Beneath Ceaseless Skies #134

by Margaret Ronald

  Issue #134 • Nov. 14, 2013

  “A Death for the Ageless,” by Margaret Ronald

  “Forsaken Beneath the Stars,” by Jason S. Ridler

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  A DEATH FOR THE AGELESS

  by Margaret Ronald

  I sent the sparrow two minutes after my first look at the body. Some might say that this was intellectual cowardice, but I knew my limits, and I knew when to call in aid.

  “It’s not supposed to happen,” Fries said again as I inspected the wounds. He stayed close to the edge of the flat roof, as if distance would shield him. “It can’t happen.”

  “So I guess we’re not here, then?” I turned back the corpse’s eyelids, first one then the other. Silver veins spread out from the wide irises. I let go and stood, my feet crunching on the tar paper. “We’re not here, no one called us, and the Ageless Elariel here—he isn’t dead.”

  Fries shut his mouth over another not supposed to happen. Elariel of the Ageless, once high in the courts of Poma-mèl, had been taller than most human men, with the harsh and elegant bone structure common to all Ageless, his expression now distant and tranquil. Shame about the multiple stab wounds; there was nothing tranquil about that ruin of a chest.

  Those of us who’d managed to come back from the war in Poma-mél had seen what happened when an Ageless was cut: the wound sealed up, the blood dissolved into smoke, and usually the formerly wounded Ageless just looked annoyed. Even now, when they were in exile, their healing powers were known through the City. Fries was right: this wasn’t supposed to happen.

  The ladder leading to the rooftop shook as Crighton ponderously climbed up, taking Fries’s hand to steady himself as he reached the top. “Judas,” he muttered. “This is a mess.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying, sir!” Fries bleated. Fries was Patrol, not Inspector, and I often had to remind myself that he wasn’t representative of Patrol.

  “Knife wounds, by the look of it,” I said, stepping aside to give him a better view. “There’s also a contusion on the back of the head, but I think that happened after death. Probably when he fell.”

  “Fell?” Crighton squinted at the body.

  “Placement of the limbs is consistent with a fall from a significant height. He wasn’t killed here, though; there’s no other sign of a fight, no blood or ash. And we got the call because someone two floors down heard the thump around tenth bell.”

  “And they didn’t call it in till first bell. Lovely.” Crighton circled Elariel’s body. “Swift, send a sparrow to the lady Avrin. She’s going to want to know her husband’s dead.”

  I hesitated, one hand going to my belt where the brass bird usually rested. “I—must have left without it—”

  Fries started to splutter, but Crighton just glared at me. “Swift, you milksop. You called in that little goblin, didn’t you?”

  “Kobold!” We all looked up at the high, piping voice; none of us had heard the ladder rattle. Mieni hopped over the edge of the roof, adjusting the lines of her suit. Many koboldim wore children’s clothes, but Mieni had made a point of wearing a ladies’ suit tailored to her diminutive frame. If anything, it made her look like a child playing dress-up. “Kobold, not goblin. I do insist on the distinction. And yes, I was called. I am always happy to lend my poor brain to the aid of good Mr. Swift.”

  Fries snickered, while Crighton just looked as if he’d stepped in something. The koboldim had caught the worst of public opinion in the wake of the war. Most other refugee populations were too small to bother with; the draugar were too unnerving, the devourers—well, those were another matter—and as for the Ageless, you couldn’t hate them. Ageless were tragic exiles; koboldim were rats fleeing a ship. But they were under the Ageless’ protection, so they were grudgingly accepted by most, as we’d accepted other changes the Ageless brought. Myself, I’d met Mieni during the war, when she occupied a position parallel to my own current role as Inspector. I’d never known a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

  I gestured to the body. “You see the problem, Mieni.”

  She paused, hairy red fingers twitching. “Indeed. Indeed. May I?” I glanced at Crighton, but he’d turned away to fiddle with his sparrow. Mieni returned my own sparrow as she trotted past. “Indeed,” she said again, her voice lowering to a croon. She pulled a lens from one of the pockets on her vest. “See, how the blows struck through muscle and bone here, but not here? Most curious.”

