by J B Lucas
“His wife now,” she said.
“Indeed.”
“She was a nice lady,” said Alba absently. “We didn’t know her, but she seemed to make Master Roban very happy. He let us make jokes about him blushing.”
“Really? What a nice man.”
“He was,” she said. “He taught all of us, all of the cousins. Did he teach you as well?”
“No,” Loreticus replied. “I’m too old for him to have taught me. Anyway, I grew up in the country.”
“Oh yes,” she said, putting on her snooty voice. “You’re a country bumpkin.” She peeked at him from the corner of her eye, then laughed heartily.
“Did they get married in the garden?” he asked.
“No, in the tavern the other side of the market. I could see some of the dancing from my window.”
“Then what happened in the garden?”
“The blessing by the zealot priest I think. I’m sure it was just to impress his new parents-in-law.”
“Undoubtedly, my cynical regent-to-be.”
He leaned in and kissed her head.
“Don’t go so soon,” she pleaded.
“I’m afraid that I must. Your father has charged me with helping Roban’s family.”
“Then you should go. But come back soon!”
“Is tomorrow too soon?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she laughed. “But more gossip, please, spymaster!”
The tavern was one of the smarter venues, styled for wealthier merchants coming to the palace market. Loreticus rarely smoked a pipe, but whenever he neared a tavern, he developed a strong urge to do so. He and Selban took a seat outside, watching the footfall traffic move to and from the vast market. In front of them the road was wide enough for a dozen carts side by side, then more stalls, then the looming external walls of the palace complex.
They ordered food and some ale, then reluctantly he requested some tobacco.
“You’re too young to smoke apple-wood,” stated Selban.
“You’re right, but everyman needs his vice.”
They waited in silence, eying the tavern and its rooms, picking up on the smaller details. When the maid hurriedly returned with their vittles, Selban gestured for her to pause.
“Is there a wedding tonight?” he asked.
“No, sir, why?”
“You’ve got all the tables inside arranged in a horseshoe, so I was just wondering.”
“We can rearrange the seating so that you can sit inside if you’d like,” she offered.
“Was it Roban’s wedding?” asked Loreticus.
“Why do you ask, sir?” She was now suspicious, worrying that the tavern might be guilty of something.
“My name is Loreticus, and I work over there.” He gestured towards the great red walls. “Would you mind answering my question?”
“Let me get my father, sir,” said the maid, her face frightfully pale, and ran off before either could contradict her.
“I hope he remembers the food,” muttered Selban.
The old man came out, and took in the two men with a confident, but wary look. Loreticus stared at him for a moment, recognising something. His eyes – a violent blue which looked unsuited for his darker colouring. A snap memory jumped into his mind’s eye of the woman hovering over the groom’s corpse.
“My name’s Oxan,” he said as introduction. The corners of his words curled like old leather, his country brogue deeply charming and cautious.
“Master Oxan, I’m Selban and this is my master Loreticus. We work in the palace for the court.”
“I’ve heard of you,” admitted Oxan. He stared at Loreticus, then called over his shoulder without removing his eyes from the spymaster. “Food should be ready.”
“Ah good,” continued Selban. He sniffed. “I’m feeding a cold. Poor me. Anyway, Roban got married here the other night. Why is the table laid out in such a way?”
“Don’t know about that,” replied Oxan and the two spies looked at him, unsure of his meaning. He shrugged. “I lays it out as the paying customer wants. One side for her family, one side for their friends, middle bit for themselves.”
“Where was his family?” asked Loreticus.
“Didn’t have none there, sir.”
“I see. Oxan, let me ask you something – are you in anyway related to the bride?”
“Did she murder him already?”
Loreticus jumped.
“What do you mean?” he asked, a frown folding his long forehead. “Was there talk that night?”
“Oh gods, no, sir,” laughed Oxan. “Just a joke. You’ve obviously never been married.”
“Oh. Right.”
Loreticus glanced at Selban, whose eyes were round with surprise. Never one to give up a bad joke himself, he was rather judgmental of others’.
“But no, sir, I ain’t related to the lady. I come from the west of the country, and her father does too. They came for the food I should imagine.” He didn’t sound convinced himself, and the spymaster examined him.
“Why are the tables out like that still?”
“I’m an old man, sir. It’s an all-day job for me.”
“Have you moved anything?”
“No, sir.”
Loreticus stood and walked inside. The shutters at the back of the room were still barred, and the air was still, warm but not hot. Smells rose from the floor and the tables, old food, grease, spilled wine. Somewhere behind a closed door, someone was moving pans around a kitchen, creating loud metal scrapes and bangs.
The spymaster walked slowly, examining the layout of the tables, touching the back of the chairs as if to séance with the past guests. Behind the table, dark and indistinguishable was the soft shadow of an entrance to a passageway. He gestured to it, and Oxan nodded.
“The rooms where they stayed that night,” he said.
“Roban and his bride stayed here?”
“I think so, sir,” replied Oxan. “But I left early, after they’d eaten. I left my wife here to look for the serving and the cleaning. They weren’t a riotous lot that night.”
