A Sudden Death in Thalsedon

Thalsedon, Summer 1459:

Thalsedon, capital of the Sedonian Empire, the largest city on the MidSea. The city is a major trade hub, with wheat, wine, steel, and glass flowing down the Imperial River to the Gulf of Gomel. The wealth of the Imperial Court on Palace Mount stands side by side with the poverty of Riverside and Knob End at the other end of the city, with the City Watch ensuring that the friction between the haves and have-nots never quite erupts into sudden flame.

In a cheap flat in Riverside, a man greets the dawn with half-open eyes that do not see. They have not seen anything for seven days . . . .

Two days later:

The last man Ion Ronir-Varros expected to see waiting in his office that morning was Lecon Rhellmanos, the Chief Investigator of the Thalsedon City Watch. “Good morning, Chief,” said Ion as he hung his cloak on the rack by the door, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I have a problem, Deputy Minister,” said Rhellmanos, “And after consulting with my superiors and Minister Ghere, it is about to become your problem, also.” He smiled humorlessly as he placed a leather-covered dispatch box on Ion’s desk. “That’s the file.”

Ion sat down behind his desk and opened the dispatch box. Inside was a collection of documents neatly bound with red ribbon. He untied the ribbon, and began to examine the documents. The top document was labeled: ‘Post-Mortem Report for Erik von Kashaar.’

As Ion began to read, Chief Rhellmanos began to fill him in. “Day before yesterday, a landlady down in Riverside came to a Watch Post. One of her lodgers, Erik von Kashaar, hadn’t been seen for a week, the rent was due, and there was a nasty smell coming from within his locked room. The post commander was no dummy, and he sent for investigators and a Coronite priest.

“When they got to the flat, they had to break the door down. Inside, they found von Kashaar sitting in a chair in front of a window, with the end of a crossbow bolt sticking out of his left ear. The window was also shut and locked. The room hand been searched.”

Ion looked up from the post-mortem report. “A locked room? How did the killer get in?”

“We don’t know,” said Rhellmanos, “and it gets worse, as you’ll see if you read farther in to the autopsy report. The crossbow bolt came from one of those ‘one-shots’ that your Ministry invented.”

“And you suspect that an agent of the Ministry of Special Projects killed this von Kashaar?”

Rhellmanos shook his head in negation. “No, and if you read page three of the postmortem report, you’ll see why.”

Ion turned to page three and read silently for a moment, before reading aloud, “’Due to the nearly total lack of bleeding from the wound, it is my opinion that it was inflicted after death’?! Who would shoot a corpse? And how did he actually die?”

“Well, it’s on the next page,” said Rhellmanos, “but to sum it up, he was stabbed in the back with a very thin, narrow, and long blade, possibly a lady’s hat-pin, or a stiletto. The surface wound was very small and barely bled at all, but the tip of the blade nicked an artery in von Kashaar’s left lung. He bled to death, internally. According to the examiner, he probably never knew he’d been stabbed. He just felt tired, sat down in his chair, and never got up.”

Ion was reading more of the post-mortem report. “It says here that as much as an hour might have elapsed between when von Kashaar was stabbed and when he actually died . . . stomach contents weren’t very helpful, since he’d been dead a week when his body was found, and alchemical analysis showed no drugs or poisons in his system.” He put down the report, and steepled his fingers. “So why, Chief Investigator, aside from the presence of the one-shot bolt, is this murder a matter for Special Projects?”

“Because of who Erik von Kashaar was,” came the reply. “He was a Kaeiran expatriate living in Thalsedon. He came here in 1443 as a staffer in the Information Secretariat section of the Kaeiran Embassy. In 1456, he apparently resigned his position at the embassy, and joined a Kaeiran merchant house, Von Kiviri, as their agent here in Thalsedon.

“He seems to have been something of a deal-broker, matching buyers to sellers and taking commissions on the trades. There were complaints about sharp dealing, but nothing obviously criminal. For the last year, he seems to have been involved in a project to construct a major watermill complex on the Imperial River above Tirroth in partnership with several Sedonian merchant houses. Apparently, he and his partners were planning to build a whole complex centered around steel-making, using the river’s flow to drive bellows on the furnaces and forges, and hammer-mills for beating out plates. His proposal involved building a dam, but the consortium was being sued by other mill-owners to prevent construction.”

Ion frowned. “A dam could obstruct river traffic, reduce the water available for irrigation, and have an adverse effect on the flour and fulling mills below Tirroth. You think someone killed him over that?”

Chief Rhellmanos shrugged. “It’s possible. Someone stabs a former agent of the Kaeiran Information Secretariat who’s involved in litigation over Sedonian water rights on the street. He comes home, sits down, and dies. Someone else then shoots him in the head with a weapon that’s supposed to only be available to agents of the Ministry of Special Projects, while all the ways in and out of the room are locked. And then there was what we found under his bed . . . it should be in the box, at the bottom.”

Ion reached into the dispatch box and drew out an amulet hanging on a long chain. The amulet was in the shape of a grasping hand with long, pointed fingernails. “So,” breathed Ion, “the plot thickens.”

Chief Rhellmanos nodded. “Minister Ghere and Minister Ellis want us to find out who killed Erik von Kashaar, who tried to kill him after he was dead, if his death has security implications, and why that amulet was in his room. There’s a list of von Kashaar’s friends and business associates in that stack of documents, and Minister Ghere has a carriage waiting for us out front. He suggested strongly that we not delay.”

With a nod, Ion took the list of names, put the other documents back in the dispatch box, and stood up. “Very well, let’s go talk to the landlady.”

The head of the Kaeirean Diplomatic Corp, Urquin van Mirri, knocked twice on the door to the Inquisitor’s office, and having received a reply, opened the door and walked in.

“Yes, what is it, Urquin?”, asked Lord Karl van Kahshaar, whom Urquin had served under for nearly twenty years in various capacities.

“Lord van Kahshaar, I have just received an unusual report from the Magister-Inquisitor in our Embassy in Thalsedon. A member of the Von Kiviri was murdered recently down there. I believe you probably know him, as he once belonged to your house. Erik van Kahshaar.”

“Ah yes, young Erik, well he was young back then. He joined us when the Office of the Inquisitor was called the Information Secretariat, at my urging. He had the makings of a good intelligence officer, and he did quite well for us down in Thalsedon, where he spent most his career. However, he made very few friends in our house when he formally joined another house and a Young House at that, Von Kiviri. I can’t recall anyone from Van Kahshaar having ever done that. Even before that, though, he was somewhat of a black sheep.

"He had a talent for magic you know, Urquin, something I never had. But he refused to study under any of the weather-mages in the Ka’Shari Quarter in Kahshaartown, claiming he wanted nothing to do with 'batty old seadogs and sea-crones'. In some ways, I should mention, the Ka’Shari Creole can be very traditional. Difficulties at home were one of his reasons for joining the then Information Secretariat, just so he could get away from the whole Ka’Shari Creole. Though I didn’t like his reasons, I did support his application as I thought it would do him some good. He was actually a first cousin, which probably means I should go back to Kahshaartown to break the news to his poor old mother.”

Urquin shifted uneasily on his feet. The Inquisitor had rarely ever discussed matters about his personal life with him before, even with their long association. It may have been that Karl was grieving, but Urquin certainly didn’t intend going there. “Van Kahshaar, I am sorry to hear you were close to him. It is never good to lose family, even if they are not close.

“Please do read this report Lord Van Kahshaar”, Urquin said as he placed the bound document on the Inquisitor’s desk. “I obtained a copy through official contacts our Ambassador had in the Sedonian Government. Our man down in Thalsedon is actually quite good, and I recommend we utilize him for special tasks in a year or two. I believe he is not far from reaching the maximum period for a posting, and would be due for a transfer or promotion. Perhaps Mirabalpur, or something with headquarters here.

“Anyway, as you will read in this report, Erik was murdered. The Sedonians aren’t sure by whom, though there are some possible candidates. What is concerning is that there is mention of the Garrists, and Erik’s possible involvement with them somehow. If this is true, then there are still Garrists in Kaeir. What is more, some will be horrified to see a Kahshaartownman and the cousin of the Inquisitor involved in Garrism.”

“Well, Urquin, of course there are still Garrists here. From what we have learnt from their organizational structure, the Garrists use cell-structures. This means, that if one cell is disrupted or destroyed, there are almost no connections to be traced to other cells. I suspect, based on the way other organizations have used cell structures in history, that only the cell leader would have contact with other Garrists, and even it is probably through a unaware intermediary. The only way I suspect to determine connections with other cells is to capture the cell leader alive, which is hard enough itself.

