“Casimir, I know that you are trying to protect me but we simply can't afford your scruples.” Lynnis knelt behind him as he squatted in front of the low table and balanced the brewing pot over a small burner. As he sprinkled a light dusting of powdered herbs into the warm water, she took his shoulders in her hands and began a firm massage. After the disappointment in Grape Corner, they had retired to their rented rooms to consider a next step.
He shook his head so violently she thought for a moment he was trying to knock her hands away. “No!” he exclaimed. “Trigosi had no right to make unseemly demands. I will not allow you to be degraded into a – an alleylapper like that. Your talents -”
“-are not so highly prized here as they should be, it's true.” She sighed. “And in more fortunate circumstances I would welcome your staunch defense of my honour. But this instead is where we find ourselves, and we must make the best of it. If you refuse every offer of a contract, we will become destitute. We'll both end up on the streets.”
Casimir carefully strained the bloated herb leaves out of the pot with a mesh scoop which he placed to one side. He poured two small cups of the brew, tapped a small pinch of pepper into each and drew one in both hands to his lips. Lynnis reached past him for the other, then crawled past to where she could look him in the eye. “You know I am right, Cas,” she said. She suspected that he knew no such thing. His anger simmered with sincerity. “I am not a child, Casimir. There are techniques that-”
“I could not bear the thought of that bloated criminal profiting from your debasement,” he declared with assumed decisiveness, adding defiantly, “I hold your contract, Lynnis. It was my decision to make.”
Only for as long as I permit it, she thought coolly, and if you can't be of use to me, then watch that permission fade like dusk. She said “Of course, Casimir. I thought only of our health and well being. Our money will not last forever.”
The reference to their finite reserves of cash had the expected impact. Cas' paranoia grew and deepened whenever their pockets became light. That was the condition in which she needed him – agitated, suspicious and willing to take risks.
“Drink your brew, Lynnis, then begin your practice. There are a few more saloons that we may try. I will make arrangements for meetings for the next two hours. In that time, I want you to compose a sonnet on the topic of autumn pines and two ribald limericks. One about the Blue Duke, the other implicating Trigosi's mother in an affair with a mud hog.” He placed his empty mug back on the low table, pausing to fuss with the tasseled cloth laid on it.
She moaned theatrically. “All that in two hours? Impossible! At least Trigosi's customers would have paid for their demands!” Secretly she was pleased. Not only had his practical side reasserted itself – where hopefully it would remain dominant – but it would get him out of the boarding house for a while and let her get on.
“You may have three, if I happen upon some pleasing tarts. But I make no promises.” He made it sound like a joke to lighten the mood. Lynnis knew better but didn't care, as long as he didn't catch anything.
She made a show of collecting a quill and some paper, pretending to quickly become lost in thought.
“Mmm hmm,” she responded. “Have fun.”
***
Kramus and Sellton loitered in the shadow of a horse-drawn gig and waited for the Corphenite to move away. The streets were a little quiet today and it would be all to easy for someone of a cautious nature to observe two large men following him. Kramus affected a casual pose, peeling an apple with his folding knife. Sellton had found his fruit too sour and had fed it to the horse, who snorted its appreciation and now nuzzled him for further attention.
“Lovely day,” opined Kramus, as the slender blonde man attended to the lock on his door and fussed with some scrolled documents. As he stuffed them into his doublet and strode away from them towards Copper Row, Sellton replied “The winter storms will be here inside the week, my old ma says. I'll need a new coat.”
“Maybe your guardsman friend can help you out? Those brass buttons of theirs look right dashing.” Kramus treated him with a taunting grin. This particular topic was a favoured bait.
Sellton wasn't biting. “Perhaps I will. You'll laugh out your ear when I walking the streets in my new fur cap.” The Corphenite rounded the corner. “That's far enough, I think.” They broke into a casual stroll, their manner innocuous and amiable. “So what's this all about then?”
