by Davis Ashura
Mira sipped her coffee, enjoying its heat in the early morning winter chill. She went back to reading her book as the sun climbed high, peeking around Clarion Bell, the tall clock tower to the east. As the day warmed, the children left the park and Walthall grew quiet. The city seemed far away.
Mira closed her eyes and leaned back, letting the sun warm her face.
When next she opened her eyes, several hours had passed. She glanced at Clarion Bell, checking the time.
She sighed.
It was time to leave. She and Rector were supposed to attend an early afternoon gathering at the home of Siramont Pindle, a Cherid of note. It was all part of their façade as a couple in love.
Mira grimaced at the thought.
She couldn’t wait to be done with this masquerade, and it wasn’t because she despised Rector Bryce. Strangely enough, she no longer felt much antipathy toward the man. In the months since the two of them had taken on the role of a courting couple, she’d actually grown to tolerate his presence. Her dislike for him had faded, and while she probably would never consider him a friend, at least he wasn’t so insufferable anymore. There were even moments when she found him pleasant to be around.
The truth as to why she wanted to be done with this charade was far simpler. Mira abhorred the lies she had to tell. She hated them; just as much Rector hated having to pretend to be a loyal member of House Wrestiva.
Mira briefly wondered if Rector might have anything new to relate to her. The sooner he did, the sooner the two of them could be rid of their pretense. Unfortunately, his position as the manager of a small warehouse in the Moon Quarter didn’t allow him to discover much about Hal’El Wrestiva’s fortune. In fact, since Rector’s finding of the missing henna and poppy seeds, he had provided precious little information.
Rector was frustrated with his lack of progress, but his generally bleak outlook had brightened when Mira had explained about the low probability of flooding ruining the warehouse’s records. When she had done so, Rector’s eyes had lit with a thoughtful suspicion, an expression she couldn’t recall seeing on his face ever before. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been surprising. Rector lived for mysteries. It was his lifeblood. He’d once told her investigations had been his favorite role as a member of the City Watch. Some of the stories he told …
It had been good to see him show curiosity and interest, even amusing as Rector raced off like a hound after a rabbit when he’d heard about the records. She just hoped his newfound knowledge would allow him to develop another avenue of research into House Wrestiva’s inner workings. She prayed it would.
Her mind distracted, she didn’t hear it the first few times her name was called out. She startled when Rector suddenly appeared before her.
“You must have some serious thoughts to cogitate,” Rector said. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last minute or so.”
Mira frowned, confused. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to escort you to Siramont Pindle’s gathering,” he answered.
“No. I mean how did you know where to find me?”
Rector gave a self-deprecating smile. “You talk about Walthall so much,” he said. “It wasn’t much of a guess to figure out you’d be here.”
Mira was impressed he’d remembered. “Is it already time for the gathering at this Cherid friend of yours?”
“I wouldn’t really call him a friend,” Rector said. “He’s someone I helped out once during my work in the City Watch. He’s felt an obligation to me ever since.”
“What did you do for him?”
“Nothing special. I just helped him find something he’d lost.”
Mira suppressed a sigh. Rector could be so obtuse. “How did you help him?” she prodded.
“It was nothing,” Rector said. His grin clearly indicated that it was something more than nothing.
“Rector … ” Mira said, her tone hopefully warning him of her fading patience.
He finally seemed to catch her meaning. “Oh, right. Do you remember the story I told you about the stolen diamond?” Rector asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “The diamond was the Sea of Ashoka — ”
“Wait. The Sea of Ashoka, ” Mira interrupted. “You mean that giant blue diamond? The one the size of a robin’s egg?” Rector nodded, and she whistled in appreciation. “Someone stole the Sea?”
“Not someone. Something,” Rector corrected. “A magpie. The owner of the Sea is Siramont Pindle, and it was his wife’s magpie that stole the diamond.”
“Siramont Pindle?” Mira questioned. “Our host? And that’s why you wanted me to wear my opal earrings and necklace.”
