles of the city’s officials, and a fair sum of gold to grease the axles of a rusty society.

  His first target for today was the House of the City Watch. Customarily, dead people were a private matter of concerned families. In the streets, beggars and thieves made sure the bodies vanished before they started to stink. But sometimes, when murder struck, and the victim was a person of some notice, the City Watch took it upon themselves to mark the crime in their ledgers and round the usual suspects.

  Armin hoped he did not look too much out of place wearing a simple linen robe that was the traditional garb in Sirtai. Most Caytoreans preferred clothes with details and wore them in cumbersome layers.

  The investigator entered the House. A bored clerk sat behind a table, pretending to scribble on a paper.

  “Greetings,” Armin spoke in accented, yet clear Continental.

  The official looked him up and down. “Not from around here, are we?”

  Armin produced one of the fat letters from a binder he carried beneath his armpit and placed it on the desk. The clerk briefly read the endorsements. His brows involuntarily jumped when he noted the waxed seals on the bottom.

  “What do you need?”

  Armin opened the binder a second time and produced another paper. “I need information on the deaths of several city dignitaries.”

  The clerk took his time reading. “Shipwright Boune, Shipmaster Perano, master of the guild of miners…” He frowned. “That’s quite a list.”

  Armin nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed. And I have been told that you keep record of these deaths in your archive. I would like to see them.”

  “It could take a few days to rummage through the piles,” the clerk offered with obvious distaste.

  “I would like them as soon as possible.” He placed a silver coin on the desk.

  The clerk looked around before palming it. “I will see what I can do.”

  “Good, thank you. I will return on the morrow.”

  Armin believed that the first step to solving a crime was motive. He was not yet sure what eight people from almost completely unrelated industries had in common, except their deaths. But it was obvious the merchants and the nobles were terrified of the trend.

  In the week since his arrival, he had learned that no rich man walked the streets without the protection of a bodyguard nowadays. Most stayed indoors. While this storm of panic passed by completely unnoticed by the common folk, it was the highlight of the higher circles of society in Eybalen.

  The clerk had been able to retrieve all eight reports. They had been written in haste, by someone who did not really care. The reports stated where the deceased had been found and in what state. But beyond that, there were no details whatsoever. This meant he would have to visit each scene and start from scratch.

  Today, he was in the harbor. Like Tuba Tuba, Eybalen was a port city. The stench of fish and exotic spices overwhelmed the place. Hundreds of workers milled, laboring, loading and unloading cargo into the ships of a dozen nations.

  A few well-placed coins had pointed him to Shipmaster Lloyd…just Lloyd. Coming from a very ancestrally oriented culture, he found the lack of family names in the continental realms a bit offensive.

  He found the man supervising the loading of a barge, standing by a cask of wine, one leg propped, the squinted eyes of a seasoned, sun-blasted mariner scrutinizing the work of his sailors.

  “Greetings,” Armin called, still some distance off.

  Shipmaster Lloyd looked at him, but said nothing. He did take his foot off the cask, though.

  “I am looking for Shipmaster Lloyd,” the investigator declared cheerfully.

  The shipmaster took his time, estimating Armin. Convinced that the man in funny robes posed no threat, he decided to own up. “Found him, need a passage?”

  Armin smiled. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your friend, Shipmaster Perano.”

  Lloyd frowned. “Who in the name of the purple squid are you?”

  Armin softly slapped his forehead. “Ah, forgive me. Investigator Armin Wan’der Markssin, of Tuba Tuba. I have been employed by the council to investigate the deaths of several important people in—”

  “What’s there to investigate?” Lloyd cut him off.

  Armin was completely unperturbed. “There is reason to believe these people were killed under no ordinary circumstances.”

  A ghost of a pain crossed the man’s features. “Not here. Let’s talk elsewhere.”

  Luckily, the port had inns open at all times, even early in the morning. Ships came and went round the clock, and sailors could not waste time waiting on brothels and eateries to open; after weeks and months in the open sea, they demanded instant satisfaction. Anything else would have resulted in riots.

  Armin let himself be led to one of the establishments. They ordered ale, and Armin paid for it. Sitting in the corner of a large, dim room, the investigator waited for the shipmaster to speak first.

  “Perano was killed one night not far from here. We found him in the morning. He lay sprawled in his own blood. They said it was revenge for a gambling debt.”

  “Do you believe that?” Armin asked.

  Lloyd spat on the floor. “Perano never owed anyone a copper.”

  “Would anyone have a reason to kill him?”

  “No more or less than any of us. Perano was a good man. He did bicker and fight, but no more than a sailor’s usual.”

  “Was any of the crew suspected?” Armin ordered another round of drinks.

  “They loved him like a father.”

  Armin nodded. When men had such strong convictions about things, it was useless probing any further. Lloyd believed no sailor had killed Perano. He would have to examine the crew factor from a different angle.

  “Do you know how he was killed?”

  The shipmaster spat again. “Stabbed through from behind with a sword or like. Right through the heart. Bastards.”

