by J B Lucas
Loreticus folded his arms, staring blindly at the floor as he processed a thought.
“I think that I must have heard the attack,” said Selban.
“You heard it?” Loreticus asked, not quite understanding. “Where were you?”
“Right outside that window,” hissed Selban. They both looked at the marshal as he turned, his face white and damp.
“I was downstairs at the door and the doorman had just opened it for me. Before I could even step inside, I heard a scream,” stated Loreticus. “Was that what you heard?”
“That means the arrow was loosed within moments of your knocking on the door,” Selban exclaimed. “But I heard a cough and a scream.”
“The shutters were closed,” stated Deciman, taking shaky steps to join the conversation.
“They were closed when we entered,” corrected Loreticus. He turned back to his friend. “I think the scream was from a woman. Was the cough the same voice?”
“No,” said Selban, toying with an irregular patch of unshaved stubble as he recalled the noise. “It was deeper, as much a huff as a cough. I’d say that the cough was most likely our patient on the floor. Perhaps he screams like a girl? He is one of Claisan’s soldiers.” He gestured towards the major.
“Unhelpful, Selban. I’m guessing that the impact caused the cough,” stated Loreticus. He pulled a face at Selban. “Or perhaps he screamed after he was killed?”
“So who screamed?” asked the marshal. Selban shook his head absent-mindedly. “Are you saying that the arrow was loosed from within the room if the shutters were closed?”
“No,” said Selban definitively, gesturing towards the shaft. “Look. It’s far too deep inside him to have been shot at short distance, and besides he would have to have been facing his assailant.”
Deciman nodded nervously and turned bravely to look again at the arrow wound. His mask of professionalism broke as his eyes followed the shaft inside the body. He retched, controlled himself, then sat heavily in a chair by the wall.
“Oh goodness,” he muttered.
“You’re not very good at this, are you?” asked Selban.
“First time I’ve seen a murder,” he moaned. “Normally it’s an unpaid debt, or a robbery. We don’t generally die violently around here.”
“Thank goodness,” said Loreticus. “Perhaps the witness jumped out of the window? She pulled the shutters closed behind her?” He moved towards the opening, remembering the line of trees behind the house that had been childhood refuge to run and hide. It seemed further away on this night.
“I wouldn’t lean out there,” cautioned the marshal. “I made a bit of a mess. I can tell you than none of us would be able to make that jump. It’s twice your height easily.”
Loreticus nodded, then looked at the pale marshal again. The young man returned his gaze with some embarrassment.
“Didn’t realise that I had such a weak stomach, m’lord,” he said.
“Then you can be useful elsewhere,” replied Loreticus. “Round up the senior servants of the house and bring them to the reception peristylum. I want to question them about their history with the major. Also, we should ask them how well they knew the doorman.”
The marshal nodded and walked out, glad to escape the room.
“Do you honestly think it will help to talk to the servants?” Selban asked.
“No,” Loreticus said. “I don’t expect any epiphanies from what they say. I want to look at what their faces tell us. Someone in this house must know what happened. Because there was someone else in this room, and they didn’t pass me on the way out.”
Chapter 3
A dead end. No one knew the new doorman, other than to say that he was a confidant of Major Gholan from his years in the military. No one had seen anyone running out of the house. Some of the staff reported a strange odour coming through the windows at the back of the building.
“Obviously you,” said Loreticus, under his breath.
“Not nice,” retorted Selban, hurt.
“The lamp oil you were pouring, you idiot.”
Loreticus was a spy chief, and he prided himself on his ability to read faces. There was not a trace of guilt on any of the employees, only fear, confusion, and shock. Loreticus had always used his influence to keep a hefty militia near Lores to preserve its harmony, and this calm had bred innocence. Most of these people had not expected violence to visit them here. They might not have been locals, but this type of death in Lores was such an odd occurrence. It just didn’t feel appropriate to the quiet of the town. They dismissed the staff to start preparing the house for a period of mourning.