Rector grinned. “It’s the only jewelry you have that’s close in color to the Sea. Siramont will understand the joke.”
Mira laughed at Rector’s prank.
As she chuckled, Rector wore an intrigued countenance. “Is it possible I’ve actually earned a laugh from you?”
Mira smiled. In the last few meetings, Rector had been in a good mood, no longer griping or whining about the unfairness of his fate. It made interacting with him a lot easier. Still. She couldn’t let him get in the last word. “And is it possible you actually have a sense of humor under that dour exterior?” Mira countered.
“Now let’s not get carried away,” Rector said, wearing a patronizing expression. “I’m told a miracle would be required to grant me a sense of humor.”
“Perhaps Devesh will see to your needs if you pray hard enough,” Mira suggested.
“Perhaps,” Rector said.
His humor left him, and Mira knew why. If he were to pray for anything, it would be to have his life returned to his own care; to live as he wanted with no subterfuges or deceptions.
“And why waylay me here at Walthall Park?” Mira asked, changing the subject and hopefully distracting him from his frustration.
“We’re supposed to be a couple. It would make more sense if we arrived together.”
It did make sense, but Mira wasn’t sure how Rector had come up with the idea on his own. He was usually too self-centered to see anything beyond his own needs. “Who suggested it to you?” she asked.
His brows furrowed. “No one. It’s simply the proper thing to do.”
“Even though it means spending more time in the presence of someone Tainted?” Mira asked. She knew her question would annoy Rector, but she was unable to stop herself. In fact, she didn’t want to stop herself. While she might be able to tolerate Rector Bryce more readily, there were still deep fissures of disagreement between the two of them. He should know she hadn’t forgotten about them.
Rector grimaced. “I don’t know the truth of what happened between you and Jaresh, and it’s none of my business. Can’t we just leave it at that?”
“But if something had happened? Would I not be a naaja? Tainted?” Mira asked.
“So it is written in The Word and the Deed.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think … ” Rector sighed. “I don’t know what I think.”
“You don’t know what to think?” she asked, unsure if she had heard him right. “Just a few months ago you were so certain of everything.”
“Maybe your bad influence is rubbing off on me.”
*****
“What do you mean the original documents are still unavailable,” Bree asked, trying to quell her rising frustration. She stood in the waiting area of the medical examiner’s office, a bright room with windows letting in the sunshine and scented candles that failed to mask the odor of blood and fluids that pervaded all such places. She had come to review the pathology report on Drin Port’s death, but according to Trivel Poorna, the mousy Sentya in charge of records, the documents had been checked out — again.
To say Bree was annoyed would be an understatement. She was furious. And she had yet to get ahold of Grasome Verle, the physician who had done the actual autopsy on the late Mr. Port. He kept rescheduling their meeting or was unavailabl
e on the several occasions when Bree had stopped by his office unannounced. At this point, she had to believe it was done on purpose. Dr. Verle was avoiding her. After all, how busy could one physician be? Surely the man had ten minutes to spare in which to see her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Shektan,” Trivel said, sounding scared. “According to the logbook, the records were checked out by Dr. Grasome Verle a week ago. He hasn’t returned them yet.”
Bree’s eyes narrowed. So. The good doctor did have something to hide. A look of anger swept across her face. Grasome Verle would see her, and this time she wouldn’t be put off by timid excuses from his secretary and staff. Devesh help them if they tried.
She realized her outraged expression was frightening the poor Sentya record-keeper. She shoved her anger aside. “Thank you, Mr. Poorna. You have been most helpful,” she said, flashing him a brilliant smile.
His mouth gaped open. He was likely unnerved by what he took to be her rapidly changing moods: furious one second and happy the next. At least he didn’t appear frightened anymore. Eventually, he managed a nod.
Bree flashed him a final smile before turning to leave.
