Ahksell frowned. “I am sorry!”

  “Ah well, all to the good, then,” Ibram said as he turned around. They turned right at the end of the warehouse and then ran across the next street to the shelter of the next building’s roof. Thunder cracked overhead; Ibram hunched his shoulders.

  They hurried further into Lityen, past the impromptu concerts that had sprung up from the various circlers who drifted at festivals. The vielle and citole players were tuning up a jig, even though there was barely enough room to dance. The audience clapped along, regardless.

  “Here, turn here,” Ahksell called out behind him, and Ibram skirted the revelers down the next side street. Ahksell caught up to him at the mouth of the alley, and they walked next to each other for the rest of the way down to the Savoldyn manor.

  “We should make sure we talk to that little servant, the cook’s girl,” Ibram said. “She seemed impressionable.”

  “Jara was a lovely girl,” Ahksell said. “There’s no need to call her impressionable.”

  “Did I say anything?” Ibram asked with his arms outstretched. He grinned. They were close enough that he could already picture the pair of them inside the manor. Ahksell could do whatever it was he did with that cage, and then Ibram could begin to ask Mistress Dolman some highly pertinent questions. A few subtle hints of imperial notice would doubtless open her stiff jaw; the warders always loved to find trouble in Lityen.

  Ibram heard jingling ahead of them. He stepped out onto the darkened road before the Savoldyns’ home, and stopped immediately. Ahksell followed a step behind, and hissed between his teeth.

  In front of the half-open house gates, still tied up with the rushes, stood a pale workhorse of twelve hands roped to a simple wooden cart covered in a thick layer of straw. Two broad fellows dressed all in yellow were shoving a large wooden box up into the wagon bed. A figure in a rough robe, also the color of spring butter, sat atop the driver’s bench with their hood over their head in the rain.

  Ibram dragged his fingers back through his damp hair and gripped the strands tightly. “Oh, hang.”

  The robed figure turned their head up to the darkening sky, and Ibram saw it was an old man, severe in his eyes and the depth of his wrinkles around his mouth. Ahksell dragged Ibram back into the alley they had come from. They were too blasted late; the Navigator’s pilots had come to take the body to the Ark. Ibram’s soul wasn’t going to be fit for oblivion at this rate; he’d be too busy working off his debt to Yilka the Green, scrubbing cups in Catha the Grey’s halls in Cangsa. Mistress Dolman clearly had waited on Ibram’s suspicions long enough.

  They watched from the alley’s confines as the two other men scrambled up into the cart. The driver cracked the reins, and the workhorse shambled forward. Ibram slumped against the damp wall, and rubbed the back of his neck. The Savoldyns’ front gates clanged shut.

  8

  Ibram threw back the heavy bronze latch on the front gate and marched up the short road. Ahksell loped beside him, easily fitting his lengthy strides to Ibram’s own quick pace. The blasted rain had turned into a coating mist, the kind that drenched a body faster than a simple downpour and left only the smallest inches of fabric nearest the body dry; they itched against his chilled skin.

  Ibram ducked his chin into his chest. Savoldyn’s corpse was on its way to the Navigator’s Ark, it would take a day to prepare the body for proper burning, and perhaps another half-day to assemble the required mourners. His death being so sudden, it would take at least that amount of time to draw folks from their festival duties or even simply to notify the tiny Office of Residence that someone had died. They still had a little time left to gather the information he needed to present, either to Mentor Nieminen, or more importantly, Lady Azadiya, but how to get to her? And then there were the rushes on the Savoldyn’s gate, and Amota Viran in some kind of mood about Mistress Savoldyn the Overwrought.

  There was only one avenue left to take, and Ibram knew it.

  The door opened soundlessly as he and Ahksell stepped up to the porch, and Kholdo bowed. Ahksell hunched his shoulders a little and waved him quickly back up.

  “Welcome back, Attendant Solari,” Kholdo said, as he rose.

  Ahksell shook his head. “I keep telling you that isn’t necessary, Kholdo,” he said. “I’ve known you since I was thirteen!”

  “And I know what’s due to you, young master,” Kholdo said with a chuckle. “What’s this lazy one gotten you into now?”

