by Jaine Fenn
“You know we are beyond that. Act now, before she does. Once she is in custody, I will tell you where to find the iron.”
Francin was silent. Then he got up and walked to the door. He pulled it open, and Rhia drew a sharp breath. To the men outside he said, “Both of you, go now to the duchess’s chambers. Confine her there, and search her rooms for weapons or poisons. Let no one enter unless they are in my company.”
Now she must clear up the other matter. While Francin was still walking back she said, “My brother didn’t kill the girl in the lower city.”
For a moment Rhia thought she had flummoxed him again. Then he smiled and said, “I know that. Well, when I say know, I am as certain as I can be, given–”
“Then why in the Last’s name do you want to arrest him?”
“Arrest him? What are you talking about?”
Ice gripped Rhia’s heart. “Guards turned up at my house shortly after we arrived, saying they had come for my brother.”
Francin turned and strode back towards the door. “Not on my orders, they didn’t.”
Chapter 65
Dej looked at the cat. The cat looked at Dej. The cat was black and white and was called Yithi. The crèche kept cats to control vermin but they didn’t have names, and letting them come indoors was forbidden. This cat, Yithi, looked entirely at home on Etyan’s bed.
Etyan’s first priority, on getting her alone in his room, had been clothes. Not the removing of them, which she’d have been happy to do, but finding some clean ones. “You should probably cover up too,” he said with a grimace, before adding, “Not for my sake, it’s just the servants. You know…”
She didn’t, but when he threw a clean shirt to her she put it on.
The cat had slinked in shortly afterwards, leaping onto the bed like it owned it. Etyan had rushed over to fuss the animal then, when Dej sat beside it, smiled over at Dej and pointed at the cat. “Dej, this is Yithi, she likes having her stomach rubbed but watch her claws.”
He looked at the cat, and pointed at Dej. “Yithi, this is Dej. She’s like no one else I’ve ever met.”
At which point Dej leaned across the sprawled cat, grabbed Etyan’s face, and kissed him with all her might.
He’d been surprised, and had taken a moment to respond. When he did the warmth flowed out of her chest to fill her entire being. She was on fire. This wasn’t like those fumblings at the crèche. He really knew what he was doing.
And then his sister had called him.
Now, alone in Etyan’s room, Dej scratched the cat’s stomach. It looked at her with disdain, then closed its eyes. Dej stroked the soft fur, enjoying the simple pleasure of fussing an animal, but snatched her hand away when she saw claws being unsheathed. The cat licked a curled paw as though that was what it’d intended all along.
Dej stood up, and looked around the room. Light from the unshuttered windows fell on chests and boxes and shelves. Etyan had so much stuff. Some of it looked like toys: carved and painted militiamen in ranks on a shelf, a stuffed dog with button eyes on the nightstand.
She moved over to the window. Rain spattered the sill and splashed in, soaking the thickly woven rug. She should probably close the shutters. But being in the city, crowded by strangers, was bad enough. To seal herself in darkness was too much.
As she turned away from the window, the cat started. A moment later someone downstairs shouted, “The countess was quite clear!”
Dej rushed over to the door and flung it open. She looked over the banister to see the steward, Markave, backed up against the outside door, blocking the path of a militiaman who had his sword out and raised. Etyan stood behind the solider, his back to her – and to another militiaman, who was advancing on him from behind, shortsword poised. The man was about to stab him in the back.
Dej vaulted over the banister.
She landed on flesh. Something cracked beneath her. She rolled free, winded but unhurt, coming up into a crouch on the far side of the hallway.
Etyan turned, his face a picture of shock. “Get back!” she yelled, going for her knife. Etyan obscured her view of the other soldier. He gawped, but moved.
Her hand found fabric instead of her leather sheath. Damn shirt!
Movement by the door. The steward raised his hands, crying out.
Her fingers grasped her knife, and she drew it, just as Markave gave a burbling grunt and slid to the floor.
