Mir'kadi, Tenth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel
The sunlight that streamed through the soaring, ogee-arched windows of Tan'os Ensther's bedchamber illuminated a chaotic scene. A pair of sturdy chairs lay smashed near an upturned table beneath the windows. Their splintered limbs were echoed by the hulking four-poster bed that dominated the far side of the chamber. The Vise's two-handed sword lay on the floor, stained with dried blood.
A large curio with glass doors stood against the wall and appeared to be one of the few pieces of furniture that hadn't been destroyed. Behind the bed hung a timeworn tapestry depicting one of the most glorious sea battles in Thrommish history, the Conquest of Pellandar Bay. The violence of the naval onslaught was mirrored by the stench of death and the room's disarray.
Beneath his wrinkled brow, Deneven's eyes shone with intensity. Contemplating the chaos, the newly deputized Chief Justiciar sought to make sense of the grisly events. Something about the scene did not feel right.
Deneven leaned on his cane with a grumble and shifted his weight to his good leg. He had paid copious coin to various craftsmen, but none had yet crafted a wooden leg that didn't cause his stump to ache.
Behind him, one of the two guards assigned to aid his investigation cleared his throat with an exaggerated cough, stirring Deneven from his reverie.
"What is it?" asked Deneven, his tone flat.
"Begging your pardon, sir. Lord Justiciar Tsardon was quite explicit in his orders. You were to be given until noon to inspect the building, and it is almost that time." The young guard's curled mustache quivered as he wrinkled his nose. "The Lord Justiciar wants the villa to be properly cleansed."
"What is your name, Lance Corporal?"
"Ionaden Kesner, sir."
Judging by the angle of the sun's rays upon the floor, Deneven judged it to be mid-morning. "Corporal Kesner, I am quite aware of the time. I have at least another hour."
"Yes, sir, I only meant to—"
Deneven turned to face the doorway where the cavalrymen stood. "I know what you meant." A quick up-and-down flick of his eyes was all Deneven required to assess the soldier. "Your armor is fit for a cavalcade, not a single nick or dent to be found. You've not been in battle. Indeed, I wager a year's pay that you've yet to kill your first man. Bah, don't try to deny it. One look at you and I know all there is about you. Soft hands, plump cheeks. You are the coddled spawn of some grasping courtier, or lesser merchant, seeking a quick path to power through service in the decorated Ca'Dezer Cavalry." The timbre of Deneven's voice grew dark. "You'd best become accustomed to this stink. Own it, inhale it as you would the aroma of your momma's stew on a cold winter day. Some days the air will be filled with the odor of your enemies' shit and gore, others with that of your comrades' blood. One day the stench may be your own." Deneven hobbled to stand nose to nose with the paling youth, "You chose death's trade when you accepted that sword and armor. You are a Reyzan Ca'Dezer; we eat steel and spit daggers. Right now, you look like some dainty Ferencian noble sniffing his bride's cunt. Now cease wrinkling your nose and grow some hair on your balls."
The cavalryman raised his chin and straightened. "Yes, sir."
With a dismissive snort, Deneven eyed the stiffened guard but said nothing further. He turned and walked back into the room. The clunk of his peg leg upon the wooden floor was startling in the stillness. He stopped at the side of the bed and dipped his head.
Tan'os Ensther might have been a salt-soaked, blunt-nosed bastard, as brutal and cunning in politics as in battle, but he had not been without merits. Despite his foreign birth, Tan'os had used his position for the betterment of Reyza and its citizens as much as for his benefit and that of Thromm. The Thyran warlord had been tough but fair in all his dealings, never giving an advantage to anyone, including his kinfolk, something Deneven had always respected. In many ways, the iron-willed foreigner had treated his adopted city better than its native-born jarle.
"May Nogh's icy ship speed you to Evershine Bay, Tan'os Ensther." The simple Thrommish prayer was the least he could offer the gods on behalf of the Savior of Reyza.
Deneven closed his eyes and inhaled. The coppery stink of blood fused with the reek of voided bowels. According to the official report, the Vise had been killed while defending his home against nighttime prowlers. The illustrations in the report that documented Tan'os' wounds indicated a desperate struggle, further evidenced by the damaged furniture and the bloodied two-handed sword.
Opening his eyes, Deneven studied the wall near the bedside where two sword hooks hung empty, then turned to where the sword lay upon the floor. He looked toward the door with a puzzled expression. "Did anyone move the sword?"
