by Tim Stead
Sara looked left and right, but there wasn’t a soul in sight on the beach below. Abandoned? Her heart quickened a little. If the boat was abandoned she could claim it. Her father would like that – to have a boat.
She looked along the cliff-top path towards home. There was nobody in sight, and she hadn’t passed anyone coming the other way. She looked inland. It was all pasture, rising steadily over three miles or more to the distant forest, and she could see no sign of anyone.
Sara scrambled down the path to the beach. She stopped once more to look about her as soon as she reached the sand, but there was nobody here. She could see footprints, tracks leading down to the boat, or up from it, she supposed. Two or three people had walked from the boat to the rocky path that led up onto the downs. She followed their tracks down to the boat.
It was a simple thing, and bigger than she had first thought. There were two pairs of oars, two sets of oar-locks, and the prow had been dragged up above the high water mark, so it could have been here for a day – no more than that, though. She would have seen it yesterday.
She put a hand on the wood of the hull and pushed it. It was heavy; well made, she guessed, and seemed in good condition. Why would such a valuable thing be left here, unguarded, on a deserted beach, miles from anywhere?
She climbed in, and the small vessel rocked a little. A quick search revealed nothing. The boat was quite empty apart from the four oars that lay in the bottom. She climbed out again. Now she should hurry. If her father could get here before nightfall he could claim the boat and row it round to the cove by the farm and secure it there.
She hurried back to the path, but stopped. This was a surprise. Another set of tracks led along the back of the beach, drawing her eye eastwards. It was almost as though the person who’d walked there had tried to hide his footprints, but on so clean a beach they were still plain enough. Curiosity drew her back across the sand, following this new mystery.
The tracks led her along the landward side of the beach to where a headland jutted out, the cliffs resuming their eastward march. There was a stone here, a great slab of rock that had been plucked from the cliff by the ocean. It lay half in, half out of the water like a small house, flat topped and ten feet high.
The footprints ended in the water here. Sara clambered up the side of the rock, careful not to slip on the slick, wave-damp stone. At the top she paused to regain her breath, then walked around the edge of the stone, peering down into the foaming sea that surrounded her.
Here was the solution to the mystery. There was a second boat here, but this one was not tidily drawn up on the sand. It lay beneath the waves, and already the sea had begun to demolish it. Whoever had brought this one to shore had not been as careful or skilled as the others.
Sara left both boats and ran up the path to the cliff top again. The sun was already dipping towards the horizon and she needed to be home. She carried on, running and walking as quickly as she could along the cliff path. As she crested a ridge she looked to where her way turned inland and was surprised to see a group of people standing on the cliff edge looking down. They were two hundred paces away, but she recognised her father among them, and her brother Mikel.
She ran faster.
As she drew closer she could hear men shouting over the noise of her own breath and the slap of her feet on the path. Something was going on down below. Her father stepped out of sight, going down to the shore, and a moment later her brother followed along with two or three others. They hadn’t seen her.
She arrived above them and found herself alone on the cliff top. Down in the cove was a scene that would stay with her for ever.
A ship, a large two-masted ship, was slewed across the cove, the tops of her masts pointing almost to the shore. A spiders web of ropes attached her to a score of men on the beach who pulled and shouted, trying to wrest her from the sea’s embrace. Some were trying to pull the stern around, others prevented her bow from rolling onto the sharp rocks at the east end of the cove. One agile man was balanced on the ship’s rail, lashing yet another rope to the base of a stanchion.
The mystery of the two boats was solved. Sara did not doubt that they had both come from the stricken ship, though she could not recall any weather that might have driven her ashore. Perhaps she could help. She began to descend to the beach, picking her way down the steep path, but her brother looked up and saw her. He hurried to meet her before she stepped onto the beach.
“You must go back,” he said.
“I can help,” she insisted. Even her modest strength would be useful in such a struggle, she was sure.