Kramus barked a laugh. “You didn't hear about it? This fellow's a – what do they call themselves? An entertainment steward? Holds the contract for a Corphy hen with a fair voice and a sharp tongue. Bartered with Trigosi for a booking at the Vine and Berry, but he took offense at the terms.”
“Oh yes?” Sellton wasn't especially interested in the Corphenite;s indiscretion, but he was all ears for a tale involving exotic foreign minstrels. “Is she pretty then?”
“Aye, though not to Trigosi's tastes. He likes more meat on the thighs, is my guess.” Seeing that the Corphenite had stopped some fellow in the street, presumably requiring directions of him, they crossed the cobbled road and dallied by another fruit barrow. “Afternoon, Master Polcott,” Kramus boomed cheerfully. “Everything all right then? No more trouble from the Splatters?”
The fruit vendor greeted them with nervously pronounced vigour. “Good afternoon, masters, and be well. Try some of the figs, they're just in from Cenautia yesterday. No, Master Kramus, no trouble at all, not since you had that word. The lad even came round to make his apologies and help me fix up the wheel on my barrow. Kept saying he was sorry, though of course I couldn't make out a word of it, was that his lips were so swolled.”
Sellton sampled the figs and declared them excellent. “You've a right to your safety, Master Polcott, and we'll be the first to know if it's otherwise, yes?”
The fruit vendor beamed with convincing gratitude. “Oh right you are, Master Sellton. Always get my money's worth from Grape Corner, I do. That's what I tell all those down the morning markets. You can't go wrong with Kramus and Sellton, I say.”
Kramus counted on his fingers meaningfully. “Since you raise the delicate matter of your gratuity, Master Polcott, I am rather reminded that we are very nearly due another installment.”
“Of course, of course, masters,” said Polcott, raising both hands in a soothing gesture. “I shall send the boy around this coming Oxday, regular as clockwork. I'm sure you will be pleased. This has been a good month. His Lordship ought to be-”
Sellton's fingers were instantly at the vendor's throat, pincering his breath off between forefingers and thumb. He held himself so casually that the many passersby - who in any case could recognise them as Grape Corner men and would not have been inclined to stare too closely – would have taken it as a friendly hand on the shoulder.
Kramus said mildly, “It would be better for all concerned, Master Polcott, if that name were not to pass your lips. I trust you appreciate that the person in question would rather not have the length and breadth of his business relationships wildly known. You do appreciate that, do you not?” The vendor's face was rapidly passing from red through to blue, Sellton's grip so effective he could not even choke a response. He nodded desperately, his blackening eyes squeezed tight in terror and remorse.
“Oh, that is excellent good news, Master Polcott,” remarked Sellton, releasing the man, whose knees buckled under him. Kramus caught him beneath the shoulders and eased him onto his stool. Sellton picked up a broadsheet with the headline “Duke Vormura in Incest Scandal” and fanned him with it until his colour began to return.
“Nasty turn, Master Polcott,” Kramus observed sympathetically. “I blame the distressing nature of your reading material. You can get all sorts of funny ideas, reading trash like this. If I were you, I should forget that you ever heard anything that might upset people.” Polcott nodded, rubbing the circulation back into his throat with a shaking hand.
“As – as you say, Master Kramus. Aye, aye, it's gone and forgotten, gone and forgotten.”
Sellton beamed. “Well then, I think that will come as a great relief to all of us. We'll leave you to your business, Master Polcott, and look forward to your boy's visit. Do mind that you take care of yourself, won't you?”
“Aye, and get yourself a coat,” added Kramus. “The winter storms are coming, so I hear.”
***
Bey dipped a finger into the bowl of malty broth set before him and tasted it cautiously. He supposed that there was some traditional Murb way of drinking the stuff, which he found too weak and nutty for his preference. He looked about the dockside tavern without success for another patron with the same concoction. Nearly everyone else was drinking ale from metal mugs, with the sailors apparently favouring a sharp, oily red liquor.
