The Betrayed (9 page)

He found a flask and emptied it in one gulp. Some of his vitality returned instantly. Still looking about for potential danger, he started removing his own clothes. And within seconds, he was a new man.

Field-promoted Lieutenant Adam.

He went back to kal Armis and took the man’s sword, then, thinking more carefully, discarded it and chose a simple one from a dead footman. As he buckled his new prize, a hand grabbed his leg. Hackles rising on his neck, he sidestepped.

Sergeant Nigel was clawing at him impotently, sprawled under a mass of dead men, pure hatred clearly visible in his eyes. Adam smiled softly, sadly. Such were the ways of the world.

Nigel died then and there.

Adam estimated his whereabouts by the late afternoon sun and struck north, where he hoped to find some survivors of the Eracian army. He was exhausted, and his every muscle hurt, but he persisted. He walked slowly, limping, inching his way back toward his newly birthed future.

CHAPTER 7

A
rmin Wan’der Markssin believed he was one of the more talented people in the world. Not surprisingly, he had felt honored and challenged by the letter he had received one day, signed by the posh and nob of the Caytorean society, asking him to investigate a series of mysterious murders of power figures in Eybalen, their capital. He had instantly accepted the commission from the High Council of Trade and sailed forth from his homeland of Sirtai, bringing along his three wives and seven children and his priceless knowledge as an investigator.

He had spent his first week in the big city as a tourist, learning the environment, the people, the political currents. Then, the day after, he had left his wives and children in the rented mansion and reported for duty before the guild masters of Eybalen.

They had eyed him like some rare species of wildlife, not quite sure what forensics or analytics were, but took him for his word. As the founder of the Academy for Criminal Reasoning in Tuba Tuba in Sirtai, his fame preceded him. He was known as the man who left no crime unsolved. Whenever powerful and rich people needed help in solving difficult legal problems, they turned to Armin for help. They were convinced he would produce a long list of facts and artifacts he called evidence, which would overwhelmingly prove someone’s guilt and bring a peaceful and just end to their conflicts of interests.

Sirtai society had changed because of him. No longer were murders or blackmail conducted in blatant and careless ways as before. Whenever rich men contracted an assassin to dispose of one of their rivals, they made sure the crime could not be traced back to them. Because Armin could and would find the guilty party and expose them to the world.

Even though he was their greatest menace, he was also their greatest ally, a token of stability and balance, a pillar. They counted on him to protect them as much as they feared him and his devilish ways of ferreting out the truth.

The transition had been almost instant. One day, the academy had been merely a very expensive school for eccentric scholars. The next, it was a stable, breeding some of the best investigators in the world, cherished by the rich like jewelry.

In order to survive both as a person and an idea, he had fought tooth and nail to keep the academy neutral. Luckily, he was a rich man himself, and his own capital and influence allowed him to stay afloat in the turbulent waters of Sirtai politics. Huge wealth, amassed in many a successful endeavor by his colleagues and himself, had helped him expand his services, recruit more investigators, and even establish a sort of an independent police that protected the academy.

Today, Sirtai was a civilized society. Political murder had replaced physical murder. While rich people would always dread ostracization and bankruptcy, they could now almost be sure to stay alive even if their rivals stripped them of their last shred of honor and money. As a backlash, the new reality had also bred some of the most cunning criminal minds and most spectacular crimes, but these only served as inspiration for Armin Wan’der Markssin.

In Eybalen, they had armed him with letters of recommendation to ensure cooperation by various circles of the city’s officials, and a fair sum of gold to grease the axles of a rusty society.

His first target for today was the House of the City Watch. Customarily, dead people were a private matter of concerned families. In the streets, beggars and thieves made sure the bodies vanished before they started to stink. But sometimes, when murder struck, and the victim was a person of some notice, the City Watch took it upon themselves to mark the crime in their ledgers and round the usual suspects.

Armin hoped he did not look too much out of place wearing a simple linen robe that was the traditional garb in Sirtai. Most Caytoreans preferred clothes with details and wore them in cumbersome layers.

The investigator entered the House. A bored clerk sat behind a table, pretending to scribble on a paper.

“Greetings,” Armin spoke in accented, yet clear Continental.

The official looked him up and down. “Not from around here, are we?”

