Sweetblade

by Carol A Park

  He would notice the change in the door, so she mentioned it before he could. “Huh,” she said. “Apparently, the hinges need oil.” She finally looked up at him.

  He stood in the doorway, framed by the lantern she had left lit in the hall. He had no weapon in his hand, but that meant nothing. He eyed her, and then the table. “What are you doing?”

  “Research,” she said, and then she dared to look back down.

  The only signal that he had moved closer to her was the faint rustle of his clothing. His footsteps were silent. She couldn’t even hear him breathing.

  But he stopped at the edge of the table, within her peripheral vision, to survey the spread of papers and books.

  “Ironic that a professional killer needs to research other killers,” he said after a moment.

  “It’s all about motive, Elidor.” She tapped two fingers on the cover of the closest book and glanced up at him. “I am not one of these monsters.” She had chosen the word deliberately, but he gave no sign that it had any effect on him. “I don’t do what I do for the high of the kill or bloodlust or to satisfy some perverted fantasy of mine, so I’m trying to understand.” She paused, raised an eyebrow, and tilted her head. “Why, do you have some insight you wish to share?”

  She almost thought she caught a flicker of amusement behind his eyes, but it might have been her imagination.

  Too much?

  “Have you made progress?” he asked.

  “Hardly,” she said. “The last victim was a man. Completely broke the pattern in almost every way. Fereharian, but not a nobody. He had a family—a wife, children—and his wrists weren’t slit. But the body had been moved to his bed, so that’s why they think it’s connected.” She paused. “The killer knows what he’s doing. He came and went without a trace.”

  No reaction.

  “And how did he die then?” he asked.

  Like you don’t know. Did he really not realize she knew, or was he playing along because he had no intention of killing her yet? “Stabbed through the chest.”

  “Mmm. And does it bother you?”

  She started. That had been unexpected. “Pardon?”

  “A father, so much like your own, leaving behind children.”

  She raised her eyes to meet his. No. He knew.

  Her muscles went taut with anticipation. “I’m sure I’ve eliminated my share of fathers,” she said, her hand creeping toward her thigh.

  He didn’t look, but he saw. “You’ve taken to wearing your dagger inside?”

  “One can’t be too careful with a killer on the loose.”

  He was more experienced, but he was also aging. She had the advantage of faster reflexes.

  Would it be enough?

  His hand twitched.

  In one smooth, fluid motion, she stood, kicked back her chair, and drew her dagger.

  And then blinked in astonishment.

  In one likewise, smooth, fluid motion, he had simply fled.

  She darted after him—out the hall door he had come in through. The front door was halfway open. She cursed, sheathed her dagger, and flung open the door.

  Only to be brought up short by an adolescent boy standing on the stoop, who took a step back at her appearance.

  Elidor’s cloak disappeared around a corner in the distance.

  She pounded her fist once against the door frame. Damn.

  The boy’s throat constricted and then he bowed. “Da,” he said. “I have a message for you.” He shoved out a hand grasping a letter, as though eager to be rid of it.

  She took it, and he tipped his hat and took off in the opposite direction from Elidor, not even waiting for a tip.

  At least she had had the presence of mind to sheath her dagger before throwing the door open.

  She glanced around the street. Thankfully, there was no one around who could have viewed the spectacle. Only once she had closed herself inside the house again did she look at the seal.

  The Watch. Xathal had another body.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Elidor hadn’t broken the time pattern, anyway. He must have committed the murder that night or early that morning before returning home.

  She had enough time on the way to the scene—just over in the fourth district—to wonder what her plan should be now, but not enough time to arrive at an answer. So for now, she would move forward as if nothing had happened.

  This time the message directed her to an apartment over a shoemaker’s shop, but the victim wasn’t the shoemaker. The husband and wife who owned the shop itself had divided the living space into two smaller spaces and rented one of them out after all of their children had moved away.

  That was what the Watchman at the door told her when she arrived.

  “Why is this important?” she asked him.

  The Watchman shrugged and jerked his head up the stairs. “The shoemaker and his wife are up there now, talking to Ruios Xathal.”

  “Thank you.” Ivana took the stairs and entered the apartment on the left.

  It was a small space indeed. The apartment had one main living area divided into three by moveable partitions. Still, though it was small, it was comfortably furnished. Firewood was stacked in the corner, attesting to the family’s preparations for the encroaching fall chill. The wood floor was swept clean, and it smelled of apples and cinnamon.

  Xathal stood speaking with a man and a woman—presumably the aforementioned shoemaker and his wife. The husband’s face was drawn, and the wife was leaning on him, not weeping openly, but wiping her eyes occasionally on an embroidered handkerchief.

  “She was such a nice person,” the shoemaker was saying. “Just couldn’t afford a bigger place, that’s all. Never had any issues. Quiet. Clean. Well-behaved little girls.”

  “I can’t believe it,” the wife murmured. The way her husband patted her arm told Ivana that it wasn’t the first time that phrase had left her mouth.

  Xathal noticed Ivana standing in the door, and he gestured her over. “This is Da Ivana, my associate.”

