by Smith,Darian
She blushed and nodded.
The mayor looked between them, then obviously set aside the more frightening suggestion. “You should talk to Karia about whether Caidin had any enemies. She would know best of anyone. But give her time to recover first. The poor girl was the one to find him.” She looked past Brannon and scowled. “What in the name of the Hooded are you doing?”
Brannon turned to see that Brother Taran had crept forward and was kneeling beneath the body with a small sponge, which he dipped into the blood before dropping it into a vial.
“Oh,” he said, looking up and around in small jerky movements. “I thought I should get a sample of the blood for testing. I mean, in case he was drugged like Prince Keldan was.” He pointed upward. “I can’t reach to taste his lips right now.”
Shillia’s eyes bulged. “You can’t what?”
Brannon held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Trust us, mayor. Our methods may seem strange, but we know what we’re doing.” He put as much conviction into the statement as he could, willing Taran to hurry up and finish his collection.
Even as Taran stepped back, Draeson’s eyes narrowed and he held out his hand toward the body, fingers spread and his lips moving.
“Draeson,” Brannon said, stepping back from the mage. “A little warning would be nice.”
The magus ignored him. A moment later he dropped his arm. The pooled blood on the cobblestones began to glow with a golden light. As Brannon watched, the glow became brighter and seemed to seep through the corpse’s skin as well, as though the blood left in his body was afire. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the light went out.
Brannon raised his eyebrow. “Draeson? What does that mean?”
The mage pursed his lips. “It means I need to see the rest of the bodies. Or at least something with their blood on it.”
“For?”
“For testing.”
Brannon sighed. Getting information out of the man was like pulling teeth. “Remember what I said about behaving like a teenager?”
Draeson said nothing.
“Fine. Taran, you go with him and collect more samples. It’d be good to know if drugs were used on any of the other victims here, not just Caidin.”
A ruckus sounded from the street and Mayor Shillia smiled. “I sent Morgin to bring in the blacksmith. People need to see some action being taken over this.”
Townsfolk spilled into the courtyard in a wave, like the flash flood waters of Tilal all those years ago, and potentially almost as dangerous. At the head was Morgin, leading another man with muscles nearly three times the size of his own by a rope tied around the man’s wrists. The prisoner’s purple skin proclaimed him to be Djin, but he had long since cut off his dreadlocks in favor of a Kalan style.
The crowd scowled and muttered when they saw Caidin’s body. Brannon straightened up and let his hand rest on his sword hilt. He may need to be the rock this wave broke against.
Draeson, however, seemed oblivious to the danger the angry crowd represented. He bustled forward with Taran following him like a puppy. “Ah, Morgin, perfect. Do you have anything with the other victims’ blood on it? If not, we’ll need to exhume their bodies.”
Morgin looked to his mother for guidance and she nodded. “Take them. We’ll deal with the blacksmith.”
Morgin jerked the rope, pulling the Djin man forward, then pushed him to his knees. The townsfolk cheered. Brannon stepped forward quickly to take charge of the prisoner. The last thing he wanted was mob justice to take hold before he could question him. He’d seen prisoners of war beaten to death by angry soldiers in the past. Peacetime deserved better.
Taran paused before following Morgin and Draeson out of the courtyard. “You know how to check for loredin when they get the body down, right?”
“Really?” There was no way Brannon was going to lick a dead man’s lips, let alone in front of a crowd of angry townspeople. “No. You can do it when you get back.”
Taran nodded, apparently satisfied. “Okay.”
Brannon touched the blacksmith on the shoulder, noting he had the same tattooed markings as Ula did. “You can stand up,” he said. “You haven’t been convicted yet and you’ll get a fair trial. But we do need to talk.”
The Djin man ignored him, staring instead at Ula, who had kept quiet until now. “Prioress Lanok. What are you doing here? Ga shool na feil ra ga.”
Ula’s hand jerked in a sharp cutting motion and her voice cracked like a whip. “Ssh. Ngo ga, Kholi Grul. La gru yol.”
