by Darian Smith
“I’d rather not,” Jessamine said, scrunching her face apologetically. “If it’s okay, I’d rather stay here with you.” Since coming across the body in the cupboard, she had become almost clingy, as though the fright had regressed her to a girl much younger.
“You’ll have to get used to being alone again soon,” Brannon told her gently.
“I know. But . . . ” She shrugged. “I never had anyone murdered and stuffed in a cupboard back home in Trallene.”
“Don’t worry,” Draeson said, putting a protective arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I’ll make sure you’re safe.” He made as if to walk with her on the errand.
“Ah, no, Draeson.” Brannon held up three fingers. “Three cuts.”
The mage looked puzzled. “What?”
Brannon gestured to his face. “For every wrinkle. Three cuts.” He gave him a stern look.
Draeson pulled his arm away from Jessamine with a huff. “Fine. But this is boring.”
“You should have made yourself look like a teenager,” Brannon told him.
A familiar figure was moving toward them through the crowd. Sailors and fishermen alike moved aside for Master Jordell as the old man passed by. Brannon felt a warmth in his chest. It was good to see the kind of respect the master physician engendered in regular people. Respect based on having been a force for good and healing when they needed it. Brannon had always been given respect for his battle prowess and his position close to the king, but the natural, easy grace Jordell commanded was something different.
Jordell’s craggy face broke into a smile as he came closer. “There you are. I hear you have a Djin arriving this morning to help with the investigation.”
Brannon nodded.
“I’m impressed. They usually keep to themselves. Meanwhile, you might like to know that we still haven’t had anyone come to claim the body that was put in your closet. I’m fairly certain it was the one taken from our morgue that morning though—despite the extra facial mutilation. The poor girl was the one I sent you the message about. I guess whoever it was couldn’t wait for you to come and see her at the morgue.”
“Perhaps they didn’t know if I’d be told about her. Which rules out someone working at the physician college. Were there any strangers seen in the morgue that morning?”
Jordell shook his head. “If only it were that simple.”
“Where was she originally found?” Jessamine asked quietly.
“Not far from here, actually. I would have pegged her for a dock whore, but that doesn’t fit if she was with Keldan Sandilar.”
“No, Keldan’s definitely not the type to go slumming with his women,” Draeson said. “She must have been dumped here by the killers.”
“But why?” Brannon said. “Why not leave her at the Blue Rose? And why move her body again later?”
“Taran thinks it was a message,” Jessamine said. “That the killer wants us to leave him alone now that he’s given us what we were looking for.”
“If he wanted to be left alone, he wouldn’t have murdered a member of the royal family,” Brannon said. “There’s something bigger going on here but I’ll be a Hooded Wolf if I know what it is.”
The Djin boat was closer now, and Brannon could see that the deck built across the canoe hulls like a raft had small cabins on it and rails around the side. It had a single mast with a wide, square sail but little effort seemed to have been made to make the most of the wind. The water beneath and around the boat churned as though boiling as the craft approached the docks at high speed. There was no sign of any oars or propellers.
“How are they doing that?” Brannon wondered aloud.
“They have elementals pushing the boat,” Draeson said. “I wonder what they’re paying them.”
“Paying them?” Brannon turned to look at the mage as the boat began to slow and approach the dock. “What would elementals want?”
“Exactly. And if you get it wrong, they’ll run amok.”
“Great.” Brannon watched the water closely. It roiled and thrashed. “How many elementals do you think are in there?”
Draeson’s voice was low. “To get here this quickly? A lot.”
The boat pulled up and dusky-skinned sailors scurried to secure it. Brannon and the group moved forward, but kept a healthy distance from the water itself.
As the sailors worked, Brannon sidled up to Master Jordell. “Were you able to find out anything about the other thing I asked you? Have there been any similar murders?”
“Nothing in Alapra,” Jordell murmured, not taking his eyes from the water. “But there have been rumors of it elsewhere. Details are scarce and no one seems to have a clear idea of where. It could just be that people are speculating. Keldan’s death was strange enough to spawn all sorts of rumors.”