  He blessed Ibram with the resigned amusement in the careworn lines of his face that he had featured when Ibram had been young and apt to sneak cinnak cookies from the baking tray when Kholdo’s back was turned. Ibram smacked rain from his sleeves and grimaced. He supposed he would take Kholdo as a housekeeper over Mistress Dolman, but there was never any arguing with a man who carried you on his hip for the first three years of your life.

  “I am not lazy,” Ibram rallied, none the less. “I am situationally motivated.”

  “You’re dripping on the floor, is what you are,” Kholdo said. “Get out of those drenched things, the pair of you, and hand them to me.”

  Ibram sighed, but whipped the tongue out of his leather belt. Ahksell grinned at him, already undoing the buttons that held his green gambeson closed. Ibram began to undo his own clothes.

  “Now, these can dry in the kitchen with me. Looks as if your tunics are good enough to air out where they are.” Kholdo took possession of both gambesons in his arms, and then frowned.

  Ibram rewrapped his belt around his waist, and then shook out the damp sleeves of his undyed linen tunic. “What?” he asked.

  “You’ve split the seam on your shoulder,” Ahksell said.

  Ibram squinted at his left, and then his right shoulder. Indeed, a loose thread hung from the seam nearest his neck. It looked small enough. He shrugged, and then eyed Ahksell’s own fine white linen tunic.

  “I hope you also made as careful a study of all that lovely red embroidery on yours,” he said. “Else those protections will fail at a crucial time.”

  Ahksell opened his mouth, but Kholdo clapped his hands, and long habit kept both of them silent. “Now, I’ll not have two thunderclouds inside as well as without,” he said. “Come into the courtyard and warm yourselves.”

  Kholdo led the way, and since they could not stay in the vestibule all day, they followed. Ibram’s family home was only two courtyards, the larger public one for Father’s customers and Ama’s guests, and then the family courtyard where they spent most of their time. Father’s workshop was back there, where he designed jewelry and small devotional objects for select clientele, as well as the garden and living quarters. As Ibram was not Father’s heir, he had never spent much time in the public courtyard beyond the necessary social courtesies. It was an empty space, with a lawn that cost too much money and a pavilion that only strangers used. Crossing from the former courtyard to the latter always felt like traveling through someone else’s home to get to his own.

  “Is anyone at home?” Ahksell asked, with a glance in Ibram’s direction.

  Ibram set his hand on his sica to keep it from whacking him in the knee. He drew in a deep breath and let it drift out of his open mouth. The Savoldyns had closed their courtyard’s ceiling; here they let the rain and weather inside. Cloth needed more protection than gold and silver, presumably, but it was still an expensive measure. Savoldyn had known how to spend money, certainly.

  “Yes,” Kholdo said, and nodded as they walked down the right hand terrace to the large doubled doors on the other side of the courtyard.

  “Both of them?” Ibram asked. “Are they alone?”

  “Your parents are eating a small meal in the dining room,” Kholdo said, with a touch of exasperation in his voice. He pushed the entryway door open and stepped inside, holding the door in one hand. “Katka and the young apprentices are still down at the trading stall. They’re expected for supper, but not before. Did you need to see them?”

  Ibram shook his head, ducking it as he passed by Kholdo. His hair swung against his face and tickled his nose. He sneezed and tucked the offending lock back behind his ear.

  “Just Ama, I should think,” Ibram said. There was a grim tension lurking in the base of this throat, like a prickling vine seeking purchase around his neck. Mistress Dolman could have ordered the corpse moved, but it was more likely that the widow had sent for her husband’s clergy. He touched his hand to the wallet on his belt where he kept his bells and dice for Yilka the Green. He didn’t like to rely on his goddess overmuch. After all, it took a lot of need to make a voice heard all the way up to the heavens in the Celestial plane, and one small murder wasn’t bound to catch Her attention.

