Hunting Read online

  Thornaster was still absent, which suited Ash. She checked over the condition of the books, fetched out the Visel's tack repair kit, and restitched the one with loose pages before polishing the leather up on both. Her stitching work wasn't perfect, but it would hold and, except for the stained pages and a slight crack down one spine, there was little sign of the volume's misadventures.

  Making a mental note to reserve some soft bread to blot the pages, Ash replaced Thornaster's kit and tidied the room. Rubbing some salve on the fingers of her right hand to ease their continuing stinging, she thought up a few neat revenges to repay the books, but dismissed them. Her hunt came first.

  The Visel returned much earlier this evening, while she was reading in her nook. He smelled of horse, and looked strained and abstracted.

  "I hope you're not planning on turning this into a library," he said, picking up one of her new acquisitions and flipping through it.

  "They're a loan," she said. "Today's lesson." In more ways than one. She should have taken them with her to the archery ground, whatever Vendarri thought of her carrying them about. It was no use anticipating trouble and then not doing enough to avoid it.

  "And how have you been accepted?"

  "They haven't killed me yet. Always a good sign. How go the investigations?"

  Thornaster sat down on the foot of the bed. "Seruilisi aid in the removal of boots," he said, holding one leather-shod limb toward her.

  Ash considered the scarred sole, traces of mud clinging to the sides, then studied his expectantly amused face.

  "Can't get dressed, can't get undressed." She managed to drag off one of the high boots and started on the other. "Or, rather, you can but you'd just prefer someone else did it. Next you'll be wanting me to comb your hair and give you baths." The other boot came off in a hurry and she fell backwards.

  "I think I can manage those," Thornaster said, mouth quirking. "The boots need cleaning, however." He wriggled toes at her through knitted socks, watching her face. "While you do so, I'll tell you what I know about the murders."

  "Have you had a seruilis before?" she asked, fishing among his gear for cleaning implements. "Did you make him do any of this?"

  Glancing back, Ash caught a look of concerned evaluation, which the man swiftly hid beneath a smile. "Some. But my last seruilis was entirely too proper to make it entertaining. He had none of your talent for incredulity."

  Ash lifted her eyebrows, then collected cloth and a jar of yellow goo from his belongings, and sat on the floor just outside her niche, with one aromatic boot in her lap. So he thought to distract her from grief by teasing her? It wasn't an unkind gesture, but she had too much to think of to play the game this evening.

  "Talk," she said.

  Thornaster took off his socks and dropped them beside her, flexing long, narrow feet, but apparently deciding to take the command seriously. With a sigh he lay back on the bed, so her view of him was limited to knees and toes.

  "Sera McCready," the Visel began. "A full five weeks past. Only the Watch investigated her death, since the Rhoi's Guard at that time were not involved. A swift blade across the throat. She'd been taken unawares from behind, sitting at the single table in a disreputable pile of lumber mistakenly called a building. It seemed possible that she had been killed by an acquaintance, someone she had allowed into her home. How else had this person positioned himself behind her without alarming her? A great deal of guff was mooted about because she was thought to be a blood-draw, but I could find nothing to hint of that. I didn't visit the scene 'til long after, though, when most traces of magery would have faded.

  "Sera Murchison, five days later. Almost the exact same scene, but in a different part of the city. A different Watch House involved, and they didn't make the connection."

  The Kinriddys had, though, bustling around to Genevieve's to gossip and exclaim. It was a specialised profession, and the herbalists all knew each other, bargaining hard for traded plants. Two of their number dying in rapid succession in the same manner had brought Ash's adoptive aunt three worried visitors in the space of the same morning.

  "Then came Ser Bertram, the palace apothecary. A man who had access to the Rhoi. He died in exactly the same way, six days after Dame Murchison. Alone in a room of his apartments, dead from a single knife stroke which opened the throat. The Rhoi's Guard took charge, of course, and swiftly learned of the other two deaths. Arun asked me to lend any aid that I could." There was a long silence. "Magic had been used to accomplish the killing," Thornaster said, surprising Ash into pausing in her methodical polishing. "That was kept quiet, of course, but I could sense the draw, thick in the air over the body. Investigator Verel, who has a small ability with magery, confirmed my suspicions, though we had no detail.

