“What’s the witch doing here? And what the hell is that?”
I quickly turned. Standing in the doorway was Lord Ranulf, covered in a cloak made entirely of fur. For a moment it was if a great bear stood there. Then Ranulf strode into the room, reaching for his sword, his gaze on Laurel. As he did, Thadro stood in front of me and Jeff stepped next to the Lord Commander.
“Easy, Ranulf,” Thadro said, shifting so that he blocked the Marcher Lord from Laurel as well. Laurel, however, didn’t pause in his examination of the jailer’s earthly remains.
“His Majesty sent him, my lord,” Chadde said, moving to the other side of Thadro.
Feeling trapped against the corpse-containing slab, I tried to move out from behind the wall of backs. But Thadro cast me a muddy glance over his shoulder and I stopped. Laurel glanced up, his eyes going to the Lord Commander and then to me, before returning to his examination. He rumbled softly, his brows knit as he lifted Menck’s arm— and I noticed that it moved easily, with no signs of stiffening. Freshly killed, then. My gaze went back to the frozen wounds. Maybe.
“He did? How interesting,” Lord Beollan said, entering the room behind Ranulf. The Lord of Fellmark wore his plumed hat and was also wrapped in a cloak, but his was soft wool lined with fur and fastened at his neck by a silver pin in the shape of a dragon. Studded with tiny jewels, the pin winked in the flickering light, making the dragon seem alive. “Any particular reason His Majesty sent his Lord Commander, his cousin, and”—Beollan’s gaze traveled over Jeff’s Own uniform to rest on Laurel—“a very big cat?”
“Lords Beollan and Ranulf were the ones who found Menck’s body,” Chadde said to Thadro before turning to answer Beollan. “Master Laurel is a famed thieftaker in his own land, my lord.” She cast a look over her shoulder at Laurel, for the first time appearing a bit uncertain. “His Majesty felt that he could help.”
So Jusson did. But then, the king often poured all sorts of oddments into a boiling pot just to see what would bubble up to the surface.
“The head jailer killed,” Jusson had said when Chadde finished her telling. “After beating, robbing and generally misusing our cousin and his fellows. And now you’ve come to make sure that Rabbit hadn’t taken his revenge?” He didn’t wait for Chadde’s answer. “Thadro, take Guardsman Jeffen and accompany our cousin and the peacekeeper while I wait here for my other guest. Find out all you can about this murder and report back to me.” Still radiating annoyance even as he smiled, the king looked at Laurel. “Perhaps you’d like to go with them, Master Faena. It’s a chance to practice your craft. At least one part of it.”
Laurel hadn’t argued and, when we arrived in the charnel house, he handed me his coat and staff and immediately began examining the corpse. Now, done with Menck’s hands, he moved to the other end of the slab. “Not a thieftaker, honored Chadde,” he said, gently lifting Menck’s leg to peer closely at his ankle. “Thieftakers hunt down the guilty for a fee. We are more of a cross between your office and a magistrate’s, with the power of the High Council behind us.”
“Indeed?” Beollan asked. “And who are ‘we’?”
Laurel looked up at the Marcher Lord, his amber eyes glowing. “The Faena.”
Faena came from all the Border races. Justicers, priests and intercessors, they were the warp woven into the woof of the Border, filling in the empty spaces between its citizens and making them whole. But as it was the Faena who’d lifted the truth rune during the last war with Iversterre with such devastating effectiveness, I waited for an explosion of outrage from the two Marcher Lords.
Beollan, though, merely shrugged. “Oh. You’re that cat.” He turned his attention on Laurel’s elaborate staff. “The head of the Faena, correct?”
Returning to his examination, Laurel gave an absent rumble. “Yes.”
“You’re a little far afield, aren’t you?”
Laurel gave another rumble. “As you said, I’m a cat. We tend to do that, wander far and wide.” Setting the leg down, he moved to the head jailer’s clothes. He picked up the jailer’s shirt and spread it open near one of lanterns. Though I narrowed my eyes against the smell of overflowing privies, I could see that the shirt had been sliced from laces to hem. And while it was stained with other substances, there was no blood, or even corresponding holes for the knife wounds. Someone had carefully cut open Menck’s shirt before stabbing him to death.
“I’ve heard about him,” Lord Ranulf said as he pushed past Chadde to the slab to glare impartially at the corpse, Laurel and me. “Not only that he’s one of the damned Faena, but how he’s also some pagan priest of a demon goddess.”
Laurel was a shaman of Lady Gaia—and so presided over all her rituals of fertility, birth, healing and death. But even my da, as faithful a son of the Church as there ever was, would never have dared to call the earth deity a demoness. And I, baptized, catechized and diligently following the same Church, shifted a couple of steps to put a little more distance between me and the Lord of Bainswyr. Then I realized what he had said and I turned my frown upon him.
” ‘Heard about,’ my lord?” I asked. “Didn’t you meet Laurel in Iversly?”
Thadro, judging the threat had passed, had started to turn to face the dead jailer. At my question, though, he stopped, shooting me an annoyed look.
“No,” Ranulf said abruptly.
“No, we have not met before,” Laurel said. Setting aside the shirt, he moved to a patched leather jerkin. Checking the pockets first, he turned it inside out. He then frowned and began to examine it more closely.
“Does it matter?” Lord Beollan said. “Surely you and, ah, Master Laurel weren’t joined at the hip during your time in the Royal City.”
Well, no, we hadn’t been. In fact, there was one social event that Laurel definitely had not attended. One where all the guests wore costumes from a children’s pantomime and remained hidden behind masks while poisoned wine had been served and I fought for my life against five in a darkened courtyard. I eyed Lord Ranulf, wondering if he’d been a guest at my cousin, Lord Teram ibn Havan e Dru’s masque. “No,” I said slowly, “Laurel and I weren’t together all the time in Iversly.”
“It was probably at one of those functions that you met, then,” Beollan said. “If you don’t tease yourself, I’m sure you’ll remember.” He came to stand at the foot of the slab and stared down at the head jailer’s body. “Poor bastard.”
Chadde turned her head to Beollan, her gaze suddenly intent.
“Ranulf and I found him out by the jakes at this tavern that I discovered earlier today in my rambles,” Beollan said, oblivious to the peacekeeper’s attention. “We’ve just come back from the mayor’s, telling him about his kinsman. His honor said that he was going to break the news to the man’s wife before coming here.”
“I thought you went to your bedchamber, my lord,” I said, curious. I was certain I had heard his voice as he went up the main staircase at the king’s house. I’d also heard Ranulf’s, but didn’t ask him as I figured I’d save Thadro wear and tear on his boots from having to step on my foot.
“Only to get my cloak, hat and gloves, Lord Rabbit,” Beollan said. He gave a tired smile. “Despite the king’s hospitality, I’d no wish for bed yet”—his smile changed—“at least not an empty one. I thought the Copper Pig would satisfy my desire for, ah, adventure.”
” ‘Struth.” Lord Ranulf also looked down on the naked corpse, fleeting sympathy crossing his face. “The tavern had good sport, but was a rough-and-tumble place. He was probably killed for his purse. Such as it was.”