by Jill Braden
Sighing, Cuulon picked up a file from his desktop and opened it. He peered at the papers, but Kyam doubted he read a word. Without looking up, he asked, “Am I a suspect?”
“You’re a witness.”
“You are investigating his death. Admit it.” Cuulon leaned back in his seat and folded his hands in his lap with the air of a man who’d laid winning tiles on the table.
Everything Cuulon said made sense. Kyam prayed to the Goddess of Mercy that he never ran afoul of QuiTai.
“Why would Lady QuiTai kill Turyat when she could torture him instead? Wouldn’t that ruin all her fun?” Kyam asked.
“Does it matter? She’s guilty of many things. Why worry if we execute her for the wrong reason? Come on, Zul, you know I’m right.”
“We have a town full of Ponongese who would care very much if we hung her without just cause. I don’t like the mood in this town, Cuulon.”
“That’s why we agreed the assembly rule was needed. If the snakes start gathering to cause problems, we’ll hang them by the dozens until they get the message.”
Kyam felt sick. That wasn’t what he’d envisioned when he’d agreed to that rule, not that his opinion mattered. Cuulon was the one who made up the laws in Levapur.
“We still have to tread carefully here. Don’t do anything without talking to me first. Don’t torture her, and definitely don’t hang her until I’ve had a chance to build a case against her.”
“Against her? For a moment here, I thought you were trying to exonerate her.”
“Just playing devil’s advocate.”
Chapter 7: Kyam Investigates
Kyam shielded his face as he ducked into the small Thampurian neighborhood on the southern slope of the Quarter of Delights that was known as the Quarter of the Unclean. He made sure no one important was nearby, and then hurried down the narrow street lined with butcher shops, tanneries, mortuaries, and tenements. Ocean breezes hadn’t purged the air here as they did the rest of the town, and the sharp stink made his eyes sting. No wonder the rest of the Thampurians made this caste live off by themselves. His hand moved from the side of his face to his nose.
He stopped at a white building with sky blue shutters and checked the name on the simple plaque by the door. No one came when he knocked, so he stepped inside. Although it was midday, the dim light from the shrouded jellylanterns made it seem like twilight. The transition made him feel as if he’d suddenly lost time he could never make up.
The room smelled strongly of wood oil, a welcome change from the tannery down the road. Stairs before him led into stifling darkness. On both sides of the foyer, he caught glimpses of richly appointed parlors through sliding screens.
Muffled footsteps shuffling over polished wood enforced a sense of silence weighing down the air inside. He turned toward the sound and waited with growing impatience.
A thin, elderly Thampurian dressed in white bowed deeply before stepping into the foyer. His expression conveyed condolences. If this man had been in any other profession, Kyam would have returned the bow, or offered his hand, but it simply wasn’t done.
“I understand you serve as the coroner for the government,” Kyam said.
The man bowed again. “I have been honored with that trust.” His grating accent proved he’d been born in Surrayya, but in a neighborhood above the canals. He’d moved as far as he could from Thampur, but he’d never escape his caste.
Kyam’s mouth was dry. Too late, he realized how odd his questions were going to sound, even to a man who prepared bodies for cremation. Once it was known he’d come here to look at the body, the stain on his family name would be nearly impossible to remove. Even this man would think less of him. It had to be done though. With the scene of the crime hopelessly contaminated by those idiot soldiers, the body was the best evidence he had.
“I understand Governor Turyat’s body was brought here,” Kyam said.
“Yes.”
Even though they were alone, Kyam didn’t trust the foyer. Anyone could be in the shadows of the upstairs landing. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
The man gestured to one of the parlors.
Kyam walked in and sat on a dark red settee. His spine ached from the stiff posture. His hands rested on his thighs inches from his knees, as was proper. The man did not sit, and this too was right.
He pulled on his collar. “If I may ask, in your professional opinion, how did Governor Turyat die?”