He shrugged. Just another patch of cultural murk to overcome. He lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped the froth away.
“You'll draw no looks,” announced a voice by his ear, startling him into setting the bowl hurriedly back onto the table, “if you raise it one-handed and pour it, like this.” Herok demonstrated, hooking one hand around Bey's drink and curling it into the centre of a spiral formed by his arm. He elevated the bowl slightly above his tilted head and poured a generous measure down his throat. He spilled remarkably little. “It takes practice. The trick is to open your throat and don't worry about tasting it. It's better in the memory than the event, as it were.”
The small Lephali was dressed in a leather jerkin and clean grey tights. Bey did not recognise the outfit from the ship, but then he had no been carrying luggage when he had thrown himself overboard. “You seem to have survived your adventure.”
“Oh that? It was nothing, a refreshing morning swim. Couple of miles before breaking the fast does wonders for the constitution.” Herok flashed a familiar conspiratorial grin. “As does avoiding certain questions as may be asked by the master of the docks. Your fortunes have turned for the better, then?”
Bey smiled in spite of himself. He was entirely unsure why he had kept this appointment. Curiosity had overcome the expectation that Herok would be too drowned to reciprocate. “As it happens, I have obtained a position,” he said. “Stage manager at the Moistened Cardinal.”
“Really?” The Lephali's prodigiously thick eyebrows rose in surprise, though Bey detected a hint of falsity in the expression. “I understood it to be the scene of a most unfortunate tragedy.”
“Indeed. The owner, Mistress Korsolten, was the victim of an assault, which she did not survive. There seems to be some confusion over the succession of propriety. None of the employees were able to hazard a guess as to whom their late Mistress might have willed the property. I detailed my credentials and prevailed them to continue with business as usual. I made allies of the masters of the kitchen and the liquor bar, who were convinced by my argument that whoever proved to be the new owner, they would no doubt appreciate a continuity of income.” As he recounted the afternoon's negotiations, Bey practiced the drinking technique. He spilled a copious quantity, drenching his face and throat, but felt he was beginning to get the hang of it.
“You convinced them to extend you an advance on your salary as well?”
“A small allowance to obtain a suitable uniform,” replied Bey, gesturing at his sodden shirt front, “but I am comfortable with my appearance, so I decided to invest instead in lodgings and a good meal.” He regarded the empty bowl with a grimace. “A pity I was not more familiar with the local customs. What is this stuff, anyway?”
Herok signalled a waitress and called for two ales. “Some vile muck from up north, distantly related to hops and cashews, I believe. It's a bit of the novelty at the moment, popular at finer establishments like your Moistened Cardinal, but here you're safer sticking to ale. Stay away from the fireballs, though,” he added, indicating the squat decanters of iridescent red at a nearby table. “That stuff will send you blind.” He received the ales and set one before Bey. “I presume you were not required to participate in the inquiries of the guardsmen?”
He knows more about this business than I do, thought Bey. I wonder if that's just local knowledge or something else. “As a matter of fact, they were still conducting their interviews with the staff when I arrived. I gathered that they were already losing interest, mind. None of them knew anything about the killing, not that they were saying. It happened at her home during the night, I understand.”
“A terrible thing, to be murdered in your own bed,” muttered Herok. Bey felt his suspicion confirmed. Clearly Herok had some unspoken interest here. He didn't feel they were close enough to pry however, so he tacked the conversation away.
“Your Magistrate Ductio is investigating, Herok.”
“Is he now?” Herok seemed indifferent, as if the subject had lost all interest.
“You warned me against him,” Bey persisted. “I only caught a glimpse of him, but I should say I didn't mark him as terribly intimidating. Old, irritable and apt to disgrace himself with women, from my observation.” In fact, Bey was repeating certain slanders overheard from the other Cardinal employees, to see what effect they might have on the Lephali.
Herok just shrugged again, expressionless, refusing to be drawn.
