Looking for something becomes mind-bogglingly difficult when one does not know what to look for. Not only does this apply to life itself in its more sophisticated, philosophical aspects, but also to its more superficial levels.
The latter was the case for a certain copper-haired soldier right now in the deserted living quarters of the archers, fighting an urge to swear loudly, as she was supposed to be stealthy in her mission, if it could be called that.
She had found the particular quiver she was meant to find; and a dozen others, but she figured Sarge would not need the entire squad's supply of arrows.
But that was only half of the job done.
"Search the living quarters," he'd said.
For what?
That he didn't specify. Somehow his caffeine-fuelled brain seemed to conclude that she'd figure everything out on her own and with a swish of his cloak, he was off to interrogate Dion.
Perhaps Farren should've just asked him what to search for instead of getting flustered and fumbling with her words like an anxious speaker addressing the public for the first time.
Bunk beds stood in two rows on her either side, shirts and cloaks and breeches and scarves hung from the bedrails, some scattered around on the floor, and the bed and shelf belonging to Dion was nothing remarkable from the rest.
Tucking the quiver under one arm, she started sifting through Dion's belongings, her moves swift yet mind brimming with guilt. She remembered all the instances Dion had stood up for her. It hadn't been a long time since he came with Alastair to this post, but the archer was generally well-liked, which was more than could be said about his friend.
And Linder suspected him, although he hadn't voiced it yet.
Farren found nothing out of the ordinary among Dion's possessions. She'd almost been afraid when she slid a hand below the mattress, then under the bed, thinking she'd come across a vial of Glikayne or something else that painted him as the culprit. But she came across no such evidence.
Although that wasn't saying much, because a hired killer would hardly be clumsy enough to simply let poison bottles lay scattered around.
She heaved a sigh of relief, hating the fact she was content not because Dion was possibly innocent, but because she wished to see Alastair be apprehended, for her personal, selfish grudges.
Mutant freak.
Street dog.
Why must the healers bother to keep you alive?
And three whole months without pay. All because of him.
Anger flared through her veins, much in the way Glikayne did through the bloodstream of an unfortunate victim. What do I care if the real culprit gets caught or not?
I just want to see that blue-blooded bastard in shackles.
She crawled down the window at the back, and strode away, not wanting to discover anything that could make her question herself. Her job here was done.
✦✧✦✧
"Is that all?" Linder sipped coffee from a tankard that looked less like a drinking vessel and more like a small bucket fashioned from roughly hammered pewter plates, and a handle attached only as an afterthought.
Dion nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve, his eyes bloodshot as he seemed to be clinging onto the last bit of his energy. He'd just been informed that the wounded night-archer he'd carried to the healer the night of attack had died.
Thus there were no more witnesses left other than Dion.
"You have known Alastair personally for quite some time," said Linder, "yet you had no clue you were in the company of an assassin."
"I still can't believe it." He sighed.
"Were you not by his side when the village was under attack? You belong to the same squad."
"He preferred to ride separately from the group."
Linder's eyes shifted to Karles who leaned against the doorframe behind him, listening to the interrogation. "Well?"
"H's telling the truth," he said begrudgingly, "Henris fought alone."
"Whoever this killer is, their goal that night was to get their hands on that package, I believe," said Linder. "Initially I thought the man who attacked Crowder could be the one responsible. But I'll rule it out as you, Mr. Edsley, say you saw Alastair aiming at the commander."
"Also Henris escaped right after the botched act and is still on the run, so that's saying something," Gray added from where he stood at Linder's side.
"Even so," Linder said to Dion, "I wonder why you are so fast to accuse Henris. The night's incidents were the most confusing, if anything."
He set down the tankard and made a mental note to bring his own cup from Brittlerock next time. "As his friend, you should have tried to understand his situation, don't you think? Perhaps he was not aiming at the commander at all. Maybe you read the situation wrong. You may have simply startled him."
With every word, he sank the blade deeper into Dion.
Then Linder added, earning a glare from everyone else present except Gray, "maybe, Edsley, you could have prevented the death of the night-archer, only if you'd stayed calm."
Dion looked up, tired eyes wide in shock. "Are you...are you implying I'm responsible for the night-archer's death?"