Brannon sighed. “True. I guess I should just ask Aldan directly.”
Jordell clapped him on the shoulder. “You were always fairly successful with the direct approach.”
At his words, a plank was lowered from the boat and a single figure walked across to the dock. Brannon hurried forward to meet her.
The Djin woman was barefoot. She wore a leather smock decorated with colorful stitching, coral beads, and painted marks. It was low cut at the top, clung to her curves, and finished mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare. Her skin was the dusky purple of all Djin, and she was covered in black tattoos similar to the marks painted on Keldan when he had been found. The symbols twined up her calves and thighs, spilled down her arms from her shoulders, and trailed across the space above her cleavage like ink necklaces. Her hair was dark and dreadlocked, with threads of gray, and hung down past her shoulders. Beads were threaded through the dreadlocks, some polished or painted wood, others coral or shell. Her face was kind, and her age hard to judge with only a few crow’s feet wrinkles in the corners of her eyes.
Brannon approached, his hands raised and open. “Welcome to Alapra. On behalf of King Aldan of Kalanon, I offer you welcome and our thanks for coming. I am Sir Brannon Kesh, King’s Champion.”
The woman held up a hand to pause him and tilted her head to one side as though listening intently. “Please to talk not fast,” she said, her thick accent sounding as though she spoke through a mouthful of her hair beads. “I am Ula. Am good to meet but first to thank the spirits.”
“She means the elementals,” Draeson said as the others moved up beside him. “Introductions won’t mean much if she doesn’t keep them happy.”
Brannon watched as the Djin woman knelt on the dock and spoke to the water elementals beneath. The language was a mix of guttural sounds, clicks and trills, a rough, earthy sound. He found himself wondering if the Hooded One, with his connection to animals, sounded something like this.
After speaking for a while, Ula cupped her hand under her chin and spat big gobs of saliva into it.
“What is she doing?” Jessamine said, her eyes pinned to the strange woman.
“I don’t know.” Brannon looked at Draeson but the mage only shrugged. “Just hope it works.”
Careful not to spill the captured saliva, Ula lay on the edge of the dock, heedless of her smock riding even further up her legs, and reached her cupped hand down toward the canal.
The water churned even more violently than before, slopping and sloshing about, boats rolled and strained against their moorings. Then a huge wave spurted up and washed over Ula’s hand, washing the saliva she’d offered into the water. Instantly the disturbance ceased, and the canal went back to normal.
Draeson swore. “What the Blood and Tears was that? They should have torn her apart!”
Ula rolled back to face them, smiling. “Done now,” she said. “Show me dead person.”
Brannon was pleased they had a carriage to take them to the Blue Rose. Somehow he couldn’t imagine walking or even riding through the streets with the Djin woman. Already a small crowd had gathered outside the Rose when they arrived.
“You might want to dress differently while you’re h
ere,” he suggested to her. “I can arrange for some Kalan clothes, if you like.”
Ula looked down at herself then met his eye directly. “No,” she said.
Jessamine smothered a snort of laughter.
“Er, that’s fine too,” Brannon stuttered.
The Djin woman was the only one of her people to remain in Alapra. As soon as her belongings—two leather bags painted like her clothes—had been unloaded, the multihulled boat had pushed off, this time sliding down the canal at a more usual pace. It seemed the elemental assistance had been for Ula’s benefit only.
Brannon helped Ula and Jessamine down from the carriage then stood aside for Draeson before leading the way up the stairs of the Blue Rose. Mala met them at the doorway.
“You’re back at last. Does this mean I’ll have my room back? Who’s going to pay for having blocked it up all this time?”
“You’ll be paid, Mala. Don’t worry.” Brannon said. “Besides, I thought it was good for business having something so exciting on site.”
“It was, until you told your soldiers not to even let anyone take a peek. Now we just get disappointed sightseers taking up space from my regular customers.”