“In fact, Erhad von Celtehari is arriving in Port Kaeir later today or tomorrow from New Tirmaeir. I suspect, given the timing, he wants to discuss something related to this. I have an awful feeling of dread which I get whenever he has to communicate anything to me from the Green Lady.”

At this, Urquin was surprised. Karl van Kahshaar, known for his agnosticism, believed in the native cult?

“I assume from your expression, that you are surprised that I talk about the Green Lady as existing. You know I am not a religious man. I never had time for the old ways and gods of the Ka’Shari, nor for the Millat that so many people of high standing in Kaeir like yourself now follow. Regardless of what great forces interfere in the world, in the end each man is responsible for their own life, and should live it as fully and honorably as they can, for once it is over that is the end. But I do believe in the Green Lady, though not anywhere near to the extent that native Lords like Adin do. I know She exists, and more importantly, I also know the Republic’s fate is tied to Her. So because I believe in the Republic and what it stands for, I by necessity, must believe in and cooperate with the Lady.

“Anyway, whatever it is that that shaman Erhad has to talk to me about obviously was too important to be discussed via those scrying bowls he uses normally to talk to me with whenever he is resident in the Green College in New Tirmaeir. The two young shamans that serve in my office tell me that while the scrying bowl method is fairly secure, a strong magic-user could tap the conversation without being detected."

“Very good, Lord Karl. My immediate concern, though, with this report is that Erik belonged to Von Kiviri, a popular Young House. It’s also known as Von Quetzal, from the name of its founder, Quetzal von Kivir. His murder will obviously have an impact on Von Kiviri, and Sir Quetzal will possibly use this to his own benefit. He is very popular amongst the Young Houses, despite his unpopularity amongst the Great Houses. Von Kiviri, in my opinion, has all the hallmarks of becoming a Great House one day. The murder of a reasonably significant Von Kiviri of Van Kahshaar blood, with possibly links to Garrism and unnamed organizations in Sedonia does not bode well for domestic affairs, nor for a future more prominent Von Kiviri’s reputation.

"Sir Quetzal Von Kiviri is clearly the leader of the Young Houses currently, and his House dominates the NE trade and has an increasing role in the Trans-Calarnari trade. What is more, Quetzal still has strong influence in the Tirmaeiri Rangers, and amongst Guard officer circles. Even in my contact with Kaeirean merchants in Sedonia, that is clear. I suggest you tread carefully, Lord Karl, concerning this.”

Deputy Minister Ronir-Varros and Chief Investigator Rhellmanos quickly left the Ministry of Special Projects offices in South Docks and boarded a waiting carriage for the trip to Riverside.

Although officially the Ministry of Special Projects was headquartered on Palace Mount in the Imperial Palace, the majority of the Ministry’s business was conducted out of a complex of converted warehouses in the South Docks District. On paper, only one of the buildings, a set of small offices, belonged to the Ministry while the rest were registered as the property of a trading company called Universal Exports.

As the carriage rattled out of South Docks and into the Manufactory Quarter, Ion Ronir-Varros finished reading the list of Erik von Kashaar’s contacts, and asked Chief Rhellmanos, “How did you gather the names on this list?”

“Well, we got lucky there,” replied the Chief Investigator, “After the landlady identified von Kashaar’s body, we searched it and found his day-book. Not much in it, no pages missing, but he kept a list of names and addresses in it. He had the names of his partners in the steel-mill syndicate there, as well as the names of the Tirrothi mill owners who were suing him. There were also the names of other members of his merchant house. Nothing that looked like it might be the name or address of a lover, though.”

“Hm, we should ask his landlady if he ever brought anyone home of nights,” mused Ronir-Varros.

After ten minutes or so, the coach entered Riverside. For a long time, the Riverside District had been one of the most run-down and dangerous parts of Thalsedon, with the parts of the District away from the main roads in the tight control of criminal gangs. Three years ago, however, a fire had destroyed much of Riverside (along with portions of Little Taltheran and the Vizinian Quarter), and the area had been rebuilt and the gangs driven out. Now the Riverside District was starting to thrive again, and many Kaeiran merchant houses and their employees had settled there.

Soon, the coach stopped in front of a two-story house with a high mansard roof, a building which had obviously, by the style of its construction, survived the fire. Ronir-Varros and Chief Rhellmanos dismounted from the coach, Ronir-Varros carrying the dispatch box, and went inside in search of the landlady. “Which flat was von Kashaar in?” asked Ion.

“2A, upstairs,” said Rhellmanos. “There’s two flats on the ground floor, two flats on the second floor, and an attic garret. Landlady lives in 1A, but,” he said as he peeked in the open door, “she doesn’t seem to be in at the moment.”

Ronir-Varros smiled. “Did you seal the flat?”

“Yes, and put a guard in place.”

“Then, knowing how most landladies think, she’ll be upstairs, trying to badger the watchman into letting her in so she can go through von Kashaar’s property for her back rent.”

The two men went upstairs, where they discovered a tall young watchman being held at bay by a short, elderly lady. “Now see here, young man,” she was saying, “it’s sorry I am that poor Mr. von Kashaar was murdered, but I can’t have this apartment going empty! How’s a poor widow to survive, and me without a pension?”

“Widow Marmasta?” interrupted Chief Rhellmanos. “Could we have a word?”

The old woman turned and glared at him. “You again?” she snapped. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Mr. Ronir,” said the Chief. “He’s lending his talents to our investigation. Now, I know one of my men spoke to you already, but we do have some more questions for you, so why don’t we go down to your flat, mm? Once we’re done there, Mr. Ronir and I will take a look at Mr. von Kashaar’s flat, and then when that’s done, we’ll turn it back over to you, all right?”

Mrs. Marmasta sniffed contemptuously as she bustled past Rhellmanos and Ronir-Varros. “A fine thing it is, the City Watch. Bah! Where were you when Riverside burned, eh?” She led the men downstairs and in to her apartment.

Flat 1A was decorated in Sedonloc style: dark, heavy wooden furniture with ornate, not to say busy, carving on everything. Mrs. Marmasta gestured to the sofa (hideous in vomit-green upholstery), and said, “Make yourselves comfortable,” before sitting herself in a rocking chair.

The two men sat down. “How long had Erik von Kashaar been lodging with you, Mrs. Marmasta?” asked Ronir-Varros.

“He came just after the fire,” she replied, “So . . . not quite three years.”

“Was he a good lodger? Did he pay his rent on time?”

“Well, his rent was always paid on time,” said Mrs. Marmasta, “but he wasn’t the best of tenants, not like that nice Casovian, Mr. McIlquaham, in 1B—such a well-spoken gentleman, helps me with the marketing.”

“How was Mr. von Kashaar not a good tenant?” asked Chief Rhellmanos.

“Well, the tenants are supposed to be inside by an hour before midnight, when I bolt the door. On more than one occasion, Mr. von Kashaar was late, and I had to get up and let him in. He did always pay me extra the next time rent was due, though, for my trouble,” the landlady replied. “A few times, he was late because he was working—I think he said something about year-end audits—but usually, when he was late, he was drunk.”

“Anything else?” asked the Chief.

“Tenants aren’t supposed to have guests stay overnight, but I’m certain that at least once Mr. von Kashaar smuggled a girl into his rooms somehow—I could smell cheap perfume.”

“Did he ever mention anything about his work to you? Or his family?” asked Ronir-Varros.

“Not really,” said Mrs. Marmasta, “He didn’t talk much about his family, and I got the impression he was rather estranged from them. He did say that most of them lived in Kashaartown or Port Kaeir. He also didn’t talk much about his work, although I do know he was feeling a lot of pressure there, and that he did his personal banking at the Temple of Sedon in Grand Market. When he first came, I asked for three months’ rent in advance, and he gave me a draft on his account with the Temple.”

Ronir-Varros opened the dispatch box, took out the Hand of Garr amulet, and showed it to Mrs. Marmasta. “Did you ever see Mr. von Kashaar with one of these?” he asked.

The old lady peered at the amulet. “N-no,” she said, “no, I never saw him with anything like that. Mr. von Kashaar never wore jewelry besides his signet ring.”

Ronir-Varros put the amulet away. “Was he religious? You said he banked at the Temple of Sedon.”

“Well, he banked there, yes, but I don’t think he worshipped there,” said Mrs. Marmasta. “He didn’t talk much about religion—-he didn’t talk much about himself at all, really.”

“Who are your other lodgers?” asked Ronir-Varros.

“Well, I’m in 1A,” she replied, “and then there’s Mr. McIlquaham in 1B, whom I mentioned already—he teaches at the district grammar school. Poor Mr. von Kashaar was in 2A, then there’s Miss Metterlin in 2B, who also teaches at the district school. And I rent the attic to three students from the university: Hugh Viridaren, Tomas Arelacus, and Ion Scaltsedon. They’re all in their second year, I think. They’re all out at work or at school at the moment.”