QuiTai had once observed that respect was in such short supply in Thampurian culture that the smallest drop of it spent further than coin. From the change that came over the man, that was true. Of course it was; QuiTai understood people better than anyone he’d ever met. A member of the thirteen families asking for such a man’s opinion was unheard-of flattery.
“As a professional.” The mortician smiled into his fist then coughed to hide it. “I do not wish to bring up unpleasant topics.”
“And I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”
“You honor me, Governor Zul.”
Kyam realized he was in for a very long conversation. While QuiTai’s directness often struck him as rude, he missed it at times like these. As he went through the motions and said the proper words, his patience thinned. They slowly circled on the topic of Turyat’s manner of death, but ricocheted off into safer topics each time they got close. QuiTai would have made it a tantalizing dance of wits. This man didn’t.
The man glanced a third time at Kyam’s leg. It bounced as he tapped his foot. Kyam willed it to stop.
“If I might see the body,” Kyam said.
“See?”
Kyam was certain he’d spoken Thampurian, so the lack of understanding wasn’t his fault. “Yes. See. Before you cremate him.”
Flustered, the man shot a glance at the parlor door. “It is my professional opinion that the governor died from blood loss. His right temple was wounded, and that might have killed him, but from the amount of blood surrounding the body, I estimate that he was alive for a few minutes after sustaining the wound, although he was probably unconscious. Praise be the Goddess of Mercy that he did not suffer.”
“Praise be.” Kyam echoed the words without thought or feeling. “Were there any puncture marks on the body?”
The man seemed surprised. “I didn’t look for them.”
“Why not? Surely you heard a Ponongese was accused of the murder.”
“If a snake bit him, she didn’t share enough of her venom to kill him. I assumed she had been caught delivering the blow to his head.”
Kyam didn’t know why he felt like defending QuiTai. “Truthfully, she wasn’t even in the building at the time of the murder.”
“Ah. That makes it much more difficult to kill a man.”
Was that a slight twinkle in the mortician’s eye?
“Do you see many deaths by Ponongese venom?”
The man shrugged. “A few cases since I moved here forty-six years ago. Much more common before Governor Turyat took the office. Since then, only one that I can remember.”
“How did you know Turyat didn’t die from venom if you rarely see cases?”
This time, the man chuckled. “When I came to Levapur, it wasn’t like this.” He gestured around the room as if it encompassed the whole town. “There were very few Thampurians. We lived with them, the snakes. It was primitive.” He wrinkled his nose. “I learned to tell a boar brought down by a Ponongese hunter from one our men killed.”
“Is it safe to eat that meat?”
“We survived. So do they. They aren’t immune to their own venom, did you know? We cooked the meat well, of course, and the Ponongese swear you must cook it with a root and spice preparation that nullifies the venom. I don’t know if that’s true, but who would be the first man to risk eating meat not cooked that way? We got used to it, but I never liked it.”
Kyam had never heard any of that. Meat in the marketplace all came from Thampurian butchers because the Ponongese were only allowed to sell fish, but he’d never k
nown why. He’d assumed it was simply to protect Thampurian butchers from competition with the Ponongese.
“How could you tell if the boar came from a Ponongese hunter? Is there some obvious sign that a Ponongese killed the animal?”
“Death comes from slow suffocation as the paralysis takes the use of their lungs from them. They feel it, you know, the Ponongese. There’s a psychic connection in their venom that makes them suffer along with their prey. The connection stops the moment the prey dies. That’s why the snakes kill their prey as quickly and painlessly as possible.”
“But the body, how could you tell Turyat – Governor Turyat – hadn’t been dosed with venom to render him incapable of fighting back when he was struck?”
The mortician blinked. “My profuse apologizes if you thought I was not clear, Governor. No snake would allow a victim to die as slowly as the late Governor Turyat appeared to, as they would suffer through his death and maybe even slip into unconsciousness themselves along with him. They suffer when they kill prey, suffer the pain of death, so they are careful to do it in such a way that it does not kill them too. Can you imagine if every time you ate meat that you had to pay such a price? We Thampurians would all be vegetarians. Such is the curse of a more refined nature.”