Brannon gestured to Ula. “Well, this is the expert we’ve been waiting for, so we should have things back to normal soon.”
Her eyes widened as she took in the Djin woman. “Well, good.” She huffed and waved them toward the stairs. “Go on up then. The sooner the better.”
The temperature dropped at the top of the stairs, and was markedly cooler when they reached the door to Keldan’s room. The guards stepped aside and Brannon opened the door to reveal the clear, green-tinged resin encasing the room.
“Better let me deal to that,” Draeson said, stepping forward. He placed his hand on the substance and closed his eyes. His lips moved silently and then there was a hissing noise and the crystal dissolved into mist.
White fog rolled out from the doorway. It swallowed Draeson, then rapidly filled the hall until Brannon could see nothing. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature ran over his skin. “Draeson? Everything okay?”
Somewhere behind him a foot scuffed the ground. A cough came from somewhere else nearby. “Draeson?”
Something touched his hand and he grabbed it roughly, reaching for his sword before he recognized Jessamine’s fingers. “Sorry,” she said. “Just a bit spooked.”
Draeson’s voice emanated eerily from somewhere inside the room. “Probably should have opened a window first. Hang on a minute.”
Moments later a breeze swept through and the fog broke into tatters that drifted apart and dissolved entirely.
Brannon stepped into the cleared room. “Some warning would be good next time.”
Draeson shrugged.
Ula and Jessamine followed them in. Ula murmured something in her odd language as her eyes swept the room.
Nothing had changed since Brannon had seen it last. There was an odd sort of shock in seeing it all the same. Keldan’s corpse lay exposed with the same level of indignity, without even natural decay to offer release. The only difference was the smell. It was a moment before Brannon realized that Draeson’s magical fog had taken the smell of death out of the room.
“This be just as you find him?” Ula asked.
Brannon nodded. “Yes. The symbols on his skin and on the wall made us think . . . Well, they’re like yours.” He gestured to her tattoos. “Do you think someone could be trying to work Djin magic? Or could it have been a Djin?”
Ula shrugged. “If there be Djin in Alapra, you know it. Look like me—look different to you. Maybe someone copy.”
“Maybe.” Brannon had to admit, there was little chance of someone like Ula going unnoticed in Alapra. Kalanon was still a nation nervous of foreigners and the dusky purple skin and dreadlocked hair of a Djin would certainly stand out.
He watched as Ula leaned over the body, showing no sign of discomfort at the proximity of a corpse. She peered at the symbols, her fingers tracing them on the gray skin. Her mouth worked and she muttered angrily to herself. She lifted her finger to her nose and sniffed, then shook her head.
“What is it?” Jessamine asked, curiosity propelling her a step forward
“Was done by person that knows too much and not enough.” The Djin woman straightened up. “These symbols are ours. They are powerful and only known by shamans. No Kalan would know them.”
Brannon rubbed at the scar on his face. It couldn’t be a Djin because they’d be too noticeable and it couldn’t be a Kalan because they wouldn’t know the symbols. At this rate Ula would eliminate the entire world of suspects. Perhaps the Hooded One had snuck in and drawn the symbols for a laugh. “What are they used for?”
“They part of magic to make Risen, but not work here because done wrong. Not shaman trained,” Ula said. She flapped her hand at the markings on the wall and laughed. “Foolish to mark on wall. Want Risen building? Ha!”
“But they are true Djin symbols?” Brannon said.
Ula’s laughter died. Her jaw tightened. “Yes. This be very bad. Someone try to make Risen. Or maybe try to make it look like Djin are here making Risen. You say there other murders like this?”
“Not here in Alapra, but yes, we think so.”
“Then you must take me to see this also. Maybe person want something else too.” She paused, one hand circling in the air as she searched for words. “Maybe a thing bigger than . . . ” Her hand jerked toward the body of Prince Keldan.
Brannon sighed. “Maybe. Either way, it’s time we had a talk with the king.”
