Master of restless shado.., p.32
Master of Restless Shadows, page 32
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
Like the Holy Father, Atreau appeared unusually sober and pallid. He hunched against the door jamb with his arms crossed and angry tension in his expression. He’d clearly slept as little as Ariz but likely wasn’t as accustomed to the deprivation. His shirtfront looked rumpled and torn, as if he’d just wrenched himself from a tussle. He didn’t even cast a lewd glance after the young maids now departing the examination room. Only when one of the women lingered beside him did he rouse himself to flash a flirtatious grin.
“Thank you for airing the rooms out for him,” Atreau said. “I’m sure Master Narsi will appreciate the improvements once he wakes.”
“It was no trouble at all, Atreau,” the maid replied. Ariz sensed that she took a certain pleasure in addressing Atreau so directly and informally—as if she was his peer. From her companion’s scandalized expression he wondered if she hadn’t done it on some sort of a dare.
“You are kind to indulge the rest of us in the illusion that your service is of little importance.” Atreau smiled at both the maids and offered them a rather elegant bow. “But having attempted to keep my own rooms in any semblance of cleanliness, I’m certain that we would all be lost in filth and soot without such care as you provide.”
The maids laughed, but both of them seemed to stand a little taller and hold their heads higher when they took their leave.
Ariz had to admit that Atreau’s appeal went beyond possessing a handsome visage and glib tongue. He appeared genuine in his warm demeanor and ability to perceive beauty in nearly everyone he encountered. That capacity lent his dissolute temperament and undisciplined character a certain charm. No doubt he appealed to the sorts of people who yearned to domesticate lanky alley cats.
Ariz found him pleasant enough to look at but didn’t like how curious he could turn or how observant he was, even when staggering drunk. Sober, he might well prove dangerous.
“I thought you’d gone away to amuse yourself at court,” Brother Berto commented to Atreau.
“Sadly the company there proved less diverting than watching you dig through Master Narsi’s belongings while he slept,” Atreau drawled.
“I was looking for medicines!” Brother Berto pinned Atreau with an expression of outrage, and then he caught himself as his gaze fell on Ariz. He forced a smile. “It’s good to see you as well, Master Ariz. Does your sister plan on joining you?”
Ariz shook his head and Berto hung onto his smile though his disappointment was obvious. Since he’d developed a fondness for Delfia, Brother Berto had made a point of paying Ariz more attention than he normally would have—which was to say, any at all. Ariz returned Brother Berto’s smile with a blank stare before dropping his gaze to the floor.
They all fell silent for a moment.
Atreau yawned, then he called to the Holy Father, “Tim, is there anything I can do for you or Master Narsi?”
Father Timoteo offered him a wan smile, demurred any niceties and thanked Atreau for his offer; then he added, “I know he’s not expected to wake . . . soon. But I thought it might help him to hear our voices. I’m going to read to him from a few of his mother’s letters. But as I recall he admired your writing greatly. Perhaps later you would read something of your own to him?”
“Of course,” Atreau replied.
The Holy Father nodded and then stepped into the master physician’s exam room. Brother Berto started after his master but then glanced to Atreau.
“He loved your description of Lord Grunito’s wedding and how you all escaped the royal bishop’s guards that afternoon,” Berto said. “He was there, you know. We both were, actually.”
“Really?” Atreau studied Berto as if trying to recall him from some distant memory.
“We were just servant boys,” Berto said quickly. “I doubt you’d recall us. But Narsi was very impressed when you and all the Sagrada Hellions stayed at the house.”
“Well, I would be happy to read that selection from my first memoir to him,” Atreau replied. “Just tell me when Tim needs a break.”
Brother Berto nodded and then hurried after the Holy Father. In the following quiet Ariz clearly heard Brother Berto chiding the Holy Father for standing when he should take a chair. A few moments later Father Timoteo’s low voice rumbled as he read from some quiet, meditative letter.