“No, Sara. There are dead men here. Go back to the farm.”
Men had died? Her eyes scanned the beach, and sure enough she saw a row of cloth covered humps close to the path – no more than twenty paces away.
“Oh,” she said. She had thought the sailors had escaped this tragedy. The boats suggested it. “Did they drown?”
“No,” Mikel said. “They did not drown. Now go back to the farm.”
She ignored him – stood her ground. He was only fourteen months her senior and she did not think he should be telling her what to do. Besides, her curiosity and horror were both piqued. “Didn’t drown? How did they die then?”
The conspiratorial light of childhood flashed briefly in Mikel’s eyes. He leaned close.
“They were stabbed, all of them, each with a single blow to the heart. It was murder, Sara. Four men murdered on one ship.”
Murder? She glanced at the four corpses, and down the beach to where her father toiled with the others. If these four had been murdered then the murderer had been in one of the two boats at the first beach. And now he was free somewhere on the downs between Darna and Pek, or in the woods that crept so close to the farm. She imagined him, a shadowy figure, perhaps even now hunting down the other men who had come ashore.
Sara knew she would not sleep well this night.
3 Rumours of a Wedding
Arla sat in her office, reading. She only possessed two books, and she had read each of them several times before. The first, which stood its lonely vigil on the shelf beside her, was ‘The Laws of The King’, an ancient text translated by none other than Councillor Ella Saine, and given to Arla as a gift.
The book that lay beneath her hand was more relevant, and considerably later in its genesis. It bore the title ‘The Making of The Law’, and had been authored by the Lawmaster of White Rock, the famous Delf Killore. This second book was the basis of modern law, the code by which Arla, as a lawkeeper, lived and worked.
Arla was more than just a lawkeeper. She had been chosen as an officer, and after the chaos of the child killing spree a couple of years ago she had been promoted to the post of Samara’s chief investigator. It was her task to discover the truth of things that were hidden, just as it lay with her friend Gilan to keep order in the streets of the city. Both of them owed their allegiance to Sam Hekman, Chief Lawkeeper of Samara, and through him to the King’s council.
The problem with being Chief Investigator was that you had to wait for something to investigate. Gilan had his patrols, he had things to organise, and even walked the city’s streets himself.
Arla closed the book. It was pretty dry stuff, and her mind was wandering. She turned and looked out of the window. There was no view – just bricks and mortar – but if she moved a little closer to the window she could watch people passing in the street.
They were safer now, those people, because of her. In two years she had caught seventeen murderers, a brace of coin clippers and a gang of thieves. In one way it seemed like a lot, but really it wasn’t much. Most murders were simple things – a lost temper, an intemperate blow, a drunken brawl that went too far. Those few that tried to conceal their guilt were not very good at it. It was all so much ripe fruit, and Arla wished with her dark half for a more challenging evil, a mystery that truly baffled her.
“Arla?”
She turned. Corin Longday, one of her three offic
ers was at her door.
“Corin?” She’d insisted on given names on her side of the lawkeeping business. Ulric, their ubiquitous fixer, had tried to foist any number of titles on her, but as far as Arla was concerned there was only one Chief, and that was Hekman. Arla was just Arla.
“Are you coming to the temple? There’s music tonight.”
She shook her head. “Things to do,” she said.
“Shift’s over,” Corin said. “You should take the time you’re due.”
“Things to do elsewhere,” Arla smiled. “Not here.”
Corin nodded and gave up. “Tomorrow then,” he said.
“Aye, tomorrow.” He left.
Arla put her book on the shelf with its companion. In truth she didn’t enjoy the temple much. Serhan’s creation was perfect. It had beauty and grace by the bucket-load, and what went on there was the same. It was all music and dance and drama, paintings and tapestries, poetry and song – a celebration of all things that were fine. Her world wasn’t like that, and she’d rather live in her muddy, bloody reality than the gorgeous lie that was the temple.
