by Sarra Cannon
“I’ll show you out.”
Back in the carriage, the chief said, “Burl, I won’t assign you and an Movis any new cases for the next few days, in case House Staerleigh should have need of you.”
“Yes, Chief,” Burl said, nodding.
The chief left them at the station doors, and Kila trailed Burl back to their desks. “Anything in particular you need me to do?” he asked her.
“No. I’ll handle the report. You should take the time to continue to familiarize yourself with House Staerleigh and our current cases.”
Summarily dismissed. Burl’s wanting to handle the report didn’t surprise him. No doubt she would see to it that the wording was done so delicately as not to offend House Staerleigh in any way. Still, he would have to make a point to get his hands on it, to go over everything in minute detail, try to determine if anything stood out.
The rest of the day was uneventful. Kila remained at his desk after Burl left, scheming to devise a way he might get hold of the report without Burl’s hearing about it. Try as he might, he came up with nothing and reluctantly left an hour later.
Turned out he needn’t have bothered. He was about to head down his street when someone hissed at him from an alleyway. Glancing about to ensure no one was watching, he slipped into its shadows.
“Chief Flim,” he said, surprised. He’d expected to see Miss Wyland.
“The report on Stowley’s suicide,” the chief said, handing him a leather pouch speckled with rain.
“Any reason I should be suspicious?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” she said, frowning. “Keep your eyes open, though, Kila. Things will be shifting in Staerleigh, and until we see where the pieces fall, we won’t have much to go on. Stay as close to Burl as you can.”
“Will do. Anything else I ought to be aware of?”
She shook her head and turned up the collar of her greatcoat, concealing the lower part of her face. “Watch yourself.” She disappeared down the alley, Kila staring after her.
Good advice. If only I knew who I needed to watch out for.
Chapter 13
“No,” Lach said in a voice so hoarse it was almost unintelligible. “No more.” He turned his head away, refusing the draught Cianne was supposed to be administering. He had refused to take his previous doses from anyone other than her, but he’d taken them dutifully enough earlier in the day.
“Lach, your mother said—”
“Since when have you cared what my mother says?” he asked, the words coming out in short gasps. She was shocked. The tension between his mother and Cianne was something about which they had never spoken. Cianne knew Lach had noticed it, but she also knew he had chosen to ignore it as a means of telling her that he couldn’t care less about his mother’s disapproval.
“Fair enough,” she said, setting the draught aside. He was exhausted and overwrought, and she didn’t know if he’d made the comment as a joke or if he was angry with her for some reason. His emotions had been volatile the entire day, though she suspected the sedative was exacerbating the problem. It made him fall asleep for hours on end, but he was fitful and combative whenever it began to wear off.
“So thirsty,” he said, panting.
Cianne poured him a glass of water and he drained it, holding the glass out to her. She refilled it and he drained that one as well.
“The sedative?” she asked.
“Think so. Don’t want to be drugged anymore,” he said, anger darkening his face. “She think she can drug this away for me?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone knows what they’re doing at the moment.” Tears sprang to Cianne’s eyes and she brushed them away.
“He’s gone,” Lach said, his voice breaking. He started to sob, but quietly this time.
“I’m sorry, Lach. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Cianne said, putting her arms around him. Face pressed against her neck, he cried for a while. She rested her cheek against his hair, wetting it with her own tears.
“He didn’t do this, Cianne,” Lach said at last, when his tears were spent. He pulled away from her, sagging back against his pillows.
“Lach—” she began in a gentle tone.
“No! Don’t you dare talk to me the way she does!”
The force of his anger took her aback, and she kept a wary eye fixed on him as she sat back in her chair, which a servant had placed next to the side of his bed, hours ago. It felt more like days. She poured herself some tepid tea and took a sip.
“Sorry,” he said, hanging his head. He forced himself into an upright position, drawing his knees up to his chest. He dropped his head into his hands. “This grief, it— I feel like it will tear me apart.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“I know you do. Of course you do. I don’t remember you acting like this, though,” he said, waving a disgusted hand at himself.
“That’s mostly because you didn’t see it. I withdrew. We all deal with grief in our own way.”
“I’m so angry,” he said, the words a barely audible whisper.
She could understand that. She had been angry at her mother for dying, but Annalith hadn’t gone out willingly. Cianne didn’t know if she honestly suspected that what had happened to Toran had been anything but suicide, but she could imagine how she would feel if she were in Lach’s shoes.
“It’s okay,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound patronizing. “If you need to be angry, be angry.”
“I’m angry because it’s a lie,” he said. He lifted his head to look at her, his face devastated by anguish, his eyes red and raw, his nose running, his cheeks scratchy with stubble. His hair stood on end as he yanked his hands through it.
“What’s a lie?”
“That he did this to himself. He would never do this to himself!”
Chewing the inside of her cheek, Cianne tried to find the right words. This was all so grueling, far more grueling than she could have imagined. She had to keep him in the dark. Whatever was happening in House Staerleigh, she didn’t think he played any part in it, but his mother might. Lach would never agree to do what Cianne intended to do, what she had long done: skulk around, observe, and snoop, until she could winkle out everyone’s secrets. He would want to go charging in, demanding answers. Such blunt methods would not only get them nowhere, they might get them killed.
