Drakenfeld

by Mark Charan Newton

  Suddenly, people started to come down the stairs. Leana placed a hand to her short sword, though I waved for her to be cautious. Loud voices suggested that, whoever was coming, they weren’t bothered about being heard. One of them knocked the door back with his buttocks, and cursed as he dropped one end of a large trunk.

  ‘Who are you?’ I called out.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ The man was in his forties; he was a foot shorter than me, with wide shoulders that looked out of place on his otherwise lean body. Skin sagged down his face, which was burnt by the sun. His shabby brown tunic was a size too big for him. The other man, just behind, was actually much younger, clearly the man’s subordinate.

  ‘My name is Lucan Drakenfeld,’ I declared. ‘My father rented this office and I’ve come to inspect it.’

  ‘Aye, Drakenfeld,’ he spat. ‘Never paid his bloody rent.’

  ‘It was all paid for.’ I produced the contract and waved it in his direction, but he made no move to read it.

  ‘Master said otherwise. Did well not to chuck him out earlier.’

  I approached the trunk that the two had been carrying and opened it. Leather-bound legal texts were piled within. ‘Where exactly were you taking these?’

  ‘Out.’ The man scratched his crotch and spat on the floor. ‘To the master. He can deal with ’em.’

  ‘Was this everything?’

  ‘Nah, we took another trunk yesterday evening.’

  ‘I want it sent back. Who’s your master?’

  The man was starting to look thoroughly annoyed, as if I’d just ruined his day. ‘We work for an intermediate, so we hardly ever see him – chief does all that. Owns a hundred properties and only cares that he gets his money each month.’

  I wrote down the location of my house and handed it to him. ‘This is where I live. If your master wants to come for dinner to talk about this, he’s more than welcome.’

  ‘You rich types, you do everything in dinners, don’t you?’ He waved away the paper. ‘I suppose you’ll want these texts keeping here then.’

  ‘If you could just move—’

  ‘Cock off,’ he grunted. ‘I ain’t lugging this back upstairs. Someone can sort it out later.’ Wiping his hands on his tunic, he and his colleague sauntered to the door and exited into the busy street.

  I opened the trunk and lifted out one brown tome, a fine collection of legal essays by a long-deceased philosopher, and placed it on the desk. The other books here seemed much the same, though each one a little outdated.

  Once again, I wondered how my father, a man rarely short of coin, could have become so poor that he struggled to pay the rent on his offices.

  I was in no mood to enjoy the festivities that night. My mind had too much to process. Leana did not head out into the city either, despite my urges for her to find out what was going on during the grand feast organized by King Licintius. But she declined. Though she would never say it outright, I suspect she felt a little guilty for her hangover this morning.

  Instead we ate in a companionable silence out in the gardens while we watched the sun fall behind the rooftop, before eventually heading inside to our separate rooms. There, I concentrated hard on the conversations that my parents had within these walls, trying to discern something about the past that might inform the present. My parents didn’t really have arguments – they were both too intelligent, and instead they might have reasoned debates over issues. However, my father could be just as domineering over her as he was over his children. As an adult, I never had the chance to understand him completely – having somewhat avoided that challenge for the most part. Putting a continent between us would do that. Had he been someone who lived recklessly though? It seemed hard to match up, though perhaps deep down I wanted to remember him in death as a good and honest person.

  Despite the celebrations of the city, which could be heard loud and clear at this hour, and despite the new mystery of my father’s debts, I managed to drift off into a heavy sleep.

  A banging on the main door woke me up.

  The noise was followed by Bellona calling my name from the other side of the house. I peered out of the window, but could only ascertain that it was the middle of the night. However, it sounded like the festivities were still ongoing.

  I dressed hastily and ran along the corridor, almost slipping on the slick tiles. Bellona directed me towards the open door. Just outside, on the step, stood several cloaked men. One of them was carrying a torch, the flames casting a sinister glow on their faces. It was obvious that there was a sense of urgency and restlessness about them, something clear even in this dim light.

  ‘We wish to speak to Lucan Drakenfeld,’ one man declared, a thickset individual with a neat beard. He looked at me with intense eyes, and he wore the silver sash of the Civil Cohorts – the citizen police of Tryum – across his shoulder.

  ‘That’s me.’

  They all seemed hesitant now they knew my name, wondering who should speak next.

  ‘I’m . . . My name is Constable Farrum,’ he eventually said, affecting a much calmer and crisper accent. ‘From the cohort – Civil Cohorts. As officer of the Sun Chamber, your, uh, presence is required. It’s urgent.’ He sounded like an actor forgetting his lines.

  ‘Well, Constable Farrum, what’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Someone’s dead,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ I replied, ‘so where is the body?’ Murders occurred all the time, of course, but it wasn’t often that a murder required so many people to disturb me like this in the middle of the night.

  ‘Optryx.’

  ‘A killing in King Licintius’ residence?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah and we ain’t allowed into those halls,’ Farrum said. ‘The likes of us don’t get told the day’s password. We were urged to get you. This means I’ll get beatings if we don’t do that, so I’d appreciate it if you hurried along. Sir.’