After a long pause, one of the guards dared to look into the room. "Excuse me, sir?"
Deneven sighed and pointed to the sword with the tip of the cane. "Did anyone move the sword?"
"No, sir, everything in here is exactly as we found it."
"You have been in this room before?"
"Yes, sir, my squad was the first to arrive when the alarm was sounded."
"What is your name?"
The young man snapped to attention. "Lance Corporal Eskander Johar, Fifth Company, sir."
"Please describe everything you saw here." Deneven stared at the young man intently, both hands perched on the tip of his cane.
"I cannot, sir." The young guard swallowed. "I was in the girl's room."
"How about you, fancy boy? Were you here?"
Corporal Kesner bit back his retort and responded with a curt nod. "Yes, sir."
"And?"
"Exactly what you see, sir." The words were crisp and clipped. "The Vise was dead. He was on the floor, there by the window, hacked near to pieces."
Deneven nodded to himself and turned away from the guard. He walked over to the sword. Streaks of dried blood coated the blade, and continued, uninterrupted on the floor around it. Deneven bent over, leaning his weight on the cane as he examined the droplets. There was a lack of movement to the pattern as if the blood had been sprinkled from above instead of having spurted from open wounds. Nor was any of the blood smeared as often happened in the midst of furious swordplay.
One of the assailants had been killed in Mejtress Avaren's bedroom by a double strike of daggers from behind. His alleged accomplice, Jarle Jadien, had escaped with Avaren Ensther as a hostage. If all that was true, then whose blood coated Tan'os' blade?
Deneven straightened and turned away from the sword. He clomped over to the Vise's bed. The bedding was soaked in the Vise's blood, as were the drapes. Deneven stared at the bloodstains that covered the mattress and curtains. He had killed enough men in the war to know the signs of arterial spray when he saw it. Such wounds did not allow for long engagements. Even a giant man such as Tan'os would have bled out quickly.
Deneven's heart began to hammer in his chest. He walked across the room to the glass curio that dominated the far wall and peered at the contents inside. The curio's shelves held an assortment of playing cards; eight decks in all. Each deck of cards had been arranged in a fanned spread to feature the artistry of the illustrations. Deneven contemplated a particular set; the artwork on the thin rectangles of wood was well executed, but among the other decks it seemed shoddy and cheap.
Cheap, thought Deneven, shaking his head. The cards had cost him two months' pay and a year of lessons. Thrarttas was not a game for faint passions. It was a game of intellectual strategy that required extensive knowledge of the ancient myths. The element of chance was the draw, but it was the keen mind of the player that determined the card's fates. Thrarttas was difficult to learn and nigh impossible to master.
Deneven smiled, recalling the day when Tan'os had convinced him to take up Thrarttas. He had beaten Tan'os at Primeta, Deneven's preferred gambling game, five times in a row when the suggestion to play another card game had come. A year and a thousand sequins later, Deneven had handed his custom Thrarttas deck over to Tan'os in his first and last game. The betting of decks was a rare occurrence, tantamount to a duel. Deneven tapped the glass. His defeat had been the Vise's way of evening the score.
Adjacent to his former deck, lay an extravagant set of cards fashioned from thin slats of ivory. Deneven opened the glass door for a closer look. He had seen the deck before. It belonged to the Head Mage of the Collegium, Arcanist Olos.
Deneven stared at the colorful cards. In over fifty years of playing Thrarttas, Arcanist Olos was rumored to have never lost a match. The center card in the fanned display depicted a beautiful woman with six arms, Sherzadeen, the Daemon Queen of Spiders. It was a card of webs, seduction, and deceit. Deneven couldn't help but wonder about the match that would have been won using such a card. Tan'os had played a legendary game with a Thrarttas master and won. Extraordinary.
Deneven closed the cabinet and was about to leave the room when he noticed two rectangular depressions on the narrow carpet near the curio.
Deneven furrowed his brow. "Where are the chests?" he asked.
"Excuse me, sir?" Corporal Kesner asked. "What chests?"
"What chests? The chests that created those marks, you fool." Deneven pointed to the depressed rectangles on the embroidered rug. "What has become of them?"
Lance Corporal Johar stepped forward and spoke. "The Vise's coffers were taken to the jarle, under the command of Lord Justiciar Tsardon, sir. He was concerned their contents might be stolen."