The second soldier pulled his blade from the steward’s guts, and turned towards her.
Knife against sword: not ideal. And what if there were more of them?
Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea…
But she had to save Etyan.
The militiaman charged her. Dej dodged, twisting away from the attack. The sword sliced the air by her ear.
She stepped back, putting her against the wall. The swordsman came at her with a chest-high cut. She ducked and stabbed upwards. They both missed.
She was fast and fit. She could win this. She just needed to get her hands on the fallen man’s sword.
Etyan had pressed himself into a corner, the useless little table held out in front of him like an ineffectual shield.
Her opponent pressed home another attack. She slashed up inside his guard. Her blade snagged… But didn’t cut, damn its broken tip.
His next attack came in low. Something nicked her thigh.
The groaning militiaman she’d landed on began to crawl away, dragging one leg. He’d left his shortsword behind. Good.
Movement to the left: an opening door. Less good.
Her opponent stepped back, taking stock. He saw his companion coming through the door, and also saw Etyan, cornered and defenceless. He grinned.
Go for the sword or save Etyan?
She feinted, ducked, and turned, moving faster than a shadowkin ever could, putting herself between the militiaman and Etyan.
After a momentary look of surprise her opponent attacked again. He was sure of himself now, with his ally about to arrive. Jeg had warned Dej about over-confidence. It made you sloppy. She could use that.
She ducked back. Diamond grazed her cheek.
Stay focused and look for an opening. Dej could hear Tew’s words in her ears.
An exuberant downswing, barely avoided. He was getting cocky now.
She brought her knife up and across, a backhanded cut. She half expected to come in too low, maybe catch on his leather armour, but the knife skittered up the man’s chest, then met flesh. Its flint edge opened his throat from shoulder to ear; Dej felt the knife catch the edge of his jawbone.
She pulled it free. He span away from her in a spray of blood.
“Dej!”
She looked up at Etyan’s shout to find the other militiaman at her shoulder. She raised her right arm to parry. His short-stave came down on it. She both felt and heard the bone snap.
He shuffled back, poised to come in again and finish her off. Her arm didn’t hurt but it was numb, and she had no idea where her knife was.
But she could see a shortsword.
She ducked down and forward, under her new opponent’s swing, and snatched up the discarded sword from the floor in her left hand. Even as her opponent adjusted to this unexpected move, bringing his stave round for another blow, she brought the sword up under his ribcage.
He made a surprisingly mellow grunt of surprise, and folded. Dej stepped back and let go of the sword. It remained impaled in the man’s soft innards.
Someone shrieked.
Dej looked up, dazed, to see the maidservant standing in the other doorway, hand covering her open mouth.
“Nerilyn!” bellowed Etyan, “It’s all right! Be quiet!”
Conditioning over-rode the girl’s shock; she shut up.
Etyan dropped the table and emerged from his corner.
“Dej! You’re covered in blood.”
She looked down. He wasn’t wrong. “Mostly not mine.”
Etyan stared around the hallway wide-eyed. “You killed t
hem.”
“I had to. They were going to kill you.”
“I… I think I’m going to be sick.” He staggered to his feet and threw up on a bit of floor not covered by other fluids. He straightened and wiped his hand across his mouth. Then he saw the fallen servant by the door. “Markave!” He turned to the girl. “Nerilyn, fetch clean cloths and, uh, water…” Etyan didn’t sound sure; to Dej he admitted, “I don’t know what to do.”
Dej remembered something Tew had said about dealing with injuries. “We need to keep gentle pressure on the wound.”
Etyan did so, initially with his bare hands, then with the cloth the maid brought, which was soon red through. The man’s breaths came out as groans, but didn’t stop. The bleeding slowed. “Now we need to bind fresh cloths in place.”
“How?” asked Etyan.
“Unlace his jerkin, put the dressings under it, and lace it up again. Then we can go get proper help.”
Etyan nodded.
