Cinders on the Wind

by Louis Emery

  “Nor should you. A pretty sum, I’d imagine. Or I should say an added bonus to the king’s reward. Lord Staverly is going to have to be more careful of the persons he has surrounding him. Better yet, who he hires as his personal guard.”

  “He can learn something from the rigor in which King Greenvale selects us, his sworn Kingsguard.”

  “That he can,” Orbist switched the reins to another hand and adjusted his robe. “Staverly relies on his advisors to choose his guard. There’s Pete Gunther, and that Slake fellow—Victor Slake.”

  Malcolm turned. “Don’t like him much.”

  “You’ve met him? Gunther can be a handful I’ve heard, but Slake is like a head throb. Just when you think you’ve rid yourself of his company, he appears in the corner of the room. Ah, well, you might be pleased to hear that Staverly has had Slake temporarily demoted.”

  Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, yes,” Orbist continued, “after all, he was the one who hired the would-be assassin into his lord’s guard. A bit of a mismanagement, don’t you think?”

  “When you say temporarily demoted …”

  “He’s been retitled stable-master, I hear. Apparently, the previous one got kicked in a shoeing and won’t be able to perform his duties for quite some time.”

  Malcolm chuckled.

  They came to the Undul River where cargo ships sailed for distant kingdoms. One made its way before them—most likely spices, hides, and wool for Nasantium, Malcolm supposed. They trotted over the Layered Bridge of multicolored rocks, and it reminded Malcolm of the prisoner. King Greenvale did not offer the quarry, as Malcolm suggested. Instead, a confession was made after the king gave two choices. An excruciating execution of drawing and quartering if he did not talk or a quick beheading if he did. The prisoner had opted for the latter. The execution was to take place during the week.

  They passed by the large barracks situated on the street of the same name, holding the west wing of Em Regis’s defensive army. Should a riot spring up or the city be laid a surprise siege, the soldiers would be ready.

  “Strange a Rouser traveled this far to get to Lord Staverly,” Malcolm said admiring the tavern sign for the ‘The Spectacled Goat.’

  “What better way for the Redwoodians to send a message than at the kingdom’s most celebrated event,” Orbist replied. “Prestonpan Fells and Isles have been curbing trade to Valiant’s people in Redwoodia to the northwest. This assassin wanted to make a spectacle, to show the king, lords, and great houses of the Backlands that his people will not tolerate such mistreatment.”

  “Do you think Valiant—a leader who’s outside the Isles on the mainland—sanctioned it?”

  “No idea. Part of me thinks he would not risk war over a few trade routes, especially with Cintros at his jugular. There are other parties that act outside their leader’s wishes. Many Redwoodians are angry with Staverly, and I can empathize with them, but there are other ways besides bloodshed.” Orbist looked up. “Ah, here we are.”

  Before them stood the Dragonmother temple with its marble columns, stone archways, and numerous egg-white steps leading to the entrance. To Malcolm’s surprise, armored guards wearing the green colors of the Backlands stood near the threshold.

  8

  Back in the temple devotion hall with its grand mosaic windows, Malcolm sat next to the Mage-Council, and across the table sat young Ethlin, the Seer, with Priestess Patrycias. As he’d ascended the steps to the entrance, Orbist must’ve noticed the confusion in his eyes.

  A few days before, Orbist received a letter from the priestess explaining how she and Ethlin had been attacked by two fanatics of the Darien Sect. Orbist had received permission to send over guards, giving the temple much-needed added protection.

  “I’m not clear on how much the priestess has told you, young lady,” Orbist said, sipping a cup of wine provided by a towering youth with broad shoulders. Malcolm thought this Tomsun would serve better use under the king’s banners.

  “Only that you’d like to work with me in the mage ways,” Ethlin said, glancing at her guardian, “to offer me training, and to better understand my … um … ability.”

  “That’s right. I’ve been writing to your priestess. I was distressed to hear of your being attacked. There are members of the Sect that can be belligerent and dangerous. No one should have to endure such an ordeal.”

  “The priestess saved me. They would have taken me if it wasn’t for her.”

