Master of restless shado.., p.36
Master of Restless Shadows, page 36
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“No, but that doesn’t mean that feigning an injury wouldn’t be a ruse to lure you to an isolated spot.” Father Timoteo kept his voice low. “Mere highwaymen didn’t murder your father. He died at the hands of his peers. Six friends who discovered his marriage to your mother. I don’t know if they acted on a bishop’s orders or of their own volition, but if I hadn’t hidden you and your mother . . . What they did to him, Narsi—” Father Timoteo’s deep voice quavered and he didn’t seem able to go on speaking.
“I’ll be careful,” Narsi said. He didn’t want to see Timoteo brought to tears on his account. “And I have no intention of pursuing the matter of an inheritance at this point. So all should be well. As far as anyone here knows, I’m just a Haldiim physician in your service and I’m more than happy to keep it that way.”
Even as he spoke Narsi wasn’t certain of his words. The idea of having any heritage to claim from his father felt too new, too strange, for him to really grasp just yet. But at the same time was he wasn’t sure he wanted to abandon it completely and forever.
“The Lord will protect and guide us.” Father Timoteo wiped his eyes and then patted Narsi’s knee again.
Slumped on the edge of the fountain, the black cat cast Narsi a skeptical glance. Then it bounded away through his newly planted garden. Narsi studied the grounds, taking comfort in the future harvests all the greenery promised. This was his real life, here and now, not some worrying political game of inheritances and assassinations. He wondered if his father would have been proud of him for that or disappointed.
“What was he like?” Narsi asked after a few moments. “Isandro?”
“He was . . . joyous.” Father Timoteo smiled slowly as he gazed into the distance. “He was the laughter of the Grunito household, full of jests and quips and pranks. Whenever our father was taken with fits or our mother seemed at the very limit of her endurance, he cheered them. I don’t know that there was anyone he feared offending. He’d often turn his wit against his own peers, and even his elders if they belittled servants or beggars. But he did it with such good humor that people rarely took any offense.
“Of course, I was the snotty, jumped-up exception. I couldn’t see the affection in his teasing, nor did I appreciate his wisdom when he’d warn me against cultivating a morose outlook upon life. I was so young then and convinced that everything sober was profound while happiness resulted from shallow thoughts and simple minds. If only I had known then how wrong I was . . . how precious he was . . .” Father Timoteo’s voice gave out and the glassy shine of unshed tears filled his eyes.
Alarm rushed through Narsi. He’d not intended to distress Father Timoteo with his question.
“I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories—” Narsi began.
“No, you haven’t, my dear boy. They are good recollections, all my memories of Isandro are full of his charm and laughter,” Father Timoteo replied. “It’s only thinking of the time after he was . . . gone. When the entire Grunito household stood desolate and no one—not even a scullery girl—could manage to smile. When Isandro was in the ground and Elezar lay at the edge of death . . . it was only then that I realized how worthless all my dour sermons truly were and how miraculous had been Isandro’s gift of joy. I felt so useless. So guilty.”
Father Timoteo wiped away the tears that trickled down his cheeks and closed his eyes. Then he drew a deep breath and went on. “You were sometimes my only respite in those days. I can’t tell you how greatly it buoyed me just to see you playing and hear your laughter.”
Father Timoteo gazed intently into Narsi’s face, and for the first time in his life Narsi realized that the Holy Father’s expression of open affection wasn’t just for him but for Isandro too. He supposed that explained those odd instants when Father Timoteo’s kind expression wavered and turned almost regretful.
“You are so very like him. It nearly breaks my heart with happiness just to know you are in this world.”
Narsi placed his left hand over Father Timoteo’s. His thin fingers felt cold and dry as kindling, but slowly they seemed to warm against Narsi’s hand. For several minutes they remained there, sitting side by side, hands clasped in quiet affection.
Would they have cared so much for each other if Isandro hadn’t died? Would they have lived completely different lives—been strangers to each other? Would Father Timoteo have been so supportive if he hadn’t been mourning Isandro when he first met Narsi and his mother? Or had he already known of them?
He must have, because how else would he have rescued them or even known they were endangered by Isandro’s assassins?
Perhaps Father Timoteo had witnessed Isandro’s marriage or even Narsi’s first blessing in a chapel. The thought of that comforted Narsi. Maybe Father Timoteo’s signature appeared on one or more of the papers that his mother had entrusted to Narsi to deliver to the Holy Father.
Then a troubling thought roused in Narsi’s mind. How had Father Timoteo known the intentions of the men who’d murdered his brother? Why would they have confided in him, unless—
No. Narsi stopped the direction of his wandering thoughts immediately.
Some questions weren’t worth the price of their answers. He didn’t have it in him to disturb the love he shared with his uncle for the sake of solving some long-past mystery—not just for the sake of a father he hardly remembered. The past tragedy had already taken too much from both Narsi and Father Timoteo. Narsi wouldn’t sacrifice their present happiness to it as well.
The past gapes like an open grave
from whence regret’s ghosts arise.
Howling, hungry, the dead cry and crave
to feast upon our present lives.
Wasn’t that what Lord Vediya had written?