Oh well. “You mentioned business?” Bey recalled that he had mentioned women, too, but that was a complication he preferred to defer for as long as his natural tendencies could be contained. “Are you seeking partners in some enterprise?”
Animation and mischief returned to Herok's face. “As it happens, I believe we can help each other,” he said, slopping a careless wave of ale from his mug. “In fact, I may just have one or two ideas about this crisis of succession of yours.”
***
The Fellport Ducal Sentry, known less formally as the Guardsmen and less formally still as the Blue Duke's Longcoats, were stationed in an otherwise unused wing of the Vormura family estate on Coalface Hill. They had moved in at the instigation of the current Duke's uncle, who had come to power in a bloody usurpation of his predecessor. His scheme to keep his guardsmen, the backbone of his severe and unpopular authority, on a tight leash had backfired when his nephew secretly conspired with senior Sentry officers to depose him. According to popular mythology, there had been no shortage of volunteers to wield the short sword that did the deed (and was now ostentatiously displayed in pride of place in the treacherous nephew's study) but was generally held, by those incautious enough to express an opinion, that it had been either of the current Magistrates, Ductio or Ophoriga, who had effected the assassination.
Whatever the exact circumstances of the incident, it had ironically served to cement the mutual relationship between the Sentry and the government of the Vormuras. Duke Yate Vormura wielded them with a much lighter touch than had his uncle, for whom they were little more than an enforcement arm for his numerous criminal business interests. Duke Yate had immediately excised the Sentry of its most overtly corrupt elements, dismissing one of the three Magistrates for chronic and excessive graft of docking fees and import taxes, and issuing quiet instructions that any others of like mind, at any level of the organisation, be encouraged to retire at their earliest convenience.
Duke Vormura's secret had been the recognition that while it was virtually impossible to rid the Sentry of corruption, it was considerably more simple to eliminate its least subtle elements. Brutal thugs, standover men and those who openly solicited bribes were shown the door. Those who remained were either cunning opportunists, popular with the citizenry, actually possessed of some inclination to law enforcement, or – rarely – all three.
Within a year the Ducal Sentry would have passed microscopic scrutiny, and became one of the most popular law enforcement agencies anywhere in Murburan. This was just as well, as far as the people of Fellport were concerned, because one unanticipated side effect was that the streets of their city suddenly became overpopulated with dispossessed brutes with a burning resentment of Ducal law and considerable martial training.
A brief period of instability ensued during which the ex-guardsmen were recruited to or formed criminal gangs, but this was viciously and openly suppressed by their former colleagues in the new-look Sentry, whose crime fighting arsenal was broadened under the Duke's command to include kidnapping, torture and assassination. The gangs took the hint and abandoned their more excessive activities. Street battles between Longcoats and gangsters became a rarity. The populace returned its attention to its prime consideration, commerce, and Fellport began to return to its previous prosperity.
The gangs had gone underground, of course. But then, so had the Sentry.
***
Lynnis discarded her writing implements immediately the door closed and stepped out of her robe. The cool air shivered her bare spine and shoulders as she unhooked the latch on her valise and rifled through it. She settled on a simple linen top, baggy peasant trousers, a woolen hooded cloak and a pair of soft tight dancing shoes, and dressed quickly. She pinned her long copper hair into a bun with three silvery spikes and matching comb, then drew the hood carefully over her hair to conceal the arrangement. There was a cracked and mouldy mirror in the room, in which she inspected the effect carefully.
Satisfied, she latched the valise and flipped it over, fingers probing the underside seam until she found a hidden catch which she unhooked. The base flap folded back and from beneath it she withdrew a flat black pouch with two leather thongs sewn at one end and an unpolished black metal ring at the other. This she strapped beneath her shoulder, where the fall of her arm and the cover of the cloak served to obscure it from view.
Not wishing to make a witness of the widowed boarding house keeper or the lecherous tax official who lived on the floor above, she opened the shutters of the side window, slipped through and lowered herself to the alley by propping hands and feet against opposing walls and walking herself down with a lithe pendulum action.