  "We questioned Bertram's apprentice, a singularly tongue-tied boy, and learned only that the man was in the habit of working late into the night, but always with the door locked, especially recently. Either the victim had admitted his murderer into his workroom or magic was used to gain entry. No-one was seen near his rooms."

  "Are you a mage, or can you tell about the magic because you're Luinsel?" Ash asked.

  "I only have the benefits of being Luinsel while on my own lands. I can sense the draw because of my Estarrel blood, not any mage talent. There's an interesting lack of mages in this Rhoimarch. Verel is one of only a few dozen, and most of them aren't strong enough to sense more than the most recent working of power." The man hooked one leg over the other and swung his foot back and forth, sighing. "Next were Seras Loua and Mae Kinriddy. A number of those skilled in the herbal arts had left Luinhall in the eight days following Bertram's death. The Kinriddys were preparing to depart."

  Ash had helped them pack, two tall, willowy women with soft, soft voices that never fell quiet. Biting her lower lip, she switched boots.

  "Again there were traces of draw, even stronger than that I sensed at Bertram's. These deaths were different, in that one of the women faced her attacker."

  "She would have woken when her twin died," Ash said, as softly as Mae or Loua had always spoken. "They were tied that way. They felt each other's pain."

  "The second victim's screams could be heard to the end of their street," Thornaster continued, after a pause. "They slept in separate rooms. It took the killer long seconds to reach her and this death was not as clean. She fought him. She died. No one saw anything. No fleeing bloodstained madman. Nothing. Neighbours surrounded the house quickly, but somehow the killer had slipped past them. There were, however, two imprints of the heel of a foot on the floor where the second of the Kinriddys died. Not a shoe, but not bare feet. An odd, hazy shape."

  Much had been made of the killer's escape, in Ash's neighbourhood. All sorts of stories, of invisible monsters, or soul-stealers, or creatures who could turn themselves to mist.

  "Next a man named Ezah Johans. The owner of a tap house, and a cook well known for his use of unusual herbs. No problems with this death. No interruptions.

  "Nor with the next. Your Genevieve, who died despite a house thoroughly shuttered, with an interesting array of noise-making traps strung about. Again there was a residue of magic. I have discovered that residue at all the death sites I've attended and have no reason to doubt that it was also present at the two previous murders."

  Ash didn't say anything, trying to make a decision.

  "Lacking physical clues, we have been examining motive," Thornaster continued. "Why kill herbalists, of all folk? Most were valued and respected, not easily replaced. Several possibilities come to mind, but they all verge on the fantastic. A competitor clearing the market? Would it not, eventually, become suspicious when one practitioner alone survives? Someone who had taken harm, intentionally or not, at the hands of a herbalist – out to revenge himself or herself? But that would not explain the cook. The common link seems to be not only herbs, but also an expert knowledge of them, whatever use they are put to. So, discounting the ruthless competitor, there is an obvious possibility
behind killing those with herbal knowledge."

  "Poison," Ash murmured.

  "A substance normally undetectable, which only the most expert might identify."

  "You think they're going to kill the Rhoi?" Ash asked, since that was the conclusion the entire city had come to.

  "If so, this is a strange and clumsy way to go about it, raising suspicion in advance. And the murder of a Rhoi is one crime not lightly forgiven during Astenar and Luin's judgment. This Rhoimarch – there is more going on here than... Do not repeat what I tell you now."

  Curious, Ash made a tiny noise of assent, wishing he would sit up so she could see his face.

  "In late autumn Arun received a letter from his father recalling him to Montmoth. If we hadn't already started out in response to it, I'm not sure we would have made it through the passes which block this place off so effectively in winter."

  "Did Rhoi Malaster say why he wanted Rhoi Arun to return?"