Narsi closed his eyes and basked in the sensation of the sun’s warmth on his skin. A breeze rustled through the willow branches overhead. The faint perfume of roses filled the air and then was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
The setting sun smoldered between the blue shadows of the city’s skyline and lit the yellow roofs like a wildfire. At the south gate, guards rang the first bell of night, declaring the city closed off until daybreak. Atreau studied the evening populace as he strode past a noisy alehouse. A few merchants peopled the walkways and several cart drivers urged their animals ahead through the gloom. But none of them struck Atreau as useful to his purposes.
Four houses farther, two women, wearing their hair loose and cascading over their bare shoulders, lounged in a doorway. A pimp’s small, black tattoo stood out on the pale skin of each of their necks like a brand. At least they seemed happy in each other’s company.
Atreau tipped his hat as he approached, which won him an amused smile from the younger woman. He paused briefly and made inquiries. The older woman recognized his name and offered her own hilarious version of one of his better-known poems. They laughed together and after a little more conversation the two women shared what they knew with him. Atreau played at the ardent fascination that these lively women deserved. It seemed almost a shame that after so many years of calculated seductions, he felt little more than tired at the prospect of bedding either of them. Very likely they felt much the same about him.
He thanked both of them and paid them more than he probably should have.
But he enjoyed being magnanimous when he could afford it. The black eye the younger women had tried to hide beneath face powder made him feel that generosity had been in short supply for these gracious women. Of course, a block later, a scrawny youth who was likely as sharp-eyed as he was light-fingered flitted to Atreau’s side. On a different evening Atreau might have indulged in the dance of keeping his coat pocket half a step ahead of the young man’s hand, but tonight he didn’t have time to waste. Nor was he willing to risk the youth somehow managing to finger the stone of passage hidden in his cheat’s pocket.
The youth reached. Atreau caught his fingers and held them just hard enough and long enough to assure the pickpocket that he wouldn’t tolerate a second attempt. The young man dropped back to trail a merchant sporting a velvet coat.
Atreau turned down a narrow lane and mounted the worn stone steps leading up to a raised walkway. Night-blooming jasmine cascaded down the walkway walls and the perfume of the white blossoms turned the smell of the street sweet.
Captain Batteo Ciceron’s home stood three streets away, and the second-story landing offered Atreau a view of the alley where he’d been killed. A thin woman with long, unbound brown hair paced slowly between the arches of the raised walkways below. She looked a little past thirty and didn’t appear too drunk just yet.
Atreau descended the stairs.
“Esevia?” he asked. The two women who labored for the same pimp had apprised him of her name as well as her fondness for very sweet wines and the fact that she regularly worked the lane where Captain Ciceron’s decapitated body had been found.
“Yes?” Esevia smiled, but wariness lingered in her gaze. Atreau understood that expression innately. Any man who approached her held the potential of income but also the threat of a violent assault. Atreau remained at arm’s length from her, offering her space to feel safe.
“Your friends Nanya and Chella told me I ought to speak with you. I’m called Atreau.”
“You’re welcome to talk all you like, but my time isn’t free.” Esevia crossed her thin arms over her chest like a shopkeeper shuttering a window against thieving passersby. No doubt many men wasted her time ogling and making lurid innuendos without concerning themselves with the fact that it was necessity—not desire—that forced her to endure their company.
Atreau offered her a half bow and added, “Naturally, I’ll pay you for your time.”
“Fair enough.” She shrugged but didn’t lower her arms. The pose made her look cold, and just a little like his mother, as he’d last seen her shivering in the Sorrowlands. Atreau resisted the urge to offer her his coat. He really couldn’t spare it.
“What do you want to talk about?” Esevia’s tight expression told him that she expected him to attempt to shock or titillate her. As a boy he’d endured that same experience in the company of truly depraved older men. It pained him a little to think that he inspired the same dread he’d once felt.
“I was wondering if you were in this area the night Captain Batteo Ciceron was murdered?” Atreau asked. “If you were, I was hoping you could tell me if you saw or heard anything?”
Esevia’s hard expression turned briefly surprised, then she shook her head.
“No. My daughter fell sick that evening. I stayed with her.” Esevia shrugged again but seemed to relax a little. “Sorry.”
“No reason for you to be sorry,” Atreau assured her. “I hope your child is feeling better.”
“She is, thank you.” Esevia cocked her head and gave Atreau a more appraising look. “You aren’t a city guard or one of the royal bishop’s men. Why are you inquiring about Captain Ciceron?”
“He was a friend of a friend,” Atreau replied. “And I was asked if I could find anything out.”
“He was hardly a saint, you know,” Esevia commented.
“Not many of us are.” Atreau would have been among the last men to argue Captain Ciceron’s virtuous merits. He’d been a brutal man and an unrepentant murderer. But he’d also numbered among Fedeles’s most loyal supporters and had doted on his daughters. “His wife and children miss him, in any case.”
“True enough, I suppose.” Esevia scratched absently at her bony shoulder. “Still, I wasn’t here, so there isn’t much I can help you with.”
“Well, I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.” Atreau reached for his purse.