  “Would the depth of cuts make a difference?” I asked, crouching next to her. It was difficult; Mieni was about two and a half feet tall, and so trying to see from the same angle from my six-foot-three was more than a little difficult.

  “Depth? No. Disembowelment would not stop them; depth of cuts would do nothing.”

  Nothing could stop an Ageless, or so it had seemed. Nothing but political treachery. Elariel had been the one most outspoken since; a voice for the expatriate Ageless while the Usurper held the throne in Poma-mél. If this had been a political crime—and at the moment that looked as likely as anything else—then the City was sorely unprepared for any repercussions. “Has this ever happened before?” I asked quietly.

  Mieni shook her head. “There are stories of murdered cent-ans—of Ageless, as you say—but there are always stories. No, my friend, this is a first for me as well.” She leaned over and sniffed at the wounds; her wide flat nostrils twitching.

  “You’re just going to let that—that goblin snuffle at him?” Fries snapped finally.

  “Kobold,” Mieni corrected. “Mr. Swift, you see? This incision here, and this, over the heart, were partly healed but did not close. While these here were made through bloodless skin—already the death had taken hold.” She sniffed again at the wounds, probing at the gaping edges. “It was neither the first nor the last strike that killed him.”

  I peered closer. “So what did?” There was a faint scent to the wounds, something like burnt lavender.

  She rocked back onto her heels. “I think the question is rather why.”

  A gold spark lanced across the far side of the rooftop, splitting the air in two. Crighton stepped back with a very satisfied smile as an Ageless woman stepped out from the broken air, sealing it behind her with a wave of one long, glimmering hand. The split-step, one hallmark of Ageless magic. I jumped to my feet. “Crighton—”

  Crighton glared at me. “Standard procedure in any case involving Ageless is to contact their liaison.”

  “And standard procedure in a murder case is another thing entirely! Your pardon, lady Avrin,” I added as she turned to face me. “But I don’t think you should see this.”

  Avrin was tall as her husband had been, her own skin faintly gold to his silver, and a crown of magnificent auburn hair spilled down her back, held in place by chains so fine they could have been silk. All Ageless were beautiful, but Avrin was more than that; she had a quiet grace that balanced her husband’s fiery conviction and a dignity that human monarchs could only ape. The two of them, married shortly after they arrived in our city, had made a name for the Ageless expatriates. The elegant line of her mouth turned down. “I do not care what you think. I will see this.”

  Her eyes widened. I turned to see Mieni squatting by Elariel’s head, opening his mouth and inspecting his teeth. “Lady, I am sorry, but this is the scene of a crime, and we cannot—”

  “So he is dead,” she murmured, and I stopped. You didn’t interrupt Ageless. “I felt it—I could no longer feel him on what we share, and I thought at first he must have withdrawn from me. But he is truly dead.”

  “You—felt it?”
<
br />   “We are bonded, he and I. Were bonded.” She shivered and turned to Crighton. “I ask that the body be returned to our lodgings. We will entomb him here, as he would have wished.”

  “Of course,” Crighton said, just as I shook my head. Crighton glared at me. “Standard Ageless procedure, Swift.”

  “We haven’t even examined the scene properly! We have to at least find out how he died—”

  “That is exactly why we do not want you to do it,” Avrin said sharply. “If you find out how he was killed, what then? Do you think we want every fool with a grudge to know exactly how we can be killed? Will you take responsibility once that information makes its way through the Usurper’s spies? No. We will take the body.”

  “But—” Legally, I didn’t have a leg to stand on; City laws had been changed in the wake of the war and were extremely favorable to Ageless. As were most other human dealings with them. “Don’t you want to know who killed him?”

  Avrin’s face contorted, and both Crighton and Fries caught their breath in muffled sobs. I felt my own eyes prickle from the sight; grief, on an Ageless face, is frightening and powerful, not to mention contagious. “What good would it do him now?” she whispered.