Kyam knew all of this, but had never connected the information like that. If the rumor were true, no wonder QuiTai had taken refuge in black lotus when the werewolves she’d paralyzed were torn to pieces by that mob. It was a wonder that she wasn’t insane. Although, if he were honest, there were times when he thought she might be a little mad.
“Interesting,” he said.
“In addition, Governor Turyat’s fingernails and lips didn’t show classic signs of suffocation. And his tongue wasn’t swollen or discolored.”
“Ah.” That was much better. It sounded like real evidence rather than an opinion.
“Believe me, we look for such signs, under orders from Chief Justice Cuulon, even though, as I mentioned, I’ve rarely seen it. The Ponongese aren’t especially violent people, unlike the Li Islanders, who are dirt.” The mortician spat on the polished floor.
LiHoun was the only Li Islander Kyam knew. He wouldn’t call LiHoun dirt. And he’d never seen the man act violently. Sneaky was a better description. But maybe LiHoun was as different from his people as QuiTai was from hers.
The mortician folded his hands. He had the look of a man taking out his memories and cherishing each one. “It’s funny, odd, that Cuulon made it illegal for the snakes to show us their fangs. Way back, he used to beg their women to show their fangs to him. We all did. There were no Thampurian women for years. And we were curious about the rumors…”
Of course they had been curious. The first rumor Thampurian men heard about the Ponongese, even before anyone mentioned their reptilian eyes, concerned their venom. That time QuiTai had slid the tip of her tongue down her fangs, he’d almost grabbed her and pulled her into the jungle. In his most erotic dreams of her, he returned to that moment. Had she been threatening him or seducing him? Probably a bit of both. She liked layers of meaning in her words, why not her actions?
“We’ve all heard that rumor.” Sometimes Kyam wondered if he were the only Thampurian in Levapur who hadn’t tried a drop of venom with his sexual encounters. Maybe it was one of those rumors everyone believed but no one dared follow up on. Most of the Ponongese hanged for showing their fangs were men, after all, not women.
A flash of insight made him wince. Were his people really so intimidated by Ponongese men that they’d treat the mere flash of fangs as a sexual assault? They would. He knew they would, because he knew what Thampurians thought of the shiftless races. Animals was the kindest word they used.
Kyam missed the days when he had never thought about such things. Ignorance was a kind of bliss, which probably explained why QuiTai lived in a permanent state of rage. She knew too much.
The mortician leered. “You’ve heard about the psychic connection the snakes feel with their prey? It works with a lover, too. As long as you don’t get a lethal dose, the woman, she knows exactly what pleases you. You don’t have to say a word. And she feels pleasure by serving you.”
Kyam’s ingrained snobbery made him recoil from the lower caste man. He hated himself for the creeping sense of disgust inching up his spine.
The mortician’s wife shuffled into the parlor, and the conversation slipped back into the expected propriety. Time ticked away with each practiced phrase. Tea was offered. To his surprise, they inquired after Nashruu. Gossip flew on strong wings in Levapur. He forced his attention back to the conversation. His knee bounced again. “Pardon me, but could you tell if Turyat was in dream when he died? If he had been, he might have fallen and hurt himself. It might not be a murder after all.”
The wife gasped. She covered her mouth, but not before he saw her lips purse.
“I have no way of telling, but he had a pipe in his hand when he was brought in.”
It was hard to tell if she were more aghast at Kyam or her husband. As a thiree and Governor, Kyam had more face to lose, but money could buy a lot of forgiveness. As low as their caste was, there was still a level or two to sink. She stared daggers at her husband.
“A pipe?” Kyam asked.
“Would you like to see it?” he asked.
Her hand shot out to smack his thigh almost faster than Kyam could see it, but he heard it.
Kyam nodded. He doubted it would tell him the most important part: someone had offered Turyat black lotus, and he was pretty sure it hadn’t been QuiTai.