Loreticus walked down the passage, a short corridor panelled in dark wood and old stained mirrors. The sound of the kitchen vanished as they climbed a single flight of twisted stairs, until only Oxan’s breathing behind him was audible. The skin on Loreticus’s spine tightened as he felt the old man lumber behind him.
“Here?” he asked, gesturing to a door. The landlord nodded.
Inside the room was quiet, well fitted, dark, with only a single rectangle of sunlight bursting through the handle of a shutter. It struck down in a solid diagonal on to the floor. Oxan moved to open the windows, but Loreticus held his arm. The sounds of the edges of the market outside were muted.
“No, let me see it first,” said Loreticus.
He walked around, looking, not touching this time.
“Why clean here and not downstairs?” he asked
“What do you mean? We didn’t do nothing up here. Haven’t been here myself for a couple of days,” replied Oxan. “Cleaning isn’t my job.”
“Didn’t your wife mention that they’d left their bags here?” asked Loreticus.
“Well, no,” replied Oxan, glancing around the bed.
The spymaster went over to the windows, pushed open the shutters.
“Get up here,” he called to Selban. The agent looked up, a trickle of soup glistening on his chin. Loreticus turned to Oxan. “And why does no-one know the bride’s name? She seems an absolute stranger, which is an unusual option for a local boy to be marrying.”
“Oh, I know her father,” stated Oxan. “Big man, he is. A rather important chap.”
“Who?” asked Loreticus, pinning the man with a look.
“I’ll give you his address.”
Chapter 3
Tristofan loped into yet another grotty town, his tired and bored horse dragging its hooves over the thin-iced mud. Two days
had gone by and this fool Ibor had disappeared again. All of Selban’s men and Loreticus’s agents had been unable to find him.
He sloped back to the travellers’ inn, grateful at least of some expenses sent his way. This hostel was much humbler than the one Ibor had used. It had woodworm holes scattering patterns around the edge of the bar, and up the bannisters at the side of the room. Tristofan lugged his miserable self through, pausing briefly so that the fire could warm one side of him, then made for the stairs.
“Oi, Master Tristifone,” called the barmaid. He turned a glower of incandescent misery towards her. “A message for you, squire. From that fat chap at the postie.”
Tristofan’s spine straightened and he scurried over, picking at the blob of wax at the back, jamming it deep under his nails as he opened the folded paper as quickly as possible.
He read it twice, counting on his fingers.
“Beautiful,” he proclaimed, looking up to share his joy with the barmaid.
“Well, Master Tristifone, thank you. You shouldn’t charm a maid like me,” she warbled, clutching at the sides of her skirt and swinging in short flirtatious flicks.
He looked at her a moment, puzzled.
“Oh, no no, not you. This news, it’s beautiful. Just what I needed.” And with that, he dashed out of the door, down towards the post station.
Five of them sat by the fire that night, all agents in Loreticus’s extended network. Two were postal clerks, one a local mercenary, one the local prison warder, and Tristofan. Every time the barmaid came near, they paused in their conversation, and all of a sudden she was flushed again, unsure whether they had been talking about her and Tristofan’s impending romantic suit for her hand.
“I’ve had a run in with Ibor before,” said Tinn, the prison warder. “I’m out until the surprise is sprung. Tristofan, you’re too much of an obvious stranger to the region, so it’s down to the posties and the blade.”
“I beg to offer a different opinion,” said Sapp, one of the posties. He was a robust man, someone who was used to taking tax coins for transport and guarding them between carriages. “When he was in the office, he was flirting with two ladies from the carriage. I reckon that despite all of the danger he’s in, this Ibor –“ he pronounced it “eeeebaw” “- could be tempted into a distracting diversion were we to offer one.”
“And then we pounce?” asked Tristofan.
“Indeed.”
They sat back and looked at each other.
“Works for me,” stated Tristofan, and the others agreed.
“So who’s got a spare dolly?” asked Sapp. Tristofan gestured toward the barmaid with his eyebrows. She caught the expression, and the pursuant glances from his colleagues, and she blushed and waved shyly. “No,” continued the postie. “Someone pretty.”
The men folded their arms again and stared at the fire.
“Never been any decent girls up here,” said Parp, the quiet postie.
“And that’s why you’re unmarried?” asked the mercenary, a thin man called Yellan.
“Yup,” replied Parp.
“Not because you’re missing most of your teeth?”
“Nope.”
“What about if one of us dresses up as a woman?” asked Sapp.
“Nope,” replied Tristofan.
“Are we wedded to the idea of a woman?” asked Tinn.
“Yup,” said Sapp. “It’s definite.”
“Then we have very few options,” replied the warder.
Tristofan relaxed back into his seat, heating his cheeks from the fire, in the calm confidence that the third windfall would be arriving the next morning.
Ibor was a robust man, once athletic in a heavy way but now spreading into middle age. He retained the cheekiness in his eyes and the overconfidence of a man the wrong side of youth who had forgotten that there were many, many suitors better groomed and more eligible than himself.
