by J B Lucas
Selban crept across the room, pilfering a bulky carving knife by the counter by the kitchen door. He crept slowly up the stairs, experience rather than concentration silencing his footfalls.
Near the top, he stopped and slowly lay down to peer around the corner of the stairs along the landing. There was broken pottery along the corridor, a vase or a plate.
Selban hoisted himself up, his head throbbing from the effort, and he lumbered silently into the passage, with the knife tucked behind his back in an underhand grip.
He saw a weak light under one of the doors and approached, knocking gently. The door opened just enough for an eye to scrutinise him, then swung further open. A lady stood in her night clothes, running her fingers self-consciously through frizzy, pale hair, with lines creasing her face, as if she’d been sleeping when he knocked. In her hand, she carried a small candle.
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Selban, trying to angle his breath past her, “but did you just hear some shouting?”
The woman shook her head.
“You weren’t disturbed at all by an argument or a fight?”
She shook her head again and Selban nodded. “I will leave you in peace, then.”
The woman smiled painfully and closed her door, and Selban crept back along the landing, his skin prickling as his thoughts swung to ghosts. Why on earth would a ghost choose him? If it appeared again, shouty and scary, he’d tell it to go haunt Loreticus. The spymaster was more deserving of a fright and would probably know what to do.
Selban paced down the stairwell, partly to avoid disturbing the haunted room, partly to assuage his drink-swollen brain.
“Yaaahhh!” He stumbled into a short creature, and instinctively, his hand snapped out and grabbed the monster’s head.
“Master Selban,” cried Bobban, who was obviously distressed, but left his guest’s grip on his skull, “what is going on?”
Selban whipped his hand back behind him.
“Your tavern is bloody well haunted,” he growled. “Why did you leave me asleep in here?”
“You were out cold, sir. Loreticus told me to let you sleep it off.”
“What’s that?” the agent asked suspiciously, pointing at a wrapped lump under the innkeeper’s arm.
“Why, fresh bread, sir. I’ve just come in from the market. The baker is just opening as it’s coming up to dawn. I figured that you and my residents might want some breakfast.”
Selban nodded, his head running again.
“I’m going home. Thank you, Bobban.”
He turned, discreetly dropped the knife on the small table, then staggered towards the door, intent on sleeping for the majority of the day.
*
Kika had worked for Master Bobban for two years now, and she was totally gratified with her position. She got paid for cleaning a tavern that saw very few guests and tidying rooms that rarely, if ever, had overnight occupants. All she had to do was straighten the sheets after Master Bobban had snored his lunch off or mop out the dining room that smelled of dried beer and cold fat.
Kika was a bony, pasty girl who didn’t like her mindless routine to be disturbed by change. The familiarity with which she cleaned and scrubbed allowed to take her mind off her worry as she drifted around the usual cracks and corners.
Yesterday had been busier than any time that year. Two full tables down in the tavern, and there was a huge pile of plates, knives, cups, jugs and bottles in the kitchen to be washed. A mixed mound of uneaten food by the side door made the room stink of flat odours, whilst the sticky wine sharpened the air with its sickly sweetness.
She scrubbed the pots, her mind occupied by the dance she’d been invited to that night, and then she took her bucket and mop and moved to the tavern. Kika was a nervous girl, so her excitement about the baker’s boy was laced with panic. Perhaps she wouldn’t know the music, or he might try to kiss her in public. She remembered the warm smell of bread and cakes on his clothes, then thought that maybe a kiss wouldn’t be that bad.
The dining area was cleaned quickly, launching a couple of broken cups into the rubbish pile; then she swabbed the stairs, collecting a stray carving knife on the way up.
The corridor at the top was quiet, and a gentle breeze ran down from a guest’s open door. Kika mopped along, pacing herself so that the water wouldn’t get too dirty too soon.
Kika tried to hum out a tune that she had heard at the last festival, and it seemed that she was making up as much of it as she was remembering. Her mop nudged the door further open, and she watched the mop’s head as it swung left and right, leaving a shiny wet trail on the dark floorboards. Something on the floor made her stop. She followed the path of the dark thick fluid, which ended in a sprawl of pale frizzy hair. That frantic halo framed a white face, caught in surprised pain, and Kika found herself staring at the dry, frightened eyes of the first guest in months.
Kika screamed.
Chapter 2
Bobban raced up the stairs as quickly as his thick haunches would carry him. He paused on the landing to catch his breath, scanning for Kika and the source of her distress.
“Oh by the gods,” he said as he came into the room. He clamped his hands over his unshaven jowls. “This is going to ruin us.” He crouched, then blew a few strands of hair off the guest’s face. Her eyes didn’t flicker. “Go get Loreticus, Kika. Don’t tell anyone but him what’s happened.”
Loreticus stepped through the door of the tavern, the sunlight glaring behind him, casting him into a black silhouette. He glanced around the room, which was smaller and far removed from the noisy venue of the night before.
Bobban was sitting, holding his bald head in his calloused hands.
“Who killed who, Bobban?” he asked slowly.
“The Lady Igna Purganda,” said Bobban through his hands. “Very dead. In her room.”
“Up here?”