While he re-laced the jerkin, Dej looked across at the two men she’d stabbed. They weren’t moving and there was a lot of blood. Nausea stirred. The third man, the one she’d landed on, lay at the foot of the stairs, half conscious.
She risked a look at her broken arm but it was mercifully hidden by the shirt; that sleeve had no blood on it, unlike her left leg and, from the feel of it, her face. The arm was still numb so she decided to ignore it for now.
The front door rattled.
Etyan staggered to his feet and peered through the glass-paned window. He turned to Dej, “It’s Ree! Help me move him.”
They dragged the unconscious man by his arms as gently as they could. He left a bloody smear on the tiles.
Rhia came in, leading four more militia. Dej tensed. Both other times she’d encountered soldiers in the city, they’d been hostile. The militiamen’s hands went to their belts at the sight of a blood-soaked skykin amongst fallen bodies.
Rhia barked, “Stop that, all of you!” She knelt beside her steward. “Markave!” She looked up from the floor. “Have you a medic, Captain?”
The lead militiaman called one of his people forward. The others looked round the hall, taking in the carnage, checking for further threats.
“They attacked us,” said Etyan. “Dej saved me. Dealt with all three of them.”
Rhia threw a grateful glance Dej’s way. “You’re hurt too.”
“My arm’s broken but most of this blood isn’t mine.”
“Etyan? Are you–”
“Shaken, nothing more.”
The militia captain said, “M’lady, we’ll see to your steward and then look after the skykin gentleman.”
“She’s a girl.” Etyan, despite the quiver in his voice, sounded amused.
“Perhaps if the young lord and the skykin, ah, girl, could wait somewhere else?”
“The parlour,” said Rhia.
The wounded man at the bottom of the stairs groaned.
The captain gestured to two of his men. “Why don’t you have a word with our imposter there?”
“So they aren’t real militia?” Dej had thought as much.
“I don’t recognize them, and I have it on the highest authority that no warrant for the young lord’s arrest has been issued. So yes: imposters.”
They moved into the parlour, the room with the high-backed chairs Dej had peered into before, now light, and with damp patches on the furniture and floor. Etyan chose a seat big enough for two. When Dej sat next to him he took her good hand. She grasped his in return.
Shock settled on them. Etyan shivered. Dej gritted her teeth against the blossoming pain of her injured arm. They leaned into each other.
Rhia came into the parlour, sitting pale-faced on the edge of a seat.
“Who were they?” Etyan’s voice was small.
“I’m not sure,” Rhia sounded equally stunned.
A cry of pain from outside sent tension through the room.
A few minutes later the militia captain entered. Rhia leapt to her feet.
“We’ve bound your man’s wound. The thrust missed his vitals, thank the First. He’s lost a lot of blood, but with care he should live.” Rhia’s face collapsed into relief.
The medic came in and moved up to Dej, but she was focused on the captain, who was speaking to Rhia. “We also managed to confirm our suspicions regarding these imposters. They’re mercenary types, the sort of men certain Houses have been known to hire to do unsavoury work.”
“Which House, Captain?”
“The imposter didn’t know as they’re hired through intermediaries. However, this job was hastily organized. Their usual contact told them to go to a certain place in order to get the stolen uniforms and forged warrant they would need. The uniforms were brought by a maidservant from the palace. One of the mercenaries recognized her.”
“Who was she?”
“He didn’t tell the individual we’ve been questioning her name. All he said was that she works for the duchess.”
Rhia’s expression hardened. “Oh, does she now.”
Chapter 66
At noon the following day, a long-overdue enquiry was held into the murder of Derry, the master tanner’s daughter. Rhia appreciated the speed of its convening and even more, its discretion. It was held in a lesser chamber, off the main Council hall.
The presiding magistrate was an elderly viscount from House Abenar, chosen for his relatively low rank – hence lack of agenda – and for his House’s reputation for solid neutrality. The Church sent an observer, as was their right; even more unusually, the duke himself was present.