Linder folded his hands together, noticing the flicker of murderous intent on Dion's seemingly grief stricken face. "Not directly."
"Enough of this." Karles snarled, taking a step forward, "shouldn't you question Alastair instead?"
Corporal Gray stepped up immediately, meeting his glare with an equally seething one of his own.
"You will not speak to him with that tone of voice. I don't give a damn if you're old buddies or not," he said, his voice dangerously low.
Linder motioned the corporal to step back, then regarded Karles with an icy stare. "I believe I am the one supposed to carry out this investigation, thus I decide whom to question," he said, "and besides, Alastair Henris hasn't been found yet."
"And is that any reason to start accusing anyone without proof?" Karles said, his face showing nothing but disdain.
The same displeasure showed on the faces of the guards on Dion's either side, and it would not be long before the bitter feelings spread throughout the encampment of Kinallen; after all, Linder was somewhat an outsider, so insensitively interrogating this kind-hearted, well-liked soldier who was devastated by the sudden discovery of his friend being a cold-blooded murderer. Not to mention the night-archer had been attacked right in front of him.
Linder could almost feel the hate that swelled in the air.
Yet his suspicion was no longer just a hunch, but gathering proof to support that was the tricky part, with the only witness being a suspect in his eyes.
Unless he acquired concrete evidence fast, an arrow right through his throat wouldn't be the most unlikely thing to happen.
These soldiers are bitter, mourning the loss of their leader, their nerves frayed from the unrest and the possibility of a war. Any further testing of their patience would land me beneath the cold, hard ground of Kinallen.
With a slow smile, he rested his face on one palm. Finally, something new to work on that didn't consist of keeping track of ledgers for how many wagons of coal went out or how much the prices dropped.
He had but two simple questions.
Who was behind the assassination attempt?
And what really happened to Commander Karyk that night?
Linder would find the answer to both.
"I'm not accusing anyone," he now said to Karles, then got to his feet, "I must ask all that I need to know. Next, I'll speak to Doctor Eliora Sarek and Lieutenant Evander. The details surrounding the death of Commander Karyk are muddy as well."
With a curt nod, Dion left, escorted by Karles and two guards.
Not long after that, Farren entered through a window at the back, despite the quite clearly unguarded front door.
"Job's done," she said, dropping the quiver on Linder's chair, then took perch on the table.
"Anything else?" Linder slid an arrow out of it and held it before his eyes, brows crinkled.
"Nah, nothing noteworthy."
"Did you look," he said, "thoroughly?"
She cleared her throat. "Yes." A pause. "I've picked up whispers 'round the camp, Sarge. Keep going the way you are, and soon you'll end up in one of the corpse wagons."
Gray craned his neck in through the doorway, ever vigilant. "That a threat, Clearstrike?"
“A friendly warning.” Her smile was strained.
Linder's eyes peeked over the arrow's fletching.
"You don't mess with Kinallen's soldiers, or its folk in general. An angry mob with pitchforks pay no heed to logic or proof," Farren said, her tone grim. "Piss them off bad enough, and they will burn you at a stake."
"Why would the villagers want to set me on fire?" Linder said incredulously.
"Ah, that's just figurative language. Unless...?" She clicked her tongue. "Anyway. Leave this nonsense, I say. Dion did nothing wrong. And you have no proof, even if he did. I get where you're coming from; Alastair's too obvious with his skills to be an assassin and the night-archer, the only other witness, just kicked the bucket. But that doesn't prove much."
Next, Eliora ambled in through the door. "Be quick," she said, "I've got people to attend to."
"Right away," Linder said, then resumed his seat. "Have you brought what I requested, doctor?"
The old woman freed one hand from beneath her shawl and placed a long, thin object wrapped in parchment on the table. "There."
Farren peered over his shoulder as he unwrapped it-- an arrow.
Shaft made of poplar, Frost Eagle feathers for the fletching, set with a barbed iron arrowhead-- of the best quality available in the capital. Custom made, much expensive than the standard ones issued by the Midaelian army.