Just as she was about to exit the office, Trivel called out to her once again. “There is one other thing, Miss Shektan,” he said. “Dr. Lindsar might be able to provide some help. He might have been present during Mr. Port’s autopsy.”
Bree slowly turned around. Finally, some good news. She knew Dr. Lindsar. He had been the one to do the autopsy on Suge Wrestiva. “Is he available?” she asked.
“Let me find out.” Trivel bowed briefly before scurrying out.
A few minutes later, Dr. Step Lindsar came into the waiting area. He appeared much the same as before when she had last seen him. He was in his late forties, sloop-shouldered, but his walnut-colored skin remained unlined. His hair was pleated into long braids; his lean, angular face was clean-shaven; and in his hands was a folder full of papers.
“Good to see you again, Miss Shektan, especially under less trying circumstances,” Dr. Lindsar said with a smile, referring to Jaresh’s Tribunal. “I understand you’re interested in Drin Port.” He indicated the folder in his hands. “I have his file right here. A year ago, we started keeping duplicate autopsy reports of any strange deaths. Now let me see.” He thumbed through the papers. “Ah yes. I remember now. It was odd. Mr. Port had too much drink and fell off a pier into Bar Try Bay. The poor fool drowned.”
Bree’s furrowed. “Why is that unusual?”
“The death itself isn’t. It happens about three or four times a year actually,” he replied, sounding clinical. “No. This was unusual because the nurse who assisted the autopsy, came to me later on and said that Mr. Port had what she thought was a knife wound to his heart. It wasn’t in Dr. Verle’s original report, and when I asked him about it, he said the guard who had pulled Mr. Port out of the water had done so with a fishhook. He said it must have been the puncture wound the nurse noticed.”
“Were you able to examine the body yourself?” she asked.
“No. By the time the nurse came to me, Mr. Port’s remains had already been cremated. I insisted that Dr. Verle amend his findings, though. It was the best I could do.”
Bree considered Dr. Lindsar’s explanation impassively even as her mind raced. Given the effort by which Dr. Verle was avoiding her, it was more likely that Mr. Port had been murdered, stabbed through the heart. Dr. Verle had known, which meant he was part of the Sil Lor Kum. It made it even more imperative that she confront him.
“What is this about?” Dr. Lindsar asked. “Why this sudden interest in a man who died almost a year ago?”
Bree shook off her thoughts. Right now, she had no idea who in the medical examiner’s office, or anywhere in Ashoka for that matter, might be corrupted. She couldn’t afford to trust anyone. “Mr. Port worked in one of our warehouses. We have insurance policies on all our employees. If any one of them are injured in the performance of their duties, the insurance pays out. One of Mr. Port’s cousins filed a claim, wanting to collect the death benefits. The autopsy report would save us a lot of trouble.”
Dr. Lindsar considered her words for a moment. “I see,” he said. “I can have a copy of my files made and sent to House Shektan’s Seat.”
Bree gave him a grateful smile. “That would be wonderful.” She turned to leave but paused on her way out. “One last thing: do you have Dr. Verle’s home address?”
It was late afternoon by the time Bree reached Sunpalm Orchard. Like most Shiyens, this was where Dr. Verle lived. His home was an unassuming row house set along a narrow road that was barely wide enough for two carriages to pass by one another. Dwarf maples lined the sidewalk interspersed with black lampposts already lighted for the coming evening. Most of the houses were bright and cheery with laughter and conversation spilling out from open windows.
Bree glanced at Dr. Verle’s home. His windows were all dark, and her skin prickled. Something was wrong. She could sense it. Bree did her best to set aside her dread and knocked on the front door. There was no answer. She tried again. Still no answer. She tried the handle. It turned easily, and she pushed the door open.
She clutched a hand to her mouth, stifling a cry of horror. Hanging from a stout beam in the front room was the slowly swaying corpse of Dr. Verle.
