by Jon Evans
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Epilogue
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The Mutilated Merchant
The Mutilated Merchant
The Edrin Loft Mysteries Book One
Jon Evans
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jonevansbooks.com
The Mutilated Merchant is Copyright © 2017 by Jon Evans. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead,
businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
Prologue
"You can hide nothing from me, Anar. No matter how cunning a hiding place you think you've found, I will find it, with or without your help," hissed the intruder as he slipped silently into the room, like a deadly serpent. This man was far more dangerous than any viper though, as the merchant knew only too well.
"You won't. Not now, not ever," the shopkeeper said, his voice barely quivering, despite his false bravado. "You can't find the place I chose because you don't know how to think like a man. You're a monster, and you think everyone's mind is as evil and twisted as yours," he claimed, using every ounce of his considerable ability as a merchant to sell his story.
He was starting to sweat, his mouth was dry, and he knew that his chances of survival were not good. This encounter would likely be the death of him. If he'd only had more time, he might have been better prepared, but it was too late now. Perhaps he could still survive, with a modicum of luck and some quick thinking.
The man's tone was as venomous as the snake he bore on the clasp of his cloak, "You have broken the covenant, merchant and interfered with the work we do in this city. Your execution has been sanctioned, and you will die. Your fate is set, and I cannot change it, for you are a traitor and it is right that you should die," he said as he moved ever so slowly to his left.
The hapless shopkeeper was not distracted; his would-be murderer was lining himself up with the gap in the counter, where the top had been lifted up on its hinges to let him pass. Inwardly he cursed his luck that he'd not put it down before the man came into his shop but it was late at night, and Anar could have sworn he'd locked the door.
"I know what I have done and why I have done it, I have done no wrong, but I know none of you will agree. You are following a false path, and I will have nothing more to do with it. It is not I who will die tonight, though!" Anar shouted with false bravado.
He moved then, quickly for a man of his bulk, his left hand slamming the hatch in the counter shut. With his right, he grabbed one of many glass jars from the end of one of the shelves on the wall behind him. They were identical aside from the careful calligraphy that described their contents.
The jar flew across the room in a perfect arc, though it was more fluke than skill that guided it. There was a distinctly metallic sound as the jar shattered against the metal vambrace on the arm the intruder threw up to block it. The contents of the vessel, a fine orange powder, sprayed out, covering his arm and chest.
It did not have the effect the merchant had expected. That amount should have had the target coughing and collapsing to the floor, blinded by the powder and in considerable pain. It was only meant to be used internally and in tiny doses. Instead, the man sniffed in puzzlement, "Heshneva?" he said.
Although he had expected a visit like this was coming, Anar had thought he had more time to plan his escape. Throwing that jar had been the best idea he could improvise, but with a sinking heart, he knew what had happened immediately.
His son had tended the shop for an afternoon not a week ago, and he was young and careless. He tended to ignore the careful placing of the stock, hurrying to finish so he could go and play with his friends. He must have swapped the jars around. Unfortunately, it was only that one jar that his father had needed.
Unlike heshneva, which was merely an aromatic cooking spice, the contents of the jar he had reached for were often used medicinally. It was palatable enough in an elixir but agonising if it got in the eyes or mouth in powder form. His foe would have been incapacitated for several minutes, and Anar could have easily done away with him.
It had almost worked, that stroke of inspiration but his boy would be the death of him. Literally, it seemed. He was a smart lad, even if his head was in the clouds half the time. One day he would grow up to be a great man, better than his father had been and he would make the world a better place. A much less harsh place than he had grown up in, a kinder and more forgiving place.
Anar's son would never have that future if he did not give a good account of himself in his last moments and he resolved to fight with all the ferocity he could muster. He had already lost too much trying to bring a halt to the work his colleagues and protect the innocent people of the city he'd grown to love. If he couldn't escape his fate entirely perhaps, he could still die with honour.
He bolted. Straight through the doorway behind the counter, directly opposite the now closed hatch. He spun to close the door behind him but could already see the man moving forward, lightning quick. The bastard dropped down to his side, using his momentum to slide under the hatch rather than opening it.
They moved like snakes too, these men; too fast for a spice merchant to put up a real fight against them. He had barely any training for violence and killers such as this, were chosen in infancy, drilling for hours each day in all forms of combat. They never learnt the most important lessons for a real man. Violence was the only way they were taught to serve. He could not hope to challenge the assassin, but there was still something to be won before he died.
Anar pulled the door closed just in time, holding onto the handle for dear life while the assassin yanked on the other side, trying to pull it open. He turned the key in the lock and dashed into the back of the building. He headed for the back door, hoping that he could flee through the herb garden and seek help.