Loreticus and Selban sat in the reception room in silence. Loreticus was sure that the scream hadn’t come from the dead major. Therefore there had to have been someone in the room with him. He also strongly suspected that the doorman was involved in the death of the major, and this collusion had forced him to run.
Selban, as usual, displayed utter faith in Loreticus’s ability.
“We might stumble on something in the room,” Selban suggested. His nonchalance grated Loreticus.
“That would be a monumental act of stumbling,” Loreticus replied. “We’ve been over that room multiple times. You are aware that we are likely to go back to a firestorm in the capital? Even the emperor would frown on us knocking off Claisan’s man, especially as he was retired.”
“Ah, but was he retired? It’s all too convenient. No one is stupid enough to retire to the home of his master’s arch enemy.”
“I wouldn’t say that I was his arch enemy,” said Loreticus. “He’s far more influential than I am.”
“Claisan always boasted about snuffing out threats before they became material. He’s started to consider you a menace to his plans.”
Loreticus shot him a look. Selban was being naïve and his negligence was both annoying and dangerous.
“You know that he will kill you first?” asked Loreticus.
“What? Why?”
“He always sends a message. Tit for tat,” replied Loreticus.
“Good gods! He does. He always does. I’m buggered.” He ran a hand through his hair nervously, releasing a fresh shower of white across his shoulders. “Let’s find someone to take the blame,” babbled Selban, suddenly awake. “He always sends a message. Remember that poor merchant?”
Loreticus settled back into his chair. He enjoyed making Selban anxious, delegating his own stress to his subordinate. There was something imbalanced about having a comfortable junior whilst you yourself were under pressure. He watched Selban pace around the room, pointing and enunciating observations to himself in a raised voice. Loreticus drifted back to the logic of the case.
“When it gets serious, lie,” bawled Selban. “Let’s find an innocent fool.”
Marshal Deciman entered the room at just that moment and all three froze in an awkward instant. Selban’s eyes darted between the two others, as if he were physically trying to move Deciman.
Loreticus gestured the marshal over and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about Selban,” Loreticus said. “He’s always tempted to fall to hyperbole when he gets the chance.” He gazed down at the major’s corpse. “I think you’ll be happy to know that it’s time for us to tidy up the murder room. Send the head servant up and we’ll start the preparations for a funeral.”
The marshal left swiftly and silently, staring at Selban as he edged past the agent. He was soon after replaced by a tall, slender man.
“My lord, what needs to be done?” he said. There were tones of the southern borders in his vowels. They lifted and sank like sails, pegged to his utterances by the consonants.
“A funeral for your master. I’ll leave everything to you, just make sure to find out if there is any need for religious observations. Later today, tomorrow if not.”
“But that won’t allow time for anyone to come from the capital, or any of his veterans to pay respects,” replied the manservant, alarmed.
Loreticus turned to stare him in the eye. “I’m sure there was a ‘sir’ or a ‘m’lord’ on the end of that sentence,” he said. The manservant dipped his head. “His old colleagues will be here to pay their respects at his tomb. It is better to respect Gholan now, than to let his body sit in the open air out of convenience for the living who might be at the other end of the country. Or perhaps you expected General Claisan to come?” Loreticus bent slightly to look into the man’s downcast face, examining it for a response. He stood straight, rolling his shoulders back. “If there’s a problem,” Loreticus added, “send someone to me. I expect him to be laid to rest by tomorrow midday.”
They left the room, connecting with the marshal who had opted to linger outside than confront Selban and the body again. Loreticus led them at a slow pace down the stairs to the reception hall. He looked around the large space of the foyer once more, then walked into the cool air outside. The breeze held a tangible damp, as if rain were due. A cloud from the mountain had drifted down to envelop the village.
Loreticus turned to Deciman and pinned him with a sharp look.