  “What happened to his crew and the ship?”

  Lloyd averted his gaze, obviously uncomfortable by the question. “The council seized the ship and dismissed the crew. It says so in the contract. Some of us took Perano’s men on board our own vessels.”

  Armin’s head was racing, searching for clues. “Do you know what cargo Perano dealt in?”

  The shipmaster shrugged. “We’re all guild members. We do as needed. It’s all in the ledgers. The port master has it all written down neat. You can ask him.”

  They parted with a shake of their hands, something Armin was not used to in his homeland. He left the pub no smarter than before. Apparently, Perano had been a meticulous guild member who paid his bills. No one seemed to have gained from his death. Money was not the motive here.

  He would have to dig further.

  His next target was much less cooperative. The widow of the dead chart-maker, Nespos, of the guild of scribes, refused to meet him. He left a note with the head servant and departed.

  Armin decided to go back to his mansion on foot. It was a bright, sunny day, and he wanted to see
some of Eybalen’s streets. While most locals probably thought the weather was hot and sultry, he found it refreshingly cool compared to his home island. Eybalen was not a pretty city, but it was not ugly either. But then, Armin believed in anthropology as the highest form of entertainment. Walking the streets would be great fun.

  About half an hour before reaching his rented mansion, he realized someone was shadowing him. The person was quite unobtrusive, and most people would have never noticed. But Armin was a world-class investigator and could tell a hundred little clues from seemingly innocent objects and scenarios. He was absolutely sure the other man was not merely casually there, going the same way he did.

  It was perhaps the sheer luck of his decision to walk, because otherwise, he would have never spotted the stalker. But now he knew. After a single day of work, Eybalen already had a keen interest in his deeds. The murder case seemed all the more enticing than before.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Don’t move or make a noise until we tell you to do so,” Boris warned in a low growl that was supposed to be a whisper.

  Duvall nodded. Ewan noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead. It was not that hot. The senior brother was terrified.

  They had gone south, keeping well off the roads. After Chergo, they found no more signs of struggle. The roads were empty. The good weather had abandoned them overnight, turning into a light summer rain that persisted well into the morning. The world turned from sultry to cool.

  Weak and hungry and burdened with three small children, the group made slow progress. But finally, they had reached the convent to find it blissfully quiet and whole. The sky was a sheet of beaten lead, keeping the sun at bay. They were soaked to the bone, and the chill ate at their resolve.

  Ewan could not believe the Caytoreans had not attacked this place. If what the two soldiers claimed was true, hordes of the enemy forces had moved up these roads, heading for Talmath. Leaving such a succulent prize intact seemed unbelievable.

  His eyes scanned the surroundings, desperately seeking signs of struggle. But he found nothing but empty rolling fields of thick, wild grass dotted with bushes and stunted trees.

  “There seem to be no Caytoreans around,” Duvall murmured, reassuring himself.

  “Quiet, lad,” Boris chided. Sedric had slipped away, reconnoitering.

  Ewan had no knowledge of the two men and did not trust them. They had the same air of dark past about them, just like his friend Ayrton. But unlike him, they lacked his kindness, his apologetic manners. They looked like bloodthirsty animals, glad to be free of their cage for the first time in years. The thought disturbed him.

  Ayrton would have never refused to go to Speann and help people, no matter the cost.

  Adrian knelt near him, clutching a sword he was not quite sure what to do with. Ewan knew they were deluding themselves with empty heroics. But there was no other way.

  The stupor and shock of the terror he had lived through in the last two days were slowly receding, leaving behind a hollow feeling of despair laced with anger. Alongside guilt and a dull yearning for revenge, his fever came back.

  It was much weaker than before, but it crippled him somewhat nevertheless. He sweated and coughed. His chest hurt from suppressing the coughs in an attempt to conceal his state from the other brothers. They did notice, but kept quiet.

  Again, last night, he had dreamt that same boring nightmare, waking drenched in cold sweat and rain. He was so angry when he rose that he’d punched a rock, flaying the skin off his knuckles.

  He shivered gently and his joints hurt, but he could ignore the discomfort enough to focus on the task at hand, although he seriously doubted he had enough strength to lift a sword.

  “Are you all right?” Adrian asked him.

  Ewan nodded, sweat dripping from his hair. Or maybe it was rain. “I’ll be fine.”

  Adrian did not seem convinced. “You are very pale.”

  “Silence,” Boris warned.

  In the vast open fields about them, nothing stirred. There was no sign of human life anywhere around the convent.

  In contrast to his former home, this temple had a breast-high wall encircling its vegetable gardens, presenting a barrier against intruders. Ewan hoped this was enough.

  He knew some of the sisters in the convent. Although the patriarchs insisted on keeping boys and girls apart until a certain age, the inevitable encounters happened all the time. Whenever the boys were sent to nearby villages to trade for goods, they would often meet their female counterparts. Ewan had even kissed one of the girls, Sarith. But he had not told his superiors about it. Only Ayrton.

  Sedric suddenly rose from the tall grass, waving at them.