  The Locked-Temple Murder

  The men from the Civil Cohorts gave Leana a brief look of suspicion and surprise when she stepped outside with me, but she shrugged it off, as she always did. We were both armed, both wearing cloaks to keep off the chill, though I made certain my golden brooch was in plain view. We were marched through the backstreets of Tryum, which were still full of energy: drunken crowds in masks flowing from place to place; home-made shrines and private ceremonies under oil lamps; exuberant, torchlit fan-dances.

  Soon we entered the relative calm of the Regallum district, where soldiers from the King’s Legion had been stationed along major junctions, though a few were hurrying past in pairs – and in haste. Their orders echoed sharply around the street, and a few citizens were being stopped and roughly searched in the shadows.

  Heroic statues stood tall, their expressions lost to the night. Pillars defined the nearby buildings; there were no cheap stores lining the streets here, no traders harassing passers-by to buy their dubious wares.

  The men from the Civil Cohorts were joined silently by some of the King’s Legion, who guided us along a road that led behind Optryx, an immense, intimidating building without much light. We banked upwards towards the royal residence; from here in daytime, it would have been possible to look down over most of the city. Only a couple of temples were positioned on higher ground than this, to be closer to the gods.

  The cohort was halted at the door. Eventually, after some fuss and security checks, Leana and I were guided into one of the most impressive buildings I had ever seen in my life – and I had seen a few.

  As a child I often wondered what it would be like to live in Optryx. Back in those days I imagined it to be simply sumptuous, though perhaps with wild animals and spirits gallivanting through the hallways; in my version of this place there was a constant stream of performers, jugglers, singers and acrobats. There would have been a thousand soldiers standing in polished golden armour patrolling the rooms. Though it was the whimsical fantasy of a boy, I never imagined I’d be visiting the place as a grown man for work.

  D
omed ceilings, each with intricate hollow panels, towered into the shadows some fifty or sixty feet above my head. Cressets burned from lushly decorated walls, candles were perched on central columns; their light cast down on the multicoloured mosaic floors and on thick, pink marble columns. Every other wall was painted with rich frescoes of the heavenly plains of existence – a logical trend in the arts, of which I approved – as well as gods, kings and emperors of the past. The colours used here were well beyond the everyday palette, and would have cost a small fortune. Here was a bold statement of power and wealth indeed. The rooms through which we were taken – each one equally as large as the predecessor – forcefully humbled whoever walked through them.

  My pulse quickened as we passed through gold-plated double doors and into a room packed full of people. It was obvious that this was no longer a celebration – it seemed more like a wake for the dead. People muttered to themselves in small groups, seated on the floor, their expressions glum or exasperated. At regular intervals along the walls, and in larger numbers by the door, stood soldiers in bright armour. Two of them gestured with their spears for me to pass through the doors. One of them paused as Leana followed, but I stressed that she was my assistant, and she was permitted soon enough.

  Senator Veron veered towards me wearing his finest red robes of state, which contained incredible gold details and religious motifs. Stepping carefully over more people sitting on the marble floor, or simply shoving through clusters of those who were still standing, he arrived somewhat shaken.

  ‘Drakenfeld, I’m glad you’ve made it.’ We shook, gripping each other’s forearms.

  ‘You were the one who sent for me?’

  ‘I certainly was. I thought you might be available to cast some light on the matter. This isn’t one for the lawyers either – at least, not yet. I only hope you’re half as good as your father.’ Close up, I could see that he was clothed splendidly in a fine, crimson tunic, and both his belt and boots seemed to be of sublime craftsmanship. His expression was far more serious than that of the light-hearted senator who’d visited my house.

  We turned to face the room. ‘What’s the situation?’ I whispered, suddenly aware of the volume of people around us. ‘All I’ve heard is that there’s been a death.’

  ‘I’ll say. This way.’ Veron steered me through the glum faces of the guests. Nearby the guards were closing the door, as if to make sure no one could escape.

  ‘Can you tell me anything else about the situation?’ I asked.

  ‘Best if I showed you,’ Veron said turning back.

  For some time we walked through the throng – a good few hundred, all in all, each in their most opulent clothing. Platters of food were discarded on side tables, having been pillaged long ago. A low-level muttering had replaced lively chatter; more than once we stepped through deep silences as conversations suddenly paused at our approach. Along the walls, bright banners of Detrata, each one bearing either the image of the double-headed falcon or the cross of the founding gods, hung down from an impressive height.

  Towards the end stood two copper-coated statues of Trymus in different dynamic poses, and we passed between them and into a small corridor with rooms branching off either side. The aesthetics remained the same: continuing the bright and bold displays of wealth, the marble, the gold leaf, and the over-the-top artistic statements.

  Then before us stood a structure set within a large hall. It was marked by a much larger set of doors, above which stood a stone carving of the god Trymus – wild eyes and big beard. A solid wall extended for some way on either side, and there were no paintings on this – merely the pure unadorned limestone. Soldiers and a few high-ranking officials were loitering here – the crowds had been kept well away.

