Centaur of the Crime: Book One of 'Fantasy and Forensics' (Fantasy & Forensics 1) (7 page)

“You can take my fine character and shove it sideways up your doublet,” I said pointedly.

Galen’s eyebrows shot up. But he remained silent. His eyes followed the conversation like he would a particularly intense match of tennis.

Kajari blinked and stared at me like I’d slapped him. Hell, in another minute, maybe I’d have done just that. His toe-curling good looks were one thing. But his well-meaning condescension was something I could live without.

He cleared his throat. “Again, you are unfamiliar with our customs.”

“Yes, I am. But I think I’ve got enough ‘feminine intuition’ to realize that one doesn’t speak one’s mind to the Lord Regent so bluntly.”

“Ah.”

I held up a hand and continued before the Duke could right himself. “I’m hardly a shrinking violet. In my world, I’m one of the best there is at interpreting crime scene evidence.”

I faced the Lord Regent and the centaur wizard squarely.

“I’m in this as deep as you are,” I went on. “No one’s ever tried to murder me. Until yesterday, when someone tried to blow a hole in my skull. Just as I found your little golden medallion.”

Kajari’s face darkened. “That is too pat for coincidence.”

Galen’s expression didn’t change, but his forehoof tapped a triple beat, either in thought or in nervousness, I wasn’t sure. The wind shifted again with a howl. The sharp scent of fresh-cut hay and trimmed grass ghosted by from far below. I absently brushed the silky dark fall of my hair back from my face with the wave of a hand.

“Much too pat. And I don’t think it was personal. Whoever shot at me simply didn’t want an expert—any expert—examining this case of yours. If I find your killer, I’m betting their blood trail will lead us to whoever tried to put me on an examination table.”

Duke Kajari regarded me for a moment longer. It felt as if he were appraising the worth of a fine carriage, a polished gem, or a prize filly. Whatever he saw must have pleased him, for Kajari nodded, as if to himself. A begrudging smile blossomed on his face like a slow-motion flash bulb.

“Forgive me, Lady. Your character is carved from the heart of the wood, as we say here. A rare quality, not to be wasted. Do not be insulted, then, by my last offer. For Galen to send you home, whilst I arrange protection for you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “I’m not turning turtle for anyone who thinks they can push me off a case. ‘Lady’ or not, this is what I
do
.”

I let out a breath. It felt like my tongue had been coated in sour grit. I’d had this taste in my mouth before. An after-effect of the flash of anger I’d felt a moment ago. But now, at least Kajari’s concern felt like normal, perfunctory politeness. It wasn’t cloying like over-heavy perfume.

Kajari sighed. His expression conveyed what looked like regret.

“You are serious about taking this case on.”

“I’m dead serious.”

His voice went flat. “I hope it shall not come to that.”

“I must agree, and second that prospect,” Galen put in. “Praytell, what is it you wish to do, then?”

“Just what I’d do if I were pursuing this case with the LAPD,” I said, rubbing my palms together. “I need the facts of the case. I need to see the body.”

“Well,” the Duke said, with a toss of his head, “if you’re to work on this, there’s little time to waste. Follow me, if you would. The House of the Hospitalliers is a fair walk from here.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode off towards where a set of lichen-encrusted stone stairs descended along the inside of the castle wall. Galen and I had to step lively to catch up. Say this for Duke Kajari, once he made a decision, he knew how to act on it without delay.

Galen threw me a sideways glance as he picked his way down the wide, sloping stairway with loud clops of his hooves.

“Indulge my curiosity, if you would,” the centaur said. “You believe that Benedict’s killer and your assassin are one in the same person?”

“It’s possible. I’m sure that one is connected with the other.”

“And no one’s ever tried to murder you before now?”

“Yes.”

His shaggy brows knotted together in a frown. “If you are correct, then I think you had better get used to it.”

Here’s something I learned as soon as I followed Duke Kajari into the city streets surrounding the castle: medieval cities smell a good deal like the countryside. That’s not really a bad thing in and of itself. Most suburbanites have never smelled anything more pungent than the Kung Pao chicken at the local mall’s food court.

Most of my knowledge about country-type scents comes from a hard-core forensic instructor. She had us go perform animal autopsies in the middle of Chicago’s stockyards and slaughterhouses. So the first thing that hits my olfactory sense is livestock feed: the tang of hay and the nutty scent of grain. And following that, sure as night follows day, came the earthy, sunbaked goodness of horse manure. A lot of it.

Nothing truly distressing, probably rating a one-point-five on the Chrissie Scale of Stinkiness. Benedict’s realm moved a lot of goods via large, squared-off wagons drawn by pairs of horses, so this was as natural a background scent here as exhaust and gasoline would be to an Angeleno. The streets themselves bustled with wagons, pedestrians in blue or tan outfits of leather and linen, and the odd knight-errant in softly gleaming chain mail. Vendors selling everything from freshly cured hides to an onion-y smelling soup touted their wares with a droning chant.