  Ivana inclined her head to the couple. “Where is the body?”

  The wife turned to her husband with an exclamation and buried her head in his arm.

  Oops. Sometimes she found that Elidor had rubbed off on her a bit too much. She was playing a part here.

  Xathal gestured to one of the nearby partitions. “On the bed.”

  Of course. She started to duck behind the partition, but something the shoemaker had said stopped her. She turned toward the shoemaker and his wife, who were preparing to leave. “Pardon,” she said. “You spoke of girls.”

  “Yes,” the wife said, dabbing at her eyes. “Two sweet little girls.”

  Two daughters again. “Where are they now?”

  “We took them in, of course,” the shoemaker said. “At least until other arrangements can be made. We’re trying to find other family, but…”

  “It was so hard on her, raising them on her own,” the wife put in. “We gave her this space in exchange for work at the shop, but it’s a lonely business nonetheless.” She shook her head. “What a horrendous thing, as if it weren’t bad enough for them after their father was taken by the same illness.”

  Illness? Was this a murder or a hospital deathbed?

  Ivana inclined her head again, and the shoemaker and his wife left.

  She ducked behind the partition with Xathal. As he said, there on the bed lay a woman. Fereharian, but older than the other female victims, who had all been young—around Ivana’s age or even younger.

  Every part of the woman’s exposed skin was covered in open sores, but there was no visible sign of injury, though they must have had some reason to suspect murder other than that she was found in bed.

  “Cause of death?” Ivana asked, certain he wouldn’t say whatever illness had struck her.

  Xathal put on a pair of gloves and turned down the lace at her neck. Bruises: red, purple, and the marks of fingers.

  Strangled.

  Xa
thal flipped back the lace and pulled off the glove. “Well. Now what do you think?”

  “Was she strangled in bed?”

  “We assume so.” He grimaced. “Her children found her when they woke up this morning.”

  Ivana ran a hand over her face. If there had been any doubt left in her mind—even if she hadn’t had the chance to see Elidor before this—it was erased now. A Fereharian woman with a serious illness? Two daughters, their father already dead?

  But what could she say to Xathal? “What makes you think this is related to the other murders? Surely, the fact that she was found in bed would not be unexpected given her pre-death state.”

  Xathal nodded. “Admittedly, we are now stretching. The killer—if indeed it is the same person—now has chosen a method of murder other than, well, shall we say, knifework. But we are back to a woman.”

  “But not a young woman.”

  Xathal sighed. He looked tired. “But still Fereharian. In bed. Exactly a week later. And we mustn’t forget the first two women were strangled before the killer apparently developed his preference for a blade.” He shuffled his hat off and on his head. “Violent crime is rare in this district—given the recent spree, it’s too coincidental to discount.”

  Ivana nodded. “I don’t disagree. But this is becoming stranger with each body.” And why, for Temoth’s sake? Was he taunting her? Flaunting her presumed inability to catch him? Or was he baiting her? “What is he gaining out of these murders?” she mused out loud.

  “Gaining?”

  “As you noted in your initial report, choosing young Fereharian women—women who look similar—is typical of these sorts of killers. Similar-looking victims, even similar modes of death, after those first few—the slitting of wrists. The assumption would be that something about those victims attracted him. The bloody method of murder suggests that something about that attracted him. But the previous murder—the man—broke the pattern of the type of victim, and this murder breaks it even more, in it being bloodless—though we are returning to females once again.”

  “There is still the possibility that one of the daughters was the intended target at the last house.”

  “But the family situation didn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.” She decided to voice the connections she had made. “Is it coincidental that both this victim and the prior had two daughters, and that both times the killer timed it in such a way that the daughters would find their bodies?”

  Xathal stared at the corpse, his brow furrowed. “That does seem more than coincidence,” he said after a moment. “But how are we supposed to catch him if we can’t even nail down what victims he prefers?”

  She shook her head. She knew what these victims signified. “Signs of sexual assault?”

  “No.”

  “Never,” she murmured. “That’s consistent at least.” Also consistent with what she knew about Elidor, other than his voyeurism as it pertained to her.

  “As is the Fereharian origin,” Xathal said. “I have considered whether he had been wronged by a Fereharian sometime in his past and simply snapped, but it doesn’t seem to fit that sort of crime.”

  Ivana furrowed her brow. “Agreed. It’s too methodical. Too planned. If it were revenge gone mad, it would show signs of passion. He would likely find the most Fereharian-populated district and go on a wild killing spree until he was caught.” She paused. “But this man doesn’t want to be caught. He’s now slipping in and out of risky places: an occupied house, an apartment over a shop.

  “It’s almost like he’s toying with us. Playing games.” Yes, that was it. Playing games. She clenched and unclenched one fist at her side. But what were the rules?

  Presumably, she won if she caught him. But under what terms did he win? When he had exhausted everyone in her life who had mattered to her and was now gone. Then what? And why?

  “Games. As in taunting us or leaving clues?” Xathal pressed when she was silent for too long.