“Did Mr. von Kashaar talk to any of them?”

“Not really. He mostly ignored the university students and Mr. McIlquaham. He did make a pass at Miss Metterlin, but she turned him down flat—she and Mr. McIlquaham are planning to marry. Mr. von Kashaar took her rejection graciously,” replied Mrs. Marmasta.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. von Kashaar alive?” asked Chief Rhellmanos.

“Let me think . . . ten, maybe eleven days ago, in the evening. I was doing the dusting in the front hallway when he came in with a friend. Mr. von Kashaar was in a temper, and his clothes were mussed up. I asked him what was wrong, and he said that he’d been accosted by a beggar in the streets, but Mr. von Kiviri, his friend, had rescued him. Mr. von Kiviri asked Mr. von Kashaar if he was sure he was all right, and Mr. von Kashaar said that he was fine, that all he needed was a bit of a lie-down, so Mr. von Kiviri said good night and left, while Mr. von Kashaar went up to his flat. That was the last I saw of him,” said the landlady.

“Can you describe Mr. von Kiviri?” asked the Chief.

“Medium height, I’d say, rather thin, almost gaunt. Greyish eyes, pale brown hair. He had an accent like Mr. von Kashaar’s, but stronger. Oh, and he was tattooed, heavily tattooed,” said Mrs. Marmasta.

“Tattooed?” asked Ronir-Varros and Rhellmanos in unison.

“Yes, tattooed,” said Mrs. Marmasta with a nod. “He had a tattoo that curved up and around his right eye and then ran down the right side of his face and neck, under his collar, and when he shook hands with Mr. von Kashaar before he left, I saw more tattooing around his wrists running up his arms. Some sort of geometric design, quite barbaric, I thought.”

“I see,” said Chief Rhellmanos. He exchanged glances with Ronir-Varros, and then said, “Well, Mrs. Marmasta, thank you for answering our questions. Mr. Ronir and I will have a look at Mr. von Kashaar’s flat, and when we’re done, you can go in and start clearing it out.”

“And not before time, either,” sniffed the old lady as the two men stood. “Mind you shut the door when you leave.”

As they walked back up the stairs to von Kashaar’s flat, Chief Rhellmanos asked, “So, Ion, any thoughts on the widow’s tale?”

“Several, Lecon. You realize, of course, that the incident with the beggar was almost certainly when he was stabbed?”

The Chief nodded unhappily. “Which means I’ll have to have my men rousting every beggar in the district.”

“Not necessarily,” came the reply, “We also need to question this Mr. von Kiviri. Given that von Kashaar’s death has all the marks of an assassination, von Kiviri is also a suspect. He could have stabbed von Kashaar in the back while pretending to dust him off, and if he was skillful enough, von Kashaar would never have noticed with such a slender blade.”

“Well, but what would his motive be?” asked Chief Rhellmanos as they came to the door of flat 2A. He turned to the watchman guarding the door, and said, “I’m going in with Mr. Ronir—you can return to your watch-house, and let the commander know that he needn’t detail guards here any longer.”

“Thank you, sir!” said the watchman. He saluted and left, while Rhellmanos and Ronir-Varros walked into von Kashaar’s flat.

Even three days after the removal of von Kashaar’s body, the flat still had the stink of death about it. In the main room, the front door had an upholstered armchair to the right and a small table draped with a red brocade cloth to the left; the front wall had two windows with a small bookcase between them, while the wall opposite the door was occupied by a sofa bracketed by two end-tables. The back wall had the door to von Kashaar’s bedroom and more bookcases. The armchair by the door was badly stained, and by the smell was where von Kashaar’s body had been found.

Ion went over and examined the windows overlooking the front of the street. “Dusty . . . and only one set of finger-marks in the dust, probably von Kashaar’s. He glanced around, and then blinked as something caught his eye. “I thought your men searched this place,” he said.

“They did,” said Rhellmanos with a frown, “or, at least, they reported they did—Why, what do you see?”

Ronir-Varros walked over to the armchair by the door, bent down, and reached underneath. “The end of this,” he said, pulling out a small crossbow. Looking at it, he said, “This is a hand crossbow, also called a pocket crossbow. You can span and fire it one-handed. Short-ranged, and not much good against proper armor, but an excellent mugging deterrent.” He glanced at the plate set in the side of the grip and laughed. “A Ronir-Varros Model VI, in fact. I’d wager that the watchmen who broke the door down kicked it under the chair without realizing it. They were meant to find it by the body and think that von Kashaar had killed himself, but given how disgusting this chair must have been, with von Kashaar’s body sitting in it for a week in the heat, the watchmen must not have looked under it.”

“Not a very likely method of killing oneself,” said the Chief.

“No,” agreed Ion, “and as soon as anyone looked at the bolt, they’d realize that it couldn’t have come from this hand crossbow, but I suspect that our second murderer was counting on no-one looking too closely at an apparent suicide—you know the Church’s attitude, and what popular superstition says.”

Rhellmanos grimaced in distaste, “I know, I know, even though there’s never been any proof in the last century that suicides rise as undead, the Church still requires they be buried quickly.” He took a deep breath, and then looked as if he regretted doing so. “You said ‘second murderer’, Ion. You think the two are unconnected?”

Ronir-Varros nodded. “That’s right. The techniques are very different. The stabbing by a thin, needle-like blade suggests stealth, a desire to try and make the death appear natural. If it hadn’t been for the one-shot bolt in his ear which made us examine the body thoroughly, the stab wound probably wouldn’t have been found, and von Kashaar’s death would have been labeled heart failure. The first murderer didn’t want to even hint at foul play and was quite professional; the second murderer was rather more amateur: different murderers and different motives.

“As I see it,” he continued, “we have the following groups of potential motives for murder: First, a motive relating to his work with the Information Secretariat and Office of the Inquisitor. This is low in probability, since there’s no evidence at all that he was still an active agent, and if he’d done something back then to make him worth murdering, he would have been murdered back then. Second, a motive relating to his personal life—this encompasses jealous lovers, family disputes, fathers and brothers revenging a wronged sister or daughter, et cetera—again, low probability, especially given his estrangement from his family. Third, a motive relating to his current work: rivals within his merchant house, the Tirrothi mill-owners who were suing his house, the farmers whose lands were threatened by his proposed dam. Fairly high probability, I think. And, fourth and finally, a motive related to the Hand of Garr: he might have been a member, or he might have been a threat to a member, or even both.”

“All right,” said Chief Rhellmanos, “but before we start interviewing more witnesses, can you tell me how the second murderer managed to get out of here while leaving the door bolted from the inside?”

Ronir-Varros strode to the door and kneeled down, examining the door and frame closely. When the watchmen had broken in, the bolt had torn its hasp screws out of the frame, leaving the wood splintered. Looking closely, he saw a small pin-hole in the door, near the edge, just over the bolt. He examined the floor of the hall just outside the door, and in the space of two minutes hand picked up a straight pin, a bent pin, each with a long pieces of string tied to it. “The second murderer bolted the door with these,” he said, standing up and showing his finds to Chief Rhellmanos.

The Chief looked at Ion dubiously. “How?” he asked flatly.

“Simple,” said Ronir-Varros. “Note how large the keyhole is on this door. Our would-be murderer sticks the straight pin in the door here, at the edge, just over the bolt—you can see the hole. He threads the string tied to the pin through the keyhole. Next, he takes the bent pin, which you will note has both ends of the string tied to it, and puts it over the knob on the bolt. Next, he drapes the string over the straight pin and then threads it through the keyhole.

“All he has to do is step out into the hall, close the door, and gently pull on the string attached to the bent pin until he hears the clack of the bolt sliding home. A sharp tug on both strings dislodges the pins, and he pulls them through the keyhole and drops them on the floor, where in all likelihood, no one will ever notice them. Very clever,” finished Ronir-Varros.

“Indeed,” said the Chief. “Is there anything else you want to see here?”

“Your men did search the bedroom, yes?” asked Ronir-Varros. “More thoroughly than they did out here?”

“Yes, they did. That was where they found the amulet, you’ll remember, under his bed,” said the Chief.

“All the way under?”

“No, near the edge by his bedside table, as if it had been dropped by the table, and then accidentally kicked under the bed.”

Ronir-Varros stood in thought for a moment. “I think we’ve seen everything here we need to see,” he said. “Let’s go and talk to von Kashaar’s co-workers.”

As they walked out to their carriage, Ion asked Chief Rhellmanos, “Where is the House of Von Kiviri headquartered? Here in Riverside?”