  "He instructed Arun to ask my Rhoi for an advisor on matters of Balance. Which is me, and I don't even need to see you to know you've screwed your eyebrows up into those doubtful arches. It's the Estarrel blood – it means I'm sensitive to Balance thanks to Luin, just as I am to magery because of Astenar. Rhoi Malaster didn't explain why he needed an advisor – it's an unusual request, since most Rhois would do anything rather than admit to a failure of Balance."

  "Is there–?"

  "There's certainly something wrong here, although I don't think it's with the Balance. Luin's laws are kept well enough, but many of Astenar's are skirted around, some almost openly flouted. This book is a good example." He held up the volume Ash had repaired. "Instead of recording the gods' instructions, it interprets them. And very few of Astenar's are discussed. Even if the full volumes of the Edicts are available somewhere in this benighted place, they're rarely directly taught. At any rate, Arun has not discovered whatever specific issue was behind the summons. Nor have I."

  Finished with the boots, Ash lined them at the foot of the bed and eyed the Aremish Visel as he sat up.

  "Was Rhoi Malaster murdered?" she asked, bluntly.

  "I don't know. A fall down a stair could be anything. The Guard found nothing definitive." He handed her back the book. "Arun is taking what care he can. His brother – well, it is possible that someone works to enthrone him without his collusion. But there was an incident, a blocked chimney in the Rhoi's quarters, producing suffocating smoke. It was a near thing, and kept quiet. The Veirhoi nearly died."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  Dark eyes assessed her. "As I said, I know where you stand. You want, most fervently, to destroy the killer. Since spreading that tale around will only hinder any investigation, you will not do so. And I want you to know this because I have placed a street-wise boy, with some herbal knowledge, in the Mern with the Veirhoi. You will do well as Heran's bodyguard."

  Ash digested this. She'd not intended to stay long in the Mern, but this was a complexity to overset hasty plans.

  "Do you know anything about magic?"

  "A little. I can't use it, but I know the basic theory of its practice."

  "Do witches or mages or whatever, do they ever use a kind of coarse grey powder? To do spells with?"

  Thornaster's eyes narrowed. "Yes."

  "What for?"

  "Why?"

  She drew the little bag out of her pocket and handed it to him, watching as he pulled loose the drawstrings and tipped out a minute sample of the powder.

  "Emanite," Thornaster said, carefully pouring the dust back into its container. "Where did you get this?"

  "What do you use emanite for?"

  "A number of different things. You didn't have this when I brought you here yesterday."

  "No. I asked someone to look for me." She sighed, disliking the steadiness of his gaze. Was it a mistake to tell? "When Genevieve wouldn't leave the city, I checked the other murder sites, as much as I could. I found this dust on the roofs – at least, on the Johans' and the Kinriddy twins'. I don't know if there was any above the others."

  "Indeed."

  "I set some traps – trip-wires and bear-jaws – on our roof. In case the dust wasn't a coincidence. The killer spotted them."

  Thornaster's expression shifted from surprise to a combination of amusement and dismay. "You didn't trust me enough to share this?"

  Ash shrugged. "Why would I?"

  He laughed, a startled cough, and shook his head. "Why would you indeed? There's a lesson for me. Get some rest – I'll arrange with the Investigator to look at these traps of yours, tomorrow." Pulling on a new pair of boots, he left.

  Had her delay been the mistake? Ash thought it all over, trying to fit Thornaster's information into the puzzle. The Veirhoi was Rhoi Arun's nominated heir, as well as taking first precedence as closest of his kin. After that, though, anyone could in theory be chosen by the Landsmeet to drink from the Well of the Heart and be judged. Any conspiracy could do no more than create an opportunity. Luin and Astenar would be final arbiters, and weighed those who would be Rhoi on a stern scale. History was full of attempts to become Rhoi that had fallen at this final hurdle.