“You think I’m in denial,” he said with a harsh laugh, before she could reply.
“I don’t know, Lach. Perhaps,” she said, sighing.
“Perhaps I am,” he said, his anger fading, leaving him looking older than his years, weighed down with grief. “But I don’t believe he’d do this, Cianne. Every fiber of my being rejects the idea. He wasn’t sad, he wasn’t upset. He was a valued and valuable member of the House. Yes, he seemed preoccupied lately, but he wasn’t despondent. He was happy I was home. He and I made plans, for Cearus’s sake! We were going to go on a voyage, spend some time together, before—” He bit off his tirade abruptly. “Why would he make plans with me, knowing he intended to do this horrible thing?”
“What if he didn’t want you to know that something was wrong?” she asked. As much as she hated herself for posing the question, he was irrational, that much was obvious. There might be something to his assertions, and she had already committed herself to looking into it, but she couldn’t afford to appear to conspire with him. She had to behave as any other House member might when presented with his assertions.
“Cearus’s bloody trident, Cianne. I thought you of all people would understand.”
His words hit her like a slap in the face. Being the subject of his unbridled fury hurt.
“I do understand,” she said, her words fierce. “I understand that you’re hurting, and I understand that hurt. I hurt too. But lashing out at me isn’t going to make it better.”
“No, you’re right, it isn’t,” he said, his voice breaking once more. His shoulders shook with dry sobs as he buried his face in his hands.
“Ple
ase, Lach, please give yourself some time. I don’t want you to stop talking to me, but I don’t want you to make this worse on yourself or anyone else.”
His whole body shuddered as he inhaled. “All right. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone right now.”
“Of course. Whatever you need.” Giving his hand a brief squeeze, she rose from her seat. “Should I come back in the morning?”
“No, the afternoon. My mother and I have to meet with the Elders, make arrangements.” He had to force the words out, and his throat worked convulsively as he swallowed.
“Get some rest,” she said, kissing the top of his sweaty head.
Reaching up, he caught one of her hands, squeezing it so hard she had to bite back a yelp of pain. He brought it to his lips and kissed it, then traced the veins running over the top.
“I need you, Cianne. I don’t think I can do this without you. I couldn’t bear to lose you as well.”
“You won’t lose me,” she said, her throat aching, knowing the words were a lie. She wanted to pull her hand from his but didn’t want to do anything to increase his distress.
He loosened his grip and she slipped her hand free. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Turning his back to her, he curled in on himself, his head buried in his pillows. She wasn’t certain leaving him alone was wise, and though he might be angry with her for it, she decided to tell his mother that he had refused the draught. Moiria would ensure nothing happened to him.
Cianne had heard the Enforcers arrive earlier. Lach had been asleep, and she had pressed her ear to the door but hadn’t heard anything more than the sound of their footsteps fading down the corridor and disappearing behind another door. She had wanted to eavesdrop, but she hadn’t wanted to leave Lach in case he woke and needed her. Kila could tell her what had happened, and she would tell him about her conversation with Lach.
Toran’s study door loomed at the end of the corridor as she left Lach’s room, tempting her. She wanted to slip inside and have a look about, rifle through Toran’s papers and see if she could find anything, anything at all that might help her. She didn’t dare attempt it, though. Too many people were in the manor, and if someone were to see her entering or leaving the study, she would not be able to explain it away. She would have to content herself with waiting until that night, when she could slip into the house under cover of darkness.
“Advisor Stowley, may I have a word?” Cianne asked, folding her hands demurely as she stepped into the sitting room.
“Certainly,” Moiria said, walking out into the corridor with her.
“Lach didn’t want to take the last dose of sedative,” she said.
Moiria frowned. “That may be for the best. He’ll want to be lucid for what we have to do tomorrow.” She slumped against the wall, passing a hand over her forehead.
“He’s not well,” Cianne said gently. “He’s very agitated. I’m concerned about him.”
“I’ll see to him,” Moiria said, a flash of dislike crossing her face.
“He’s asked me to come back in the afternoon, after you meet with the Elders.”
“You’re always welcome,” Moiria said. She couldn’t have made the statement more perfunctory if she had tried.
“My father asked me to tell you that if you have need of anything, don’t hesitate to call, no matter the hour.”
The mention of Cianne’s father was enough to smooth some of the lines from Moiria’s face, and Cianne wondered, for one appalled second, if the woman was having an affair with her father. But, no, she didn’t think that was possible. Her father conducted all kinds of meetings with all kinds of people at all kinds of hours, but she was fairly certain none of them were assignations. Besides, she kept track of her father’s meetings, and she couldn’t recall his being alone with Moiria more than once, and then only for a brief period of time. Every other meeting with her had included others as well.
“That’s very kind of him. Please offer him my gratitude.”
“I will. Good night, Advisor Stowley.”
“Good night, Cianne.”