“So, you’ve come to visit Master Narsi as well?” Atreau favored Ariz with his handsome interest. But there was something cold about his appraisal, almost as if he suspected Ariz of having harmed the young physician in the first place.
Ariz shrugged.
“Between Mistress Querra and half the chapel looking after him, I’m beginning to think that our Master Narsi makes the most enchanting of first impressions.” Atreau indicated for Ariz to enter the exam room with a motion of his hand.
“I . . .” Ariz shook his head. “Just came to find out when I could cut out my stitches. I thought he might be awake by now.”
“No. According to the man himself, he won’t likely wake until tomorrow,” Atreau remarked.
“He knew how long he’d be ill?” Ariz didn’t want to betray interest but he couldn’t help himself. Master Narsi must have had some experience with muerate to be so clear-headed—or perhaps he’d just made the pronouncement in a state of shock.
“I could hardly believe it myself.” Atreau favored the examination room with a crooked smile. “He warned me to stay back because there was muerate poison on the body and then told me that he was going to lose consciousness but ought to regain his senses within two days’ time. And not to allow anyone to pronounce him dead unless he’d been unresponsive for at least that long.”
“How . . . level-headed.” Ariz wondered if he could have remained so collected himself. Master Narsi might be a good man to keep in mind when Hierro’s orders came and it became vital to treat the many people who would suffer. “He seems suited to his calling.”
Atreau nodded and then glanced again into the exam room. Ariz thought that his attention rested on the examination table. Then he saw the black cat curled up there and watching the two of them over its tail. For a moment they both simply stood there, Atreau lingering for no reason that Ariz could discern and Ariz remaining because exhaustion made it easy to simply stand with a blank expression and think of nothing much. Then it occurred to him that if Atreau had any concern for the physician he might be in a position to squelch bigoted rumors before they could drive Master Narsi away.
“Gossips are torn between blaming the murder on the Salt Island Spider and Master Narsi himself, it would seem,” Ariz informed him. “One of the younger grooms and a group of women who tend Lord Quemanor’s goats seem too ready to blame Master Narsi.”
Atreau’s brows rose.
“But you know better, Master Ariz?”
Was there an accusation hidden in that question? Ariz knew better than to respond as if there had been.
“Dommian was deeply in debt, but Master Narsi hadn’t been with us long enough to number among those he owed money to. I’m inclined to think it was the work of the Spider.”
Atreau gave a shake of his head and Ariz wondered if it wasn’t true that Atreau kept very close company with the moneylender. The man seemed to enjoy the society of every other sort of reprobate, so why not an infamous bar owner and loan shark?
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” Atreau reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a stiff white kerchief that looked largely soaked with dried blood. Even so Ariz noted the pattern of white swans that decorated the costly square of silk. “I think this might be yours.”
Again Ariz suppressed the urge to deny any knowledge of the kerchief. They both knew that it had been the one he’d clutched to his bloody arm two days ago. Lying about it would only make the Fueres heraldry seem all the more damning. Ariz reached out and took it from Atreau. He pretended to study it.
“I think it must be one of my sister’s,” Ariz said. “I don’t know if you can see the swans for all the bloodstains, but I recognize them. I think the duchess gifted this to her. She’s going to be vexed that I bled all over it.” He tucked the kerchief into his pocket. He’d burn the thing later.
“Perhaps it could be dyed to hide the stains.” The subtle tension in Atreau’s expression seemed to fade. “A clever mistress of mine swears by madder dyes for such things.”
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell Delfia as much.” Ariz couldn’t think of anything else to add. For his part Atreau seemed lost in contemplation of the exam room.
“Well, I should be on my way,” Ariz said after several moments passed in silence. “I’ll come back later to ask about the stitches.”
