by Barb Hendee
His red tabard marked him as military, but the silver plate suggested more. This one was an officer in the Shyldfälches—the “People’s Shield”—the contingent of the city guard.
Wynn had no idea why he was chasing two apprentice sages of her order.
“Where is the premin of cathologers?” he demanded.
Both young sages stepped aside as Domin High-Tower closed on the officer.
“Why do you seek the premin?” the dwarven sage demanded with twice the officer’s force.
The man calmed slightly. “Pardon . . . I’m Lieutenant Garrogh. Captain Rodian sent me to bring either the premin . . . or a domin of the cathologers. Two bodies were discovered in an alley. The master of the nearby scribe shop identified them, but only knew their given names . . . Elias and Jeremy.”
Murmurs of shaky voices rose in the common hall, and Wynn heard a stool scrape as someone stood too quickly.
“Bodies?” High-Tower growled. “They are dead?”
Wynn’s mind blanked as others in the hall drew nearer. She barely noted the varied degrees of shock and fright on their faces. She didn’t recognize the names mentioned, even when a frightened, breathy voice repeated them.
“Jeremy . . . Jeremy Elänqui . . . and Elias Raul?”
Nikolas surged from his corner stool, his face paler than usual. At the lieutenant’s continued silence, his gaze wandered and he began to shiver, backing toward his corner. When he dropped upon the stool he teetered, nearly slipping off. His jaw clenched as tears rolled down, shaken out of him by his shudders.
Wynn’s thoughts cleared. Nikolas knew them both, likely the same two she had seen him with. But try as she might, she couldn’t remember their faces.
Lieutenant Garrogh licked his lips nervously at all the attention he’d drawn in his haste.
“My condolences,” he said quickly to High-Tower. “But the captain requires an authority from the guild. By your robe, you’ll do as well as the premin.”
High-Tower’s dark glower broke. He turned his iron eyes on one apprentice who’d led the lieutenant inside.
“Find Premin Sykion immediately. She may be in the new library. Inform her where I have gone . . . and why.”
He waved Garrogh out and followed.
Without a word, Domin il’Sänke went after High-Tower, and Wynn didn’t hesitate to tail him. But when they reached the wide doors into the courtyard, High-Tower realized they were following. He planted himself, and a vibration shuddered through the courtyard’s stones.
Wynn pulled up short as the lieutenant slid to a halt. But she had no intention of being left behind.
“One of us is not enough,” il’Sänke said quietly. “I am the only other of rank at hand. There will be much to deal with in this grave matter.”
It made sense, though Wynn knew that if High-Tower were less pressed, he would’ve chosen someone else.
Lieutenant Garrogh backed toward the castle’s gatehouse tunnel. Still seething, High-Tower resumed following. Wynn sneaked along behind il’Sänke, a little more than relieved. Trying to get past a dwarf, once he was planted upon the earth, was harder than battering through a stone wall with one’s own head.
Two young sages returning a translation folio had been found dead in an alley. And that folio had contained material from the texts she’d brought back. She didn’t want to see the bodies, to learn how they’d died or why.
She had to—her fears demanded it.
CHAPTER 2
Siweard Rodian, captain of the Shyldfälches, rocked on his heels as he stared down into a young, ashen, dead face. Another body lay crumpled nearby in the dead end’s corner. Neither victim bore any cuts or bruises, and he saw no signs of a struggle, except a piece from the robe’s shoulder of the nearest body had been torn off.
The eyes of both young sages were open wide, and their faces . . .
Both expressions were locked in similar twisted fear—no, outright terror—with mouths gaping, as if their last scream had never come out. Their hair looked faintly grayed, aged in an instant. Though he’d seen sudden fright and trauma produce such symptoms in men, particularly after the worst of battles, he’d never seen this in ones so young.
Rodian was at a loss for where to begin. He wasn’t even certain how much he should disturb the scene.
Murders happened in most large cities. Unlike petty crimes, left to district constabularies, the dead always fell in his lap. At twenty-eight, he was notably young for his position. He knew it, though he’d certainly earned the honor. And in the three years since taking command of the Shyldfälches, he’d learned that most murders were motivated by revenge or passion. Only a few came from panic, when some unfortunate stumbled upon a culprit engaged in criminal undertakings.
Serious poverty wasn’t rampant in Calm Seatt. Even pickpockets and muggers were less common than elsewhere. The royal family kept the people’s welfare at heart. Funding to help the poor and homeless was made available whenever possible.
But Rodian had never seen anything like this.
He would have to report these deaths by dawn to the minister of city affairs. By noon at the latest the king and queen would hear of it. Malourné’s royals took pride in the guild, founded by their ancestors.
Shaken, angry, even anxious, he felt overwhelmed. He needed to resolve this quickly.
And where was Garrogh?