“Marshal, if we don’t work out who killed Gholan, Selban and I are dead. Claisan has been looking for a legitimate reason to cut off our heads for a long time, and this will play straight into his hands. You should be fine, but we’re going to need your help. Offering such will potentially put you at risk.”
“Loreticus,” said Deciman, mustering as much maturity as he could, “You are my lord and I have an obligation of honour. I’m in your service regardless of your enemies.”
Loreticus nodded, and the marshal’s chest swelled with pride.
“No bullying,” he said pointedly to Selban as they turned towards home.
*
Loreticus’s head servant Crispan stood patiently by the villa’s front door as the trio strode up the steep path to the residence.
“Good morning, Crispan,” Loreticus said. “Did I miss something, or are you waiting in the rain for a sweetheart?”
“When I have such a master, why would I turn to my own selfish happiness?” Crispan said. He smiled warmly, an expression familiar to Loreticus from his earliest childhood.
Loreticus walked into the building, and walked through to the study. This had been his father’s favourite room, ultimately his father’s only room once his mother had passed. The walls were lined with maps of neighbouring countries and portraits of fallen kings. Looking at them with older eyes, Loreticus wondered how they could have been so inaccurate about lands so near.
The shuffling feet of his company, waiting in the silence, brought him back into the room. He glanced at them, over his shoulder, then turned to face them. Crispan, tall, elegant and ancient. He remembered him forever smelling of soap. Selban, shorter, bursting with energy, angry. Deciman, an unpolished young soul far out of his depth.
“You three,” he said, turning. “I need your combined oceans of wisdom.” A finger pointed at Crispan. “I know that you are the most gossip-proof man in this town. You are to all effects and purposes as deaf as a tree. Did you know that Major Gholan is dead?”
Crispan stared at him for a moment, thought absent from his eyes.
“Gholan? Do I know him, sir?”
“He was living in the Old Manor,” explained Loreticus.
“Oh, the new man,” Crispan acknowledged. “That is a shame.” He stood and watched his young master.
“He was murdered, Crispan.”
“Oh, well that’s different. Did Selban do it?” he asked.
“Oi!” interjected Selban. “Why me and not him?” He levelled a finger at Loreticus.
“This isn’t helping,” growled Loreticus, sending an embarrassed glance towards Deciman. The marshal had resumed his expression of panic. “It wasn’t us, nor anyone who works for us. Unless we solve this issue, we’re inviting problems from the capital to come visit us up here. Beyond finding the killer, our priority has to be to keep it as quiet as possible.” He folded his arms and stared at a piece of parchment on the wall, with faded ink lines detailing mountains and boundaries. The handwriting was exquisite, not quite as elegant as his father’s hand been, yet sure enough that of a scholar. He sat on the edge of his father’s desk, looking for something new on the map which wouldn’t remind him of rainy afternoons as a child.
“A single arrow,” said Selban. “And apparently both the arrow and the only witness can both go through walls.”
Crispan looked confused, and turned back to Loreticus, who dismissed Selban’s theatrical comment with a gesture of his hand.
“Who is the best archer in the town?” he asked.
The answer came slowly. Surprisingly it wasn’t from Deciman or Crispan, but from Selban.
“I’d say Florian or Laurentius.” He examined the two locals, who had been caught by surprise. “I was looking for a hunting guide on my last visit,” he said. “Do you two know them?”
Both nodded.
“I don’t know which I would consider a murderer,” stated Crispan in his deep, forgiving voice.
“Make a choice then,” Loreticus said and shooed them out of the room.
*
Loreticus had been naïve. He had thought that the servants in the Old Manor were segregated enough from the Lores town folk that he might keep the speculation from spreading too quickly. Of course, he was wrong, and within hours of his return to the villa from Gholan’s home, he could see his servants scuttling back and forth as was the manner of all help when there was good gossip to share.
And from Lores, the news raced down to the capital.