Wherever Duke Kajari went, as soon as the locals spotted the burgundy color of his mantle, the crowds parted in a way that’d have made Moses a little jealous. There wasn’t any cheering or kneeling at the Lord Regent’s feet, as I’d halfway expected. Rather, people simply went quiet, bowed slightly, or made a nifty sort of half-salute as they cleared space on the gray cobblestones.

As for the centaur wizard and the woman in the weird modern clothes? We didn’t rate more than the occasional second glance.

The buildings that lined the street were two-story stone structures with tightly bounded street fronts. On most of the dwellings, a split-level door made of wood bound with iron perched above a high stone step on the left. A window covered with a pane of frosted glass or a thinly stretched animal skin graced the wall to the right. On the whole, the houses reminded me of an upscale version of narrow, rectangular New Orleans ‘shotgun’ cottages.

We picked our way through a half-dozen or so blocks until we came to a different kind of building. The House of Hospitalliers turned out to be a grander place, with a triple set of wide stone steps and colonnades of marble. The Grecian grandeur of the place only fell short once one noticed that the marble columns were painted in a barber-shop swirl of sherry red and cream white.

A pair of bored-looking guardsmen snapped to attention as they spotted Kajari approach. He nodded to them absently and we followed him inside. A fussy looking woman in an official-looking cloak delayed us only a moment, as Kajari spoke with her in urgent, hushed tones. The woman glanced at us, her hands knotting a fold of dress and her face full of misgivings. Kajari ignored this and indicated an arched doorway off to one side with the sweep of his hand.

“The Hospitalliers have kept the preservation spells woven tightly about the King,” he said gravely. “They are dropping their wards so that you may examine him. We must be quick.”

I went through the indicated entrance. For a split second, it felt like I’d pushed through a sticky, dew-coated spider web. My skin flushed and crawled, but I forgot about that as soon as the usual off-putting stench of rotting flesh hit my nose. Royalty or not, everyone rots the same in the end.

Kajari fished a little silk cloth from a pocket and tented it over his nose. Galen muttered something under his breath, but did nothing else. I’ll admit, it impressed me. Neither man nor centaur flinched, and no one had pulled out a damned jar of eucalyptus gel.

The doorway opened out into a large square room, the marble walls and floor as bare as the lobby to a particularly grim-looking bank. A raised stone slab and a small wooden table lay at the center like a lonely pair of islands. A skylight from above directed a splash of sun directly onto it.

The stone walls made our steps echo as we approached Good King Benedict. He reclined on a stone slab, a loincloth draped discretely over his waist and legs. His long white hair splayed out like a spray of foam around his pale, calm face. His eyes lay closed under a pair of heavy silver coins. His arms stretched out at his side, and it wasn’t until a few moments later that I realized that he was missing his right arm below the elbow.

I didn’t miss that detail at first because I was careless. I missed it because the first things that my eyes lit on as I saw the king’s body were a trio of chest wounds. The body back on the slab in Los Angeles had nothing like this. These were wounds that spoke to me in exquisite detail, taken from long hours of experience.

And the first thing they told me?

Someone had shown up in the peaceful medieval kingdom of Andeluvia packing a high-powered rifle.

Chapter Eight

The afternoon sun streamed through the skylight like a golden lance, throwing harsh shadows along the Good King Benedict’s face as he lay on the cold marble slab. His strong nose jutted out from between the two heavy silver coins that lay atop his eyelids—a trick used by undertakers in pre-modern times to keep the corpse’s eyes mercifully shut. Speaking of pre-modern times, I doubted that anyone had a digital recorder on them. I turned to Galen and Kajari, who both looked more than a little sad, and yet expectant.

I hoped that neither of them expected me to pull a Sherlock-effing-Holmes out of my nonexistent top hat.

“Do either of you have something to take notes on?” I asked. “Something to record my impressions as I examine the body?”

Galen’s lips tightened a little as I said ‘the body’.

Yeah, great going Dayna. This is their former ruler, and probably their friend that you’re talking about here. But the centaur dug into one of the side pockets on his rust-colored jacket. After a couple seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a small scroll of yellow parchment and a charcoal stylus.

“Perhaps I can help by taking down your observations,” he offered.

I nodded in reply and went over to the small table that sat next to Benedict’s slab. Two carved wooden bowls and a series of gleaming metal instruments lay arranged neatly on the surface. I frowned a little as I took inventory. There were pieces that made passable forceps, various probes, calipers, and even something that looked like a bite block.

But nothing resembling a cutting tool—no scalpels, dissecting knives, not even a rib retractor. I bit my comments back—what was I expecting, that the House of Hospitalliers would be certified by the AMA?—and looked at the contents of the bowls. A clear fluid that gave off the eye-watering smell of bleach sat in the first. The second held a pair of crudely fashioned rubber gloves, pinched and worn looking at the fingertips, but serviceable. I slipped them on, swiped my fingers through the disinfectant, and began my initial survey.

“Subject is a Caucasian male, appears to be in his mid-to-late sixties,” I began. Behind me, the two men remained silent, but for the scribble of Galen’s stylus against the rough sheet of parchment. “I estimate his height at just under six feet, rough weight around two hundred and twenty five pounds.”