The crowd grumbled loudly.
“Speak Kalan or not at all,” Mayor Shillia snapped. “This isn’t some Djinan backwater island. I’ll not have you colluding with him behind our backs.”
“Thank you, mayor,” Brannon said, putting iron in his tone. “Ula is part of my investigation team. She will do what is necessary to get answers.”
Shillia scowled but Ula was quick to soothe her. “You’re right, of course. We will speak only Kalan in your presence.”
Shillia settled, but it was clear that emotions were running high among those gathered. Brannon took Kholi Gruul by the scruff of the neck and addressed the crowd. “King Aldan has sent me and my team to investigate the murders that have been committed here. Including what was done last night to Caidin Ray. You have brought me this suspect and I will question him now, but this investigation is not yet over. When it is, the king’s justice will be obvious and severe. For now, however, I ask that you let us do our job and, for the sake of Caidin’s dignity, go back to your homes while we have him brought down and examined. Thank you.”
Thankfully, his words seemed to stir the mayor’s sense of civic duty. “All right, people, you heard Sir Brannon. Move on back about your business. We’ll let you know when there’s any word.”
Brannon guided the prisoner toward the inn, passing Ula as they went. “You never told me you were one of the Council of Priors,” he hissed.
“I not tell all of my life to you,” she said with a shrug. “I think this is same as you with me.”
Brannon’s jaw tightened. “Next time, try not to surprise me when we’re trying to prevent a mob lynching.”
As they pushed inside the main tavern room, the Knox family rose to their feet.
“Is that him?” Karia’s voice rang out. “Is that who killed Caidin?”
Jessamine hurried forward. “We don’t know yet. I’m so sorry to do this, but we need somewhere safe to question him.”
“Do it here,” Dargin Knox said quietly. “We’ll wait in the kitchen.”
Brannon guided the blacksmith to the table by the door and pushed him into a chair. Ula, Shillia, and a hard-eyed blond woman with a lattice of scars across the back of her right hand, followed them in, and Jessamine joined them a moment later when the Knox family were gone. As he sat down, Brannon met the blacksmith’s eyes. “Kholi Gruul, correct? I am Brannon Kesh, the King’s Champion.”
The blacksmith tilted his head toward the blond woman. “This is my wife, Alena.”
“A wife who is sick of her husband being unfairly targeted by the racist pricks in this town,” she said, her hands curled into fists. “I was born here and I came back after serving my country in the war, with the man I fell in love with. We’ve been hard-working members of this community for seven years and as soon as something starts going wrong, Kholi is the one everyone wants to blame it on. It’s Hooded horseshit.”
“If that’s the case,” Brannon said, “we’ll figure it out. But we have to do this the right way and ask the questions. It will go a lot easier for everyone if you both try to help us, okay?”
The husband and wife looked at each other, then nodded. “Okay.”
Brannon smiled at them both. “Good. Now, first up, what are these tattoos?” He pointed to the markings down Kholi’s shoulders.
The blacksmith immediately tensed and looked across at Ula.
Ula nodded. “It is all right. You may tell him.”
Kholi licked his li
ps. “They are shaman marks. To protect me from kaluki.”
Brannon nodded. “They stop you from being brought back as a Risen when you die, right? Because the knowledge you have would be dangerous for them.”
Kholi stared at the table. “Yes.”
“Because you know how to make a Risen.”
“Yes.”
Mayor Shillia gave a sharp intake of breath but stayed silent at Brannon’s glance.
“Did you raise the one that killed Caidin Ray last night?”
Kholi’s head jerked upward. “No! I haven’t made any Risen since I left my home to marry Alena seven years ago. I would never do that!” He turned to Ula, his eyes pleading. “You must know that I wouldn’t use the kaluki for such a thing. I know the price of leaving the isles. I left my powers behind.”
“And yet,” Ula pointed out, “someone did.”
Alena’s fist twitched on the tabletop. “It wasn’t Kholi. I was with him last night. He couldn’t have done it.”’