His trip had been a good one. He was successful in his initial meetings with the barbarians, and he’d built an ongoing business which he could milk for a few more months. He wouldn’t need more than that. Afterwards, he’d write a few letters himself and sell those before disappearing down to the Surranid sunshine.
He stomped his feet outside the postal station, waiting for the lump behind the desk to bring the carriage round.
“Hope you don’t mind, sir,” said Sapp, “But the miss in here was sleeping before when the postie from the village brought the carriage over, and I reckon it’s best to keep her so. Apparently, she’s proper feisty when she wakes up.”
“Regular traveller?”
“Yup. Not normally alone, though,” said Sapp. He leaned in. “Lots of fellow travellers, if you get my meaning.”
Ibor raised his eyebrows and peered through the door. A long slender body was draped across one of the padded benches, her head covered by a shawl, her lower legs wrapped in blankets to keep the breezes from shooting up her dress. Ibor rubbed his teeth with the inside of his lips and mounted the carriage.
There was a heavy wobble as Sapp got on the front, and then they were off, and Ibor had to reach out to grab the spare covers and rugs for himself as the wind poured through the open window. The ruts in the stiff mud made the carriage wobble dangerously, but as the town thinned, the road flattened. Eventually the horses found their rhythm.
He turned his attention back to the sleeping form in front of him and scooted his hips down slightly so that he more slouched than sat in his seat. Then he noticed the hand which had appeared from the blown-back edge of a blanket. It was rather thick for a skinny girl, and the knuckles rather hirsute. Ibor looked again at the head, noticing now that there couldn’t be much of hair underneath the shawl, if any at all.
Hoof steps sounded through the window and suddenly Ibor was alert to the danger. He shuffled and sat up, moving towards the window to look out.
In a snap, the sleeping woman rose up, dropping the shawl across his hands. With a thunderous smack, the moustachioed manly woman punched him on the chin.
“Got him,” called Yellan. The carriage drew to a stop, and three horses pulled alongside. The four dismounted, including Sapp whose weight caused the carriage to shake again.
Ibor sat opposite Yellan, his jaw swelling nicely.
“Gods be damned,” he whispered.
“Don’t say that,” commended Parp. “You’ll bring down a curse on your head.”
Ibor opened his eyes and peered at the little man.
“You mean it could get worse than this? Who are you all?”
“Spymaster’s men, sir,” replied Parp.
“Oh shit.”
“Sit nicely now,” said Yellan and pressed a cloth against the dizzy prisoner’s face. Three deep breaths and he collapsed, out cold from the potion.
“Right,” said Sapp with a smack of his hands. “Off to the capital then. Tinn, you take them horses back, and we’ll come find you tomorrow.”
“Right you are,” called Tinn, already walking away. “Don’t get into any trouble.”
Chapter 4
“I was right!” declared Sempus as he strode into Loreticus’s rooms. The physician’s studied entrance would have been much more inspiring had the man not been drenched in sweat from his crown to his waistband. Stairs and girth rarely did a man justice in a heatwave.
“About what?” asked Selban. He was lounging on a cushioned bench in the cool corner of the rooms. “That a large man shouldn’t run in the sunshine? What the devil happened to you? It looks like you did a handstand in a bath.”
“I was keen to let your master know my discovery, you flea-bitten ape,” snapped Sempus. “Heart attack.”
“Impossible,” said Loreticus, not sounding convinced in his own denial. He bent forward over his desk, chewing the end of a quill. “A family flaw?”
“Not at all,” said Sempus, levelling a damp finger at the spymaster. “Induced. Induced by a foreign agent!”
&n
bsp; “A Surranid? A barbarian?” Selban was upright now. “Good gods, what were they doing in the palace?”
“No, you donkey,” said Sempus. “A toxin injected into his innate self. The blood’s tide then washed it around until it killed him.”
“Huh,” grunted Loreticus. “And the toxin is common enough?”
“It’s best known as a cooking spice, or something a lady might drop in her eyes to make them whiter. But in very, very small quantities. This was a huge portion. Mainly comes from the West Empire. But you’ll be able to find it outside in the market at any number of stalls. You’ll need to be a rich old boy to buy this much though.”
“Or own a restaurant,” muttered Loreticus.
“Or a palace kitchen,” said Selban. “But how was it so fast acting?”
“Normally there needs to be an increase in the pulse,” said the physician. “So most likely he was running or dancing around on his wedding day.”
“Or he was consummating his wedding perhaps,” said Selban, eyes wide, fingers wiggling.
“Or he was scared or surprised. He must have known his murderer if it was done at the party.”
“Do you know much about the bride yet?” asked Sempus.
“No, but only where her home is. We’ve been several times, but without success. No-one is in situ it seems.”
“Then why don’t you just go in?”
Loreticus looked at Selban and shrugged.
“I’ve got to explain myself to the emperor in three days,” said Loreticus to his agent. “I suppose we ought to get solving.”
“I hate climbing in this heat,” said Selban.
“Nonsense,” replied Sempus, “This warmth will loosen your joints and you’ll be up and over in no time.” He stretched his arms, cracking his fingers as if he were contemplating it himself.
“Have you seen the house?” asked Selban.