Cianne lingered long enough to say good night to Lach’s family, all of whom she knew. Some appeared to resent her presence, but others studied her with appraising gazes, their expressions knowing. It made her feel sick to her stomach. Were they anticipating planning a wedding once the funeral was done?
Outside she drew in a deep breath of the evening air. The drizzle had continued unabated since morning. Dreary and chilly as it was, the moisture felt good against her skin, as if it might cleanse away the stain of her thoughts.
It would make Stowley manor’s walls slippery, so she would have to take extra care when she climbed them. First, though, she had to go home and put in an appearance with her father, little as she relished the thought.
Fortunately for her he was tied up in his study. She popped her head in to pass along Moiria’s message, and he nodded before sending her away with an impatient wave.
She ate a quick, solitary meal in her room before dismissing Vivie for the night. She remained in front of her vanity for several more minutes, brushing her hair to a fine shine, until she was certain Vivie really was gone. Then she got ready, tying her hair back, dressing in her dark clothing, and assembling some of her necessities: three daggers hidden in various sheaths on her body, and a small pack containing some rope, powdered chalk, and several metal spikes.
Leaving her room, she crept through the corridor, tucking herself into a tiny supply closet a few doors down from her father’s room. Once his heavy tread had passed her she counted to five hundred and then set out, climbing through a small window on the third story. She knew the exterior of their manor so well that she could skim, eyes closed, along the narrow stone ledge ringing the windows without falling or alerting anyone to her presence. She had done it, several times.
Guards patrolled the streets, so Cianne took a circuitous route to avoid them. The buildings in the enclave were spaced farther apart than those in the city, precluding her from traveling via the rooftops, as she did when she prowled the city proper. Instead, she wound a path through gardens, over walls, and along the upper story of a manor belonging to an elderly lady who retired almost before the sun set. The garden walls in the enclave were low, but one side of the Stowley garden was concealed by a voluminous lilac bush, and Cianne climbed with confidence, knowing no one would see her. From the second floor she made a circuit of the manor, ensuring no candles were guttering behind the windows. All was still.
Jimmying open a window at the back of the manor, she slipped inside. Hopefully no one would ever discover that the latch was loose. She could probably still find another way in if they did, but that loose latch made her life a lot easier.
Skulking through Lach’s home made her feel decidedly unsavory, but she pushed the discomfort aside. She consoled herself with the thought that she was no thief. After all, she never took objects of material worth. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was splitting hairs, as she freely stole information.
Creeping to a door, she opened it a crack and held her breath, straining her ears. Nothing. Taking care not to allow the door to creak, she opened it wide enough for her to slip through it and pulled it shut behind her without making any noise. As a child she had resented her smallness. She had wished she were burlier, hale and hearty like her Houses’ best sailors. As an adult smallness worked in her favor. Clad all in black, she was difficult to spot in the darkness, and she weighed so little that moving silently required far less effort than it would have for a hale and hearty sailor-type.
She made it to Toran’s study without incident. Was this a foolhardy effort? What could she hope to find in here? If someone had murdered Toran they would have known the Enforcers would trek through whichever room he was found in, so they would have to be devoid of intelligence to leave anything lying about.
Ought to have thought of that sooner. Might as well take a look while you’re here.
After half an hour
of searching, though, she found nothing. It didn’t look as though anyone had done much since Toran’s death. Parchment and ledgers littered the top of his desk, and she kept her eyes studiously averted from the carpet. She didn’t like the pattern she saw in its crushed surface.
Paging through the ledgers, her eyes glazed over at the endless columns of numbers. She detested accounting, long ago deciding it was better left to the Coin Masters. She had already ascertained there was nothing of interest in any of the drawers, nor did they have false bottoms or anything attached to their undersides. The parchments also yielded nothing, and she was on the verge of calling it a night when she halted. Paging through the ledger more slowly, she noticed something that struck her as odd. Toran must have devised his own system, because he never used words, just letters and numbers. Positive figures had been inked in black and negatives in red. It was all very neat, orderly, but Cianne studied one entry, brow furrowed in concentration, then flipped past a few pages. Sure enough, she saw it at that entry as well. So faint she had almost mistaken it for a random blot, there was a hash mark next to the entry, just as there were with at least six others scattered throughout the ledger. What if Toran had attempted to hide something but had done so in plain sight?
Easing the ledger into her pack, Cianne decided it was time to go. It might prove to be a dead end, but it was all she had to work with, for the moment.
Chapter 14
“I’ve brought you something,” Miss Wyland said as he emerged from his office on his way to make himself a cup of tea.
“Do make yourself at home,” he said in a dry voice, wondering if he appeared as taken aback by her presence as he felt.
Brushing the comment aside, she said, “I’ve no wish to invade your privacy, but marching through your front door wouldn’t be advisable. It’s best if I slip in and out.”
“You seem to have become quite skilled at it.”
“I have,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact.
He didn’t think the statement prideful, merely a confirmation of something he had already ascertained, and he liked her for it. He disliked braggarts but didn’t see the point of being coy about one’s accomplishments, and he found distasteful anyone who employed false modesty in an attempt to garner the favorable opinions of others. Straightforwardness was a virtue he appreciated.