Guards of the local district’s constabulary had blocked both alley entrances. Two of his own men stood at the turn into the dead end. And one more stood close, holding a lantern to light the scene.
There were also two civilians present.
Master Pawl a’Seatt, owner of the nearby scriptorium, had found the bodies. Behind him, clinging to his arm, was a dark-haired girl named Imaret—in his employ. She wept in silence, her eyes locked wide as she stared at the bodies. Now and then she looked up to her tall employer, who ignored her.
Rodian felt sick inside that he had to keep the girl this close for so long.
“You found them . . . just like this?” he asked. “You didn’t move or touch anything?”
Master a’Seatt seemed neither shocked nor unsettled by the sight.
“I touched nothing,” he answered. “I found them and sent word to the constabulary. In turn, they called for the guard.”
Rodian lowered his head, studying the bodies in their long gray wool robes. They wore the color of an order as opposed to the bland tan of initiates. But he couldn’t remember which order. Too young to be masters, they were still old enough to be apprentices, perhaps even journeyors.
And as to how they had died . . .
His best guess was poison. Something quick, but cheap and common, considering they’d died in such agony. But why would anyone poison two would-be scholars? And why poison, if this was murder spawned by the culprit’s panic at being discovered? It wasn’t done with some toxin-laced weapon, since he could find no wounds.
“Sir?”
Rodian lifted his head at the familiar voice rolling along the alley walls. Garrogh pushed through, ushering in three robed figures.
Lieutenant Garrogh was a good man, quick and efficient, though waiting here had eroded much of Rodian’s patience. Perhaps now he could begin finding answers. Then he spotted Pawl a’Seatt watching the newcomers.
The hint of a serious frown spread across a’Seatt’s features—the first real expression Rodian had observed on the man’s face.
A determined, solid-looking dwarf in a gray robe led the new trio, followed by a tall, slender man with dark skin in a deeper-colored robe. As the latter entered the lantern’s light, Rodian spotted him as Suman, and his robe was a blue shade near to black. The last of the trio was a young woman in gray. As the dwarf’s gaze settled upon the bodies, sorrow broke his stern features, then quickly turned to frightened anger.
“Bäynæ, vastí’ág ad,” he whispered like a prayer.
The Suman released a long sigh and held his arm back.
“There is nothing fo
r you to see here,” he said, beginning to turn.
But the young woman shoved his arm aside and peered into the alley’s dead end.
“No . . . not here!” she breathed, each word rising in force. “Not so far from . . .”
She lunged into the dead end and fell upon the first body before Rodian could stop her. Grabbing its head, she tore back the robe’s cowl.
“Wynn, no!” the dwarf commanded.
Everyone flinched at his thunderous voice in the alley’s small space—except for the young woman. Rodian reached for her as she wrestled to tear open the robe’s neckline. The instant he touched her shoulder she lashed wildly at him, striking his hand away.
“Wynn!” the Suman snapped. “This is not the way!”
Rodian glanced at the man, but his attention shifted to Pawl a’Seatt.
The scribe master had stepped closer. As he peered around the two elder sages, his stoic expression filled with intensity. He watched the young woman’s furious struggles with the body, and her actions seemed both to surprise and fascinate him.
Rodian reached again for Wynn as Garrogh closed in on her other side. To his shock she rolled the victim’s head from side to side, pulling down the robe’s collar as she pawed at his throat and chest.
“No blood?” she whispered between rapid breaths. “No wounds . . . no blood?”
Rodian halted Garrogh with a raised hand. He’d already memorized every aspect of the scene, so what was the young woman looking for?
“Did you find them like this?” she blurted suddenly, but she didn’t look up. “Did anyone see what killed them?”
“They were found by Master a’Seatt and one of his scribes,” Rodian answered. “And neither saw . . .”
He never finished, for his answer wouldn’t have matched her question.
She hadn’t asked who—but rather what—had killed members of her guild. There was something telling in her strange choice of words. In her frantic pawing, was she looking for a cause of death, something she’d expected but hadn’t found?
Master a’Seatt stepped yet closer, watching her every move. Imaret remained half-hidden behind him.
“No teeth marks,” the small sage whispered.
“Wynn!” a deep voice grated. “That is enough!”
The dwarf hurried in and grasped her upper arms from behind.
“No!” she shouted, struggling in his grip. “Look at them! I told you! Can’t you see? Domin il’Sänke, look!”
The sage in dark blue only whispered, “Come away from there.”
The dwarven sage heaved her up like a light bolt of cloth. He turned fully around before setting her upon her feet, and then Rodian got a clear look at the young woman’s face.
Wispy brown hair hung loose past her shoulders. Her round olive-toned face was streaked with tears, and her small mouth quivered under quickened breaths.
The dwarf sputtered in embarrassment. “Shush . . . shush now.”
Wynn’s brown eyes were wild and manic.