Bobban glanced at Loreticus, then nodded. The spymaster started up the stairs, pausing to listen to the creak as he laid his weight on each.
At the top, he paused and tapped the landing with his toes, searching out for creaks and noises as he crept along the corridor. White light shone onto the dark floorboards from an open door. Towards the far end of the landing, a small shard of broken pottery had cut an incongruous triangle on the floor.
Loreticus stepped lightly, his feet pressed against the edges of the floorboards and the walls to avoid anything lying discarded.
Then he stood in the doorway to the room. An elegant woman lay fallen, scattered, with her nightdress strewn around her as drawn in a mosaic. Noise from the market came through the windows, laughter and shouting. Sunlight had burned away the smell of sleep, but the blood appeared fresh, as if it wasn’t quite dry yet.
“She dead?”
Loreticus jumped as Selban peered over his shoulder.
“Yes. Very,” said Loreticus.
“Why does everyone keep saying ‘very dead’?”
“Do you know her? Lady Igna Purganda apparently.” He turned and eyeballed his agent up and down. “Are you still drunk?”
“No,” said Selban, choosing to examine the room through the door, over Loreticus’ shoulder. “I just smell drunk. I haven’t washed or changed yet.”
“It’s almost lunchtime. How could you not have changed yet?”
“Is it almost lunchtime? That’s very agreeable news.”
“You’re a pig.”
“Your messenger said to get here fast. Your fault.”
They studied the body in silence for a moment.
“Which way did you come in?” asked Loreticus.
“From the outside stairs over there,” replied Selban and gestured towards the end of the corridor.
“Unlocked?”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t breathe on me.” Loreticus smoothed the hair over his ears, then pointed at the broken pottery in the corridor. “Did you see that?”
“Yes,�
�� Selban said slowly, one hand covering his mouth. “I seem to remember that perhaps the whole thing was there last night. But it was dark, and I was a little weary.”
“You came up here?” asked Loreticus in surprise.
“Yes, well, I heard a ghost. Thought that I’d check that everyone was unharmed, and so on.”
“Really?”
“No,” muttered Selban, leaning further over the spymaster’s shoulder, glancing around the door. “I was a little tipsy still perhaps. I don’t really know what I was doing.”
Loreticus held his hand to his nose.
“Check with the girl whether she tidied up the rest of the vase this morning.” They stepped into the room and both squatted by the body. “What do you think?” asked the spymaster.
Selban gestured with an overhand swing.
“I reckon one swing, one smack, down she goes. Nothing too difficult about it.”
“Apart from the fact that she’s in the middle of the room. Why would she be here, and why is the blow on the side of her head?” Loreticus scuttled around her, shifting into a crouch. “I don’t see any obvious weapon in the room, and I don’t see any slivers of pottery.”
“Are we sure that she didn’t fall, bang her head on the way down?” asked Selban.
They both scrutinised the bed, the closest piece of furniture.
“That would be a hefty bounce,” said Loreticus.
“Perhaps it was a rampant session, and she got bounced out of bed?”
“Can I help in any way?” asked a baritone from behind them. The question cut through Selban’s silent chuckling, and the two squatting men turned to find the owner of the voice. In the doorway stood a tall man, with ruddy cheeks under blonde hair grown into a long, controlled fringe. Loreticus approached him, trying to find where he had seen him before.
“Loreticus,” he said, extending his hand.
“Marlan,” replied the man. His accent conjured up familiar images of farms and forests.
“Are you from the north?”
“Yes,” replied Marlan, ambivalent to the spymaster’s guess. His eyes were drawn by the gruesome cadaver, at times wandering around the scene but always returning to the woman’s dry gaze with a seeming involuntary compulsion.
“Me too,” said Loreticus. “Did you know Lady Igna?”
“Well, yes, in a way. She and I are – were – both guests at the dinner in Quinton’s villa on Thursday.”
“You were friends?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
The spymaster walked back to the body.
“What can you tell me about her?”
Marlan came over to stand next to him, the pair shoulder to shoulder, same height, same bearing but one dark and slim, the other blonde and athletic.
“Well, I was told that she was running away,” he said quietly.
“From whom?”
“Her husband. A violent man by all accounts.”
“You seem to know her as more than a friend, sir,” said Selban and sat heavily on the bed to watch the man.
“I’m an inspector captain in the northern militia,” replied Marlan with a dispassionate shrug. “I track down run-aways and investigate infractions amongst our troops. I’ve got a natural tendency to snatch at gossip.”
“You’re two of a kind with Selban then,” muttered Loreticus.
“And her husband is in the country?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you know him?”
“I don’t think that he and I would be considered friends or even acquaintances. Of course, in Salles, everyone tends to know everyone.”
“You’re from Salles?” asked Loreticus and surveyed Marlan once more.
“Yes, from the local military headquarters there.”
The spymaster nodded, then glanced at Selban.
“Where are you staying?”
“Here,” replied Marlan, gesturing with a nod back through the open door, “the far room.”
“Are you still planning to stay for the dinner?” asked Loreticus.
“No, well I don’t know. I am feeling a little raw after a bad meal. I was thinking of going back to Salles today or tomorrow.”