*****
Farn huddled before his thin fire, the packhorse a welcome warmth next to him. The wind whistling through the ice-sheathed ravine was like an eldritch knife, slicing through his coat and clothes. He shivered and tossed on another log. The fire blazed for a moment, embers glowing and sparks lighting the darkness all around. Farn was grateful for the shallow cave he had discovered. It provided a barrier, dulling most of the wind’s cutting breath.
In times like this, when it felt like his blood was slowly congealing, he wished he’d heeded Rukh’s advice and stayed in Stronghold until spring. Of course, had he done so, he might very well have been faced with another problem: that of the spring-swollen River Gaunt. Rather than freeze to death, he might have drowned.
The safest time to travel to Ashoka would have been in the summer, but Farn couldn’t stay that long. His family probably thought him dead. He couldn’t wait, safe and secure, while those he loved suffered his absence. Besides, while he didn’t hate Stronghold or its people — he was grateful to them for taking him in — his time there hadn’t always been pleasant. Farn had struggled with the work he had been expected to do. It felt like it was beneath him, and to have so many of the OutCastes secretly laugh at his humiliation only made it more insulting.
He wondered how Rukh would manage. Of course, his cousin had said that as soon as he won the Trials of Hume — and Farn had no doubt he would win — he planned on leaving Stronghold for a while. He wanted to travel to Hammer and reclaim the fabled Book of First Movement. It hadn’t seemed like a good idea, but Rukh wouldn’t listen to reason. His mind had been made up.
Farn figured some of it had to do with how Rukh felt about Jessira. His cousin loved the OutCaste woman, and Farn suspected she loved Rukh as well. Unfortunately, Karma being a frigid bitch, she wouldn’t allow them to be together. Jessira was engaged to that jackhole Disbar Merdant.
Farn shook his head. How could Rukh have allowed himself to fall in love with a woman who was already engaged?
Idiot.
Farn shook his head again in disbelief, but when he reconsidered the situation, he realized maybe Rukh’s feelings for Jessira weren’t so hard to understand. After all, the few times Farn had interacted with her, it was obvious the passion with which Jessira lived her life; the devotion she felt for those she loved. But when the situation required it, Farn suspected Jessira could also be as composed and capable as any veteran he had ever met. She had a cool intelligence easily missed behind her fiery persona.
Three months alone with a woman like Jessira … perhaps it wasn’t so unexpected that Rukh would have fallen in love with her. Maybe the more pertinent question was why had Jessira fallen i
n love with his cousin?
Farn chuckled at the thought, but the laughter quickly faded. Rukh had so many burdens: his unfair treatment by far too many OutCastes, an unattainable love, and exile from Ashoka. It was too much for one man to bear. Farn prayed for his cousin’s well-being.
With a start, he realized that the Trials of Hume had taken place a week ago. Rukh had already left Stronghold. Even now, he was traveling alone — just like Farn — but heading west rather than east. Also, while Farn journeyed home, to family and warmth, Rukh headed to a dead city with no future or hope.
Farn eyed the surrounding darkness, lost in sudden worry for his cousin. Where was he right now? What kind of provisions did he have? Did he have enough food? Clothing? Was he safe? He wished he could have gone with him. He had offered to do so on more than one occasion, but each time, he had been steadfastly refused. Rukh had told in no uncertain terms that a living Ashoka was Farn’s destiny, not a dead Hammer.
While true, such knowledge carried a hollow, unfulfilling comfort. Farn still felt like he’d abandoned Rukh in his cousin’s greatest moment of need. It was a shame that left his stomach gnarled with guilt.
And what could he say to Rukh’s amma? To his nanna? Or to Jaresh and Bree? What could he tell them of their son and brother? Of his ultimate fate? How could he tell them he’d left Rukh alone and forsaken?
The knowledge left Farn with a chill in his heart, one colder than the icy wind gusting through the ravine.
Farn stared into the fire and did the only thing he could think to do. He prayed once more for his cousin’s safety.
Chapter 15: A Narrowed Search
Who has the greater courage: a man willing to give his life for a just cause or a man willing to live for that same purpose?