  “You heard the woman,” Crighton said in a choked voice. “Swift, get the goblin out of here.”

  I turned away. Mieni had moved on to the dead man’s hands, lifting them much as I had done and examining the nails. “I’m sorry, Mieni,” I muttered. “Time to go.”

  “You see this, Mr. Swift? Look at the nails; two are broken, one torn. I do not know any cent-ans who grow them long enough to tear. Perhaps he had begun to try koboldim fashions, hm?” She got to her feet, gazing at the body. “You have brought me quite the puzzle. Thank you.”

  “The kobold should move,” Avrin said icily.

  “The kobold will move, indeed,” Mieni said, and turned to face Avrin. “As we move when the cent-ans ask, hm?” Slitted yellow eyes regarded luminous silver ones, and for a moment I had the odd sensation that Avrin was not contemptuous of Mieni so much as frightened. Little could frighten an Ageless, though, and at length Mieni nodded. “My sorrow for your grief, cent-ans. I heard nothing ill of this man, and I think I shall not now.”

  “You will not,” Avrin snapped. “Gentlemen?”

  “We’re leaving,” I said before Crighton could order me away.

  Mieni scuttled down the ladder ahead of me and waited at the street, “I’m sorry, Mieni,” I said. “I thought we might have a little more time to work.”

  “Time is not the question, Mr. Swift. Have I not told you as much over the years? The question is what is here.” She tapped her forehead, hard enough that I could hear the sound. “What we see quickly can be as important as what we then learn. It is all in how we consider it.”

  “So you’ve said, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do so.” Mieni snorted. A kobold snort can be particularly eloquent, and I knew this one from past arguments; Mieni was not a fan of self-deprecation. “What do you think of the situation?” I asked, to stave off a new lecture.

  Mieni’s eyes lowered, and she began to walk at a good clip. “I think.... Walk with me, Mr. Swift. You are expected back?”

  “Not soon.” Undoubtedly Crighton’s report would reach the Quarter well before me.

  “Good. Yes, I am curious. But I am not yet sure it is a good curiosity.” She shook her head again, ears rattling, and turned toward the river district.

  The walk to the river district starts off pleasant and then progressively becomes seedier, going into the slums that have not yet been reclaimed by koboldim, then out by the docks and the traders who don’t want their presence officially known. There have been half-hearted attempts to quash smuggling from Poma-mèl, but no Inspector will take on such a colossal job. Besides, I personally have found it useful to know what comes into the city, and enough of the smugglers are veterans that we stay in touch.

  Mieni paused at some of the stalls, investigating new brass sparrows and greenglass lenses. “Poor work, lately; the draugar standards have not been kept up. Ah! Oranges.” She handed the stallkeeper a few coins and held up the fruit. “Straight from Poma-mèl. You can tell by the gleam.” I couldn’t, not in this light, but I’d take her word for it. “You are well, Mr. Swift? You are eating enough?”

  Mieni was a great-grandmother, as the white tufts over her ears attested, and if I ever forgot that fact, her attitude toward me was a constant reminder. “Do I look like I’ve missed any meals?”

  She squinted up at me. “It is hard to say from down here. Perhaps you have shrunk, and I would not notice. Take care of yourself, Mr. Swift; the mind is held by the body, and a weakening body hurts a thinking mind.”

  “Even such a mind as mine,” I agreed.

  Mieni made a spitting noise. A cluster of whispering draugar started at the sound and huddled farther away from her, their hair still dripping ghost-water. “You noticed the scent on the body, Mr. Swift?” she asked softly, so that I had to stoop to hear.

  “I did. Lavender and ashes, I thought.”

  “The ashes are no matter; that is simply the residue of blood-smoke. No, my friend, there was more to that scent. Oil of bergamot, for a start, and white crescent, and I am not certain of the last but I suspect false-stellate.”

  I shrugged; no lead there. “All of which are common in the city.”

  “Common by necessity. Think, Mr. Swift.”

