“I’ll keep that in mind, though I doubt that’s the answer,” said Minrah. “The scars aren’t that fresh.” She continued to study Torval’s corpse, slowly moving down his torso. “He’s got a lot of scars,” she said, “but I’d expect that from a soldier. Hmm. Hoy! Look at that. Tell me, did he have both shoes when you found him?”
“No, just the one. I remember being irritated about that. Why?”
She held up Torval’s leg and waggled his unshod foot. “This ankle’s broken.”
“Is that so unusual? If my ankle were broken, I’d want no shoe placed on my foot either.”
“But there’s no swelling and hardly any bruising,” said Minrah. “His ankle was broken after he died.”
“I guess that rules out a dancing injury,” said Cimozjen lamely. “Another clue, then?”
Ignoring his comments, Minrah scrutinized the area, bringing the lantern very close to his ankle and heel and using a small hand mirror from her bag to illuminate the skin more evenly. “Aha, I thought as much,” she said at last. “There are scrapes at the back of his heel and along the top of his foot. Bloodless scrapes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Again, they happened after he died, or shortly before. Given even a short amount of time, they would have scabbed over. These didn’t.” She sat back on her heels and looked at Cimozjen. “You said you found him in the water, right?”
Cimozjen nodded.
Minrah ran her knuckle back and forth across her chin and gazed sightlessly at the shadows of the room. “So he died, and afterward he got these injuries on his foot and lost a shoe. Sounds to me like he was dumped in the water after his death, and weighted down with a rope and a stone.”
“Well, whoever did it probably wanted him not to float around.”
“Dead bodies don’t float,” said Minrah.
“Sure they do,” said Cimozjen. “Everybody knows that-”
Minrah held up her hand. “Let me explain. Bodies float while they have air in their lungs. But when you die, the air goes out, and you sink. It’s not until the corpse begins to putrefy that it floats back to the surface. Now the water in King’s Bay is probably cold enough that he’d stay down all winter and not come up until late spring, but they still weighted him with a rock. They wanted him to stay down. Forever.”
“So no one would ever know his fate.”
“Right. But say his ankle broke, maybe when they threw him in. They might have thrown the stone in first, you know, because you’d want a pretty heavy stone to weigh down a large body. His ankle broke, and the rope slid off his foot, taking his shoe with it.” She glanced at the other shoe. “If he had a matched pair, then the missing shoe also went over his ankle. That might have made it easier for the rope to slip off.”
“That rings of the truth, I suppose,” said Cimozjen. “But what does it really tell us?”
“Quite a lot. He was probably killed by people who are primarily sailors, because they tried to bury him in the water and not in the dirt or in the sewers. It also means that they took pains to hide his body. This isn’t a case of him getting into a fight on the docks and falling in or getting shoved off. Still, he may have been dropped off the end of a dock, or he may have been thrown off a ship.”
“Or just a rowboat,” said Cimozjen. “It would be easy enough to steal one for an hour or two after dark.”
“Not a rowboat,” said Minrah, shaking her head. “It would be too awkward to throw a body off a dinghy with a heavy rock tied to him. It’d be liable to tip, and that’s dangerous in cold weather like this, because you’re likely wearing heavy clothing that’ll drag you down.”
“He could easily have been killed elsewhere, and brought to the water,” said Cimozjen, “so I see not how this gets us anywhere.”
“That’s possible, yes, although we can’t forget that they also used a large rock. Maybe they dragged one of those across town with them, but it seems unlikely.” She looked back at the body. “Now let’s take a look at those clothes, shall we? Help me get them off.”
“Over my dead body,” snapped Cimozjen.
Minrah shrugged. “He is your dead body.”
“Show him some respect.”
“I am. I’m trying to solve his murder.”
Cimozjen sighed in frustration. “With the Host as my witnesses,” he said, “I’ll not have a young woman looking at my friend’s naked body. It’s just-it’s not right. I’ll not dishonor his body like that. It’s been dishonored enough for one lifetime.”
He stared at her for a moment, scowling. She returned a blank gaze.
Finally he raised one hand to rub his forehead. “It’s been a long day. We should rest, the both of us. Come the morning, I’ll buy some attire more suitable for him, and then you can have a look at those rags. Does that sound equitable?”
“If that will make you happy,” said Minrah with an understanding smile. Then she looked at Torval once more. “Listen, not to be cruel, because I don’t want to, but aren’t you concerned about the smell if we just leave him here until morning?”
Cimozjen laughed darkly. “I’m a soldier.” He looked at her pointedly. “There is nothing worse than the smell of a battlefield, with the blood, and the filth, and the slaughterhouse smell of savaged bodies. And all through it is the stink of fear. One small corpse will bother me not at all. Over so many years, I’ve grown used to the smell.”
“Sure, but his chest is opened up, and I don’t want anyone else to think maybe we’re butchering chickens up here.”
Cimozjen took a deep breath and sucked on his lips. “Open the window. The cold and the fresh air will help in that respect.”
“I’ll burn a candle,” said Minrah, and she turned to fish through her bag.
Cimozjen looked around. “Er, Minrah, you can have the bed if you wish a comfortable seat tonight; I’ll just-”
“I don’t need the padding to meditate,” said Minrah. She crossed her legs, settled her back against the wall, and folded her hands in her lap. “No, please, you go ahead. I’ll be just fine right here.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Because the bed would be more comfortable than the floor, and-”
Minrah gave him an odd sideways look and smiled. “Now’s not the time. If we’re to work things out together, I need you at your best. Lie down. Sleep.” So saying, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
“As you wish,” said Cimozjen uncertainly. “If you’d rather I moved to a separate room, I-”
“Sleep,” Minrah insisted.
“Aye,” said Cimozjen. Flapping his hands on his thighs uncomfortably, he stepped over to the mattress, sat down, and kicked off his boots. He left all his other clothes on and wrapped himself in a blanket. Then he drew his dagger and, holding it in one hand, curled up to go to sleep.
He prayed that if he dreamt of Torval, that it would be Torval alive.
Chapter SIX
Farewell to Torval
Wir, the 11th day of Sypheros, 998
By the time the slanting rays of the morning sun reached into the room, Minrah was already gone. She’d roused herself from her meditations, stretched, and broken her fast with some dried fruit from her bag.
She walked through the streets of Korth, which were just starting to fill with the day’s industry. The aroma of a bread shop caught her nose, and she stopped in and purchased a loaf of hot wheat bread. The bread steamed as she tore it apart and ate it.
She passed by Crownhome, the massive fortified palace of King Kaius III, just as one of the royal trumpeters of the Conqueror’s Host sounded the hour. Turning north, she soon reached the top of the bluff that separated Crownhome and the South Gate from the so-called bottom districts-the Low District and the Community Ward, where the poorest and hardest-working Karrns made their homes. She paused for a moment to look at the serene cityscape of the morning.