“Ah,” said the spymaster with a sympathetic nod. “You’d be wise to get home before any trouble started, but it’s the most of a day’s ride, so wait it out here.”
The last phrase came out as an instruction, and Marlan glanced at the smaller man.
“Who are you exactly?”
“The court’s intelligencer,” stated Loreticus, not taking his eyes off the corpse, “who’s recommending that you knock around for the next day so you won’t be sent back here.”
Marlan’s boyish eyes suddenly seeped with a tight fury, and he turned and rushed past Selban into the corridor.
“Suspect number one,” mouthed Selban silently, holding up a finger to his smiling boss.
*
“What should I do?” asked Bobban in a plaintive whisper, sitting opposite Loreticus and Selban at a table downstairs. “This will ruin me.”
“Send for Sempus the physician,” replied Loreticus. “Tell him to keep it quiet and put the lady in the ice house for a few days while we work things out.”
The innkeeper stood, gesturing to Kika to bring over the food.
“You’ll look after us?” he asked.
The spymaster nodded. He nudged Selban.
“So who do we have?” asked Loreticus, pushing his thin neck forward to bite into the warm bread, which dripped with thick honey.
“Aerix, Coya, Dasha, Tyba and Marlan were all here,” replied Selban, his thick tongue making suction sounds as he ate and spoke. “I don’t know any of them, and I don’t know whether they have any connection to this Igna.”
“Aerix is from the north, as is Marlan, and as was Igna.”
“As is her husband,” reminded Selban.
“True.” Loreticus leaned back, relaxing into the well-worn wood of the chair. Broken speech came through the windows from the market outside. “It could also have been someone who happened to be up the external stairs.”
“I would imagine that the door was locked. That would only make sense.”
“We should see if it was picked,” said Loreticus, “That might explain the broken vase.”
They both regarded Bobban. The innkeeper had been silent, shuffling awkwardly as he watched the two spies talk.
“What do you know of the stairs outside? Who else has a key?” asked Selban, leaning forward.
“Me, the wife, and Kika knows where to find the spare if needed. But I don’t understand how the murderer could have escaped any other way without running into Master Selban.”
“He simply crept past him. Selban is no magic cat waiting to pounce.”
Selban raised his eyebrows at the logic, levelled a finger of consent, then reached across and took the bread off the spymaster’s plate. Loreticus watched it disappear between Selban’s crooked grey teeth, thick honey falling stickily and slowly into his lap. The agent tried to brush it away, instead smeared it across his tunic.
“So?” asked Selban.
“Everyone’s a suspect,” stated Loreticus and pushed the tray of bread towards his agent. “Let’s find out everything that we can about their doings last night.”
“Tristofan?”
“Get him over.”
The spymaster stood, glanced around and then shifted his tunic with a tug. He inspected Selban, who returned his gaze with curiosity.
“Are you wearing a binding?” asked Selban.
“Yes,” muttered Loreticus, touches of red appearing on his cheekbones. “I am trying it to lose weight. It’s supposed to make me seem slimmer.”
“Does it?”
“Don’t know, but it certainly stops me from eating very much.” He coughed, gawped around as if to find something else to talk about. “We should explore a little,” he said.
Selban gathered the remaining pieces of bread with any white flesh left on them, daubed them in the honey and shoved them with frightening force into his mouth.
They moved slowly from their self-imposed discomfort, Loreticus winded and Selban hungover. The door at the back of the tavern was the entrance that Bobban had used early that morning when returning from the baker’s, and it led straight to the street and thus the market.
As they climbed down the stone steps, which ran along the wall, the market spread out below them. Dozens of stalls fed, watered and supplied hundreds of buyers, who drifted between the lines, on the lookout as they passed.
“So Dasha owns all of these?” asked Selban quietly.
“Apparently so.”
“And she’s rather striking.”
Loreticus peered back at Selban, who turned his head from the panorama of the market to his master.
“She is,” said Loreticus with a smirk, which seemed to originate from something that Selban had done rather than some permission from the night before.
The spymaster bent down and examined the lock.
“I don’t see any unusual or fresh scratches in here,” he said, rubbing his finger on the blackened metal. “The lock appears to be not tampered with.”
“So perhaps it was left open?”
“Unlikely, but possible. It would be so far removed from Bobban’s neurotic nature as to be almost deliberate. I wonder, would Dasha have a key to this entrance for any reason? Neighbours often do look after each other’s security.” Loreticus leaned against the stone bannisters and scanned the market. “Go get Tristofan,” he said. “Let’s get control of this thing.”
Loreticus retired to the tables in front of the tavern to doze whilst he waited for his people to arrive. In front of The Indigo moved the boundless tide of peasantry and merchants, laughing too noisily, dressed too clumsily, always carrying that slightly oversensitive mien. He watched them impassively, their presence stirring neither his chauvinism nor his snobbery. They were, simply, forgettable. He leaned on his fist, taking care to lay his temple so as not to disrupt his hair. He realised that he wouldn’t be able to hope for sleep – the slimming binds around his waist made his torso inflexible, and he just couldn’t seem to find a comfortable slouch.