Brannon fingered the point where his scar met his earlobe. “Were you awake the whole night, Alena?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, we slept. But believe me, I know when my husband leaves our bed at night. I’m very aware of that. Last night, he was at home the entire time.”
Brannon raised his eyebrow, then dropped it again. “Okay. What about the times of the other murders?”
Kholi opened his mouth but it was Alena who spoke again. “There’s no way of knowing exactly when the murders took place so the question is meaningless. And besides, if my husband already had the ability to raise these demons, as you’ve just pointed out, why would he have failed to do so in those previous attempts? This whole thing is ridiculous.”
Brannon shrugged. “Perhaps he was rusty and forgot how to do it. Perhaps he’s innocent. The fact remains he’s the only one in the region with knowledge of how to do what was done. Unless . . . ” He turned to look at Kholi. “Did you tell anyone else the secrets?”
The blacksmith refused to meet his eye. “That is forbidden.”
“So are a lot of things, Kholi,” Brannon said. “It doesn’t stop us doing them. I reckon knowing something special like that would impress a lot of people.”
Kholi’s head was moving side to side in slow denial. His gaze scraped over each of them, seeking reassurance. “I would never tell the sacred information. I . . . I wouldn’t give away enough for someone to make a Risen. I haven’t ever said that much, have I?”
Jessamine, who happened to be the one his gaze rested on for those last few words, shrugged helplessly. “I’m sure you haven’t,” she said.
Brannon’s suspicions took a stronger hold. “Jessamine, would you and Alena fetch drinks for everyone? You don’t mind, do you Alena? I think we all need to take a moment.”
Alena’s knuckles grew white. “I’d rather stay with my husband.”
“Of course. It’s just that certain drugs have been used in some of these crimes and, with the way people have been reacting today, I think it would be best for Kholi if someone he trusts can oversee his drink. You understand?”
Her eyes widened but she nodded curtly and followed Jessamine to the bar.
Brannon waited until they were out of earshot before addressing the blacksmith again. “Kholi, you’ve been unfaithful to your wife, haven’t you? That’s who you told forbidden information to. No one at this table will tell Alena if that’s the case.”
To his surprise, Mayor Shillia supported him. “Everyone knows I’m not one to cast judgements on such things.”
“I . . . ” The blacksmith’s gaze slid toward his wife. He hung his head. “It was a long time ago. We’ve gotten past it.”
“Who was she?”
“It doesn’t matter. I told her harmless details to impress her. There’s no way she could have raised anyone with what she knew.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Jessamine and Alena were making their way back, mugs of drink in hand.
Kholi covered his face. “I’m sorry. I can’t have you digging up the past. I won’t put Alena through all that again.”
Brannon sighed. “Well, I’m sorry, Kholi, but if you don’t, I’m going to have to lock you up until we find more evidence or take you back to Alapra for a hearing. At the moment, you’re the best suspect we’ve got.”
Kholi stood and held out his hands. “Fine. Then lock me up.”
Jessamine and Alena reached the table. The blacksmith’s wife looked around, her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on here?” She put down the mugs she carried with a thump.
Kholi lifted his chin. “They’ve run out of questions for me.”
Alena frowned. “Really?”
Brannon pursed his lips. His promise to keep the man’s secret notwithstanding, there was no point pressing the matter now. Perhaps some time in a cell would change his mind. “For now. But your husband has agreed to stay in protective custody and I’m sure we’ll need to talk to him again.”
Mayor Shillia stood as well. “I’ll have my men escort him.”
Alena blinked and looked from one to the next.
“One final question though,” Brannon said. “Have either of you been to Alapra recently?”
Kholi frowned and shook his head. “We haven’t left Sandilar in seven years.”
“What could Alapra possibly have to do with the murders here?” Alena demanded.
Brannon shrugged. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“This is my little collection,” Morgin said, pulling out boxes of blood-crusted clothes. “The families didn’t want them anyway and nobody wants to bury people in the clothes they were killed in, so I kept them.”