Chapter Eleven
The lock on Duke Roydan’s office door gave way with a satisfying click. Latricia slipped the key into her pocket, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her. The room had a musky, incense sort of smell, mixed with that of leather and old books. It was a little bigger than the office Keldan had used, but shaped much the same way. The desk was the same rich mahogany, but the chairs were high-backed, polished brown leather. The ceiling was a fresco of the battle between Valdan and the Hooded One, their violence spilling gold blood into the mountains of Sandilar. The walls were lined with bookshelves and cabinets with elegant mother-of-pearl inlay designs on the wood.
Latricia crept forward, her eyes scouting for the box she’d seen the mysterious figure bring with him the night before. Whatever Roydan was up to, it had to do with whatever was inside. When her maid had mentioned that Roydan had been summoned by the king for an update on Sir Brannon’s investigation, Latricia had been angry that he’d not thought to invite her as well. How could he not realize she wanted to find out what happened to her husband? But she’d quickly recognized it as an opportunity to find out more about her father-in-law’s plans.
Keldan had often snooped in his father’s office—sometimes even with Latricia standing guard at the door—but Latricia herself had spent very little time in the room. Everything was very orderly. The papers on the desk were in careful stacks, the books were carefully in place. There was no sign of anything resembling a crate.
“Well, of course it wouldn’t be easy,” she murmured to herself.
The cabinets yielded nothing, even after a search of the desk drawers turned up keys for the ones that were locked. She’d hardly thought Roydan would have kept something important and secret in so obvious a place anyway. Certainly, Keldan never had. So she started searching for hidden compartments, levers and latches that were cleverly disguised.
A wall panel popped open with a nudge, to reveal a cavity holding nothing but gold ingots. It was the same panel in the same place as one of the secret spots in Keldan’s office, so hadn’t been hard to find. Latricia pushed it closed again. All these years she’d learned to be unimpressed with gold. Now, without her husband’s connections, she wished she had some of her own.
Her gaze passed over the desk again. It was longer than the drawers had been, she realized. There could easily be a hidden space in the desk, behind the drawers. She circled
it, trying to spot any break or crack in the wood that would indicate a hinge or door. She pressed and pulled at the corners and edges, trying to find a switch to open it. Nothing.
Moving behind the desk, she pulled the heavy chair to one side, its feet silent on the rug, then got on her hands and knees to crawl into the leg-space. Her skirt tangled around her legs and she struggled a bit, trying to keep quiet as she did so.
She was about to try tapping the inside of the desk when realization struck her that the chair had moved silently. Last night, she’d heard it scrape on the floor. Last night, there had been no rug on the floor.
She crawled back out and looked at the rug. Lightweight, maroon and gold, and, she discovered when she pulled it up, tacked in place along one side only. It flipped up easily to expose the floorboards beneath. Floorboards which, with a little exploration, slid aside to reveal a cavity below the floor. Inside was the crate she’d seen the night before.
The outside of the crate was unmarked. Her fingers trembled a bit as she pried open the lid.
The contents were instantly recognizable. Latricia sat back on her heels. A bolt of silk. All this over the trade deal with the Nilarian ambassador? Why? The entire household and some of Roydan’s competitors already knew the negotiations were underway. That’s how Keldan had become involved. Why keep another delivery of samples hidden? And why receive them in the middle of the night?
She thought about the conversation she’d overheard between Roydan and the mysterious stranger. They’d mentioned the Nilarian ambassador, but hadn’t thought she could reveal anything of danger to their plans. But if their plans were to do with the silk, surely she had to be involved?
Latricia turned the lid of the crate over in her hands. No ambassadorial seal. When Keldan had begun talking to Ambassador Ylani, he’d mentioned to Latricia that everything from Nilar had to go through the ambassador and be marked with the seal before it could be released to any Kalan. Could it be that this crate of silk had bypassed Ylani entirely?
Latricia tugged at the crate, tipping it this way and that so that she could see the sides. It was heavier than she’d expected. There was no sign of the seal anywhere.