"So much for leaving the villa undisturbed and intact," Deneven muttered. He took one final glance at the room then stepped out into the hall. "Do either of you know where the daughter's bedroom is?"
"Aye, sir," the guards replied in harmony.
"Well, lead on, then. Time is wasting."
A few moments later, Deneven and his minders stood outside the bedchamber of Avaren Ensther. "This is where the slain guard was found?" Deneven pointed to the blood outside the door.
"Yes, sir," Corporal Johar confirmed.
Deneven stepped over the gore as best he could. When he was inside, he looked around with awe. The opulence of the girl's room made the Vise's bedroom seem like a monk's niche.
Deneven limped over to where a large dark red stain had soaked into the carpet. He was disheartened to find that dozens of bloody footprints had tracked through the evidence. Tsardon was cutting corners on discipline, training—or both.
Fucking politician.
Deneven lingered over the bloodstain, taking note of the spot where Jars' mysterious partner had expired. Slowly, he turned in place, taking note of the layout of the room. His gaze settled on Avaren's vanity whose drawers lay open.
Behind him, Corporal Johar spoke up with confidence. "We detained all of the surviving Calantian guards for questioning. None were in possession of the girl's belongings, but we remanded them to the palace dungeons for further inquiry..." The youth's voice trailed off, realizing that he had spoken without having been addressed.
The breach of protocol was unusual. Deneven stroked his chin thoughtfully; his curiosity piqued. He remained with his back turned toward the guards while he motioned for the soldier to approach. "At ease, Corporal Johar. Please, join me." Deneven was pleased when the young guard sidestepped the blood on the carpet. "Tell me what you saw here when you arrived," Deneven demanded, pointing to the puddle of blood on the floor.
"We found a dead man dressed in black leather. He had two daggers stuck in his lower back."
"Did you notice any signs of struggle?"
Eskander pointed to a palm print on the glass balcony door. "Chief Justiciar Phennas believes that there was a struggle between Mejtress Avaren and one of the intruders, as evidenced by the imprint of her palm on the balcony door. As for the dead man, the Chief Justiciar believes he was ambushed from behind."
Deneven walked to the glass doors. The handprint was indeed smaller than a grown man's. Turning back to face the guard, Deneven said, "Describe how the dead man was positioned."
Eskander pointed as he spoke. "He lay face down, both arms at his sides, legs slightly apart. Two daggers were buried in his back."
"According to the interrogation report, there was a wire garrote found in the room?"
"Yes, Chief Justiciar Phennas believes that the now-dead man used it in an attempt to murder the girl, sir," Eskander said.
Deneven put on his gambling face. "What makes Phennas think the man's intent was murder? Perhaps the garrote was used to incapacitate her or render her unconscious? Maybe the intruders meant to rape her? It's possible that he didn't use the garrote on Mejtress Avaren at all, but on the guards outside."
"Well, those are possibilities, sir, but I believe that murder was his intention. Mejtress Dannia Jarnïs and the Vise's valet Paulo Cova were both found strangled." Eskander's voice betrayed his enthusiasm. He stepped over the puddle of blood to the bed. "See the way the bedding is disarranged? It looks as if someone was violently dragged off of the bed. Now look here, based on the location of his body, the garrote, and the handprint, attempted murder seems the only likely explanation."
Deneven crossed the room to examine the bed. "I see," said Deneven coolly. "What do you make of these towels on the bed? Do you suppose the perpetrators bathed Mejtress Avaren before attempting to end her life?"
Eskander looked at the bed with consternation. "I don't know, sir. Perhaps Mejtress Avaren was bathing when they broke into her room?"
Deneven walked to the bedroom door and looked around. Not far from the threshold lay a slim, jeweled dagger. "The door does not seem forced." Deneven motioned for Eskander to join him. "But, what do you make of this?" he asked, pointing to the blade.
"Looks like a letter opener, sir," Eskander replied.
"Oh, it's no letter opener. Hand it to me, please?"
Eskander bent down and picked up the dagger. He handed it to Deneven. "Think the girl used it to defend herself?"
Deneven turned the weapon in his hands. It was just one more clue missing from Tsardon's detailed reports. Chief Justiciar Darkor Phennas had been hired after he had retired. Deneven had no way of proving if the investigator's sloppiness was a result of deliberate subterfuge or plain incompetence. "Quite possibly. Tell me, did you see the dead man's face?"