She picked up her bow and slung it over a shoulder. She needed to get out and loose a few arrows. She was getting rusty. Time wasn’t a problem, but recently she just hadn’t found the will.
Perhaps it didn’t matter. Her job wasn’t shooting a bow any more. She was a hunter of a different kind.
She walked through the maze of the lawhouse until she came to the front door. Ulric was there as he always seemed to be, sitting behind his counter, eating. Ulric was always eating, and it showed. He was a large man.
They nodded to each other and Arla stepped outside into the evening air and paused a moment to inhale the scent of Samara. She liked the smell of the city. It was rich with life. At this time of day, the sun dipping to the horizon, it was food that she smelled, a thousand cooks and a thousand meals. It smelled of cooking meat.
She walked to the next junction and turned right, heading down towards the river. She would have her evening meal in The Golden Sea, a cup of wine, and then back to her rooms over a bakery. It was a pleasant, quiet way to spend an evening, and she had a new book to read – another gift from Ella Saine, who seemed to think that everyone should have a library – and she was looking forward to it.
She came to the river and turned left. This street had become a fashionable promenade for the people of the old town, and there were quite a few about. She passed couples, families, even those who seemed alone like herself, just out for a stroll in the evening air. It made her feel good to see it. Samara was a happy place again. The population was swelling. It was even getting better across the river in Gulltown, traditionally the city’s poorest area. Gilan had a law house over there now and was making headway in cleaning up petty crime – the pickpockets and cutpurses that preyed on the weak and unwary – and the Gulltowners were beginning to see the benefits of public order.
She came to the Golden Sea. It was busy, but the tavern keeper was kind to her and kept a small table at the back free so that she could always stop and eat here. She supposed that being Chief Investigator might have something to do with that.
She went inside. The smell here was like Samara’s streets, but doubled. She thought she caught a whiff of roast duck, which she was fond of.
There was someone sitting at her table.
She looked up at the bar where Fedris, the landlord, a cheerful man and good at his trade she thought, was serving another with ale. He smiled back at her and winked, and her chagrin transformed in a moment to hope. She strode forward to get a better look at the interloper.
“Malin?”
He turned, smiled. It was Malin. “Aye. Who else would dare sit at the lawkeeper’s table?”
Malin was her lover, after an itinerant fashion. He was mate aboard a trading ship and saw her whenever he was in port. They’d struck up a friendship over a year ago after they’d met here in the Golden Sea. He was Darnese, and sailed on a Darnese ship then, but had switched to a Samaran one so that he could spend more time in Samara, with Arla, or so he’d said. She’d been flattered by that.
Malin was a good looking man. He was a year or two younger than her thirty summers, and Arla was well aware that she wasn’t what men called pretty. Strong perhaps, even striking, but never pretty.
“You’re back then,” she said, taking the seat opposite. “How long?”
“Three days.” He grinned. “Captain lost a cargo being a day late in port. He needs to find another, so three days, maybe four.” He poured her a cup of wine and the landlord appeared at their table.
“Was that duck I smelled?” she asked.
“Aye, Commander Crail,” the man said. “And a cherry sauce, just as you like it.”
“You spoil me, Fedris,” she said. “I’ll have the duck as soon as you can bring it. And another bottle of this fine Blaye red. Malin seems to have done damage to this one.”
Commander was her official rank, and she had long learned to accept it in the mouths of folk other than her lawkeepers. For some, like Fedris, it was spoken with respect. She had forbidden Malin from using it.
“So, are you busy?” Malin asked.
“Idle. The citizens of Samara are too well behaved these days.”
Malin smiled. “Good,” he said. “Then we can spend time together. I have some things to buy and you can come with me – favour me with your opinion.”
“My opinion is that you spend too much money on clothes,” Arla said. “I have more of your rags in my rooms than I have my own.”
“It’s not that I spend too much, my sweet,” Malin said. “It’s you that spend too little.”