  Priestess Patrycias looked fondly at Ethlin. Malcolm noticed a deep bond there, something more than teacher and student, something akin to mother and daughter.

  “She is indeed a brave woman,” Orbist said. “You both are. I can assure you King Greenvale cares for the protection of this temple and those who oversee it. His guards will not leave until it is safe.”

  “We thank you for the king’s and your influence,” Priestess Patrycias said.

  Orbist took another sip of his wine. Malcolm sipped his as well. The room felt dry. The Mage-Council continued, “Your vision, Ethlin, saved the life of the king’s cousin, with Ser Malcolm’s aid.”

  Ethlin looked at Malcolm. “You killed the assassin?”

  “Killed him? No,” Malcolm replied. “I was able to distract him and chase him down. An accomplice was killed.”

  “An accomplice? So two men were involved?”

  Malcolm nodded. “Only one was in your vision, I take it. That’s all right—it was the right one. The assassin was just as you described. He will be executed this week.”

  Ethlin swallowed hard.

  “Yes, you both have performed a great service,” Orbist said. “Ethlin, I’d like you to continue to serve. Your king and kingdom need you, and I’d like to take you to the Gray Keep, to meet the king, and to learn a few things.”

  Malcolm noticed Ethlin’s mouth move, struggling to form words. “I … I … the Gray Keep?” she said.

  “That’s right, young lady.” Orbist smiled.

  “But what about the temple? My work for the Dragonmother?”

  Priestess Patrycias took her hand. “Do not fret, my dear. I’ll come visit. This is a great opportunity. You can still learn the ways of the Dragonmother, and I think she’d want you to expand your knowledge in the ways of the mage.”

  “But how long will I have to stay? What if I miss the temple and want to come back?”

  “You can come and go as you please,” Orbist said. “Though I’d like you to stick to a lesson plan I’ve laid out for you, there’s still freedom for you to leave the keep.”

  Malcolm loaded the saddles of Ethlin’s horse at the foot of the temple steps. The girl gave the priestess a long, farewell hug, while Orbist watched, hands clasped. The Mage-Council and priestess then exchanged a few words, while Ethlin approached Malcolm.

  He steadied her as she climbed awkwardly into the saddle. Robes were not the best riding attire. Her hood down, the girl’s lush brown hair with its occasional lighter strands spread about her shoulders, glimmering in the early sunlight. A strange sight—an old Mage-Council and a young Dragonmother apprentice in their robes, flanked by armed guards.

  As the temple grew distant behind them, Malcolm saw Ethlin turn her head to get one last glimpse. A longing crossed her face and then her eyes met his. She gave a shy smile and turned back to pet the horse’s side. Drafts of wind swept through the alleys down into the streets, and the girl raised her hood.

  Malcolm wondered what she was thinking, what she saw.

  9

  A sharply-dressed woman took a final drag on her pipe, puffing the smoke up into the thick humid air where its tendrils glided along the ornate Redwoodian-style buildings of exotic stonework that towered above with their five stories gazing down the alleyway. She tapped out the ashy leaves, careful not to smear her traveling dress, and stepped on them with the sole of her shoe.

  “Recently, you’ve been doing that earlier, Sho,” a soft voice spoke from another woman leaning against the tenement building to
her left.

  Asker Shoshana Riesley turned and faced her assistant. “Have I?”

  The woman nodded, looking at her notes on parchment. “Mid-morning. Yesterday it was just before lunch, and the day before that, at lunch. At this rate, you’ll be having a smoke in your sleep by next week. Tough managing, that. If you try lighting your pipe and you’re not fully awake, who’s to say you won’t burn the place down? And I’d like you to stay around for as long as you can.”

  Sho smiled. “Thank you, Abera, for the sentiment.” She turned around glancing up the alley where a group of the Lord Sheriff’s men had gathered along with a crowd of city dwellers, cordoned off twenty paces from the scene. Amongst the living lay a body of an older man, his left arm twisted at an unnatural angle.