Atreau nodded. Ariz left him standing at the threshold of the doorway, looking in as if some troubling mystery awaited him within. He didn’t know Atreau well, but it struck him as strange that the man should concern himself with a physician he’d only just met. Perhaps Master Narsi’s arrival at Lord Quemanor’s house didn’t mark their first meeting. The young physician was obviously related to the Grunito family, and Atreau was famous for his friendship with the infamous duelist Elezar Grunito. There was a chance that Master Narsi and Atreau would have met previously in the Grunito household. They could well know each other better than either let on.
But why bother to hide that? Unless it was to protect Master Narsi’s reputation, though if that was the case, Atreau was hardly doing the young man any favors by spending days and nights with him.
Ariz felt too tired to think much on the idea, so he allowed it to simply float in the back of his mind. Later it might prove important. For now he just wanted to go to his room and steal a few minutes of rest.
He’d only reached his own door when Delfia found him and handed him a note that a beggar child had been paid to carry to Lord Quemanor’s household and see handed over to Ariz.
“I gave him a cake and lifted it off him,” Delfia said. “When he thought he’d lost it he fled.”
Ariz noted the cracked wax seal with great relief. He trusted Delfia to read messages sent to him and shield him from laying eyes on any command from Hierro that would endanger her or the children. This missive came from Hierro’s sister Clara. Ariz knew her handwriting. Without mentioning any specific name she informed him of her husband’s evening schedule.
The last lines read: After that matter is settled, I should like a word with you. It would be to your advantage not to keep me waiting another day.
“You’ll do it tonight, then?” Delfia asked him.
Ariz nodded. A third death in as many days would hardly set anyone at ease though. The count’s passing would have to look natural.
Delfia took the note to the fireplace and fed it into the embers smoldering there. She used a poker to ensure that no trace of the fine linen paper remained. Then she turned her attention back to Ariz.
“Be careful of her, little brother. She’s as ambitious as Hierro and more of a zealot than the royal bishop.”
Again Ariz nodded. He knew this had to be done, but part of him wished that he’d just stayed up on the ruin watching clouds roll overhead.
“Have you slept at all?” Delfia asked him.
“An hour or two.”
“Sleep now,” she told him. “I’ll see to Sparanzo’s extra dance lesson.”
“Won’t the duchess have need of you?” Ariz didn’t admit aloud that the possibility of Lord Quemanor seeking him out made him hesitant to accept her offer. Silently Ariz chided his own wishful turn of mind. Fedeles Quemanor would likely be at court the entire day. And even if he weren’t, he would no doubt have better things to do than call upon him.
“No, she’s gone to the king’s court to meet with her agents there,” Delfia replied. “She received another missive from Elenna Ortez. This one seemed urgent.”
“What’s the matter, do you know?” Ariz asked. He prayed that another threat to his nieces or Sparanzo hadn’t been discovered. Not that he wouldn’t deal with it.
“Something on some distant island. It’s nothing to do with you or me. So get some rest, while you can.”
Ariz sat down on his bed and pulled off his boots. Noticing his sister lingering, he asked, “Is there something else?”
“Shall I pack you an elixir for tonight’s errand?” Delfia whispered.
“That would help. But not muerate. There’s been too much of that already.”
“Duera then.” Delfia said. “Enough to quiet him so that you can make it seem . . . natural.”
Ariz nodded. His eyelids drooped. He already knew how he would end count Zacarrio Odalis’s life. While the countess entertained her friends in the late afternoon, the count would retire for his habitual nap in his library. A dose of duera and the firm application of a pillow over the old man’s face would leave an unmarked corpse and the general impression of a man who died quietly of a failed heart. He would be the fifth soul Ariz had smothered to death, two of Hierro’s young stepmothers numbering among them. Ariz’s stomach rolled with revulsion at the memories. The murder wouldn’t be difficult. Ariz supposed that was a large part of what made it feel all the more terrible to him. He didn’t want to be such a monster that he could take a life as easily as packing a trunk.
Delfia took his hand in hers and squeezed his fingers.