“No,” said Rhellmanos, “Their offices are across the river, in Grand Market. They’re doing quite well for themselves.”

“I think that we should first pay a visit to the University,” said Ion. “We have to go through University Hill to get to Grand Market anyway, and I want a chap I know at the University to take a look at this amulet. He has an office in the Yzarine Library.”

“All right,” said Rhellmanos as they boarded the coach, “We’ll go there first. Driver! To the Yzarine Library!”

The coach rattled out of Riverside, crossing the Tomas I Bridge to Green Isle, driving past City Prison, then across the Old Stone Bridge to climb up into the University Hill district. University Hill was a nicer, richer district than Riverside, home to University professors, students, and staff. To the northwest, the district blended into Temple Hill, while to the northeast lay Grand Market, Thalsedon’s commercial heart.

The District was dominated by Great Hall and the Yzarine Library at the top of the hill; the former building being the largest enclosed space in the city, and the latter housing the largest collection of books outside Mirabalpur.

Ronir-Varros had the coachman park by a side entrance to the Library. He led Chief Rhellmanos up a flight of stairs to the second floor of the Library, then down a darkened hallway to a heavy oak door. On the door was an engraved brass plate reading, “Professor of Human Studies”. Ronir-Varros knocked on the door. A voice barked, “Enter!” and he opened the door and went in, Chief Rhellmanos on his heels.

Inside, the room was light and airy, with tall, glazed windows filling up the left-hand wall. The opposite wall was floor-to-ceiling shelving, packed with books, scrolls, and strange sculptures. In the center of the room was a large wooden desk covered with papers, behind which sat a very tall, pale, man with long, braided, blond hair, obviously Casovian, editing a manuscript. He looked up as Ronir-Varros and Rhellmanos entered, and broke into a gleaming smile. “Ion, my boy! It’s good to see you!” He began rummaging through the mess on his desk. “If you give me a minute, I can give you back that paper you wrote on alternative marriage forms . . . who’s your friend, by the way?”

“Professor MacGregor, meet Chief Investigator Tomas Rhellmanos of the Thalsedon City Watch,” said Ronir-Varros, laughing. “Chief Rhellmanos, Doctor Angus MacGregor, Professor of Human Studies, and my faculty advisor while I was at the University.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” said the Professor, standing and offering his hand to the Chief Investigator. They shook, and then Dr. MacGregor gestured at two large piles of papers, saying, “There’s a pair of chairs under those piles, if you’d like to sit down; just put the papers on the floor beside them.”

After they had cleared the chairs off and sat down, Ion said, “While it’s good to see you again, Professor, I’m not here about my old essays. Chief Rhellmanos and I are investigating an odd murder, and we found a piece of evidence that you might be able to tell us more about.” He turned to Rhellmanos and said, “Professor MacGregor’s specialty is tribal artwork from the MidSea periphery.” He removed the Garr amulet from the dispatch box and handed it to Dr. MacGregor, saying, “What do you make of this, sir?”

The Professor took the amulet in his left hand and examined it closely while absently tugging on his braid with his right. “Interesting,” he said, “very interesting. A Hand amulet, and not made anywhere near here. Incomplete, as well.”

“Incomplete?” asked Ronir-Varros.

“Yes, incomplete, said the professor, holding the amulet with its palm facing his guests. “Notice how the fingertips are indented. Originally, this hand was holding something, probably a semi-precious gemstone. At some point it was lost or removed, no way to tell which.”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t made near here?” asked Chief Rhellmanos.

“Design, mostly,” was the reply. “The relative crudity of the design strongly suggests a tribal origin for this amulet. It’s likely not northern MidSea, because Hand amulets in the north are almost always medallions, rather than sculptural, like this is.” Dr. MacGregor turned over the amulet and showed the back of the hand to the Chief. “Also, this inscribed design resembles designs common in Tana tribal tattoos, although there are some elements that I’ve only ever seen associated with goblins. At any rate, it almost certainly originated in the southeastern MidSea region.”

Putting the amulet down on his desk, the Professor continued: “The choice of materials used to make this amulet says something about the person it was originally for—-who is not necessarily the same as the most recent wearer. Usually, these amulets are silver. The fact that this one is cast bronze could mean that the original owner couldn’t afford silver . . . or that he or she couldn’t tolerate prolonged contact with silver.”

“A category of persons which includes vampires, several types of shapeshifter and skinwalker, and the Shadowspawn,” remarked Ion Ronir-Varros as he picked up the amulet and put it back in the dispatch box. “Thank you, Professor, you’ve been most helpful.”

“No thanks are necessary,” replied Dr. MacGregor, “it’s always a pleasure to speak with you. Oh, before I forget, the Dean sent me a memo, asking me to remind you that in order to receive your Magister’s Degree, you need to complete two years of teaching classes in your field, and you need to start it soon.”

Ronir-Varros heaved himself up from his chair with a sigh. “Tell the Dean that I’ll see him next week and make arrangements. Again, thanks for your time, sir.”

As Ronir-Varros and Chief Rhellmanos walked out of the Yzarine Library to their waiting government carriage, the Chief said, “You heard what he said about the tattoo-like design on the amulet?”

Ronir-Varros nodded. “I think we need to find Mr. von Kiviri.”

The House of Von Kiviri made its headquarters in Sedonia in a modest building in Grand Market, halfway between University Hill and the Horsemarket Gate, a position of middling prestige. The building had recently been repainted green with blue trim, the colors of Kaeir and its continental possessions.

Inside, Rhellmanos and Ronir-Varros approached the junior clerk who was acting as a receptionist. “Good day,” said Chief Rhellmanos, “could you direct me to Mr. von Kashaar’s office?”

“Assistant Director von Kashaar isn’t in,” replied the clerk. “He hasn’t been in the last few days, actually.”

“Ah,” said the Chief. “Could I then, perhaps, speak to his supervisor or his second?”

“Director Taloc von Kiviri is also out,” said the clerk, “but Assistant Director Alfar von Kiviri is in. His office is on the second floor, up the stairs, end of the hall, last door on the left, knock before entering.”

“Thank you,” said Chief Rhellmanos. As he walked towards the stairs with Ronir-Varros, he muttered, “It looks like the junior clerks don’t know Von Kashaar’s dead yet.”

“Or they want us to think they don’t know he’s dead yet,” was the cynical reply. Ronir-Varros chuckled, “Tell you what, let’s play it like this . . . .”

“Assistant Director von Kiviri?” asked Ronir-Varros.

The short, bald, and pudgy man behind the desk looked up. “Yes, that’s me. Who are you? If this is about that lawsuit—“

“Oh, it’s not about the lawsuit, at least not directly,” said Ronir-Varros. He smiled unpleasantly at von Kiviri. “I’m Deputy Minister Ion Ronir-Varros of the Ministry of Special Projects, and this is Lecon Rhellmanos, Chief Criminal Investigator for the Thalsedon City Watch. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Von Kiviri immediately broke into a sweat. “I’m not really the person you should be talking to, Minister, our other Assistant Director, Erik von Kashaar, deals with inquiries. You should really talk to him.”

Ronir-Varros and Rhellmanos seated themselves in the chairs in front of von Kiviri’s desk. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Ion. “Erik von Kashaar is dead.”

“Erik’s dead?” Von Kiviri slumped back in his chair. “Oh, this is a disaster, it could destroy the whole project! I’ll have to inform the home office!” He began to perspire even more.

“Pull yourself together,” said Ronir-Varros. “There are questions that we need answered. What exactly is the nature of your business, for one thing?”

“The House of Von Kiviri is a trading house, registered in Port Kaeir,” said von Kiviri. “We deal in all sorts of goods, but we mainly focus on trade with the northeast and southeast coasts of the MidSea—trading with Panchayyah and Videssia, or what’s left of it.”

“So why is a Kaeiran trading house investing in a Sedonian project to build a steel mill at Tirroth?”

“It’s not just a steel mill,” replied von Kiviri, “It’s also going to be an arsenal. We were providing some of the money needed to bankroll the project, and in return, we’d get a monopoly on exporting the weapons and armor made at the facility. There’s a big demand for high-quality weapons and armor in Videssia and among the Panchayyah.”

“Why Tirroth?” asked Chief Rhellmanos. “Caladyn’s already a center for steel making, and the military arsenals here in Thalsedon are already major production centers for arms and armor.”

“Water power,” said von Kiviri. “About five miles upriver from Tirroth, the Imperial River passes through a fairly narrow valley. The end closest to the city is ideally located for building a dam. The engineer the Sedonians brought in estimated that we’d get a drop of 100 feet. That’s a lot of waterpower, enough to pump bellows for the crucibles at forges, and run hammer-mills for beating out steel plates. It could be a big money-maker.”