He had spent the morning stretched out in his old bed, listening to the birds in the forest near his windows. The breeze of the woodlands was the only thing in this world which could make him sleep so perfectly, and he cursed the luxury of his childhood. Nothing would compare to that warm family home. After breakfast, he bathed and stretched, getting the tension of the ride out of his tired muscles. He was in a mood where he wished passionately that no one would call on him; he had a hundred unfinished conversations in his mind which needed satisfaction.
The capital came calling straight after lunch. A military messenger, still kitted in regalia, arrived at his door and delivered a letter to Crispan.
“Didn’t he want to speak to me?” asked Loreticus.
“No, sir. He didn’t care to even wait for a reply.”
Red Palace
14th Sabbas, 255
Lord Loreticus,
You have the responsibility for the murder of a good man. You were his host as lord of the village that he had settled, and you are now the purveyor of justice for his ghost.
Gholan was as close to a friend as an apostate officer might become. He suffered for his passions, but he kept his dignity. That is something which is in short supply in this palace, which is why I shall defend his honour now that he is unable to.
I expect you to present the killer from your village to me within the next week. failure to do so would simply add weight to the suspicion on yourself. Everything about this murder stinks, and you are on the line to deliver rightfulness.
Have no doubt about my belief, Loreticus. I don’t know how you lured him to Lores, but you did. I do not know why you didn’t visit him before his murder, but you were there the moment he died. We know each other well enough to understand that the blatant arrogance of the murder is as insulting to me as the violence is to his family.
I will be expecting a result in the shortest time.
General Claisan
Chapter 4
Many good artists come from small country towns where their grand imaginations are kindled with very little fuel. And so the mysterious murder of Major Gholan was a boon to the Lores market the next morning as the gossipers ploughed in, boosting the crowds. Stories were told in turn of his delicate doorman, the ghostly scream, the lost love in the capital. No one dared speculate about the actual killer in case it was their own favourite lord, so Lores residents told co
nfidently of how the general stabbed himself with an arrow out of remorse. Gholan had succumbed to guilt for a life spent killing innocents, or for a lost love, or gambling debts.
Two of the more interested visitors had come from their extensive farm estates outside of the Lores town boundaries. They were refined women, educated and moneyed, and obviously not local by origin. Both were beautiful, and they retained their charisma despite age, children, grey skies and damp air. The women had a shared look, one of strong and intelligent personalities, of lives well spent, of priorities achieved. Tasteful gold rings and chains sat on their manicured fingers and around their thin necks. Their dresses were tailored, fashionable yet practical for the cold and muddy north. A couple of veteran soldiers trailed them subtly from a distance, keeping an eye on anyone who might cause a disturbance. These ladies were Aemilia and Julia, and they had been the first guests to be invited to the Old Town Manor by Major Gholan.
“Good morning, m’ladies,” said the old woman tending the herb stall. “What might I offer you this morning?”
“Well,” said Aemilia, smiling warmly, “Firstly, tell me the gossip that everyone’s muttering about. We heard that Major Gholan killed someone last night!”
The woman’s laugh sounded like a woodpecker. “Not likely!” she croaked. “He was kaput himself. Arrow to the heart, I heard.”
The two ladies covered their shocked gasps and stared at the woman.
“Oh, my dears, don’t worry,” she continued. “You’re veterans’ wives, I can tell. Every now and then we have a little murder up around here. Not before in Lores, that’s a first I’ll admit, but then we have a good man looking after us. We’re not as soft as you capital folk reckon.”
“There’s a killer in town?” asked Julia.
“Who’s searching for him?” added Aemilia.
“Or her,” reprimanded the old woman, lifting a stained finger. “I reckon Gholan was involved with too many women. Most of these older bachelors are. The marshal’s looking for the killer. Not sure whether he’ll have any luck, though. You can’t catch a killer unless it’s red-handed.” She gestured along the street towards Deciman, who was at that moment trying to scoop up the remnants of a score of eggs he’d dropped in the soft mud.