Derry’s father was invited but chose not to attend. Representatives from House Harlyn, House Escar and House Callorn were required to attend. In the former case, this meant Rhia, given Etyan’s link to the incident. The other two Houses both sent their heads. Rhia wondered how much they knew. All three of them swore, on copies of the Book of Separation, to tell the full and accurate truth. Although the wrath of the First was not a major consideration, Rhia had no intention of lying – whatever the cost.
No one else was permitted in the chamber. This did not stop dozens of courtiers and nobles from packing the hall itself, awaiting news.
Outside, the rain abated after falling through the night, washing filth from the streets and leaving humidity and fecundity in its wake.
After the oaths and a brief preamble, Viscount Abenar described the finding of the girl’s body by one of the dyers, the militia’s response, and what little the original investigation had revealed about Derry’s death. Then he asked, “Do any of those present have anything they wish to add to these known facts?”
Rhia looked at the two counts; they did not look at her. No one spoke. Tell the truth about Derry’s death, yes; offer her brother up to the wolves, no. Rhia said nothing.
Francin stood. “I have some additional information, Viscount.”
“A whore, perhaps?”
Dej stood, shaking off Etyan’s hand. The huge room was packed with overdressed people, sitting in huddles and groups on the wooden benches, whispering and staring at other huddles and groups. Their own small group consisted of the two of them and the two able servants from Rhia’s household. Dej hadn’t been sure about coming, but Etyan was expected to, and she had no intention of letting him out of her sight.
Now she strode over to the woman who’d spoken, a pinch-faced matron with a ridiculous bunch of feathers stuck to the side of her head, and said loudly enough to be heard over the surrounding murmurs, “I’m sorry, Mam, but my race, being inferior, doesn’t have such good hearing as you shadow-dwellers. Could you repeat what you just said about me, for everyone’s benefit?”
Perhaps the woman would. Perhaps everyone would laugh when she did. If that happened Dej would laugh too, harder than anyone. She and Etyan had, after all, spent much of the previous night fucking. Despite her memories of Cal, it was what she wanted. What he wanted too. She now knew what all the fuss was about.
The woman drew a sharp
breath, but said nothing. She went white, and raised her fan to cover her face.
Dej grinned, turned on her heel, and walked back to her lover. Etyan looked as shocked as everyone else, until she caught his eye. Then he smiled.
As she sat down the small door to the side chamber opened. The whispers became louder, surprise going round the room. Etyan had said these things took time but Rhia and the nobles hadn’t been in there for very long at all.
Francin cleared his throat, an unnecessary gesture considering he already had the full attention of everyone in the Council hall. “Dear friends and fellow nobles, we have, I am glad to say, finally got to the bottom of an unfortunate incident in the lower city.”
Not exactly, thought Rhia, keeping her expression fixed as she stood, with the two counts, behind Francin.
“I am gratified to see such interest being taken in the untimely death of one of our common citizens.” Rhia suspected that, had she been able to see his face, the duke would be wearing his best apparently vacuous smile, the one that had fooled many a foreign diplomat and insulted many a courtier, “A death, sad to say, which was the result of murder.”
A predictable susurrus went round the hall. Rumour would abound amongst the Houses, though the girl’s life and death were of far less interest than the potential involvement of their fellow nobles.
“The act was carried out by low criminal types. These men have now been brought to justice.”
Thanks to Dej. The surviving, wounded mercenary had been taken to the palace, where he had enjoyed the ministrations of the duke’s inquisitors throughout the night, finally confessing that he and his companions had put the knife to poor Derry. He would be dead by now.
“However, it appears the thugs were hired on the orders of two young scions of noble houses, House Callorn and House Escar. Their intention was to blame the murder on the head of a third house, House Harlyn. Sadly, Lord Harlyn, being an impressionable young man, did not come to me at once with his concerns, but chose instead to run away. Had his sister not bravely insisted on fetching him home, his guilt might have been presumed in his absence.”