"This was the arrow that killed the night-archer. Originally meant for Commander Karyk," the healer said. "The shafts usually snap due to the violent muscle contractions as seen in Glikayne poisoning. This one I retrieved fast. Figured it would come in handy if they run an investigation."
"Thank you, doctor," Linder said with a smile, then compared two arrows side by side. One from Dion's quiver, the other found on the night-archer's corpse.
They were identical.
"See?" He looked up at Farren, grey eyes twinkling. "Clear as daylight. Dion had to be the one aiming at the commander. Alastair and this night archer catch him, red-handed. He panicks, and shoots the night archer to shut him up."
"Alastair runs for his life," added Gray after a moment. “That's how it went, I think.”
Farren stared for a moment, looking almost convinced. Then she swung her gaze away. "Well, that arrow doesn't prove much."
"How so?"
Farren pulled up her legs under herself. "Alastair and Dion, they arrived at this post because of Alastair's older brother, you see. Pulled some strings. Got 'em both those fancy yew longbows from the best bowmaker in the capital. Same goes for those arrows," she said, "after Klo's men catch Alastair, which I'm sure they will, you will find him carrying the same arrows."
Linder raised a hand to his face and sighed. "Rhilio's mercy."
"Wouldn't be surprised if they've got the same breeches too," she coughed.
"Did the night-archer say anything, doctor?" he asked.
Eliora shook her head. "Shot right through the throat. Deadly aim. Barely survived half an hour."
✦✧✦✧
When Lieutenant Evander came in next, Linder had his head in his hands.
The lieutenant sank heavily into the chair opposite to him. "Ask your questions."
Better to move on to the other mystery, when one has hit a dead end. Linder took his mind off the botched assassination. That could be figured out later.
"If you could tell us what exactly happened before Commander Karyk's death, please."
Farren leaned in. Even from the doorway, Gray listened in with alert ears.
"It was shortly after I sent the three of them to Brittlerock," said Evander, "Karyk wanted to go to his office, where the package was. Well, now I know it was the wrong one, but at that moment, all Karyk wanted to do was keep it secure."
The Lieutenant's eyes then found the dagger at Farren's belt, who nearly jumped.
"Who gave you permission to keep that?" he asked, his tone more assertive than accusatory.
Farren fumbled for words. "As Sergeant Wolturs' squad is in charge, and...and I thought," she said, her expression pained, "I'll give it back, sir."
"I don't want it. Gods, no.” The lieutenant shook his head. "If you have Wolturs' approval, then I've nothing to worry about. Just keep it safe."
Farren heaved a sigh of relief. Linder urged him with a nod to continue.
"So Karyk went up to the camp, alone, and I stayed at the village to keep things in order," he said, "no more than a quarter hour later there was an explosion up there. We had no idea those attackers had another Firemount trained on the camp all this while. Karyk's office blew up. We found...what was left of him there."
So he hasn't seen the commander die with his own eyes.
Linder raised the tankard to his lips again, draining what was left of the coffee.
The hike from the village to the camp is quite something. Anything could've happened on the way. The burnt corpse could be anyone's.
But voicing that suspicion would get Linder in even more trouble, so he thought of Farren's advice and bit back the response.
"We'll run an autopsy of Commander Brianus Karyk's body," Linder simply said, "Commander Del sent word to me after I informed him of the situation here."
The Lieutenant looked revolted at the idea of his old friend's corpse getting all cut up by the investigation squad, but with great difficulty, he agreed. "Do what you must."
--"Corporal Clearstrike!"
They turned to see Helmer, a young recruit sprinting up to the door, eyes wide and twigs in his hair.
"Helm!” Farren strode up to him. “Weren't you with those Klo sent to the woods to look for Alastair? Did you find him?"
"Not yet, but--we found wheel tracks in the forest, leading away from the dirt road that connects the camp and the village."
Linder shot up from his seat, his chair hitting the floor with a thud. Pieces and fragments shifted into place in his mind.
Something did happen to the commander on the way to the camp from the village.
The corpse we saw at the infirmary could not have been commander's.
"And where do those tracks lead?" Farren asked Helmer.
"O'er the hills, Corporal," he said, "into the Drisian territory."
Linder swung his cloak over his shoulder, his heart hammering in his chest.
"We have to check this out."