  Sho knew this was going to be difficult. The tallest and most-hulking man in the alley, the Lord Sheriff, peered down at the body. His slight slouch indicated an advance in age and the inveterate time he spent with the weight of the city’s safety on his shoulders. It also resembled that of a gigantic pigeon. He held a parchment pad in his hand and jotted down notes with his quill, the way his elbows positioned gave the impression they were short wings beneath his cloak. But though he appeared a pigeon, Lord Sheriff Scargood Ingletide pranced around with martial prowess befitting a bumbling bull.

  Sho had to tiptoe around the man ever since she returned to Quinlander, the largest city on the Prestonpan Isle of Monterim. She’d lived here before for five years with her parents until taking a position in Bolstoy, a borough of Em Regis, in the service of the Backlands. When the rebellion broke out, she was ordered back to her former home. She did not mind the change for it meant she’d be close to her parents and older brother still residing on the island.

  With the uprisings, the strategy of King Greenvale and the Backlands was to retake cities under rebel rule and replace local, disloyal leaders with those loyal. Yet a singular problem existed with the Monterim political replacements: they kept dying. At first, it seemed like a coincidence, but then the Backlands saw it clearly as a conspiracy to undermine its retaking control, an undermining involved with assassinations of its loyal barons, viscounts, earls and dukes.

  Sho, having earned her rank through the years, was chosen to head inquiries in Monterim’s largest and most instable city. From the get-go Lord Sheriff Scargood did not seem to like her, and insisted on getting in her way. In an attempt to work together, she’d tried not to aggravate him or his subordinates, which is why on this particular morning she’d informed a watchman to notify his superior that Abera and her had arrived to sift the scene, rather than merely waltzing up while Scargood and his men conducted their own surveying.

  She saw the watchman approach the Lord Sheriff and speak into his ear. Scargood sighed but didn’t turn around. He gestured with his hand and his lackey walked down the alley.

  “Asker Riesley,” the watchman said, his voice boyish underneath the dark-blue uniform jerkin and brooch denoting him as one of the sheriff’s men. “The Lord Sheriff says you may examine the scene.”

  “Thank you, Watchman…”

  “Bixby Skolls, milady.”

  Sho nodded, met Abera’s eyes and strolled along the cobbles toward the center of the alley with her assistant in tow.

  “Oh, and milady?”

  She turned around. “Yes, Watchman Skolls?”

  “Tread lightly. He’s in one of his moods.”

  “I know.” When is that not the case, she thought.

  She approached Scargood, and he turned to meet her. Beyond in the distance, workmen on their breaks and random passerby peered over the watchmen keeping them at bay. The Lord Sheriff followed her gaze.

  “Lot of hubbub these deaths are creatin’,” he said, setting his hands on his hips. “The loyal subjects just won back control of their city. Now their leaders are droppin’ like flies. And we don’t have the first clue as to getting close to the person or persons doing the droppin’.”

  “They’ll surface, eventually,” Sho said.

  “Oh, you think so, do you? Listen, Asker Riesley, I wouldn’t be overconfident in your abilities. You may have a sorcerer’s senses, but that doesn’t mean the clues you discover won’t lead to snags, herrings, or down a dark well. I’ve been here twenty years, through two insurrections, tracked down the Nightlight Stalker and saw him hang. I’ve been through riots, bank robberies, in addition to murder cases—and every case is never as easy as you first surmise.”

  “I don’t disagree, Lord Sheriff,” She said, meeting his gaze. His breath smelled like stale porridge. She could tell by the fuzz on his face that he hadn’t shaved for a week. “I have my experiences, too.”

  “So I’ve heard.” The hulking man folded his arms, making him seem larger, if that were possible. “The high-ups in the Defense Guild were all too eager to inform me of your past inquiries. But that was in Bolstoy and Em Regis. This is Quinlander. And you’ll find the situation here, due to recent events, is quite contrary to the level of stability you’re used to.”

  “Possibly so,” she sighed, shrugging, hoping he’d stop talking to her. “But I’ve come to learn there’s no such thing as stability in life, only its illusion.”

  “What are you some kind of philosopher?” The sheriff smirked, tilting his head.

  “Far from it.” She gestured down to the body laying a few feet from the near drain grille. “If you don’t mind… may I?”