“What about the farmers and villagers who would be flooded out by a dam, and the mills downstream who would get less water flow? And the river barges?” asked Ion.

“We would of course compensate for submerged lands, and the plans include a canal lock system for river boats,” replied von Kiviri. “As for the downstream mill-owners, our dam and mill site is far enough upstream that it’s in a different county and a different flood control district. Our solicitor assures us that under Sedonian water law, we are allowed to build the dam. The other mill-owners disagree, though, and if they keep us tied up in the courts, we could lose investors, which would scuttle the project. Now, I’ve a question of my own, Minister: how did Erik die?”

“He was murdered, sir,” said Ronir-Varros, “stabbed on the street over a week ago. He and the friend with him didn’t realize that the wound was mortal, and he made it back to his rooms, where he died. Oddly enough, someone else then entered his rooms, shot Mr. von Kashaar in the ear with a crossbow, and tried to make it look like suicide.”

Alfar van Kiviri’s complexion took on an odd greenish tinge and he swallowed convulsively. “Murdered? Oh, d-d-dear me. Oh, the scandal! His poor fiancée!”

“Fiancée?” asked Chief Rhellmanos. “What’s her name?”

“Lady Ava Otterlake,” said von Kiviri. “She’s the daughter of Baron Otterlake.”

“Otterlake?” said Ion. “That’s part of the Duchy of Tirroth.”

“Yes, he met her while he was there on business. Baron Otterlake is one of our investors; in fact, the valley that would be flooded by the dam is in Otterlake,” said von Kiviri. “I believe they met at a house party the Baron hosted in the summer of ‘57.”

“But von Kashaar was living in a two-room flat in Riverside!” exclaimed Chief Rhellmanos. “How did he expect to support a baron’s daughter?”

“Erik has had that apartment since he left the embassy. He said he didn’t feel the need for anything larger,” replied von Kiviri. “As for support, with his commissions from brokering cargoes, he was taking home 800 imperials a year, 2400 in the three years he worked here, and he had considerable savings from his time in diplomatic service.”

“800 imperials? That’s more than some nobles make in a year,” said Ronir-Varros. “That answers that question. Now, who do you know would want to kill Erik von Kashaar?”

Alfar swallowed again, and said, “Well, the mill-owners downstream of Tirroth were annoyed at him, but not that mad, and they hadn’t come close to exhausting their legal remedies yet. There were the people whose properties were going to be flooded out by the dam, but, honestly, Baron Otterlake was the major landowner, and he was to be well compensated—most of the farmers in the valley are tenants, not freeholders. But, I can’t imagine one of the farmers traveling all the way to Thalsedon just to kill Erik—killing him if he came to Tirroth or the valley, I could see that, but he was killed here.” He looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling, then looked at Ronir-Varros and said, “Actually, Minister, the person most likely to have killed Erik is Lord Roger Viridlen—he certainly had the strongest motives.”

“And that would be?” asked Ronir-Varros.

“Jealousy and humiliation. Lord Roger is the eldest son of Baron Viridlen, whose barony borders Otterlake. He grew up with Lady Ava, and I understand he had always assumed that he would marry her one day. However, Erik was somewhat older, more experienced, more mature, more attractive, and considerably wealthier than Lord Roger. I’m told it was love at first sight. Lady Ava sent Lord Roger packing with his tail between his legs,” said von Kiviri. He laughed, “Lord Roger challenged Erik to a duel, and Erik chose fisticuffs. Erik proceeded to beat Lord Roger black-and-blue before depositing him in Baron Otterlake’s garden fountain with a broken nose.”

“A powerful motive, indeed,” said Ronir-Varros thoughtfully. “Another question, Assistant Director: von Kashaar’s landlady saw him return to his flat after he’d been stabbed in the street. He was accompanied by a man whom he addressed as ‘Von Kiviri’. However, she described him as being medium height, grey-eyed, brown-haired, quite thin, and heavily tattooed, none of which describe you at all, sir. Do you know who that man might be?”

“That sounds rather like Director Taloc von Kiviri,” said Alfar von Kiviri hesitantly, “which is odd, because he hasn’t been in the office for the last week either.”

“Where is Taloc von Kiviri from, and why do you two share a surname when you look nothing alike?” asked Chief Rhellmanos.

“Oh, Taloc’s from the Kiviri Mountains, same as Sir Quetzal von Kiviri, the House Head. I think they might be related, distantly. As for the names, it’s customary when one joins a House to take its name to show that it’s your patron; for example, my full name is Alfar Asricsaan von Kiviri; back home, poor Erik would be Erik von Kashaar von Kiviri. He didn’t go by von Kiviri here in Thalsedon because he’d registered as a resident alien under the name of Erik von Kashaar before he joined our House, and your Interior Ministry regulations wouldn’t allow him to change it. In Erik’s case, the von Kashaar just means that he came from the Kashaari Creole—in fact, I believe he was a relative of the Lord Inquisitor, Karl von Kashaar.”

“Do you know where we could find Director Taloc von Kiviri?” asked the Chief.

“Not with certainty,” said Alfar. “He might have gone to Tirroth about the lawsuit, but he also might have gone back to Port Kaeir to consult with the Head of the House. He has a home in Seaview, outside the walls, you might try there.”

“I see. Well, thank you for your time, sir,” said Ronir-Varros, standing up, followed by Rhellmanos. He made as if to walk to the door, only to pause and say, “Oh, one more question, sir, almost forgot.” He set his dispatch box down on the chair, opened it, and removed the Hand of Garr amulet to show to Alfar von Kiviri. “Ever seen this amulet before, sir?”

Alfar stared at the amulet like a mouse staring at a snake. “I’ve never seen it before in my life,” he said. “Now, I’m going to be very busy dealing with the effects of Erik’s death, so if you’d just let yourselves out?”

As the two men left the building, Rhellmanos said, “He was lying when he answered that last question.”

“Beyond a shadow of a doubt,” agreed Ronir-Varros. “However, he did tell us one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The probable identity of our Second Murderer. Lord Roger Viridlen was recruited as an agent of the Ministry of Special Projects in the spring of 1458, Direct Intervention Section. He’d have had access to a one-shot like the kind that fired the bolt you found in von Kashaar’s ear.”

It was a short drive from the House of Von Kiviri in Grand Market to the Viridlen townhouse in Old City. When Ronir-Varros and Chief Rhellmanos knocked on the door, it was answered by a butler in the eye-watering Viridlen livery of bright green and salmon-pink. The butler looked down his nose at them, and said, “Tradesmen use the back entrance,” before trying to shut the door in their faces.

Ronir-Varros quickly reached out and jammed the door open with his dispatch box. “We are not tradesmen,” he snapped. “I am Deputy Minister Ion Ronir-Varros of the Ministry of Special Projects, and this is Chief Investigator Lecon Rhellmanos of the City Watch. Is your master in?”

The butler reluctantly opened the door. “I am afraid Baron Viridlen is not at home at present; he is on his country estate. Lord Roger is home, but he is not receiving guests at present.” He glanced around, then leaned in closer to Ronir-Varros. “As a matter of fact, sir, he’s horribly hung-over. Been drinking like a fish, this last week, not like him at all. Seems quite upset about something.”

“Well, he’ll see us, hung-over or not,” said Ronir-Varros. “Now, will you let us in?”

The butler sighed, and stepped out of the way. “I’ll show you to Lord Roger’s room,” he said.

When they reached the door to Lord Roger’s room, the butler knocked and called out, “Deputy Minister Ronir-Varros and Chief Investigator Rhellmanos are here to see you, my lord.” He paused, waiting for a reply, but instead of a voice, a loud thud, like a chair toppling onto the floor, came from behind the door.

“Oh, damn,” said Ronir-Varros. He shoved the butler aside and tried the knob. The door was locked. Ronir-Varros stepped back, and said, “Break it down, Chief. Now!”

Without hesitation, Chief Rhellmanos took a few steps back, and then smashed into the door with his left shoulder. With a loud crackle of splintering wood, the bolt tore through the doorjamb and the door swung wide.

Thus revealed was a scene of squalor and desperation, centered around a young man slowly strangling as he hung by the neck from a rope tied to the unlit chandelier in the center of the ceiling, a chair lying overturned beneath him.

Ronir-Varros, Chief Rhellmanos, and the Viridlen family butler rushed into the room. While Ronir-Varros and the butler supported Lord Roger’s weight, Chief Rhellmanos righted the overturned chair and stood on it to cut the rope with his service sword, allowing Ronir-Varros and the butler to lower Lord Roger to the floor.