Arla snorted and their banter was brought to an abrupt close by the arrival of Arla’s duck and wine. She filled her cup again and began to attack the duck, which was every bit as good as she had hoped.
“We passed the Sword of Samara yesterday,” Malin said. “She was no more than a half mile from us.”
“Aye?” Arla wasn’t really interested. The duck was too good. She knew The Sword, of course. It was a Samaran warship, sent out to catch pirates and such.
“It’s true,” Malin said. “And we’d just come from Blaye, so she was on her way there, and if the streets of Blaye are to be believed she would have been carrying Samara’s King.”
Arla looked up. “The King?”
“Aye, I thought that would prick your ears.”
“What would the King be doing in Blaye?”
“I only know what the gossips say in Blaye.”
“And what do the gossips say in Blaye?”
“That a marriage is in the air – a royal marriage that will bind the two cities.”
Arla put down her knife, the duck forgotten for a moment. “Calaine and Portina?”
“Aye, Samara’s Princess to wed their King, or so the gossips say.”
“Good for the city, I suppose,” Arla said. Politics were not an interest, but she knew people and she’d seen Calaine, a notable beauty, several times over the last two years. It wasn’t her place to comment, but she’d also seen the princess in the company of young Corban Saine more than once and she was pretty sure that there was more than just friendship between them. The flame that burned in one was reflected in the other.
So much for the mighty. Love trumped by a marriage of state was an old story, but none the less tragic for that.
“Good for Samara and Blaye,” Malin said. “But there will be other opinions elsewhere.”
“Darna?” Sometimes she forgot that Malin was Darnese.
“Aye, and Pek and Sarata.”
“Differing opinions are fine,” Arla said. “But they wouldn’t dare do anything. It would start a war.” She went back to her duck.
“You’re probably right,” Malin said. “War with Samara would be unsupportable for any one city.”
Arla looked up again. “Do you know something, Malin?”
Malin smiled. “Me? No, nothing. But two men can follow the same p
ath without seeing each others tracks, Arla.”
Arla shook her head. It was all nonsense. Nobody would go to war over a wedding. She started back on the remains of the duck.
“I’ll just finish this,” she said. “And then we’ll see if the sea has sapped your strength.”
4 A Dead Man
“We’ve got one for you, Arla.”
She looked up from her desk and saw Gilan filling the doorway.
“One what?” she asked.
“An investigation, a murder, a mystery.” Gilan grinned. “I know how much you enjoy these things.”
Arla didn’t smile back, even though his words lifted her spirits. A murder meant a man had died, and there should never be any joy in that, though she confessed to herself that she did enjoy the challenge.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Man staying at The Old King’s Glory. Paid for one night. Dead this morning. Stabbed. The rest is up to you.”
“Staying alone?”
Gilan shrugged. “Whoever killed him had flown, so it’s your business. I’ve got streets to patrol. Diara’s there, waiting for you.”
Arla watched Gilan leave and sat for a moment. A man staying alone. Stabbed. It meant very little. She’d learned a lot in the last two years. Everything meant something, but it was the detail that mattered. Had he been stabbed once or many times? Had anyone heard anything? Had he shared the room? When had he died? Many questions, but no answers. Yet.
She sprang to her feet. Down the corridor she poked her head into another room. Corin was sitting there, polishing his boots.
“Dead man in the Old King’s Glory,” she told him. “Get the death man – soon as you can, tell him two silver for the job – and come down there with your team. I’ll be waiting.”
Corin hurried from his desk with gratifying speed, and Arla headed out, bow on her shoulder, for the scene of the crime.
The Old King’s Glory was a tavern on the edge of Morningside, just on the point where the slope steepened and the old town ended. It was not a dive. Some of the wealthiest citizens of Samara patronised the place, and its rooms were often occupied by visiting traders of more than considerable means. In many ways it was a surprising venue for a murder.