Twenty minutes there, say forty to get a good look at the place, twenty back, leaving at least forty to finish her practise tasks set by Casimir. “Plenty of time.”
She strolled into the street, appearing as nothing more than a peasant who had used an alley to relieve herself on her way to market.
***
Dusk was almost finished with when Jedlow steered the horses through the tall iron gates at the western approach to the Ducal estate and along the gravel drive to the main building. Ductio had declared him “Absolutely useless!” in the interrogations at the saloon, but had impressed him to drive his buggy when the young guardsman showed an interest in the horses. “Can't stand the smelly buggers myself,” he'd announced, handing Jedlow the reins. “Wake me when we're there.”
Jedlow liked the horses well enough, but had never commanded a buggy. He took his place, offered a tentative flick across their flanks with the whip and was satisfied to leave it to them from that point on. They seem to have a better idea of the way than he did.
He was feeling quite drained from the day's events. In spite of Magistrate Ductio's criticism, there had been nothing particular for him to do except to fetch the various witnesses and bring them one by one to Ductio for questioning. The rest of the time he had stood around, enduring the resentful glares and whispers of the interviewees with equanimity, and absorbing the chilling details of the crime.
According to her housekeeper, a strident harridan who strongly reminded Jedlow of his least favourite grandmother, Mistress Korsolten had arrived home in the company of several younger men and women the previous evening. This seemed most improper to Jedlow. However he had learned by now not to offer his opinions. In any case neither the housekeeper nor the Magistrate seemed to remark this as odd, though clearly the former disapproved strongly.
The small company had kept themselves noisily engaged in raucous conversation until late into the night. “Kept me awake until all hours!” she complained, though Jedlow had already observed that as her rooms were at the opposite end of the house to Korsolten's lounge and bedroom, and that this was by far the most enormous private house he had ever visited, she would have to have been the world's lightest sleeper to have been disturbed. At some point, though, “most of” the company had departed. The housekeeper would offer no opinion as to whose company Mistress Korsolten had retained beyond the certainty that someone had done so. “All manner of noises, Magistrate. You wouldn't believe the noises I had to endure. If she were a less generous employer...”
Ductio had expressed something almost resembling sympathy for the housekeeper's travails and asked about the next morning. “Aye, well I came in late, after I knew she would have cleared out her bedfellows and parted for work. She owns a saloon, if you can believe that, Magistrate? Aye? Well, I went in with my basket, meaning to make a start on boiling the bedsheets, always soiled those are, and there she was, lying in the bed, not a stitch about her. She had all those bruises and there was a little blood, though not so much as you read about. Just a little spot on the wall and another on her lip.”
The housekeeper stuck to the blood theme for some time thereafter, but evidently had nothing more of substance to add to Ductio's investigation. She could not identify anyone in the party and had no idea when the gruesome deed had taken place. She also failed to express any particular distress at the murder of her employer, other than to reassure Ductio that she supposed she would have to move back in with her sister and her no-account oaf of a husband. Jedlow's sympathies were with the sister.
The interviews at the Moistened Cardinal had proved not much more fruitful. Mistress Korsolten customarily presided over an evening's entertainments until late, engaging the guests in conversations at their tables, or conducting clandestine meetings (business and personal) in the back rooms. Last evening she had instead informed the table captain, a thin and irritable man with a small patch of blonde hair near the back of his head called Fowart, that she was taking the night off. He huffily informed Ductio that she had not seen fit to keep him informed of her intentions, nor had he or any of the other staff seen her in the company of any particular person.
After this deterrence, most of Ductio's questions had revolved around her close associates, who were numerous, the health of her business affairs, which was understood to be excellent, and the identity of her inheritors, which was unresolved and the subject of some imaginative speculation.
Jedlow didn't see that Ductio had gotten anywhere at all. He guarded that particular opinion with his life.