The noise had attracted servants from other parts of the townhouse, crowding around the doorway trying to see what was happening. As the butler and Chief Rhellmanos removed the noose from Lord Roger’s neck, Ronir-Varros turned and stabbed his finger at first one footman, then another. “You,” he said to the first, “go and fetch some brandy. And you,” he said to the second, “go and fetch a healer. Hurry, damn it!”

The healer, a priest of Arlova, came, and after a brief examination, declared that Lord Roger would survive, although he’d be quite hoarse for a time, and he would have a truly spectacular bruise around his neck. Before the healer left, Minister Ronir-Varros made it clear to the man that keeping his mouth shut about what he’d just seen would be a very good idea. Then he turned to regard Lord Roger, who was lying in bed, fingering the bandages around his throat.

“You, sir,” said Ronir-Varros, “have been incredibly—no, cosmically stupid. The gods weep! What in the Halls of Nightmare were you thinking? Or perhaps the question should be, what were you thinking with? Because it sure as the Halls wasn’t your brain, if you even have one! Arrgh!” He reached out and tapped Lord Roger in the middle of the forehead, saying, “Takes kidneys, oh yes.” He stepped back, and said, “Chief, you talk to him—I’m afraid if I question him, I won’t be able to keep my temper.”

Chief Rhellmanos sighed, and said, “Now, Roger, we know you shot Erik von Kashaar in the ear with a one-shot spring-bow, but we need the details from you—and we need to know: did you join the Direct Intervention Section just so you could kill von Kashaar?”

Lord Roger shook his head in denial. “No, sir,” he rasped painfully, “At the time, I just wanted to do something with my life.” He gently touched the bump on his nose where it had been broken and healed crookedly. “When Erik beat me up after I challenged him to a duel, I realized just how useless my life was. I joined to give myself a purpose.”

“Why not join the army?” asked Chief Rhellmanos.

Lord Roger made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Flat feet, would you believe? Still, my University Degree was Northern MidSea Languages, so the Ministry was happy to have me. At the time, I had the most important qualification for an agent of Direct Intervention: I didn’t really care about survival, not after Ava threw me over for Erik.”

“And your record was excellent, especially in that matter of the Olozog tribal chief who thought he could get away with murdering Sedonian merchants; and the matter of the Shanari ardsul smugglers in Jabau,” said Ronir-Varros. “So what changed? Why did you shoot von Kashaar?”

“May I have some water?” asked Lord Roger, gesturing to the glass and carafe on his bedside table. After Ronir-Varros had given him a few sips of water, he said, “It was pure chance. I had returned from an assignment in Pran—I was tracking a Vizinian independence agitator, but the intelligence was out-of-date. I was going back to HQ to debrief and return my equipment, when I saw Erik in the street, in Riverside.” He paused for breath, and then continued, “He’d just been accosted by a beggar who was clinging to his sleeve. Erik struck at the beggar, the beggar swung back, and they started fighting. Erik totally outclassed the beggar, and if Erik’s companion hadn’t pulled them apart, Erik might have seriously hurt the old man. Watching that brought all the anger, the rage back, like a wave on the beach.”

“So what happened then, Lord Roger?” asked Chief Rhellmanos.

Lord Roger coughed, and whispered, “I followed them back to that apartment of Erik’s. I saw them go in, then Erik’s companion came back out.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Tall, thin, brown hair, some sort of tattoo on his face. There was something about him, like my eyes didn’t want to focus on him. After he left, I waited until it got dark, about an hour, then I broke into the apartment house. The landlady had locked up, but she hadn’t barred or bolted the door. I picked the lock and was inside. I went up the stairs, found Erik’s rooms. The door was open a crack. I could see Erik inside, dozing on a chair by the door. I slipped in, and I shot him in the ear with my oneshot. He had a locket around his neck that Ava had given him, and I took that. I saw that Erik had a small hand-crossbow on his bookshelf, and I took it and dropped it by his chair, to make it look like a suicide. Then I slipped out of the building, and went home and got drunk.” Lord Roger coughed again, and said, “I didn’t feel like this, those times in the Olozog Hills and Jabau. Those were just killings, executions. What I did to Erik, that was murder.”

“Actually,” interjected Ronir-Varros, “it wasn’t.”

Lord Roger looked blankly at him, “Sir?”

“Erik von Kashaar was already dead when you shot that bolt into his ear, Lord Roger,” said Chief Rhellmanos. “The most you can be charged with is breaking and entering, and mutilation of a corpse. As a first offender and a noble scion, you’d probably get off with a suspended sentence and a fine.”

“On the one hand,” added Ronir-Varros, “I’m disappointed that you tried to commit murder with a weapon that could be traced back to the Ministry, and I’m disappointed that you failed to check to make sure that your target was still alive before you tried to kill him. On the other hand, if it wasn’t for your little escapade, Roger, we’d likely never have realized von Kashaar was murdered by someone else.”

Through this Lord Roger had grown rather pale. “So . . . I didn’t murder Erik,” he said, fingering his bandages again, “And this, this was—“

“For nothing,” said Ronir-Varros. “Tell us, after you left the apartment, did you see von Kashaar’s companion again?”

“Yes,” replied Lord Roger softly, “about three minutes after I left the apartment. I passed him on the street, he was heading back to the apartment. When I passed him, for a moment, it felt . . . vile, like I was dipped in some sort of light oil, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Made me shiver. I hurried after that.”

“All right, Roger,” said Ronir-Varros, “believe it or not, you’ve helped us a great deal. I’m going to hold off on making any decisions until you’ve had some time to recover, but at best you’re looking at being transferred from Direct Intervention to Analysis. Now, one last question: What did you do with the locket you took from von Kashaar?”

“It’s in the drawer of the bedside table,” rasped Lord Roger. He hesitated, then said, “Will you be telling my father, sir?”

Ronir-Varros sighed as he took the locket from the drawer. “Baron Viridlen needs to know what happened to his son and heir apparent, Roger. Your butler is probably already writing a letter to summon him back from the country. You have to tell him the truth.”

Lord Roger sighed, and settled back into his pillows. “I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Ronir-Varros smiled faintly. “You’re welcome.” He left the room, followed by Rhellmanos.

Before they left the Viridlen townhouse, Ronir-Varros had a quiet word with the butler about informing Baron Viridlen about what had happened. “Don’t mention the suicide attempt, just tell the Baron that an emergency requires his presence here in Thalsedon. Let Lord Roger tell the Baron what happened and why.”

As they got back into their coach, Rhellmanos said, “That was kind of you, Ion.”

“Mm-hm,” said Ronir-Varros absently as he fiddled with the locket that Lord Roger had taken from von Kashaar. “It was the least I could do. Baron Viridlen is a friend of my family.” He prodded the locket some more, before he handed it to Rhellmanos, saying, “It looks like this locket is designed to open up, but I can’t find the catch. Why don’t you give it a try?”

Chief Rhellmanos looked at the rather large locket, and smiled. “Ah, I’ve a locket just like this. My wife gave me it to me on our anniversary.” He pressed a small catch near the ring that held the locket on the chain. The locket popped open, revealing on one half a small portrait in enamel of von Kashaar, and on the other half a portrait of a young woman who must have been Lady Ava. Something fell out of the locket onto the floor of the coach.

Rhellmanos put the locket into a pouch on his belt, and reached down and picked up what proved to be a small key. “It’s got an engraved inscription on the shaft, quite small” he said, “yM.g.Ch.Sed.A113, looks like.” He handed it to Ronir-Varros.

“Hm, Yuni Minaltasis gyo Chayun Sedon, ” said Ronir-Varros, “The Temple of Sedon, A113. That’s a deposit box key—you said that von Kashaar’s rooms had been searched when the watchmen broke in?”

“That’s right,” said Rhellmanos, snapping his fingers. “This must be what the murderer was looking for. He stabbed von Kashaar in the street, left him alone to die, then went back to search the apartment for incriminating evidence.”

“But,” said Ronir-Varros, picking up the thread, “that young dunce, Lord Roger, had broken in while the murderer was gone, and took this locket with the key in it, without knowing what he had.”

“Exactly!” responded Rhellmanos. He cocked his head questioningly, “You realize that from what Lord Roger said, first, Taloc von Kiviri is our prime suspect; and second, Taloc von Kiviri is a mage, or worse?”

“Oh, indeed. I think that we should first stop at the City Courts and get a warrant to find out what’s in Erik’s deposit box. Then we can think about rounding up some back up and tracking down Director von Kiviri.”

Ronir-Varros and Rhellmanos took their carriage back through Grand Market and University Hill to Green Isle, home to the Thalsedon City Watch, the City Courts, and the City Prison. By the time they reached the City Courts, it was well into the lunch hour. After a quick meal of barbecued lamb in the courthouse dining room, Chief Rhellmanos found a cooperative city magistrate willing to sign a warrant to open Erik von Kashaar’s deposit box at the Temple of Sedon. Then it was off in the carriage again, north across the river into University Hill, past the University, and north into Temple Hill.

