Retribution (Drakenfeld 2) (16 page)

Leana held out her hand and picked me up from the pavement – a gesture I appreciated. Together we walked home through the darkness, her torch still a beacon, my Sun Chamber brooch still glinting in its light.

All around us, the nightlife in the Sorghatan Prefecture continued its quiet flow, every bit as strange and alluring as it was in Tryum, every bit as feral-sounding as it was in Venyn City, where I had spent so many years. But somehow these sounds were far more subtle, and distant, no matter the direction we travelled in. It was as if Koton deliberately kept its forbidden taverns and illicit nightlife well away from conventional thoroughfares, as if the city’s streets were conscious and fluid, steering us away from what we were not meant to see. In Tryum such things were thrust in one’s face, here I had the sense that you had to make an effort to find a wild evening.

But such notions rarely affected me. This wasn’t the first time that Leana and I ignored enticing events due to our work, and it wouldn’t be the last, so we continued on our way. And all the way back, amidst these strange, out-of-reach sounds, I kept an eye out, wondering vaguely if our friend from the rooftops would pay us another visit. Or if they were watching us right at this very moment from some hidden doorway.

The new day’s sun rose through the gap in the buildings opposite our room, casting a warm glow across my face. Somewhere in the distance a priestess began to chant a lovely, pentatonic melody, which was rudely interrupted by the noise of geese being transported along the street outside, the cart rocking heavily on the cobbles. A breeze came in through the half-open window; it promised to be another warm and humid day, but at least last night’s rain had cleansed the air.

Leana was up already, fully engaged in her morning exercises – it looked too much like hard work so I decided to lie in bed, allowing the sounds of the morning markets to rise up to my ears, and wallowing in contemplation.

As ever, I found it easier to work over cases during this hazy, calm hour. The relative stillness of my mind allowed me to process the events of the last couple of days, and this time I was attempting to find connections and differences between the incidents, rather than look at each in isolation.

Two murders.

Two high-profile victims.

A bishop, his body discovered many days after his disappearance. Cut hundreds of times before being dismembered, a piece of him possibly thrown over the wall to the Sorghatan Prefecture – a public show, perhaps – and his tongue removed.

A retired naval officer, taken somewhere after a night with his friends. His body, too, covered in cuts before being dragged to a very public place where he could be found. His tongue also removed.

But he had not been dismembered. And he had not been hidden.

A point really niggled, if both men had been tortured. The usual reason for such brutal treatment while someone was alive was to gain information or a confession. It was odd that they’d had their tongues cut out. The tongue was very necessary to divulging information in the first place.

Another reason for the barbarous act crossed my mind. It might, in fact, have been to
silence
the men from screaming rather than let them talk. That Grendor was involved in imports and exports made me suspect that he might have been involved in something dangerous. Had both of these men stumbled across some dreaded secret and needed to be silenced? Had they both witnessed something they shouldn’t have? It did not seem all that likely, since they led very different lives. One was quiet and contemplative, the other outgoing.

Yet there were more differences, too, and I wondered if the differences themselves were telling.

One body had been left fully intact, the other in pieces. One body had been dumped for others to find, the other had been returned home, for his wife or others to discover. Though it could be said, as Leana did last night, that both were very public settings. The murderer clearly had no concerns over the bodies being found.

Indeed, the incredible similarities couldn’t be ignored and it was likely we were dealing with the same murderer. That fact offered up a worrying possibility: that the killer was still in the city and would strike again. Who was to say that this all stopped with Grendor?

I was not in the business of relying upon coincidences where patterns or connections could be perceived. I needed much more information about the bishop and Grendor. Hopefully an examination of Borta’s house this morning, and a thorough interview with her, might bring me closer to that.

It continued to be a pleasant morning. Flower sellers were out with their carts, and in surprising numbers. People crowded them, buying huge quantities of bright-red flowers or digging into boxes of petals to scatter about the pavements, transforming them into shades of pink, white and yellow. It left a wonderful fragrance about the city. I wondered if it was a religious holiday, for priests were also walking the streets in brightly coloured robes chanting the wonders of Astran and Nastra, their censers swinging back and forth adding to the heady scents of the flowers. Today certainly contrasted with the usual woodsmoke and horse manure one could normally expect from any city in Vispasia. Some of the citizens laid petals at the feet of an enormous old man, who wore a large double-horned helmet and a loincloth, which only just showed beneath his rolls of fat. Blue spirals had been painted on his flesh and he sat cross-legged and rather serenely on the steps of a temple, seemingly oblivious to the gestures of the people around him.

The main forum of the prefecture, a stone’s throw from Grendor’s house, was packed. The crowds moved fluidly between the islands of stalls, which were not in rows but of a circular design without awnings. People gathered around them buying various vegetables, spices, leather goods, cookware and hunting equipment. The wares of the most popular stall by far would have eluded me, so big were the crowds, had it not been for the carcasses strung up behind on large, sturdy poles. The meat glistened in the morning sunlight.

We arrived once again at the newly built street where Grendor of the Cape lived and slowly made our way towards the bottom of the stairway, casually examining the scene to see if daylight could give us more clues. A few stains could be perceived by the lower steps and that was all. Sheltered from the evening rain, the blood was clearer now, but suggested there had not been a struggle. Grendor would have already been dead by this point.