  ‘This is a private temple of Trymus,’ Veron informed me. ‘Maxant’s ceremony was to be held here, they were due to enter the temple at midnight, but the temple had been locked. The door had to be broken down by Maxant’s soldiers so that they could get in. And when they did . . .’

  I frowned. ‘Did they not have a key?’

  ‘They didn’t expect it to be locked. They tried to fetch someone to get another one, but they were running out of time. It was General Maxant’s privilege to open the door at midnight – as part of his triumph, so that he could receive the blessings of Trymus and wear Trymus’ mask for the evening – and his men urged him to get in there before the midnight deadline passed and the stars moved out of alignment. The ceremony loses its essence and Trymus may not have been able to receive contact. Besides, the sooner he did, the sooner we could all get drunk. A few of Maxant’s soldiers then tried to knock the door down. It took four of them a good while to prise it open. And when they did . . .’

  Veron nodded to the brutish-looking guard who cautiously pushed the door open for us. The senator led the way; Leana and I followed him inside.

  In the centre of the temple, laid on the floor, was a woman’s body covered in blood.

  ‘This is Lacanta,’ Veron whispered. ‘The king’s only sister, second in line to the throne – and now dead, Trymus help us all.’

  It was dark in the temple, so I asked for torches to be brought closer, and eventually two soldiers obliged.

  Lacanta lay on her side, on one arm, with her other extended out to one side at a right angle to her body. Her face had been beaten, and was bloody and bruised, but bad as those wounds were, they were not what had killed her: there was an unmistakable deep wound around her neck that showed where her throat had been cut.

  ‘This is horrific,’ I said, louder than intended.

  She had been wearing a brilliant blue dress, with small gem-stones around the hem, and this was stained with her blood, as were the long waves of her dark-blonde hair. She was a voluptuous woman, someone who indulged in the pleasures of life from the look of her, and her jawline was very well defined. Jewels and gold rings remained on her wrists and ankles, so this did not look like a robbery, though one could never be certain.

  ‘And none of her things have been taken?’

  ‘Not that we’re aware of.’

  ‘Has a weapon been found?’

  Veron shook his head.

  ‘Are you sure no one has taken one away for safe keeping?’

  ‘The room is exactly as we found it.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘At first Maxant’s soldiers and himself. A few senators piled in pretty soon after, but not as many people as you’d think. Twenty at most. No one has touched a thing, and most of those twenty were ushered out by the soldiers who then dealt with the panic throughout the rest of the building. Hysteria tends to build quite quickly.’

  I looked at the body and noted how her clothing seemed to have been pulled out of place. ‘Does anyone think she has been sexually tampered with, in any way?’ I asked somewhat hesitantly.

  ‘I’ll get permission to make such enquiries,’ Veron said.

  I nodded. ‘I’d appreciate it if the king’s physician – if he has one – could look over her, once she’s been cleaned up. I’d like his or her opinion for it might tell us more about what happened here, and the type of murderer we are dealing with, if she had taken poison, or whether or not she’s been planted here like this, after being killed elsewhere.’

  ‘Planted?’

  ‘It’s distinctly possible.’

  Though it seemed unlikely. There was blood here, of course, but if she had been planted, there must have been blood somewhere else outside the temple. I put this to Veron and he sent one of the soldiers to clear the area even further, so we might assess the scene better.

  I moved around to her outstretched arm so that I might get a better look at her skin. It had not yet begun to turn purple, though her hands possessed a touch of blue. I took the liberty of trying to move her arm, to check that stiffness had indeed not yet set in, which put the time of death well within three or four hours, though it was impossible to tell when exactly. These things differed between people and climate.

 
‘What else can you tell me about the scene, when she was first discovered?’ I asked. ‘Just the facts.’

  ‘The temple had been locked,’ Veron continued. ‘When we came in, it was said there was a key in the lock on the inside There’s no other way in or out of this place, except through those doors.’

  ‘No one saw anything?’

  ‘No. Waiting on the other side were hundreds of guests, who’d been standing there for about an hour before the room was opened in the climax of the ceremony. Not one of them saw anyone come in or out.’

  ‘I may need a few moments.’ I made a quick inspection around the room and asked for Leana to do the same, inside and out. As we did, a few officials and senators came to observe what we were doing. I felt their gaze upon me, and wished they would go away so we could concentrate.

  The temple was at least fifty paces wide, austere for a place of worship perhaps, and in stark contrast to the rest of the building we had just experienced. The flagstones were all made from white and blue marble, and seemed secure enough – I could perceive no trapdoors, no holes. The walls were composed of thick limestone. Some were covered by rich, beautiful red drapes, and I peeled them back in case there was another door – but there was nothing. I took the hilt of my blade and bashed it against the fat blocks like a hammer, but along all sides both high and low the sounds were as I expected. I moved over to the damaged door to see that the heavy iron key was indeed still on the inside.

  Outside, however, there was no sign of blood on the floor or walls.

  There were no windows here, no open roof. The only light came from candles and paper lanterns – of which there were many. Several votive offerings of food and cups of water lay on an altar and incense was burning. To one side lay the mask of Trymus, a garish, white and purple chequered object with gold trim.