"Yes, sir."
Deneven set the dagger down on the bed and continued to look around. "Describe him, please."
"Tall, muscular, but without the bulk of a warrior. Clean-shaven. Shoulder-length black hair tied back in a tight bun at the nape of his neck. His face was fair-featured but weathered, with soft cheekbones, a straight nose, and solid black Yerr'draki eyes. He had a very distinctive scar on his left cheek shaped like a cross. I don't recall much else, as we were all reassigned to secure the front gate by the Lord Justiciar."
"Thank you, that was very helpful." Deneven managed to keep his voice steady while his thoughts roiled; caught in a raging storm. Just as with Brath, the soldier's description bore no resemblance to the sketch contained in the official report. Indeed, the revelation of Yerr'draki ancestry and the cross-like scar struck Deneven like a thunderbolt. As Lord Justiciar, he'd spent years investigating the trail of carnage left behind by a man with just such a scar—a killer named Mast.
Deneven forced his breathing to remain steady. It had been a stretch to believe that a professional thief would drastically change his modus operandi for such a high-profile job, but even more of a stretch to accept that an assassin who always worked alone had aligned with a partner. Something about the whole affair reeked and it wasn't the gore. Without realizing it, the young soldier had confirmed his growing suspicion—Chief Justiciar Phennas had knowingly tampered with the crime scene. Deneven made a mental note to have a bottle of Debendelo Red delivered to Captain Garentas for lending him such an astute soldier.
"Kesner, you stay here." Deneven turned and walked out the doorway. "Come along, Corporal Johar. Let us see where the fight with the guards occurred."
The old veteran moved with a natural gait that belied his wooden leg. The soft clomp of Deneven's cane was the only clue that he was less than whole. Eskander followed the former Lord Justiciar down the servant's stairwell to the first landing.
"This is where we found the bodies of the guard captain, Varrus Sigolian, and his sergeant, Cassio Serda." Eskander pointed out each location. The dried blood that covered the stones looked black in the flickering torchlight. "Right down there is where the surviving conspirator, Brath Barathac, was found. He claimed to have stabbed the thief who abducted Mejtress Ensther."
"I heard the survivor's testimony. It is not uncommon for a captured conspirator to portray himself as trying to stop the very crime which he encouraged."
Deneven descended the stairs and paused. He poked about with the tip of his cane and was rewarded with a slight tinkling sound. The investigator stroked his scraggly gray beard, then bent down to retrieve a small glittering object. "What do you make of this?" Deneven asked, raising a small glass vial to the torchlight.
Eskander approached to study the tiny object. "It is an apothecary's jar, sir."
Deneven delicately sniffed at the opening of the vessel. "Used to contain oil of tarbark."
"Is it poison, sir?"
"The exact opposite. It's an antidote used to neutralize certain toxic concoctions." Deneven handed the vial to Eskander, becoming slowly aware that the landing was littered with similar vials. He picked up another container and sniffed it. "Curious, this is extract of amphrosis," he said, wrinkling his nose at the bitter scent, "another antidote."
Deneven bent down to scoop up more vials. "This one is essence of indictine, and this blue-stained one is tambor root sap. All of these seem to have held antidotes to assuage the effects of various poisons. Indictine and amphrosis taken together can lead to lunatism." Deneven's heart began to beat faster. Once again Brath's testimony was proving truthful where the official report had fallen short. He was on the trail; the mystery of the case had seized him.
Eskander met Deneven's eyes. "Why so many different antidotes?"
Deneven slipped the empty vials into one of his belt pouches. "Tell me, what else did you find on the dead thief?"
"Well, we found two daggers in his back that we suspect were his because they fit his scabbards, plus various tools commonly used by thieves." Eskander closed his eyes, recalling the scene. His eyes flew open with realization. "In the stairwell, right here, we found a small boot dagger. It had blood on its tip and some, some black oily substance."
Deneven nodded to himself, once again the corporal had inadvertently corroborated Brath's version of the events. Deneven withdrew the jar with a thin coat of blue residue and turned it in his fingers. "It seems that the Chief Justiciar who investigated before me was right. Whoever was stabbed here was prepared to avoid being poisoned—too prepared. There is only one moonlighter in this city who would be paranoid enough to carry both tambor root sap and essence of indictine. Jarle Jars Jadien."