The horses followed the circled drive to the front entrance and Jedlow persuaded them to come to a halt with a gentle tug of the reins. “Magistrate?” he half-whispered, conscious of his aching nose.
Ductio hauled himself to his feet and stepped out of the buggy. “Get the horses stabled and find me a new team, boy. We'll be out all night, I'll fucking warrant.” He disappeared into the building.
Jedlow could hear the shouting well before he had finished securing two fresh horses to the buggy. Voices were audible from the third floor, where the Magistrates and other senior Sentry officers had their rooms. He recognised Ductio and Staff Sergeant Kilritch easily enough, but he couldn't quite place the third voice. The words were unclear, but it was obvious all three were at odds, shouting over each other and becoming more heated. He heard something break, then the arguments abruptly ceased.
A moment later Ductio emerged, looking flushed and stabbing a hard oak cane into the gravel with each step. He climbed into the buggy without a word and looked expectantly at Jedlow, who hastened onto the driver's board and cracked the whip. The horses broke into a spritely canter. As they approached the gates, Jedlow timidly broke into the Magistrate's furious silence. “Where shall I take you?”
“I want to talk to Battis Fenchrow. You know who he is?”
“Yes, Magistrate.”
“Then shut the fuck up and drive. I have some thinking to do.”
It came to him suddenly. Despite the strains of distress, he realised where he had heard the voice before. It had announced his name on the proudest day of his young life, the day he had been inducted as a guardsman.
Duke Vormura.
***
Casimir was late.
Lynnis had worked through exasperation, anger and concern in succession. She worked on her mandolin fingering exercises, her melodic composition, her handwriting forgery and now she was putting herself through a gruelling dance routine. Even if she hadn't had him followed on occasion, she would have to be an imbecile not to have known all about his philandering. Most of his business excursions were a flimsy pretext to carouse saloons and frequent brothels. Since they had arrived in Fellport, he had found an excuse nearly every afternoon or evening. It was a testament to his stamina that he had managed to return to their bed an energetic and demanding lover, as though nothing had happened.
She might have been upset about it if she was any more serious than he about the relationship. As it was, it provided a useful cover, playing the part of the cowed but passionate contract-slave. Not that Casimir believed otherwise himself; if he came to suspect, his usefulness to her would vanish instantly. She had occasionally considered whether goading him into striking her until she bruised visibly would help to underline the impression, but so far it had not proved necessary. Besides, it would probably make his fragile ego that much more difficult to manage if he felt he had something to be remorseful for.
She stood on her hands against a wall and began fifty slow head presses. Her measured intake and slow release of breath was the only sound in the room. She would hear anyone coming up the stairs or lurking on the landing below the window.
The scouting expedition had gone as planned. The apartment was on the third floor, overlooking a channel to the canal, but that would not present a difficulty. The neighbouring roofs were slightly higher, easily climbed, and a grove of trees at the end of the lane would provide both access and cover. At this time of year, the best time would be in the hour just before dawn, when the fog rolled from the docks and filled the streets several storeys deep.
She had not been able to observe her target, of course, but she had a decent sense of the size of the apartment. There were only so many places to hide. She guessed that the window she had seen on the street side provided access to a lounge rather than a bedroom. That could be a problem, in the unlikely event that the occupant was awake at that hour. She would need to be prepared to eliminate any resistance quickly.
Casimir was late.
She considered the possibilities. What was there beyond the obvious - that he was currently heaving and sweating beneath some bosomy, squealing Murb housemaid in her mistress' bed – and the unlikely – that he had found a more satisfying, submissive and lucrative lover?
There was the salooner, Berber Trigosi. She was aware, as Casimir was not, of two things: that the piggish Murb merchant was a senior lieutenant in one of the local organised crime gangs; and that he had been gravely insulted by Casimir's refusal to lease her contract to him. It was a strong possibility that he had fallen to foul play. Nothing else immediately sprang to mind.
If there was a problem, she would have no choice but to move up her schedule.
One more day. She would allow him one more day.