  Clues? That could be. Was he daring Ivana to try to prove that it was him? Even to catch him? “Either. Both, perhaps.”

  “Why would he leave clues if he doesn’t want to be caught?”

  She tapped the bedpost with one finger. Xathal was an ally, yet a half-blind ally; she couldn’t tell him everything. “What has changed since the murders started breaking the most recent pattern?”

  “Da?”

  “Us. The Watch brought in two outsiders to help. He knows we’re stepping up the search, so perhaps he, in turn, is stepping up his game.”

  “An interesting theory, and if true, it raises the level of madness of this individual.”

  She could absolutely believe it of Elidor.

  She closed her eyes. A part of her had hoped that her theory would be proven false. Not because she cared about Elidor’s fate. Because she cared about her own.

  She turned away. “Make me a copy of your interview with the shoemaker and his wife. In fact, make me a copy of your reports of any questioning done if you can. I want to explore the possibility that this has turned into a game for the killer. And if there are clues we’re missing, I want to find them. We need to beat him at his own game.”

  She had to catch Elidor before he finished whatever game he was playing with her, and to do that, she might yet need Xathal and whatever resources he could bring to bear. But how could she utilize him safely, without compromising herself?

  As much as she hated the idea, she had a feeling it was time to go to Llyr.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ivana was being watched. Not by human eyes, but divine. Obsidian eyes peered out at her from the nine reliefs carved into the stone walls around the small shrine to Yathyn, so different from his wife’s. Someone had created them so that a visitor would have that impression. Probably to help the visitor feel the weight of their recent guilt, or at least dredge up some sin to feel guilty about.

  She supposed a normal person would find it unsettling. For her, it emphasized the depths of depravity these supposed holy men fell to. A government keeping a few assassins on retainer? Sure. A religious order? Damn hypocrites.

  The stone gods couldn’t watch for Llyr, however. Ivana’s own eyes turned back to the solitary entrance to the shrine from her place in the dark.

  And so, unusually, she saw Llyr before he saw her.

  Who was he anyway? Was he another pet of the Conclave, doing their bidding in a different way? Or was he a priest himself?

  His eyes swept the inside of the shrine twice before he spotted her in the shadows and moved to stand in front of her. “Well?”

  She didn’t move. She had propped herself up into the corner of a stone bench set into the wall, one foot on the bench with her knee drawn to her chest, and the other dangling off the side. “I know who the killer is.”

  Llyr’s eyes flicked down over her casual position, and then his lips pressed into a line. “Good. Why are you bothering me? Do what you need to d—”

  “It’s Elidor.”

  His face spasmed in shock and then smoothed.

  So. He didn’t know. The thought had crossed her mind while she’d waited that this could have all been some sort of sick final test on their part, such as setting Elidor on people to see how far she would go. If she would turn on her master if need be.

  “Did I hear you correctly?” he asked.

  “It’s. Elidor,” she repeated.

  There was a long silence, and then, “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s complicated,” she said. “But I realized he’s been playing a game with me. His first victims were all young Fereharian women, like myself. Then he killed a man, clearly meant to represent my father. The latest victim was an older woman, clearly meant to represent my mother.” She swung her leg down to join the other and stood up. “One of your tools has gone rogue, I’m afraid.” She crossed her arms. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  Llyr swore under his breath and
then passed a hand over his face.

  She was glad he didn’t question her for more details. She didn’t want to have to explain her entire life story to Llyr so that he would understand.

  “Does he know you know?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ivana said, “but he fled when I went to confront him. I haven’t seen him since.” She smirked at him. “Could be lurking in the shadows outside the shrine, for all I know.”

  In fact, she had checked the shadows outside the shrine thoroughly, as well as any shadow on the way. Still, it hadn’t escaped her that Elidor could be keeping a close eye on her. She felt mildly comforted by the logic that if he intended to kill her now, he could have already done so.

  Llyr, on the other hand, took her comment with obvious discomfiture. He tried to hide it by glaring at her, but his hand had begun tapping against his thigh.

  Ivana was more amused by his distress than she ought to be, given the circumstances, and she made no effort to hide it. It felt good to be the one in control.

  He didn’t like the reversal. He leaned toward her, his face inches from her own. “You realize that your livelihood, indeed, life, is in my hands? I can send you where I want.” He leered at her. “Do with you what I want.”

  She snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”

  “You’re walking a thin line, sweetheart.”

  She shrugged and brushed past him. “Fine. Deal with him yourself. That should be entertaining.”

  “Stop,” he said.

  She stopped but didn’t turn to face him again.

  “If you have the opportunity to eliminate him without suspicion, do so. Otherwise, continue whatever plans you’re enacting or planning to enact with the Watch. They may be of use to you in pinning him down; find a way to give them what they need, and no more. When the arrest is made, I’ll make sure my people will be in place to take custody before he can be questioned. We’ll deal with him from there.”

  Eliminate Elidor or manipulate the Watch. Which would be easier? In exactly five days, Elidor would kill again; that gave her little time to plan, but she had an idea of where to start.