“Although . . .” Esevia’s expression turned thoughtful. “It might be nothing, but there was something, not that night. Earlier . . .”
“Yes?” Atreau stilled, almost afraid that a sudden motion might break her concentration and scatter the memory Esevia seemed to be slowly luring back to life.
“There was a man here the night before the captain was cut down.” Esevia scratched her shoulder again. “Yes . . . and now that I consider it . . . I think the same man was here a few evenings before that, as well.”
“Just one man?” Atreau asked.
“Yes, a shadowy fellow all on his own. He wasn’t really much of anyone.” Esevia looked uneasy as she recollected. “I don’t rightly recall anything about his face, and usually I can remember a face. But him, he looked like . . . nobody. I looked at him and he looked at me, then he vanished like a shadow. A few moments later the captain came past.”
Not exactly the skulking team of assassins that were suspected of the captain’s murder. But Atreau was inclined to trust the intuition of women like Esevia who worked alone through the night. The vulnerability of their lives often honed their instincts for recognizing danger in an instant.
“Can you describe him at all?” Atreau asked.
“Not really. I think he might have been about your height, but not a flashy fellow, and there wasn’t much light.” Esevia squinted into the distance but then shook her head. “I can’t think of anything that stood out about him, except he was so fast and so quiet. He didn’t seem natural. A shadow cut out of the night.”
The simile didn’t make sense, but Atreau grasped her meaning.
He paid Esevia and gently demurred to join her for a drink in the nearby tavern, less for her sake than his own. He’d grown wary of his own penchant to waste days and nights drinking. He made poor and impulsive decisions when drunk and he was no longer so young that he could expect to be forgiven his foolishness on account of inexperience.
So, he bid Esevia a good night, and then he made his way back toward the Theater District. Despite the growing darkness, his work wasn’t done. He still needed to secure an agent to investigate the royal bishop’s interests on the Salt Islands. Atreau had already arranged an interview at the Green Door with a brawny sailor named Xavan. The man had proved himself dependable in the past, and his ship would be setting sail for the islands tomorrow.
If that went well, it might leave him a little time to consider how best to handle the sacred grove. From everything Javier had said, he’d realized that they needed more information from the Circle of Wisteria. Yara was well-positioned, but Atreau was certain that she’d be refuse to turn informant if she felt she might be betraying her Haldiim community. Narsi, on the other hand, seemed to understand that something even larger was at stake. Also he appeared to enjoy making and sharing discoveries. If only he could be positioned in the right company, he might prove exceptionally valuable.
A cold breeze whipped through the narrow alley and sent a shiver down Atreau’s spine.
Six years ago, when the witch queens had marched to war, unseasonably chill winds had risen from the far north too. But he didn’t think that this could be Count Radulf’s doing, not yet at least. Once Hylanya reached her brother, it might be a different matter. But this evening the wind seemed to herald only another passing summer storm.
His rooms would be cold when he returned to them tonight. Then he wondered if Narsi was keeping warm and frowned at the speed with which his mind turned to the young physician.
As Atreau walked on, sedate streets fell away behind him and the air filled with the noise of playhouses, gambling dens and opera halls. Stanzas of music and the scent of spilled wine floated around him. Atreau noted masked figures loitering in the mouth of an alley. His thoughts returned to Ciceron’s shadowy assassin. He compared the man’s description to what he remembered of the swift, dark figure that had disappeared in an instant, leaving a dead man at Master Narsi’s feet. That fellow had reminded Atreau of the fleet whisper of a man who’d attempted to stop Hylanya Radulf’s poisoning. But could they all have been the same man?
He strongly suspected that Oasia controlled the man who had murdered the guard, Dommian. Why? He still didn’t know. Nor could he see Oasia’s stake in Hylanya’s welfare. Oasia and the young woman were hardly acquainted. Ciceron, on the other hand, Oasia had not even pretended to like—Atreau himself had felt hard-pressed to tolerate the man some days. There was no doubt that Oasia had been relieved to learn of his murder. But had she ordered it?
Could all these murders have been committed by the same man? Atreau scowled at the thought, but then, the other possibility wasn’t a better one to ponder. Was the capital now breeding nests of silent, swift assassins from every shadow?
Atreau’s preoccupation dissipated as a shriek split the air, carrying over the noise of the surrounding opera houses and theaters. Then a very familiar voice roared out a string of obscenities in both Cadeleonian and Labaran.
Spider.
Atreau’s pulse leapt and he raced to the open street. There, through the twilight gloom, he spied the figures of two armed men wearing the royal bishop’s star on their helmets and dragging a woman between them. Past them, another of the royal bishop’s guardsmen grappled with Spider. Then Atreau realized that the woman slumped between the men was Inissa.
Had the royal bishop’s men returned to have their revenge for being made fools of, or had they come hoping to scare information up in Jacinto’s absence?
For just an instant Atreau’s hand went to his sword hilt as he weighed his chance of overpowering the soldiers. He could have taken one from behind easily enough but wasn’t confident about three. Nor did he imagine that demanding the men explain themselves would accomplish anything. The want of a lawful writ would hardly stop the royal bishop’s men from attacking a barkeep or abducting a courtesan in the dark of night.