  Who would the Landsmeet choose as a candidate, if both Nemators were dead? Decsel Enderhay had a reputation for being a fine judge of Balance, and was favoured by those who were strongly traditional. Decsel Donderry was more progressive, with many ideas to improve Montmoth's fortunes, which might be why he was considered faddish and easily led. The Carlyons offered a middle ground so deeply shadowed by their father's damnation that it seemed unlikely any would back Eman Carlyon as a candidate. Decsel Pelandis had been bedridden for years. A carriage accident had left him without his health or the use of his legs. His two brothers conducted his affairs, and Ash had heard Ryle Pelandis spoken of in glowing terms. Since there was no requirement to choose from Montmoth's Decsels, or someone bound as Luinsel, there were countless possibilities. The most she could narrow it down was that it seemed unlikely the Landsmeet would look outside the Kinsel.

  Which was no news at all.

  Chapter Nine

  Arth snuffled at her offering, and then accepted the withered apple with an enthused chomp. Juice foamed and dripped from his mouth and Ash scratched the stallion's muscular neck. The black had already lost most of his winter coat, but hair still came free beneath her nails and Arth half-closed his eyes blissfully, leaning into the motion of her hand.

  "If you've quite finished seducing my wayward steed," said Thornaster, coming in from where he had been talking to the Investigator, "perhaps you would consider doing as I asked and saddling him?"

  The stallion snorted in recognition, ears pricking eagerly towards his master. When Thornaster walked into range, Arth almost buffeted him from his feet, smearing apple slime generously down his front.

  "Itchy, are you?" the Visel asked. He scratched vigorously while Ash tossed a blanket over the horse's back and fastened the light saddle into position. Despite Thornaster's warnings, Arth was perfectly behaved, not crowding her into the side of the stall or trying to crush her feet beneath shifting hooves.

  "He likes you," Thornaster commented, watching critically as she exchanged halter for bridle.

  "I've never met a horse who didn't like me," Ash replied, tickling the whiskers on Arth's chin. He was a lovely animal.

  "Well, the stable hands will be eternally grateful to hear that. He does tend to forget himself and mistake them for roaches a little too often for their comfort. Caring for him when I don't have the time will be part of your duties from now on."

  "Always a pleasure to serve," Ash said. This was an even better redeeming factor for being a seruilis than Thornaster's morning display.

  He grinned and ruffled her hair, which Ash immediately added to the negative side of seruilisi-dom. She followed him out of the earth, manure and sweet hay scents of the stable to find the Investigator and a single accompanying Guard waiting. The Investigator had given no sign of holding Ash's silence on the matter
of emanite against her, and simply nodded as they mounted.

  "Captain Garton sent word that your aunt's funeral will be tomorrow morning, lad," she said. "The Blue Valley at third bell."

  "Thank you," Ash said, and spent the ride down the long linked valleys to the middle of the Commons fighting her dread of the Sun's judgment of Genevieve. Would all the good Genevieve had done balance her past? Would Ash's hunt for – not revenge, but some kind of justice – involve taking a life, putting herself on the same path which had left Genevieve so imbalanced?

  She found her fingers were digging into Thornaster's robe and forced herself to relax them, to breathe and be focused on a task and not memories.

  "The house is still sealed," Investigator Verel said, as they came into sight of it. "Pending further examination."

  Was that a faint smile in the woman's voice? Charity Dunn must be fuming. Still, Ash did not want to go inside. The place could only ever be a shell without Genevieve. Instead, she led the three from the palace into the same alley where they'd kept their horses the first time. An upended water barrel, a foot on the fence, and then she was on the roof.

  It was a place of angles and varying levels, less familiar to her than many of her neighbours'. But it was solid and well kept, the tiles firm, not in danger of caving beneath her feet as one had a couple of years ago. What a leap that had been, an instinctive, frantic thrust for safety!

  As Thornaster and the Investigator joined her, Ash moved away. No matter how sturdy the roof, there was no need to test it with their combined weight.

  Crossing to the point that would be above Genevieve's bedroom, Ash glanced at the sprung bear trap she had placed in the middle of the logical route, at a point that would be cloaked in shadows at night. A piece of wood, half a foot in length, was clenched upright between metal teeth. The trips – thin, dark cord stretched at the right height to snag passing feet and cause warning clatters – had all been neatly cut through.

  Only the faintest trace of the grey powder remained. As the other two joined her, Ash bent to touch it, then dusted her fingers clean.