“Morbid,” Draeson said. “But useful. Lay them out according to who they belonged to.”
The morgue seemed to be a kind of sanctuary for Morgin Vere. He came alive here, among the things that had belonged to the dead. Draeson looked around as the eager boy laid out the bloodstained clothing on a long bench for inspection.
Like most of the buildings in town, this one was made of stone. Although the thatched ceiling clearly leaked, the lower levels were still sound, if mostly abandoned. Some rooms contained coffins ready for use, others were laid out with comforting furnishings as viewing rooms. The biggest room was Morgin’s workspace, with wide benches, wicked-looking tools, and pots of color and rouge. Beneath it all, unlike most buildings in town, was the cellar vault for storing corpses.
“This is one of the oldest buildings in town. There are all sorts of tunnels and secret rooms down there,” Morgin said, gesturing toward the bolted door. “I don’t know what it was originally built for but it has the coolest temperatures in town so it makes a perfect morgue.”
“It was where the first Duke of Sandilar lived,” Draeson said. “Before the main manor was built. It was a dangerous time back then and he needed escape routes and places to hide the treasure extracted from the mine. Not that it did him any good. Building this place was about the only thing he ever took advice on.”
“How in the Hooded’s name do you know that?” Taran asked.
Draeson gave him a flat look. “It was mostly my advice.”
Morgin finished laying out the clothes on the benches. The torn and bloody garments told the frightening story of their owners’ last moments. The young man’s leather pants and jerkin, still stuck with horse dung and straw. The pregnant woman’s oversized dress, designed for comfortable wearing in her own home at night. The blue velvet with embroidered cuffs of a nobleman. All punctured with holes. Outerwear, underwear, accessories—Morgin had kept them all and painstakingly laid them according to group.
“I’m glad they can help your investigation,” the young undertaker said. “What are you hoping to learn from their clothes?”
Draeson said nothing. Instead, he pulled up his sleeves and passed his bare arms over each item, trying to feel for the tingle that had alerted him to the truth of Caidin’s blood.
&n
bsp; Eventually Taran filled the awkward silence. “Ah, for me, at least, I’m hoping I can test the blood and maybe see if any drugs were used on the victims.”
Draeson dropped his arms. “Ahpra’s Tears, you’re not going to be tasting them, are you?”
Taran looked startled. “No. No, of course not.” He held up a small pair of scissors. “I’ll just take a snippet of each and test it back in my room with my, uh, chemicals and things.”
Draeson shook his head. “Well, that’s a blessing at least.” He looked closer at the clothes. The blood was so old. So dead and dry. He paused over the woman’s loose dress. “Look here. There are two areas of stab wounds. One in the chest and one in the stomach. The others aren’t like that.”
For both sets of men’s clothing, the puncture marks were concentrated in the chest. He could imagine the bloody mess the knife had made of the heart and lungs.
“With Keldan the genitals were mutilated,” Brother Taran said. “Perhaps this is like that?”
“No.” Draeson shook his head and pointed to the men’s trousers. “If genital mutilation were part of it, then why leave these men alone? Assuming these were done by the same person as in Alapra. Besides, these marks are too high to be aimed at the genitals of a pregnant woman.” He lifted the middle of the dress to simulate the swell of a pregnant belly.
“Oh,” Taran’s voice was barely above a breath. “These were meant for the baby.”
Draeson let the dress fall. “Yes. So what do they all have in common?” He held out his hand, fingers wide, and chanted the identifying spell in his mind. When he released the power, his chest tightened as his worst fear was confirmed.
Each set of clothing began to glow with soft golden light. The blood that had soaked into the fabric responded to Draeson’s magic and let itself be known. Light spilled from the blood of Roydan’s distant cousin and the stable boy. But on the dress of the seamstress, there was no glow from the killing blows to her chest, only from the blood of her unborn child, spilled from the stab-wounds in her belly.
Taran let out a long, low sound of wonder. “Something in common indeed.”