Chapter 8: At the Dragon Pearl
Kyam rushed uphill from the mortuary and through the dodgy neighborhood. He slowed when he reached the peak of the hill near the Dragon Pearl to catch his breath. The Quarter of Delights spread out below him. The streets were busier than before, but the crowds wouldn’t come until after it cooled down later in the evening. Then laughter and light would spill out of these buildings into the streets. The verandas would be crowded. No one would be mourning Turyat.
He stepped over a flowing sewer in the middle of the road. One of these days, he’d have to do something about the streets in Levapur. It seemed like the sort of thing a governor should do. The streets around the Red Happiness had real sewers, but that was the only place in Levapur that did. QuiTai had probably paid for the project herself. She wanted her customers to be able to enjoy the veranda without having to see or smell a river of excrement as it flowed past.
Kyam shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled to the Red Happiness. Maybe the scene of the crime wasn’t as disrupted as he feared. He should at least give it a look. He wished some Ponongese were around to see him investigating the murder. It was important that they knew what he was doing. Dear Goddess of Mercy, he had no respect for himself anymore. He’d become a politician.
He reached for the typhoon shutter but pulled his hand away. He’d never been inside when the brothel was closed. He felt as if he were trespassing; but honestly, who would dare stop the colony’s Governor from going wherever he pleased? He yanked open the shutter.
Inside, it looked as if there had been a brawl. Broken tables and chairs were stacked at the far end of the room. White stuffing had escaped from the cushions of several settees, and empty bottles covered the bar. Long splinters hung around the lock on QuiTai’s office door.
Water pooled in the center of freshly mopped floorboards. The ceiling fans rotated slowly. Under the strong scent of whiskey and rum, he smelled blood and the resinous stink of black lotus. A large fly buzzed close to his face. As he swatted it away, it bit his hand.
“We’re closed.”
Even though the room was brightly lit, he had to search for the source of the voice. The brothel’s Ingosolian Madam, Inattra, sat on the staircase. Only his curly strawberry-blond hair was visible over the banister.
Kyam walked up the stairs to the first landing and leaned against a post. “Turyat put up quite a fight.”
Inattra sat with his
knees spread and shoulders bowed. Despite the turmoil, he was dressed in a stylish brown suit that complemented his bluish skin. Lace flowed from his cuffs and down his shirt front.
“Your militia did that.”
“All of that?”
With a great sigh, Inattra gripped the railing and pulled himself to his feet. He towered over Kyam until he stepped down to the same riser. “When have you ever known a vapor ghoul to struggle against a pipe?”
Inattra indicated the mess with a sweeping gesture as he walked down the stairs. “Your militia also broke the locks on the liquor cabinets and drank our stock. What they couldn’t drink, they stuck in their pockets. What they couldn’t put in their pockets, they broke open and poured onto the floor. I’d send the colonial government a bill, but from what I’ve heard, Turyat plundered the treasury so thoroughly that you can’t even remit the rice tax to Thampur.”
Bad news traveled fast; even faster when it moved through QuiTai’s network. “Send the bill. We’ll take it out of their pay,” Kyam said.
Inattra picked up an empty bottle from the bar and put it into a large basket on the floor. “That would be a first, but I’ll pretend you’re serious.”
“I am. So you gave Turyat some black lotus? I understood that QuiTai cut him off.”
“Give that ghoul a pipe? Never. I’d lose my job, and I like working here.” He set more bottles into the basket. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.
“Then who did?”
“An idiot.”
“Only if someone actually gave him some. Is it possible that someone took his coins and ran off with them?”
A short bark of laughter filled the bar. “Once a ghoul latches onto the idea of a pipe, it’s all their decaying minds can focus on. Can you imagine the fuss Turyat would have raised if the black lotus never came? His friend Cuulon would execute anyone who tried to pull that trick.”
“So you think he actually got his pipe?”
After thinking for a bit, Inattra slowly shook his head. “I’m not sure. There was a lit spirit lamp sitting on this bar. He was clutching a pipe, but I never saw a vial. Maybe it fell on the floor. Who knows? The militia made such a mess. It wasn’t like this before they came, you know.”