  It took no great leap of logic to know the source of such a scent: antivenom, the Ageless’ boon against another group of refugees. The devourers were much less of a problem than they could have been, thanks to the antivenom. Many people, myself included, carried antivenom-treated weapons in case they ran into a hungry devourer, and rare was the household that did not keep a supply on hand. “You don’t think he was killed by a devourer? That’s impossible; those were knife marks, and I’ve never known a devourer to use a weapon.” I’d also never known a devourer to leave a corpse without a few bites, but that seemed in poor taste just now.

  “No, I do not... but still.” She tapped her throat thoughtfully. “Mr. Swift, could you bring me to a devourer?”

  I stopped in my tracks. A barge on the canal passed us, a few of the human pilgrims—illegal, now that the Usurper was on the throne—gazing listlessly at us as they went by. “Mieni, you’re not serious.”

  “You know me when I am not serious, Mr. Swift. Am I so now?” She blinked up at me, and while one corner of her fanged mouth had pulled up, it wasn’t in any sort of real smile. After a moment she sighed and began to peel one of the oranges. “No trouble, then. I can find one in the catacombs; surely our couriers know where they can be found.”

  “No!” I shook myself. “No. If you’re that set on it, then better if you come with me.” Koboldim could fight, but they were best in numbers, and the catacombs were no place for that sort of skirmish. And call me a fool, but I do still have some misguided notions of chivalry.

  We went down a side street, and when I was sure we weren’t watched, I wrenched open a manhole cover. Normally, Patrol handled devourer problems, but I’d been bumped to Patrol so many times that I knew my way around the catacombs. I glanced at Mieni as I started down the ladder. “Stay close to me, and stay in the light if you can.”

  “I do have some vision in darkness, Mr. Swift.”

  “I don’t, and I’ll need to see where you are.” I began my descent, trying not to look longingly at the sunlight vanishing above.

  For all the bad press koboldim got, the devourers were truly the worst of the refugees. At least we assumed they were refugees; they appeared not long after the others, though not via any road we’d monitored. We in the City may not like draugar or koboldim or even Ageless, but we can at least talk to them; devourers are nothing but mindless hunger. And they are contagious; within a few weeks of the first of them turning up, we discovered that anyone who died from their poisonous bites eventually rose again as a lesser devourer, with the same bite bu
t less speed and strength. Things could have gotten very bad in the city, had not the Ageless stepped forward with the antivenom. The concoction burned the devourers, split their skin, and prevented the ill effects of their bite.

  Elariel himself had been the one to offer the antivenom, I remembered, not long after several of his fellow Ageless had returned to Poma-mèl. Would a devourer make that connection and seek vengeance? Unlikely; they were cunning, not reasoning. Though that could have been just such an assumption as the ones Mieni was constantly ordering me to put from my mind.

  I dropped from the ladder onto the damp floor of the catacombs and drew my service blade, peering ahead to the little squares of light from the street above. Many of Patrol carry firearms, but one too many mornings in the war cured me of that—mornings when I wouldn’t know whether pistol or rifle would even work in the uncanny land of Poma-mél. A blade was less secure but more reliable.

  Mieni hopped down beside me, sniffed the air, and trotted off to our left, away from the river. “Should they not be here already?”

  “It’s daylight,” I said, blade held at the ready. “Give them time. If I had raw meat, maybe the smell would bring them....”

  Mieni shrugged and continued to peel her orange. A noise like half a dozen rats startled from sleep echoed down the closest tunnel, and I turned to see two white eyes staring out from the darkness. “Back,” I whispered, dropping to guard. “They never come from the first direction.”

  Indeed, after a second the eyes winked out. More skittering started up, from the left this time, and I turned in place, trying to keep Mieni at my back.

  Devourers may be mindless, but they still have some hunters’ instincts. The thing jumped at us just as I turned, bowling Mieni over and scattering her oranges. The half-peeled one mashed up against the wall, and the devourer wheeled on it as if it were a rat. For a second it gnawed at the destroyed pulp, juice gleaming in little gold trails, then turned to the closer source of food: us.