It was locked, however, something his son always did get right, unfortunately. The ring with the front and back door keys would be hanging in their customary place. Sadly that was on a hook under the shop counter. Cursing his luck, he knew there was no way out, so he turned back from the door and ran up the stairs instead. He would get his sword and make a stand.
With a sharp crack the lock shattered and the door slammed open. The intruder began to ascend the stairs, and the unfortunate shopkeeper lay in wait for him. Though he tried, there wasn't much of a fight, at least, not from the perspective of the assassin. The back and forth did not last long. For the merchant, though, what came after his defeat, lasted a very long time indeed.
Chapter One
"So he said 'Women are like horses, they should be ridden hard and put away wet.' " said Sergeant Aliria, "So you can imagine what I said!"
"I'm n
ot sure Sarge," said Corporal Murt coughing into his closed fist. There was an ever so slight pause before Aliria continued.
"Well, of course, I told him that what he'd said was an offence under Section IV of the Obscenity Amendments Act of B.E. 1274, to whit, Casting Disrepute on Officers of the Court on Official Duty. Then I fined him six-pence. That, constable, is how you shut up a loudmouth at your crime scene, without having to put the shoe in," Aliria said.
"Actually, I believe the punchline of that joke is usually delivered as 'That doesn't mean we can only fuck when it's raining, you know.', Sergeant Aliria," the formal tones of Captain Edrin Loft issued from the space just behind her left ear. "Also I'm fairly confident that Section IV, forbids people from throwing rotting vegetables at members of a Governor's staff during parades and is somewhat, out of date, as a result."
His head cocked to one side and his eyes swimming out of focus; Corporal Murt piped up, "Sorry, Sir but the law against throwing vegetables is a bit of a coppering myth. It's illegal under the Assaults on Constables Act of 1423 to bring about the injury of a constable or attempt to do so with thrown objects of any kind, though."
Murt went on, "The vegetable thing is just a lark they tell trainees when they're wet behind the ears. Like sending 'em to the quartermaster to get their hands on a Watchman's Truncheon, see? The Obscenity Amendments Act got passed in B.E. 1179. Section IV of that grants exemptions to theatre troupes to let them use obscene language in public performances, provided said performances are within a theatre or other enclosed space such as a marquee, designated as a temporary venue."
"Helpfully that act does create an offence of Lewd Utterance Before a Constable, though. Which is a fancy way of saying you can't swear in front of coppers unless you want to get nicked. You could have fined him tuppence or half a day of labouring on behalf of the Watch for that, Sergeant," Murt concluded happily.
When he finished, he seemed to come out of his trance-like state, righted his head, and his eyes came back into focus. Then he saw the expression on Sergeant Gurnt's face and blanched.
The Captain blushed and said, "Yes, thank you, Corporal, I was attempting humour, but I suppose I somewhat missed the mark."
"Corporal Murt, I'm sure the Captain doesn't need your input when it comes to the particulars of the law. Now get your great big woolly head outside and make sure none of the gawpers gets near this shop. Don't let any of 'em goad you into giving them any details either. We don't want to give the local gossips grist for their rumour mill," Sergeant Aliria all but bellowed at him.
Sheepishly, Murt saluted and turned, hastening from the room.
"Sorry about that, Sir. I wasn't joking, I was just instructing Corporal Murt on the fine art of crowd control you see," Aliria said with a voice that exuded innocence. "Apologies for his lapse there, when he goes like that he doesn't realise when to stop."
"My mistake, Sergeant. I'm quite impressed with his ability to make all that up on the spot, to be honest," Loft conceded.
"No, Sir, he didn't. I'd lay odds that if you look it up, everything he said was right. Whatever faults he has, he's like a sponge for absorbing the written word. Books of the law are the only thing we've got to read in the Watchhouse, so he's always reading them when he's off duty. He just seems to be able to remember it all," she said apologetically.
Loft raised a sceptical eyebrow, but Aliria didn't seem inclined to back down. He resolved to push on with the matter at hand but made a mental note that he should look into this later. He wasn't interested in admitting he'd fallen for an old practical joke and never thought to look up the actual law. He felt a little guilty actually, as he'd once fined a drunk for throwing a cabbage at a visiting dignitary's coach. In error, it now seemed.
He cleared his throat and said, "Let us take a look at this body then shall we, Sergeant Aliria? Best see if we can determine why someone would want to murder a purveyor of…" he looked around the small shop and frowned.