“Forgive the outburst,” the Suman said to Rodian. “It is the shock of losing our own. . . . I am Domin il’Sänke, and this is Domin High-Tower. Young Wynn is clearly distraught.”
The Suman glanced once at Wynn before his eyes returned to the bodies. Beneath a mild sorrow he seemed annoyed, as if some other issue troubled him beyond these deaths.
“Yes,” Rodian acknowledged, “but she was searching for something . . . and what was that about teeth marks?”
Domin High-Tower cocked his head.
“She is overwrought,” he growled, and then frowned so deeply his face wrinkled from forehead to chin. “She should not have come.”
But his gaze roamed the alley floor.
“Did you find a folio?” he suddenly asked, and then he twisted toward Master a’Seatt. “Did they come for it?”
“I put it in their hands,” a’Seatt answered. “You have my sympathies.”
“What folio?” Rodian asked, for he’d found no such thing in this place.
“Their task,” Master a’Seatt answered. “The guild sends us pages of draft work to be copied into final versions. These young men were carrying such back when—”
“Time enough for that later,” High-Tower cut in. “Two of ours are dead, and another is beyond herself.”
“The pages are missing?” Wynn demanded, and she whipped around, her wild eyes searching the alley floor.
“We do not know what happened yet!” High-Tower growled.
“What more do you need from us?” il’Sänke added. “This is not a place for lengthy discussion.”
All of these reactions struck Rodian as bizarre, from the blustering dwarf, to the panic-stricken young woman, to the disturbingly composed sage in blue, who now showed no emotion at all. Behind them stood Pawl a’Seatt, his attention still fixed on young Wynn.
“I will take the bodies for further examination,” Rodian answered.
He had many questions, some he hadn’t even fully formed as yet. And he wished he had more time to study everyone present. Too many strange reactions had passed too quickly.
“I will arrange interviews at the guild,” he added.
“Interviews?” High-Tower echoed. “For what?”
“For a formal inquest. Both victims currently resided at the guild, correct?”
High-Tower opened his mouth as if to argue.
“Yes, come tomorrow morning,” Wynn blurted out. “We will expect you.”
High-Tower swept her back with one massive arm, and il’Sänke pulled her farther up the alley. A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. But as Wynn back-stepped past Pawl a’Seatt, she cocked her head slightly, looking at him.
The scribe master met her gaze steadily, as if he were the one studying her. Grief-stricken Imaret was still shocked into stillness, except when her eyes flicked nervously up at her employer.
All three sages paused near the alley wall, perhaps waiting to see how the final few moments here played out.
For another breath Rodian watched the scribe master, who passively turned his attention from Wynn as if he’d seen nothing of note.
“I will arrange interviews at your scriptorium as well,” Rodian told a’Seatt.
Master a’Seatt glanced his way. “Business will keep me from the shop all day, but Master Teagan will be in. I will not be available until evening.”
Rodian frowned but nodded. Hopefully Master a’Seatt fully understood he was connected to a murder investigation.
“At dusk then,” he replied.
Pawl a’Seatt began turning away; then he paused. “Captain, I have some things to attend to at my shop. Could you arrange an escort to take Imaret home?”
“Of course,” Rodian answered. “Have her wait with one of the constables at the alley’s entrance, and I’ll see to it directly.”
“My thanks.”
Pawl a’Seatt reached down to usher Imaret along. She jumped slightly as his fingers slid across her shoulders. She turned, walking close at his side, right past the three sages.
Rodian didn’t bother to watch them go. He had too much to deal with this night.
“Lieutenant, have a cart brought in.”
Garrogh was staring at the ashen bodies, and Rodian stepped closer.
As officers of the Shyldfälches, they were uniformed much alike, with their contingent’s red tabards over clean chain vestments and padded hauberks. But while Garrogh paid only passing attention to his appearance, Rodian was meticulous, with clean hair cropped short and a close-trimmed beard sculpted across his jaw. In Calm Seatt, appearances counted for much—if one were ambitious.
“Lieutenant,” Rodian repeated. “The cart?”
Garrogh finally nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He was a hardened soldier, late of the regulars, and it bothered Rodian that his second in command was so unsettled by dead sages. Finally Garrogh turned away from the eerie scene.
“Would you like an escort back to the guild?” Rodian asked Domin High-T
ower.
The dwarf blinked. “No, we need no escort.”
Il’Sänke nodded politely, ushering Wynn out, and all three headed back toward where the turn into the dead end joined the main alley back to the street.
“I’ll arrive before noon tomorrow,” Rodian called after them, but no one answered.
As much as he shared his lieutenant’s shock over these ugly murders, he had other concerns. The royals would hear of this soon enough. Ambition and devotion had taken him far, but if he didn’t settle this matter quickly and thoroughly, it might ruin him.