  They walked through the public courtyard, and into the family apartments. The smell of wet greenery and turned earth floated from the kitchen garden in the center of the space, and Ibram breathed with a little more ease. Kholdo left them at the door, turning left down the terrace for his small workroom/sitting room. Ibram and Ahksell took the right-hand path that led to the little room where Ama and Father usually held family meals. Without Katka and the apprentices making a racket, the only noise came from the sound of his and Ahksell’s boots on the wooden planks.

  Ibram drummed his fingers against the door lintel as he entered the dining room, and found Ama and Father seated across from each other, sharing a pile of mixtus between them on a wooden trencher. Ahksell came in close behind and Father chuckled lightly. Ama’s eyebrows drew together.

  “Ibram?” she asked. “Ahksell? What are you doing here?”

  “We’re sorry for intruding, Mistress Ucalegon,” Ahksell said, and bowed shortly. Strictly speaking, Ama and Father should have been bowing to him, but after running about the place since childhood, Ahksell had never gotten comfortable with the idea, and Ama had never been able to break him of the habit. Somehow, they struggled through the breach in etiquette.

  “I’m not,” Ibram said. “I am here on purpose.”

  Ama raised one eyebrow. “What happened to your clothes?”

  Ahksell coughed his discomfort, and rearranged the open collar of his tunic. Ibram shrugged. “Kholdo took them to dry out,” he said.

  “Were you that wet?” Father asked. “It was only misting when we came home.”

  Ibram lifted his hands to show his palms. He walked over to the table, and pulled out the chair next to Ama, and threw himself down into it. She swatted him on the shoulder.

  “You’ve ripped your tunic,” she said. Her long greying brown tresses swept over her shoulder, loosely held by the filigree chain clasps she wore to secure the pin that held up half of her hair. She was in her house clothes, a long, patterned robe fronted by heavy embroidered clasps, and loose pants, but Father had oiled his beard and made an attempt to unrumple his blue tunic. He’d even rolled down his sleeves, and Ibram smelled the distinct odor of rosewater in the air.

  “I’m a growing boy,” Ibram replied, and cocked his head. “Are we allowed to the feast, or is this a private affair?”

  Ama sighed, and shook her head. “If I wanted sauce with my meal, Ib-la,” she said. “I would have asked the seller for mustard.”

  Ahksell laughed, and Ibram shrugged again. “You were the one taught me to ask questions even if I didn’t want the answer.”

  “Oh, Ahksell, sit, sit,” Father said, waving him to the table. “You know the way.”

  Ahksell smiled, and took up residence in the chair nearest Father. He sat properly, in the Vissilian way, with his back straight and his right arm on the table. Father patted him on the back.

  “And what does Kholdo think of street food appearing on his dining table?” Ibram asked. “You’ve got enough to feed a battalion, here.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with eating festival food during a festival,” Ama said. “Ahksell, the cider pitcher is to your right. Pass out the cups, would you?”

  Ahksell leaned over to the tray of clay bowls and the tall, wide-mouthed pitcher. He poured four measures, and then handed round the bowls. Ibram took his from Ama, gripping it by the rim to set it on the table. Ama handed Ibram one of the fried bits from the trencher; he held it before himself with two fingers. A two-pronged wooden stick lay on the table; the other resided in Father’s hand. Ibram flicked the remaining stick in Ahksell’s direction. Ahksell picked it up, and stabbed something small that crunched. He ate it and set down the stick again. Courtesies accomplished, Ibram popped his fried morsel into his mouth and chewed. He grimaced. Onion. He washed it down with cider, tart and smooth.

  “What brings you back so soon?” Ama asked, as she picked up another unidentifiable fried bite. “Not that it isn’t lovely to see you again, Ahksell.”

  “How is Lady Azadiya?” Father asked.

  Ama made a face at him, and Father smiled back. She shook her head. “You know very well she has not come down from her tower,” she said. “The filtering mask has not yet been prepared.”

  She hadn’t been up the living mountain in a year, but this was why an investigation usually came down to Ama, or at least deliberately brushed past her. There was no one in the whole of Lityen—or its various outposts—who knew more about its goings-on. As an agent for Lady Azadiya, she had grown a healthy crop of informants, and as Father’s partner in the business, she had a coterie of noble and wealthy ladies eager for shay and gossip. Sadly, Ibram’s voyage out into the empire had left him decidedly lacking in recent history. He had quite a ways to go before he had his own circle of informants, or even people silly enough to see the brooch on his chest and think him the soul of discretion. He sighed heavily, and let his head roll on his neck, before reaching out and snagging himself another piece of food. It turned out to be potato, this time.

