While the Copper Pig’s reputation was unsavory, it was more for the gambling, prostitutes and bad ale it offered than for violence. I was about to say so when I caught Thadro’s gelid eye.
“The Pig’s not a place of bloodshed,” Chadde said, filling the gap. “Whoring, petty thievery and weighted dice, but not murder. The whole valley isn’t—the last killing was close to fifteen years ago, and that involved a jealous wife, a pretty serving girl and a roving husband. Not robbery.” The peacekeeper’s brows knitted together. “Though Menck’s purse is missing, and knowing of his various dealings, it was probably more substantial than it should’ve been. As are the number of those who wished him ill.” She watched Laurel set the jerkin down and pick up the leather breeks. “But if robbery was the motive, then why so many stab wounds?” Her gaze dropped to the corpse. “And wounds like that?”
“Revenge perhaps?” Ranulf suggested. “Someone who didn’t care for the treatment he received in jail?”
“When Rabbit was released from jail, the head jailer was very much alive,” Thadro said mildly, “and the lieutenant’s time has been accounted for since.”
“The jailer could’ve been killed from a distance,” Ranulf persisted. “By magic.”
“No,” Laurel said. “It was done up close, with a knife.” He put the breeks down and looked around. “Was there a coat or cloak, honored peacekeeper? Or shoes?”
Chadde shook her head. “He had just what you see, Master Laurel. Though whoever took Menck’s purse could’ve also taken his cloak and shoon.”
Laurel poked at some gray and greasy-looking hosen and smalls, then returned to the jerkin. “His purse wasn’t stolen either. Or if it was, what was in it wasn’t significant.” Using his claw, he ripped open a seam at the bottom and pulled out what looked like wool wadding. Then, lifting the jerkin up, he poured out a stream of gold coins.
There was a long moment of silence as the coins continued to fall onto the slab with a tinkle. “Who knew strong-arming was so lucrative?” Beollan murmured.
Lord Ranulf gave a short laugh. “Would that my treasure box held that much.”
“That’s at least twenty years’ pay,” I said, gaping.
“More,” Jeff whispered, his eyes wide. “At officer rates.”
“No officer in His Majesty’s army earns that much gold,” Thadro said. “Not even I.”
While I didn’t know what Lord Commanders earned, I did know that when I was promoted to lieutenant, my pay was upped to a half gold a year. Staring down at the coins on the slab, I saw an awful lot of gold.
Shaking out the last of the coins, Laurel set the jerkin down and picked up the breeks. We remained silent as he once again ripped open a seam to reveal a hidden pocket. But instead of coins, there was a leather pouch. Laurel untied and upended it, and another stream fell onto the slab— this one of gemstones, the gems’ facets adding their sparkle to the coins.
“Rabbit,” Laurel said.
I jerked my gaze away from the dazzling display.
“Your dagger,” Laurel said, putting the empty pouch down.
Reaching under my cloak, I pulled my knife from its sheath at the small of my back and handed it to the Faena, who used it to stir through the gems. As he did, the hair on the back of my neck rose.
“What is it?” Ranulf asked, watching Laurel closely. But then all of us were. All except Beollan, who stared unwinkingly at the gold and jewels. His dragon pin’s tiny gemstone eyes seemed to blaze with their own fire.
“The head jailer was murdered,” Laurel said. “And a knife was used in the killing. However, robbery was not the motive. Nor was revenge or jealousy, or any other mundane reason.” He started to run a paw over his head, then remembering that he’d been touching both Menck and the jailer’s privy-invested clothes, lowered it—and Chadde’s eyes widened slightly as she caught sight of the truth rune on the middle pad.
“So why was he killed?” Thadro asked, beating out everyone else.
“Dauthiwaesp,” Laurel said, his tail lashing. “You’d call it death magic.”
Chapter Eight
The silence that had fallen after Laurel’s pronouncement was broken by a familiar sibilance and, looking around, I saw Lord Ranulf’s sword gleam as he drew it from his scabbard. But before Laurel—or any of the rest of us— could react, Peacekeeper Chadde grabbed Ranulf’s wrist. Ranulf tried to dislodge Chadde’s grip, shaking his arm. “Damn you, let me go!”
“My town, Lord Bainswyr,” Chadde said. “My rules. Rule number one, no drawing on His Majesty’s kin, his agents or his guests.”
“The magical admitted it!” Ranulf roared. “Foul sorcery!”
“Master Laurel said dark magic had been done, not that he’d done it,” Chadde said. Her grip tightened. “Put the sword away, my lord.”
“Ranulf,” Beollan said, looking up from his contemplation of the coins and jewels. “Do as the peacekeeper says.”
“Who else could it be? The demon lord and his familiar,” Ranulf said, panting as he struggled against Chadde.
“The Border is not the only land with talent-born, Lord Ranulf,” I said, distantly marveling at the peacekeeper’s strength in subduing the brawny Marcher Lord. “There are Turalian wizards, adepts in Caepisma, and a magician-priest caste in Svlet. I’d even heard tell that each Line in the Qarant Trade Consortium has its own prescriber. Something about keeping their fellow merchants honest. In fact, Iversterre may be the only kingdom that does not have any official talent-workers.” I gave a humorless smile, thinking on the earlier discussion between Jusson and Laurel. “Until now.”
“Very good, Lord Rabbit,” Beollan said. “Figured that out, did you? Or did his Majesty tell you?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Thadro said before I could answer. He looked at the Lord of Bainswyr and made an annoyed sound. “I’d tell Chadde to let you attack the Faena, Ranulf, but I don’t want to have to explain to the king how you’d come to be smeared across the floor. Put your sword away before you get hurt.”
Laurel hadn’t paid any attention to Lord Ranulf’s belligerence, but had gone to a bowl of water set on one of the three empty slabs. Picking up the small bag he’d placed there before he began his examination, he poured its contents into the bowl. Using my dagger to stir, he then set aside the knife and plunged his paws into the water. I shivered again, thinking that the water had to be very cold as it had been drawn from a pump in the tiny courtyard of the charnel house.
“I assure Ranulf Leofric’son that neither I nor Rabbit had anything to do with the unfortunate’s death,” Laurel said, vigorously scrubbing. An astringent scent filled the air, competing with the tallow and privy aromas. “And just because there aren’t any other official talent-workers in your kingdom doesn’t mean that there aren’t any at all. But that’s not what we ought to be concerned about. At least, not right now.”
“All right, I’ll bite,” Beollan said. “What should we be concerned about?”
“Death magic has been worked, honored lord,” Laurel said. “To what purpose?”
The room grew quiet again and I was distracted from Laurel knowing Ranulf’s father’s name by the memory of that morning’s attack of the phantom hand. But Menck had been alive and extorting then, so that meant that dark sorcery was probably waiting, like a cocked crossbow. Or maybe the bolt had already been shot and was even now flying towards its target. My shiver this time had nothing to do with anything so ordinary as the cold.
Ranulf shook his arm again. “Let go. I’m not attacking anyone.”