Widow's Pique (26 page)

After the race, hymns had been sung to the Cat Goddess, Kikimora. More libations of milk poured in her honour. And now white-robed spectators trooped slowly home through the woods. Their mood was one of happiness and contentment, just as Kikimora intended, and tomorrow afforded them another event to look forward to, since it was the one day in the year when marriages could be announced.

Nosferatu wondered whether the Roman girl realized the significance of this. From her behaviour, it seemed she'd forgotten. Excellent. The little madam thought she was clever, and no doubt she was - only, Nosferatu was smarter!

It would not be long now before the New Order was established. Everything was going according to plan, and soon there would be no more of this ridiculous business of trying to keep both parties happy. Histria could only move forward if it jumped one way or the other, and just as there would be no vacillating in the New Order, no half-heartedness, certainly there was no room for any of the shilly-shallying that was so prevalent in the current administration.

The King is dead, long live the King!

Nosferatu practised the chant - silently, of course.

The King is dead, long live the King!

But it wouldn't be long before those cries rang out round Rovin, round Gora, round Pula.

The King is dead, long live the King!

Yes, indeed, Nosferatu had everything mapped out according to schedule, a schedule that had seen no mistakes so far and would see no mistakes in the future.

Being a perfectionist isn't easy, of course. But it does bring incredible rewards.

Back on Rovin, three things happened at once.

Firstly, a young man arrived tired and weary after a hard ride from the interior. The young man was more used to

wielding scalpels and forceps than bridles and reins, and his soft hands were bleeding from where the leather had rubbed. Also, he was more used to bending over patients than intractable brutes with a mind of their own, and his thighs were chafed raw, his buttocks were bruised and he doubted his knees would ever close together again. For this reason, he decided to soak his aching bones in the bathhouse before dropping his bombshell about the royal physician.

Since there had been no one in Gora he could trust with the news, he'd decided that, really, the best person to confide in was the King. The King was honest and fair, not swayed by emotion, and the King would listen objectively to how the hyoid bone in the royal physician's throat had been broken by manual strangulation. So, the young medic had hired a horse and put himself through hell and back to ride all the way out here to Rovin for an audience with the King.

But, according to the sign posted outside, the bathhouse closed one hour after dusk, and there was only half that time left. The young medic had no intention of wasting another minute.

He kicked off his sandals and dived into the hot, scented waters.

The second thing was that the undercurrent from the storm that had wracked the Pelopponese two days before had finally made its way to Rovin. As previously mentioned, the swell was only slight, but, funnelled into the deep channel that separated island from mainland, it was sufficient to dislodge a lot of the debris that had collected in the fire-breathing monster's domain over the past year or so. Raspor's bloated corpse and that of the boat builder were just some of the gruesome objects which were about to float to the surface.

And thirdly . . .

Salome, returning from checking up on little Broda, came across the Lady Rosmerta stumbling along one of the alleys, with blood pouring from a wound on her forehead.

A
tile, it appeared, had slipped from a roof and only narrowly avoided a tragedy.

Nosferatu was furious. Mistakes do not happen. Repeat, mistakes do not happen.

They just do not bloody well happen.

Night had coiled herself over the landscape, carrying pine-scented vapours into the houses and echoing the soft hoots of owls round the islands. Foxes skulked on the edge of the middens, pipistrelles squeaked on the wing and moths diced with death round the flickering flames of torches set high on the gleaming white walls. Down on the foreshore, feral cats sniffed the slumbering fishing boats as gentle waves gurgled and slurped, and in Claudia's bedroom, a familiar wedge-shaped face pressed itself against hers and began rattling.

'Frrr.'

'I know, poppet.'

She unhooked a claw that had snagged in her gown.

'First Raspor, now Rosmerta, and don't tell
me
that was an accident.'

'Prrrrrr.'

A mass of warm, silky fur curled round Claudia's neck and gently butted her chin with its head.

'Exactly!'

It was here, beneath this very window, that the little priest had stood wringing his hands.

'Raspor risked everything,' she told Drusilla, 'so that someone objective would listen.'

'Hrrrow.'

'Except someone objective laughed him out of town and her disdain cost him his life.'

Beads of sweat trickled down Claudia's breastbone, soaking

the cotton of her whale-grey gown, and each droplet had the word 'guilt' written all over it.

'I failed him, Drusilla. I failed him and, thanks to me, Rosmerta was this close to becoming another of that bastard's victims.'

She screwed tight her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, but the dam couldn't prevent something salty and wet dribbling over her cheeks.

'Brrrp?'

Dammit, it was only because of Rosmerta's insufferable vanity that the ferryman wasn't rowing her across the River Styx at this very minute!

'Rrrow.'

'Too true, poppet.'

Claudia scrubbed the tears away with the back of her hand.

'There are some things a killer just can't legislate for.'

In this case, it was that ridiculous froth of Roman-style curls. The wig was so thick it had saved Rosmerta's life!

'But enough is enough,' she said, stroking Drusilla's ears.

Too many people had died, or else, like little Broda, had been scarred from this ruthless campaign. She was no longer prepared to wait while more innocents suffered, simply to gather evidence in exchange for a free pardon.

'It means we'll have to find other ways of getting the Security Police off our back,' she sighed, setting the cat on to a chair. 'But honestly, what choice do I have?'

The only path open to Claudia now was to voice her suspicions loudly and often - and to everyone within earshot. Then pray to every god on Olympus to protect her, because although the 'accidents' would be forced to stop, she suspected this would only be after an attempt on her own life . . .