Temple Hill took its name from the multitude of temples and religious building located there. It was dominated by the temples of Coron and Lusia at the top of the hill, with the temple of Demerhaze tucked in between the two grand edifices. The Temple of Sedon, on the other hand, was at the base of Temple Hill, and was actually built back into the hill itself.

Inside, the temple’s hall was dominated at the end opposite the doors by a great bronze statue of Sedon. Very few petitioners were making more than a token reverence to the statue; instead, most were waiting in line to do business with one of the clerks seated behind the desks that lined the western wall.

After showing their warrant to a senior clerk, Ronir-Varros and Chief Rhellmanos were escorted down to the temple vaults by an over-priest. He unlocked outer box A113 with the bank’s key and removed the inner box, which was quite large, about one foot tall by one foot wide by two-and-a-half feet long. Then he pointed to a rope hanging from the ceiling in the vault chamber. “That rope is connected to a bell outside the vault. Pull it when you’re done, and an attendant will come to let you out,” he said.

As the over-priest turned to leave, Ronir-Varros held out a hand to stop him. “When did Mr. von Kashaar last access his deposit box?” he asked.

“Twelve days ago,” replied the over-priest, adding, “I escorted him down myself. Is there anything else, Minister?” When Ronir-Varros shook his head in negations, the over-priest left, leaving Ronir-Varros and Rhellmanos alone with von Kashaar’s deposit box.

“The moment of truth,” remarked Ronir-Varros as he unlocked the box with von Kashaar’s key. “Let’s see what von Kashaar wanted to keep safe.”

The box was filled with papers and documents, with a few pieces of jewelry lying loose. “Semi-precious stones,” remarked Chief Rhellmanos, “Family heirlooms, I’d guess.”

Ronir-Varros removed a document wrapped in a red ribbon and sealed with red wax that was lying on top of all the others. “This looks like a will,” he said, before breaking the seal and untying the ribbon. He read silently for a few minutes, before saying, “It’s his will, all right, dated twelve days ago. He named the Kaeiran Ambassador, Adin Karlsaan van Jafarsaan, as executor.” Ronir-Varros turned to the next page, and exclaimed, “Listen to the list of bequests, Lecon! ‘I bequeath everything of which I die possessed to my fiancée, Lady Ava Otterlake, save for the following exceptions: First, the sum of 100 imperials and the contents of my room in the family home in Kashaartown I bequeath to my brother, Talar, with the exception of my old toy-chest and its contents, which I bequeath to my nephew and namesake, Erik. Second, the documents and papers contained in my deposit box at the Temple of Sedon in Thalsedon I bequeath to my cousin, Lord Inquisitor Karl von Kashaar, in the hopes that he can make better use of them than I.’”

Chief Rhellmanos had been looking through the other documents in the box while Ronir-Varros was reading the will. When Ronir-Varros stopped, Rhellmanos held up another document, saying, “Here’s an older will, Ion, dated six months ago. Two differences. First, the executor of this will was Taloc von Kiviri. Second, instead of leaving his papers to the Lord Inquisitor, he instructs that they be destroyed unread.” The Chief waggled his eyebrows dramatically. “Suspicious, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” said Ronir-Varros, as he dug into the contents of the box. “Here, you take that stack, and I’ll take this stack.”

After two hours had passed, the two men put down the papers. Ronir-Varros rubbed his eyes and said, “So. House von Kiviri keeps two sets of books.”

Chief Rhellmanos nodded grimly. “They’re smuggling and cheating both Sedonia and Kaeir of tariff & tax revenues. But I can’t see the sense in it. They’re buying weapons here, and claiming to be shipping them to Videss and Rimrivertown, in a 50/50 proportion. But, in fact, they’re underreporting the total number of weapons being sent out, and the ships to Rimrivertown are only carrying about a third of what they bought, and most of those are being smuggled upriver to Kelshir and the Kivirian Mountains.”

“While the weapons going to Videss are being smuggled to the southwest, into Torphan and over the Tavar Pass,” said Ronir-Varros. “The returning ships bring back gold in exchange, but the ships from Videss are bringing back a lot more gold than they should to Thalsedon, none of which is reported here.”

“And it’s not being reported in the monies the Thalsedon office sends to Kaeir, either,” said Rhellmanos. “And, finally, there’s this.” He held up a small, black, leather-bound book. “Von Kashaar’s diary. He found out some of his clerks and some of the warehousemen were Garr cultists, a fortnight ago. He reported them to his boss, Taloc, who stalled him. Von Kashaar got suspicious enough to change his will, and planned to confront Taloc again on the day he was killed.”

“I don’t think there can be much doubt,” said Ronir-Varros. “We need to search Taloc von Kiviri’s home, we need to search the House von Kiviri offices, and we need to arrest Taloc and any other Garr Cultists.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I think a joint team, City Watch and Ministry, should search Taloc’s residence. We may need special resources, if he is a Shadowspawn.”

“I agree,” said Chief Rhellmanos. “We can stop by the City Courts and get the warrants, then pick up the Riot Squad at Watch Headquarters, before going back to the Ministry to pick up your men.”

“Right,” said Ronir-Varros as he rang the bell to summon the vault attendant, “let’s get to it.”

A little after midnight, Ronir-Varros and Rhellmanos, accompanied by twenty men of the Riot Squad and six Ministry agents from Direct Intervention Section, were lurking in the bushes outside Taloc von Kiviri’s home in the Seaview district. Ronir-Varros nudged Rhellmanos, and, pointing, said, “There, to the east, do you see that small building? That’s the Shine of Demerhaze that that Ex Quaestio espirii, Trelan, disappeared from back in 1452, while he was investigating the cult of Garr. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Taloc von Kiviri bought this house when he came here in 1456.”

“You’re probably right,” whispered Rhellmanos. He glanced at the men. “Are we all ready?” he asked. “Everyone has a silvered weapon?” The men all nodded. The Chief nodded approvingly, and said, “This is the plan: Minister Ronir-Varros and I will knock on the door and attempt to serve the warrant. If there’s no response, Harald and Tomas,” he pointed to the two largest men from the Riot Squad, “will bash in the door with the ram. Van and Richars,” here he pointed to the two Ministry agents armed with repeating crossbows loaded with silver-tipped bolts, “will be first in, the rest of us follow them in and secure the building.

“If the door is opened for us, we go in fast, secure whoever opened the door, then secure and search the building, top to bottom. Any questions?” The men shook their heads. “All right, check your armor, then let’s go.”

Rhellmanos and Ronir-Varros led their men up the short drive to the house. A small (for Seaview) two-story manse, it exuded an atmosphere of menace as the men drew near. Lamplight glowed through the cracks of the drawn curtains in the windows. Rhellmanos stepped up to the front doors, and pounded on them with his fist. He called out, “This is Chief Investigator Lecon Rhellmanos of the Thalsedon City Watch! I have a warrant to search these premises! Open, in the Empress’ Name!” When no response came, he motioned to the men carrying the ram. “Break it down, boys,” he said.

The two Watchmen set themselves, and swung the ram at the doors which burst open at the first blow. The repeating-crossbowmen dashed in, followed closely by Ronir-Varros, Rhellmanos, and the rest of the search & arrest team.

They stepped into a slaughterhouse. Blood spattered the walls of the front hall up to the ceiling. Just inside the door lay the corpse of an older man, dressed as a butler. His throat was torn out and he had been eviscerated. Through an open door leading to a parlor to the right, the corpse of a young woman in a maid’s dress lay on the floor in the same condition as the butler. Several of the men were noisily sick. The air itself felt greasy and tainted.

Ronir-Varros swallowed down bile and said, “Well, that’s confirmation that Taloc von Kiviri’s a Shadowspawn . . . and he’s lost control of the demon he’s bound to.” He turned to face the men. “Split into pairs and secure this floor. Check for more bodies, and for the gods’ sakes and yours, be care—“ He was interrupted by a hollow, despairing scream of terror from the back of the house.

“That came from the cellars!” cried Chief Rhellmanos, “Follow me, men!” He charged to the back of the house, Ronir-Varros and the others following.

In the kitchens, they found an open door leading down to the cellar. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the search party found itself in a cult temple. Wooden chairs in rows filled much of the space. At the far end, a large statue of the Hand of Garr clutching a globe stood behind a crude stone altar. Atop the altar lay a young woman, stripped naked, her eyes glazed in terror. Before the altar stood a tall, gauntly thin man with pale brown hair, stripped to the waist, a knife raised over his head. “Drop the knife, now!” shouted one of the Watchmen, as he and his fellows trained their crossbows at the man.