  “I need information,” he said around his mouthful. He dipped the steaming end into the pile of salt on the trencher, and finished off the fried potato.

  “You should be patrolling,” Ama said.

  “I’m sure your mother can give you a strategy for dealing with the children,” Father said, and speared his next bite. He dipped it in the small pile of salt on the rim of the trencher.

  “No, on a separate matter,” Ibram said. “And I do very well with children.”

  “It’s a murder,” Ahksell said, and fiddled with his wooden stick. The prongs hovered between two lumpy, breaded mounds of vegetable, before he stuck the right one. “Nothing to do with the Learners.”

  “The Wheelmaker spins us all home,” murmured Father.

  “A murder?” Ama asked. She sipped her cider delicately, thumb on the base of the bowl and her first two fingers balanced on the rim. “Has someone interesting besides Master Savoldyn died recently?”

  Ahksell glanced up at Ibram; he shrugged in return. He turned in his chair rested his chin in his hands. Ama continued eating.

  “No, in point of fact, it concerns Master Savoldyn,” Ibram said. “I think he was poisoned.”

  “How so?” Ama asked, and licked grease from her thumb.

  “He smelled like a barrel of preserved eels,” Ibram said. “You don’t get that from a morning cup of small beer.”

  “He was a sot,” Father said, and pointed his wooden stick up in the air. “We used to see him at the common guild house, completely squandered in a corner after a feast. Or even before it, come to think.”

  “We’re working on it,” Ahksell said. He gulped his cider, and shuddered, and then placed the empty bowl on the table.

  “Who better to murder than a man no one is surprised to see dead?” Ibram asked at the same time.

  “Then what are you here to see your poor mother about?” Ama asked. The corners of her dark eyes crinkled in amusement. “What couldn’t wait until the evening meal?”

  Ibram sucked his teeth. “I need to know about the daughter,” he said.

  “You think she could kill him?” Ama asked.

  Ibram shrugged. “They share a temper, and if one could disown his child for getting married, then who knows what drastic measures the other might go to?”

  “You heard about that, did you?” Father asked, and shook his head. “A sad business.”

  “Amota Viran told me,” he said.

  Ama made a very neutral noise. So impartial, in fact, that Ibram immediately knew she was aware of something concerning the Savoldyn household. He leaned forward on his resting arm.

  “I don’t like to think it,” Ibram said, “but—”

  “It is a habit of a suspicious mind,” Ama finished for him. She patted him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re finally cultivating one.”

  Ahksell snorted, and shook his head. Father nodded ruefully, while Ama leaned back in her chair. She interlaced her fingers over her stomach and thought for a moment. She had been born in the inland area of Merrilia on the edge of where Lady Azadiya’s people camped, though not at the same time, and shared her coloring, which she in turn had imparted to Ibram, the pale bronze skin and dark hair. Most especially, they shared a love of knowing more than the person next to them. When Ama had been an active agent for the Preceptory of Yseult life must have been very interesting up the living mountain.

  “It is true,” she began slowly, “that Mistress Ignalle paid the whole of the marriage fee—that was, as I recall, the bulk of the scandal. Her husband was newly arrived to the area and his prospects were seen to be middling at best. When it was discovered that she took his name instead of the reverse, the general consensus was that Savoldyn saw it as the final insult.”

  “Which it was,” Father interjected.

  She nodded. “Not even a chance of reconciliation between them. The marriage contract was barely a page.”

  Ibram blinked rapidly. His parents’ contract was kept in their wedding box; it was as thick as a brick and heavy as a full water jug. “How did they manage with so little?”

  “I sometimes think it was the lack of forethought that insulted Savoldyn even more than the elopement,” Ama said. “How could you trust your business to someone so flighty?”

  Father raised his hands palms up over the table. “They are very much in love.”

 

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