“I know . . .” She didn’t say any more, but the concern in her expression reminded him of his reason for doing all of this, instead of slitting his own throat. Delfia had already endured too much at Hierro’s hands. Ariz had to do all he could to shield her and her children from Hierro’s anger and avarice. So long as he made himself available, Hierro wouldn’t bother to employ spells to make Delfia or her children into his agents. The longer he could endure, the more time he bought for Delfia to secure an escape for herself and the girls.
“It will be fine.” Ariz returned her grip. “I’m just tired.”
“You should sleep then.” Delfia released his hand and withdrew to his door. “I’ll lock the door behind me.”
Ariz nodded and lay back, still dressed but too exhausted to care. He closed his eyes and slept, his dreams filled with twisted white clouds churning through blood-red skies.
He awakened to hear the chapel bells ringing out midday. He rose, dressed and then set out to smother an old man to death.
The perfume of melting beeswax hung through the warm drawing room but didn’t quite cover the sharp scent of the birch oil burning in the table lamps. The light haloed Clara Odalis and made each of the demure combs holding her black hair glint like a knife’s edge. The shadows of her two ladies-in-waiting and the four men amusing them at a card table bounced and sprang across the silk screen that separated the countess from her guests. She’d withdrawn, claiming a terrible backache, when she’d spied Ariz awaiting her in a corner. As the others laughed and teased each other, the countess commented to them occasionally from her velvet divan.
With a gesture of her pale hand she indicated for Ariz to approach her. He edged around the lamplight, watching where his own shadow fell and keeping it hidden within dark masses of the surrounding busts and decorative columns. Several cages of exotic birds blocked his path, but Ariz ducked around them and the birds continued sleeping, with their golden-plumed heads tucked beneath their emerald wings.
“Procopio, I am depending upon you to win a hand of hearts for me,” Clara called sweetly. “I shall be devastated if you give up the game before you’ve won at least one.”
“I will endeavor to do so for your sake, my lady.” The nobleman’s enunciation sounded amused but also eroded by alcohol. “But I should warn you that your companions are the most outrageous cheats.”
The ladies-in-waiting giggled in response and the gray translucent shadows of full glasses were raised and drained, before another hand of cards. One of the men picked up a lute and plucked after some melody that Ariz felt had truly eluded him. The man’s mediocre singing made Ariz suddenly appreciate Atreau Vediya’s immense musicality. It elevated the whole standard of entertainment at Lord Quemanor’s estate.
Ariz knelt at the head of the divan. Clara’s dry perfume of iris root and calendula flowers drifted over him.
“Is it done?” she whispered.
Ariz nodded. Clara’s large dark eyes moved over him quickly, likely searching for a gory weapon or bloodstains. Ariz held up his spotless hands and leaned forward to whisper in her ear.
“He’s in his chair in the library. There is no sign of violence to be discovered.”
Clara stared into his eyes and for a moment—if even that—he thought that he might have frightened her, for her pupils had gone so wide and her breath had seemed to catch. But then he recognized the flush spreading across her face. She leaned closer so that the tender skin of her cheek brushed his jaw.
“Did you see his soul rise from his body?” Her breath fluttered across Ariz’s ear.
Ariz shook his head, though he’d not expected such a question at all.
Clara sighed regretfully.
“I wish I could have witnessed it to be sure where his spirit went. Zacarrio was cruel, but so are many men whom our holy books name as saints. Perhaps paradise had a use for him. I wonder, will there be a place for you, Master Ariz . . . ?”
Ariz said nothing. He didn’t move even to blink. He’d learned long ago not to arouse the interest of any member of the Fueres family. He crouched still as stone, staring ahead at the shadows wavering across the silk screen. One of the ladies-in-waiting stole a card while the other distracted the men at the table by exclaiming over a button that had burst open on her bodice.
“Tell me that you made Dommian’s death quick at least, won’t you?” Clara whispered.