The thin man froze and turned. A tattoo ran from around his right eye, down his neck, onto his torso and down both arms to the wrists. It glowed red with an internal fire. His slow smile had nothing human in it. He made a casual gesture at the men and said, “Die.”

A black-red, almost diseased-looking fireball leaped from his fingers towards the men. Chief Rhellmanos and his men dived for cover, as did the Ministry agents, but Ronir-Varros stood his ground. An aura of blue-white flame flaring about him, the Deputy Minister reached out, and caught the fireball in both hands as if it were a child’s wooden toy, before hurling it back at the Shadowspawn, who, startled, batted it away into a corner of the temple, where it exploded, setting a wall hanging afire.

Ronir-Varros shouted, and began to rapidly toss small, blue-white balls of fire at the Shadowspawn, who in turn deflected them away into the walls. “Shoot him, you fools,” he yelled at the men, “I can’t distract him forever!”

The thock of released bowstrings filled the air as Chief Rhellmanos, the Riot Squad, and the Ministry agents fired their crossbows, accompanied by the rapid thock-thock-thock of the two agents with repeating crossbows. The Shadowspawn screamed and writhed in agony as the silver-tipped bolts bit into his flesh, disrupting the binding tattoos. His concentration broken, the fireballs thrown by Deputy Minister Ronir-Varros began to strike him, further disrupting the tattoos. The Shadowspawn collapsed to the floor, smoking.

Ronir-Varros ceased throwing the small fireballs. As he walked down the temple aisle to the altar and the Shadowspawn, he gestured with his right hand, lowering it palm down towards the floor. As he did so, the fires started in the cellar-temple by the deflected fireballs guttered and died.

He stood over the collapsed and smoldering Shadowspawn, regarding it silently for a moment. Then he drew a silver dagger from his belt and raised it over his head. The blade burst into flame, and he plunged it into the Shadowspawn’s heart, right through the most complex part of the tattoo. Ronir-Varros quickly jumped back, as the Shadowspawn burst into flame, a mix of the black-red and blue-white. Within minutes, nothing was left of the body but white ash and calcined bone.

Chief Rhellmanos walked up to Ronir-Varros and opened his mouth as if to speak, but the Deputy Minister held up a hand to forestall him. “If Raden Ghere had not recruited me for the Ministry of Special Projects,” Ronir-Varros said quietly, “I would have become a monk of Chayan Rorso, the Lord of Flames.” He smiled weakly. “We were lucky that that demon was fire-associated—if it had been a water-demon, things might have gotten a bit dicey.”

“Is he dead?” asked Chief Rhellmanos cautiously.

“Taloc von Kiviri died as a personality when he lost control to the demon,” replied Ronir-Varros. “As for the demon . . . it’s not exactly dead, but it’s no longer in Celandra, and I doubt that it will be able to return for a long time—the fire hurt it badly. He turned to the men, and said, “Search the house for papers and documents, especially anything cult-related.” He glanced at the girl on the altar, who had fainted. “Somebody find her a cloak or some clothes, then get her to a Lusian Mindhealer.”

As the watchmen and agents began to move, Ronir-Varros laid a hand on Rhellmanos’ shoulder. “Very few people know that I’m a mage,” he said quietly, “and I prefer it that way. Make it clear to your men that it would be best if they keep quiet about what went on here tonight.”

As dawn broke, the search of Taloc von Kiviri’s house wound down. The young girl whom Taloc had nearly sacrificed turned out to be the kitchen-maid. She had been taken into the City to the Temple of Lusia, where a Mindhealer would help her come to terms with her awful experience. A wagon from the city morgue and a small group of Coronite priests had come to remove the bodies of the other servants, nine in all. The search of the house and grounds had also uncovered that Taloc had slaughtered the horses in the stables, as well as the servants; a knacker and his apprentices had come out to take away the carcasses for dogs-meat.

Rhellmanos and Ronir-Varros were in the front hall, reviewing the documents discovered in the search of the house. They found more evidence of tax and tariff evasion on the part of House Kiviri, and documents suggesting that other branches of the House were also under Garrist control. The real prize, however, was a small book that listed the Hand of Garr members in Thalsedon.

Ronir-Varros finished reading the list, and sighed. “It could be worse. No nobility, no Members of Parliament on the list.”

“It’s bad enough,” responded Rhellmanos. “They’ve got moles in all the ministries except Special Projects, and in the City Watch and the City Council.”

“But, if we move quickly, we can purge them,” responded Ronir-Varros. “There are only about 150 names here. The Ministry can handle them.”

Rhellmanos shrugged. “I’ll trust your judgment.” He sat thoughtfully for a moment, before saying, “What about Assistant Director Alfar Asricsaan von Kiviri?”

“All the evidence shows that he wasn’t a Garr cultist,” said Ronir-Varros. Then he grinned wickedly, “However, he was involved in evading taxes both here and in Port Kaeir, beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

Chief Rhellmanos grinned also. “Let’s go talk to Imperial Revenue.” As they left the house, Rhellmanos said to the Watchman guarding the door, “Once the search is finished, burn this place to the ground.”

Three days later:

Assistant Director Alfar von Kiviri looked up in annoyance. “What is it this time?” he snapped. “I answered all your questions bef—“ He closed his mouth abruptly as Rhellmanos and Ronir-Varros each slammed a ledger down on his desk.

Rhellmanos tapped his ledger, saying, “This is your branch of House von Kiviri’s public account book.”

Ronir-Varros gestured at his ledger and said, “This is your branch’s real account book, Assistant Director von Kiviri, which we recovered from Director Taloc von Kiviri’s home before it tragically was destroyed by fire three days ago—the Director having opted for self-immolation as a means of ending his own life, it seems.” As von Kiviri drew in breath to speak, Ronir-Varros pointed to the little man in grey clothes standing next to him and said, “This is Henryk Valmier, an auditor with the Imperial Revenue Service. In his professional opinion this branch of the House von Kiviri is guilty of evading taxes both here and in Kaeir, as well as lying to customs inspectors here and in Kaeir.”

“And these gentlemen,” said Rhellmanos, gesturing to the two giant Casovians, carrying small sledgehammers, who had just slipped into the room behind him, “are from the Imperial Revenue Service’s Bureau of Enforcement, and they’re here to break your kneecaps.”

“What?!” squawked von Kiviri. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, we’re quite serious,” said Valmier. “These gentlemen will cheerfully smash both your kneecaps, unless you agree to pay the back taxes and penalties due. Going back to 1456, the total owed comes to 12,479 imperials, 8 sedons, and tuppence. We accept letters of credit drawn on the Temple of Sedon, or cash.”

“I can’t authorize that!” cried von Kiviri. “That’d eat four-fifths of my cash on hand, I need authorization from the home office in Port Kaeir for that large an expenditure!”

“Ask yourself this: is my job more important than being able to walk?” said Chief Rhellmanos.

As Rhellmanos and Ronir-Varros watched, Valmier and the IRS enforcers loaded their wagon with chests full of coin from the House von Kiviri vault. “That went well,” said the Chief.

“Oh yes,” said Ronir-Varros, with an evil grin. “I sent von Kashaar’s papers to the Kaeiran ambassador this morning, first thing, along with Valmier’s estimate of how much this branch of House von Kiviri cheated the Kaeiran treasury of in taxes. It works out to about the same as what they owed us.” He shook his head in disgust, “If they’d just used the facilities in the Kaeiran trade enclave, they’d have owed barely any Sedonian tax or tariff.”

“They must have felt that Sedonian officials were easier to bribe, or were less competent, or both,” said Chief Rhellmanos. “Either that, or they wanted to avoid the Night Brothers.”

“Hm, maybe,” said Ronir-Varros. “I also gave the ambassador a report for Lord Inquisitor von Kashaar’s eyes only about what happened at Taloc von Kiviri’s mansion, and why Erik von Kashaar was murdered.” “Is it legal for you to share that kind of information with the head of a foreign intelligence service?” asked Rhellmanos.

“Legal or not, von Kashaar has a right to know why his cousin died,” said Ronir-Varros, “And he has a need to know that there may be something very dark indeed festering in the heart of Kaeir.” He sighed, and said, “I ended up transferring that young fool, Lord Roger, by the way.”

“Where to?” asked the Chief.

“Bega Station Cypher Clerk. He’ll be there for the next five years or so, hopefully long enough for him to grow up a bit. Now, how about some lunch? There’s this really good Taltherani restaurant, Uncle Rex’s, a few minutes walk from here.” The two men strode off, cheerfully.

THE END

-- Andrew Janssen - 02 Nov 2006