"You know of him?"
"Yes. He's one of Reyza's most notorious rogues with a well-known fear of poison. They call him 'Jars' because he is rumored to carry all manner of antidotes on his person. So at least one part of this mystery is solved. Jars Jadien was indeed here on the night of the murders."
"Is it possible this Jars person and his partner had a falling out? Maybe the dead thief wanted to kill Avaren and Jars wanted to kidnap her for ransom?"
"Never jump to conclusions. There are several scenarios for how this could have played out. An argument is one, but something tells me there is more to this than a duo of squabbling thieves." Pain in his stump prompted Deneven to rub what remained of his leg. He leaned toward Eskander and whispered conspiratorially, "Say nothing and follow my lead."
Deneven hollered in a tone that always sent men scrambling, "You there with the weak stomach, this investigation requires more time! Go to the Lord Justiciar's office and inform him that Deneven D'Neir requires exclusive access to the villa until midnight."
"B-but sir," Kesner complained at the top of the stairwell, "my orders are to keep watch over you."
"Lance Corporal Eskander seems capable of subduing a one-legged geezer if he has cause. Go now at once, or I will have your hide for disobeying my orders. And if you need to, remind Tsardon that if he declines my request, Majster Ther'oldo Ers will file a formal diplomatic complaint with the council!"
The young guard's mustache twitched, but he put forth no other protest as he stomped down the stairs. When the echo of the slammed front doors faded, Deneven smiled at Eskander. "We have a while before your comrade returns. Let us take advantage of that to speak freely. Please enlighten me with your opinion of what transpired here. What do you believe happened to the girl?"
"No body, no sign of her blood." Eskander shrugged. "I do not know."
Deneven led Eskander out of the stairwell and into the light. "Well, it is clear that she fled, whether against her will or willingly is yet to be determined."
Eskander shook his head. "Willingly? Why would she go willingly and with whom?"
"Walk the streets long enough and you will see and hear all manner of things. All that we know for certain is that she is not here." Deneven walked with the guard past the grand stair, to the front door. "Now, do you wish to know the truth behind this mystery?"
Eskander nodded solemnly. "I do, sir."
Deneven met Eskander's eyes. "Do you take the Guard's Oath—to effect justice for those offended, to uphold the laws of Reyza and dedicate yourself to protecting the city, regardless of personal cost, even unto death—sincerely?"
"Yes, sir, I spoke those words freely and from my heart."
"Then help me unravel this conundrum and bring to justice the killer of the Vise and his household. Help me find Avaren Ensther."
"Yes, sir!" Eskander's words were genuine but strained with worry.
Deneven placed a hand on the cavalryman's shoulder. "Be at ease; I will ensure that you do not violate your lawful orders."
Eskander exhaled. "Thank you for your confidence, sir. How may I be of assistance?"
"We know that Jars made it out of the servant stairwell with Mejtress Avaren and that he did not die from being poisoned. We are aware that the cloister guards didn't find anyone besides Brath alive when they searched the villa, and that Jars and Avaren are missing. We need to discover what happened after Jars took the antidotes. It is unfortunate that your peers' careless tromping has removed any spoor we might follow."
"So, we are at an impasse?"
"Yes, we need assistance—from an expert." Deneven smiled. "Do you know of a place in Gavalene Hill by the name of the Grinding Wheel?"
"How could I not?" Eskander blurted. "We are always dealing with complaints about that place."
"Excellent. You are to go there and fetch me a man." Deneven ignored the confused look on Eskander's face. "He is a Seh'nahiel ranger, goes by the name Redmane. In all likelihood, you will find him drunk, or worse, but no matter. You are to bring him here immediately before your comrade returns. When Redmane protests—and he will—tell him these words exactly, 'The Dragon is calling in all of his markers.' He will know what that means."
"But, sir—"
Deneven cut Eskander's protests short. "I understand that your sensibilities are offended. I ask that you trust me and that you bear in mind that for over twenty years, I served as the Lord Justiciar of Reyza. Mejtress Avaren's life may depend on your expediency."
Eskander stood at attention. "Yes, sir."
Deneven opened the front door of the villa. "The man you are to fetch is light-hearted and feckless, but there is no better tracker of both man and beast in the city. Now go, before any more time is lost."
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