Outraged that she had been dumped like a sack of stale parsnips, Drusilla promptly exercised her claws on the lushly embroidered upholstery, then, in one fluid movement, bounded over the windowsill. Claudia's heart stopped. The drop - twenty feet - it was far too far for a cat . . .

She ran to the window, her nails gouging the woodwork as her eyes scanned the darkness for a small, lifeless body. But Drusilla was too shrewd to have misjudged her descent. She'd used the fig that grew against the wall as a climbing frame, and her dark fur had already fused with the night. Claudia's heart thumped with relief as she sank against the frame of the window, and now she realized what had sent Drusilla diving into the void. The sound of trumpets and drums would have been picked up by feline ears a lot earlier, as the victory procession wound its way through the town. The noise had sent Drusilla to ground. As Claudia watched the approach of the torchlit snake, she heard angry voices approaching below.

'. . . you could have bloody well told me that this Marcus character was attached to the Security Police!'

'Dammit, Salome, I know what I'm—'

'No, really, Mazares. How hard would it have been, to actually
talk
to me first?'

His white shirt stood out like a beacon in the blackness as he stepped in front to block her way. With no lamp burning up in Claudia's bedroom, there was no reason for either of them to suppose that their conversation would be overheard and, invisible in her dark-grey cotton robe, Claudia leaned over the windowsill for a better snoop.

'Is that why you entered the foot race this morning?' Mazares asked quietly.

And wasn't it a good thing that I did?' Salome retorted. 'Otherwise I'd never have known your . . . your
friend
was a—'

Dammit, the clashing of cymbals drowned out the rest of her words and much of his reply, too.

'—god knows, I've warned you enough times, Salome—' clatter, clang, crash '—and believe me, Marcus isn't stupid—' batter, bang, boom.

'—well, you're a fine one to dish out advice about Rome—' now it was the drums and the trumpets again '—and what about Lora, eh? What about her?'

'For heaven's sake, don't you think I've thought about that? Good god, Salome, all I'm asking is that you—'

Claudia would never know what Mazares was asking. At that moment, a mighty cheer rose up from the crowd, calling the victors' names over and over, but in any case, Salome seemed to be in no mood for discussion, storming off just a few minutes later, leaving Mazares tossing exasperated hands in the air. The same hands, Claudia reflected miserably, that had thrown a noose round Raspor's neck and throttled the life out of the priest . . .

The same hands that had killed Broda's uncle, drowned a twelve-year-old child and callously murdered his way to his goal.

Nosferatu.

Demon, ghoul, fiend in human form.

Ah, yes, my friend. Claudia stared into the blackness. But no one said you were immortal.

They were all there, clustered around Rosmerta's bedframe. Drilo, the high priest, in rich flowing robes scented with incense, stood on the far side, his dark blue eyes narrowed in thought. He was flanked by her sons, and although their handsome faces registered concern, one tapped his foot and the other drummed his fingers against the wall. Behind them stood Vani, and Pavan towered impassively in the corner, his arms folded over his massive chest, each corded muscle bulging the fabric of his shirt. There was, of course, one noticeable absence, but the puppet-master needed time to plaster the right expression on his face. No doubt he would be along shortly.

However, it was Kazan who surprised Claudia. For once, the little-boy-lost expression had been overtaken by Kazan the man. By Kazan the husband, Kazan the father, Kazan the head of the household. In turn anxious, devastated and shocked, he paced the room, his face drawn and white as a stranger placed a poultice of mouldy bread over the head wound.

'How is she?' Claudia whispered, but she needn't have bothered.

'I could have
died,
you know,' Rosmerta boomed. 'I could have been
killed
with that wretched masonry tile!'

Claudia couldn't help smiling. Some things, she thought, never change. This woman, dammit, was bulletproof.

'If it hadn't been for Salome, I would have bled to death, too!'

'Not at all,' the young stranger reassured her, bandaging over the poultice. 'Head wounds invariably gush.'

His patient's snort reflected her opinion of that.

'I tell you, Lady Claudia.' Rosmerta even managed a feeble wag of her finger. 'If that girl hadn't been on hand to staunch the blood with a decoction of yarrow and dead nettle, they'd be embalming my corpse at this moment!'

Without the usual preponderance of make-up and flounces, Rosmerta looked like every other piece of mutton who tries to pass herself off as lamb. She looked
younger,
and for the first time it was actually possible to view Rosmerta as her husband's contemporary, rather than a bossy older sister or (sometimes) even his mother. On the other side of the bed, Marek, or perhaps Mir, opened his mouth in a yawn. Kazan's glower cut it short.

'Well, I hear the Lands of the Blessed get a lot of rain this time of year,' Claudia quipped. 'You're far better off with us here, on Rovin.'

She glanced at the box on the chair by the stranger's side and noticed a grisly array of scalpels, retractors, catheters and probes poking out. Hardly the instruments of a mule doctor, then, but it seemed the curiosity was mutual. It was the first time, she realized, that he'd appreciated the newcomer was Roman, but the minute he noticed, his eyes narrowed in hostility.

'I'd prefer visits were kept to the immediate family,' he said brusquely, pinning his patient's bandage in place.

A ripple of glances were exchanged round the room, but it was Pavan who stepped forward to answer.

'The Lady Claudia is contracted to marry the King, lad,' he rumbled.

The physician's hostility evaporated at once.

'Good,' he decided. 'Excellent, in fact, because I was just about to go looking for him, before I was summoned up here.'

This time the glances were sharper, longer, and Claudia felt a ripple of alarm run up her backbone.

'Listen, laddie—' Pavan began.