Lots of dried plants hung from the rafters, and the shelves were full of large jars and small, cheap wooden boxes, but he couldn't identify the language written on any of them.
It wasn't Imperial script, and if it was from one of the city-states, he was pretty sure he'd recognise it. "What, exactly, does this shop sell anyway, Sergeant? Any idea?"
"Herbs and spices mostly, Sir. The shopkeeper was a retired caravaneer from the south, set up shop here about thirteen years ago I think. He was well known, especially amongst the cooks of all the Houses 'cause he had the best and rarest cooking spices, apparently. I think some of this is used in medicine as well, but we'd have to ask an apothecary about that."
"The south? I don't recognise the letters on these bottles," Loft said, putting down one and reaching for another to inspect it, "maybe it's a type of shorthand they use in the city states? For apothecaries or spice traders?"
"Begging your pardon, Sir but I don't think he's from the city states. You'll see what I mean when you see the body," Aliria said apologetically.
With an effort of will, Loft refrained from raising his eyebrow. He'd caught himself developing that habit as a cadet and struggled to avoid doing it. He hadn't wanted it to become a source of mockery from the lazy, good for nothing idiots who joined the Academy in his class. He already had enough to contend with because of his somewhat unusual views on law enforcement.
Wanting to study the techniques of identifying and capturing criminals at the city's Academy for Watch officers didn't seem to be the done thing, much to his bemusement. It wasn't long before he'd learned to keep his ideas and questions to himself and let the instructors deliver the same, tired, lecture they always did. He reserved his wide-ranging thoughts on the subject for his private journals.
"I know we're here to investigate a crime, Sergeant but I'm not sure it's necessary for you to be quite so mysterious. Still, lead on and let's see what you've found so far, eh?" he said, trying to be cheerful, despite the indecently early hour.
The sergeant lifted a small, sturdy-looking lantern, opening a shutter with a lever and flooding the room with light. She twisted another knob and the light from the front focussed into a beam that illuminated her path, while the back threw just enough light that they could see their feet. Loft screwed up his eyes for a moment as they watered from the sudden shock, cautiously opening them again once the sensitivity subsided. Gurnt was already heading through a doorway behind the shop counter, and he hurried to catch up.
He felt something crunch underfoot and looked down to see he was standing in the shattered remnants of a glass jar. It was right in the middle of the room in front of the counter. There was a wide spread of orange dust across the floor, footprints scuffed through it, presumably the former contents of the jar. He stepped out of the mess and quickly checked the soles of his boots for glass, before heading after his new sergeant.
As Loft passed through the open door, he noted the lock was quite severely damaged. Not just damaged but shattered. What the hell did that he wondered to himself?
There was no time to stop and ponder the problem though as Gurnt led him down a short corridor and then up a narrow staircase, as he reached the top he noted small splatters of blood that continued into the hallway. He could already begin to detect the familiar stench of death and steeled himself for an unpleasant sight.
The spices downstairs had concealed the odour, but he mentally crossed his wrists in the hope the corpse had not been undiscovered too long. Fortunately, it was practically the middle of the night and he'd not eaten. For once an empty stomach was a good thing, he thought, a small mercy but a welcome one.
The bedroom was quite large, though not particularly homely looking. It didn't seem all that lived in, to Loft. The furnishings were a touch too drab, and there weren't any homely touches. The bed was quite large and would probably have been expensive once when it was first bought, but it had seen better days and was long past that point.
The sergeant pointed to the deceased man, her expression suggesting h
e had his explanation. Indeed he did thought Loft. Although he'd already started to rot, judging by the smell, the victim was lying on top of his sheets, left arm under his body. His face pressed into the mattress, in a way that would have been uncomfortable if he had not been quite, quite, dead.
It was self-evident when you saw him. This man wasn't just pale because most of his blood had soaked into the mattress or else sprayed about the room. There was blood on the wall above the bed, the ceiling, the mirror on his dresser and in sticky pools all over the floor.
No, this man was a strange, pale, almost white colour before he died. Not the odd white of an albino but the strangely off-white skin tone of someone from south of the City States. Those cold, dark lands where people so rarely saw the sun that they looked perpetually unhealthy. They made the people from the City States look positively dark skinned. This man had come from an entirely different continent than Kalider. Even the Shattered Empire had not extended its tendrils far into that region.
With an effort of will, he scrutinised the rest of the room, then, taking a deep breath, strode purposefully across it to the window. He was cautious in his route, carefully avoiding the largest pools of blood. Loft made sure he didn't stand on anything but floorboards or a rug in the gloom, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the light provided by the Sergeant's lantern and what little light made it through the grimy window.