  “By all means.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You can find out what we’ve discovered from Bailiff Willoughby. I haven’t got the time or energy to fill you in myself, as I’m wanted back at Watch’s Hall.”

  Sho looked over at the bailiff already conversing with Abera who held quill and parchments in hand.

  Before walking off, Scargood said, “If you learn anything new, I want my hall informed. After all, this is a joint effort, and if you try to go it alone I’ll have you written up. You may not believe it, but I have friends in the Guild too.”

  “Fair enough.” She glared at the man as he turned away, briefly, so as not to attract attention from his underlings.

  Sho followed the trail of skid marks on the cobbles. While approaching she noticed the man had been dragged in some way, causing his shoes to scrape against the grime of the alley floor. The pattern led a good ten feet then stopped abruptly before the body. She looked down at the man. Not bothering to ask the sheriff, she knew Abera would obtain the man’s name, but being closer to the victim Sho already knew who he was.

  Viscount Willem Raskin had short black hair that grew grey in his late middle age, along with his goatee and well-trimmed sideburns. He wore a grey cloak and trousers with a mahogany-hued tunic. His stockings were a lighter brown and his fine shoes had shiny silver buckles. His plumed roundhat lay off to the side upside down, thrown off in the assault. His outfit showed him a man of means. Everything from tailoring to quality of clothing said so.

  In contrast, his face was locked in a death rictus. His eyes were closed but his mouth lay agape at an awkward angle, as if he still struggled for breath that would not come. Cuts and bruises marked his face, and Sho noticed dried blood from scrapes on his hands. A few shards of glass embedded his right arm, cutting through his cloak. His left arm looked as though it had been broken at an incongruous angle, the front forearm touching cobbles while his arm above the elbow sat normal.

  Sho shook her head and thought of the pain the man must have endured. She’d met the viscount when she first arrived back in Quinlander two months ago. A coterie of local barons and viscounts had sat down with her to offer assistance in any way they could. All of them, including Raskin, were rightly nervous at circumstances, for two fellow nobles had been murdered in the past weeks and a third had gone missing, likely suffering the same fate.

  Sho had been sent to be their savior, to find the killer or killers and restore their ease. She hoped she could put a stop to the crimes sooner than later. The man that lay dead before her, though she did not know h
im well, likely was a father and husband and good man—at least he seemed like one. His family would be devastated, and it wouldn’t help the city’s progress from the recent uprising.

  Moving away from the body, Sho felt the crunch of glass beneath her step. Up the sidewall to her left was a shattered second-story window, the glass having rained down on the cobbles below. She walked further in the pile of shards and looked up. It would’ve been a nasty fall from up there, and if angled right could possibly kill someone. She looked back at the body. He would have had to be thrown out with notable force to land that far from the stonewall. Then there was the matter of the skid marks in front of the body. She walked past the window and around two of Scargood’s idling watchmen. They nodded to her, one giving her a brooding look, which she ignored.

  She circled the body, hearing sheriff’s men chatting with the small crowd of interested commoners. Stepping up to the wall opposite the window, she began to run her fingers along the side. Unlike the opposite wall, this particular sector of tenements was made of grey stonework. It felt cold to her touch and she looked down closely at her fingertips, wet with morning dew, reminding her of the humidity inherent in the Prestonpan Isles. She’d forgotten the climatic intensity and how, especially in mornings, air was thick, causing one to perspire even when cooler winter temperatures arrived.

  She continued surveying the wall, ambling close to where Abera and Bailiff Willougby stood. They had been chatting in low voices, but now ceased all together, and Sho felt their gaze. Further along the wall, Sho noticed a strand of grey fabric clinging to a rough edge of stonecutting that hadn’t been smoothed during construction. She looked closer at the strand, then looked back at the body. The cloth matched the same color as that on Raskin’s cloak. Running her hand further down the wet stone, she raised it up. Sticking to her palm, along with dust, were tiny particles of more grey.

  Sho hummed quietly to herself, then walked back to the corpse.

  She gently touched the awkward arm and finding a tear in the man’s cloak, held the detached fabric up to it. Fitting the puzzle piece, she placed the cloth in her cloak pocket and further surveyed the ground around the corpse. She traced the skid marks again.