We continued up the stairs and knocked on the door. Borta in a long, high-collared blue dress answered almost immediately and urged us to step inside. She peered back down the stairs nervously before closing the door firmly.

‘Does your family have enemies?’ I asked.

‘My family?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘No . . . I’m not aware of any.’

I indicated the child’s woollen sock lying on the floorboards behind her feet. ‘Just the one, or do you have more?’

She took the sock and added it to a pile of washing. She seemed vaguely embarrassed. ‘They can be quite a handful. I have two, by the way. Two boys. Would either of you like a drink? We have a good selection of tisanes. Grendor was always bringing me home new varieties.’

Leana asked for a cup of water and I agreed to try one of the tisanes. Borta left us momentarily.

This place was certainly impressive. Though I generally admired age and heritage in my houses, for homes to feel
lived in
, this was filled with a freshness of style. There were fabrics on display that had travelled far; the designs were not merely the natural, animalistic motifs found around the rest of Koton, many were from further afield – the gold star and red crescent of Locco, the white wings on blue of Theran. Much of this was consistent with a man who had travelled widely in the navy, or worked in a trade that dealt with imports and exports. There must have been some stories behind these – were they simply traded goods or had they been gifts from foreign ambassadors?

The apartment, all on one level, was a large complex of rooms and long corridors, and must have occupied all the space above the shops below. From just a casual glance down the corridors drapes hung from the walls and there was an eclectic display of ornaments. There was a lot of wealth on show.

The sound of children playing drifted in from another room – it suddenly occurred to me that they would now be fatherless.

The thought brought back memories of my own childhood. My mother, a loving, kind woman, died when I was very young and remained a notable absence despite my privileged upbringing. How much do these events during our youth go on to define us when we are older? Luckily I had taken on some of my mother’s more considered, perhaps tender ways, and was not as stern as my father had been. But her absence affected me greatly, and so I understood what the two children might be going through – or about to go through – if their mother had not yet told them.

Borta returned with our drinks and guided us to the orange and purple cushions, which were arranged around a low oak table. The window beside it faced directly down onto the busy forum, and I marvelled at the number of people who were already milling about the stalls and tables.

‘One can lose an entire day staring from that window,’ she said. ‘Grendor would often sit where you are, Officer Drakenfeld.’

We sat down on the cushions and I hoped that she might continue a casual discussion of Grendor, something to set the scene of his personal life, but she didn’t reveal anything else. Instead her bright-green eyes were focusing on the table. Her hands were in her lap, her shoulders slumped. It was understandable, of course, that she would not be all that forthcoming.

‘Was he a religious man?’ I asked, a question that surprised her.

‘Not at all, no.’ She paused, as if contemplating her initial reaction, thinking hard. ‘Well, he
believed
in things, of course. Who doesn’t have their own religious superstitions? But he never really went to a temple as long as I’ve known him.’

‘What were his superstitions?’

‘They were mainly based around the sea or the weather. He claimed he had seen all the wonders he’d needed to see in life as it is, though he never spoke ill of religion. Why do you ask?’

‘You have no religious items around the house, is all. There are no statues. I could not see a family shrine. It’s rather unusual when a home doesn’t invite the gods inside.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘He said that the gods blessed him continually, without him needing to make the effort.’

‘So he felt he was a lucky man?’

‘I guess you could say that. Despite his age, he kept in very good health.’

There was a commotion outside where, in the streets below, a farmer was trying to drive cattle through the crowds with limited success. ‘This is a busy street. Do you get much peace and quiet?’

A smile came to her lips. ‘Many think that, but we always loved it here – to see the world passing by. It made us feel part of something bigger.’

‘I have to ask some questions that may seem a little strange at first, Borta, but they will all help. All I ask is that you answer truthfully. If you need secrecy or feel in danger, we can ensure your safety. I have no previous connections with Koton, so revealing any secrets to me will not cause problems in the same way it might were a local person involved.’

She gave a nod, but didn’t reply.

‘Was Grendor in any financial trouble?’

‘Not at all. His pension from the royal court was very high, and due to the advice he sometimes gave on trade routes he secured us an additional income. Not to mention that merchants, too, often sought advice from him.’

‘Was his business in trouble?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Did he conduct business in this house with other merchants?’

‘Sometimes. Or in taverns throughout the prefecture. It depended on his mood really.’

‘Were you ever worried about the people he was dealing with? Did they ever seem to threaten him in any way? Was there ever a conversation you can recollect where things became tense?’

Borta was incredulous at my suggestion. ‘They were all merchants of good standing. They were gentlemen and fine women, all of whom could be trusted. They spoke openly in front of me whenever I was in the room.’

‘And you’re certain there were no questionable deals he might have been doing behind anyone’s back?’

‘That wasn’t in his character.’

It could have been behind
her
back, of course, but I did not reveal the thought. ‘So he never showed concern when he returned from his meetings.’

‘He didn’t have to worry about business.’

‘So what
did
he worry about?’ I asked.

She gave a sigh, and a sad smile. ‘Getting old mostly. He was sixty-one years old and very conscious of it – with young children around. He wanted to see them grow up. I think that brought a sadness of sorts. He had so much energy about him, you see. He bought good meat and fresh vegetables, so we ate well. He would often talk about what he was like as a younger man and tried to stay young. As I said, he was very active, even for his age. Each morning he would jog about the city and stretch his limbs.’