  “Let’s move,” Boris urged. The group left their hiding place, heading for the temple. They walked briskly, alert, feeling exposed in the empty, quiet world. The dark sky overhead pressed uncomfortably.

  Boris carried a heavy riding crossbow on his back, but now he cradled it in his armpit, the string drawn taut, the groove loaded with a fat, thick bolt.

  Ewan walked, slightly swaying, his legs soft and trembling. Then, suddenly, racking pain lanced up his back, stealing breath from his chest, paralyzing him. He yelped and collapsed, shaking violently, curled in a ball of pain.

  “Ewan!” Adrian shouted.

  “Bloody child,” Boris cursed, running back.

  They stood above him, staring helplessly. He watched them, unable to open his mouth and say anything, his body out of control. The pain was agonizing. After an eternity, the fit ceased. He found himself sprawled on his back, his nails chipped from digging, his mouth awash in blood. Gingerly, he touched his bitten tongue and spat. As he smelled the contents of his mouth, he retched dryly, his stomach having nothing to give.

  Ashamed, he leaned back again, groaning, wiping threads of mucus and bile that marred his face. His body screamed at him, muscles burning, but at least he could feel them again.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Boris asked in a threatening voice. He looked afraid.

  Duvall grimaced. “We don’t know. His fits started a week ago. They had him confined to a bed in the monastery. We thought he had healed, but it seems we were wrong.”

  Ewan watched as people talked about him, like he was a piece of furniture worth commenting on.

  “It could be plague,” Rais hissed softly.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Adrian barked.

  “Keep your voices down, fools. We don’t know who’s in that convent!” The pale Boris looked like a man on the verge of panic. “We got company!” Sedric yelled.

  All of them, minus Ewan, spun to see a flock of women in purple robes leave through the vine-adorned gates of the little wall surrounding their abode, spreading about. Sedric stood with his sword raised, hesitant.

  “Put your sword down,” one of the women called.

  Boris hitched his crossbow up and aimed. Bojan was crying again, and so were the two other youngest boys, named Deron and Maximilian.

  “I will not warn you again, soldier. Put your weapon down,” the female said, her tone sharpening.

  “Who are you?” Sedric yelled back.

  “I’m Matriarch Elena of this convent to the goddess Lilith, praised be her name. Stand down, or you shall be hurt.” She turned toward the hysterical children. “Brothers, are you prisoners of these two men?”

  “No, no, put your weapons down.” It was Adrian. Duvall was silent. “We’re all together.”

  With abnormal powers he did not know he had, Ewan climbed up onto his wobbly feet. The world swam about him in a green vertigo.

  The matriarch seemed alarmed. “What’s with that boy?”

  Boris spat. “We don’t know. He looks possessed.” He still held the crossbow aloft. Sedric had turned the tip of his glaive down.

  “He has a fever, that’s all,” Adrian cut in.

  “Sisters, bring those children here,” the matriarch ordered. The girls headed for the three youngest. Bojan screamed and refused to budge, but Der
on and Maximilian calmed.

  “Let him be,” Ewan rasped. The girl dragging Bojan released her grip. The boy catapulted toward Ewan and snaked his arms about his leg. Ewan almost fell again.

  “Were you attacked by the Caytoreans?” Duvall finally spoke, flakes of his courage returning.

  “We are in plain sight here,” Sedric whined. “Let’s go inside. There could be enemies out here.”

  Elena waved her hands in protest. “You cannot enter. Only the children.”

  “We are starved and exhausted, and there are thousands of Caytorean scum invaders in the fields all around us!” Sedric shouted.

  The woman shook her head. “You are an Outsider. You may not enter.”

  Sedric spat. “I have not given up my life for this! I am a soldier of the Cause.”

  The matriarch did not seem sympathetic. “Yes, you are. Behave like one.”

  A moment of silence stretched, thin and taut like a drawn bowstring. Then, Sedric lurched forward and grabbed Deron. The sister holding him fought back, but the man was much stronger. He yanked the boy away like a doll, then shoved the woman, hard.

  Boris had his crossbow up as the group of women hissed and moved forward.

  Ewan watched, bile rising in his throat. He no longer saw the world in color. Duvall was edging away. Adrian watched, confused. The other brothers all stood like stupid statues.

  “You’ll give us food and water and money. And if you have horses, them too.” Sedric held the boy in a tight clutch, the cold steel of his sword pressed against his belly. Boris side-stepped, never lowering his crossbow, until he stood at his comrade’s side.

  “Put that boy down!” the matriarch shrieked.

  “Give us coin and food!” Sedric growled like an animal. A bestial glow lit his eyes.

  “Murderer, you have sworn an oath,” the woman spoke.

  “What do you say, Boris? We take our chances? What about this convent?”

  “So many fine young girls,” the other soldier agreed, leering.

  Ewan tottered forward, a man in delirium. Bojan stood, weeping. Step by step, Ewan made his way toward the two soldiers. As he registered in their vision, Boris turned, leveling the crossbow at his chest.