Armin produced one of the fat letters from a binder he carried beneath his armpit and placed it on the desk. The clerk briefly read the endorsements. His brows involuntarily jumped when he noted the waxed seals on the bottom.

“What do you need?”

Armin opened the binder a second time and produced another paper. “I need information on the deaths of several city dignitaries.”

The clerk took his time reading. “Shipwright Boune, Shipmaster Perano, master of the guild of miners…” He frowned. “That’s quite a list.”

Armin nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed. And I have been told that you keep record of these deaths in your archive. I would like to see them.”

“It could take a few days to rummage through the piles,” the clerk offered with obvious distaste.

“I would like them as soon as possible.” He placed a silver coin on the desk.

The clerk looked around before palming it. “I will see what I can do.”

“Good, thank you. I will return on the morrow.”

Armin believed that the first step to solving a crime was motive. He was not yet sure what eight people from almost completely unrelated industries had in common, except their deaths. But it was obvious the merchants and the nobles were terrified of the trend.

In the week since his arrival, he had learned that no rich man walked the streets without the protection of a bodyguard nowadays. Most stayed indoors. While this storm of panic passed by completely unnoticed by the common folk, it was the highlight of the higher circles of society in Eybalen.

The clerk had been able to retrieve all eight reports. They had been written in haste, by someone who did not really care. The reports stated where the deceased had been found and in what state. But beyond that, there were no details whatsoever. This meant he would have to visit each scene and start from scratch.

Today, he was in the harbor. Like Tuba Tuba, Eybalen was a port city. The stench of fish and exotic spices overwhelmed the place. Hundreds of workers milled, laboring, loading and unloading cargo into the ships of a dozen nations.

A few well-placed coins had pointed him to Shipmaster Lloyd…just Lloyd. Coming from a very ancestrally oriented culture, he found the lack of family names in the continental realms a bit offensive.

He found the man supervising the loading of a barge, standing by a cask of wine, one leg propped, the squinted eyes of a seasoned, sun-blasted mariner scrutinizing the work of his sailors.

“Greetings,” Armin called, still some distance off.

Shipmaster Lloyd looked at him, but said nothing. He did take his foot off the cask, though.

“I am looking for Shipmaster Lloyd,” the investigator declared cheerfully.

The shipmaster took his time, estimating Armin. Convinced that the man in funny robes posed no threat, he decided to own up. “Found him, need a passage?”

Armin smiled. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your friend, Shipmaster Perano.”

Lloyd frowned. “Who in the name of the purple squid are you?”

Armin softly slapped his forehead. “Ah, forgive me. Investigator Armin Wan’der Markssin, of Tuba Tuba. I have been employed by the council to investigate the deaths of several important people in—”

“What’s there to investigate?” Lloyd cut him off.

Armin was completely unperturbed. “There is reason to believe these people were killed under no ordinary circumstances.”

A ghost of a pain crossed the man’s features. “Not here. Let’s talk elsewhere.”

Luckily, the port had inns open at all times, even early in the morning. Ships came and went round the clock, and sailors could not waste time waiting on brothels and eateries to open; after weeks and months in the open sea, they demanded instant satisfaction. Anything else would have resulted in riots.

Armin let himself be led to one of the establishments. They ordered ale, and Armin paid for it. Sitting in the corner of a large, dim room, the investigator waited for the shipmaster to speak first.

“Perano was killed one night not far from here. We found him in the morning. He lay sprawled in his own blood. They said it was revenge for a gambling debt.”

“Do you believe that?” Armin asked.

Lloyd spat on the floor. “Perano never owed anyone a copper.”

“Would anyone have a reason to kill him?”

“No more or less than any of us. Perano was a good man. He did bicker and fight, but no more than a sailor’s usual.”

“Was any of the crew suspected?” Armin ordered another round of drinks.

“They loved him like a father.”

Armin nodded. When men had such strong convictions about things, it was useless probing any further. Lloyd believed no sailor had killed Perano. He would have to examine the crew factor from a different angle.

“Do you know how he was killed?”

The shipmaster spat again. “Stabbed through from behind with a sword or like. Right through the heart. Bastards.”

“What happened to his crew and the ship?”

Lloyd averted his gaze, obviously uncomfortable by the question. “The council seized the ship and dismissed the crew. It says so in the contract. Some of us took Perano’s men on board our own vessels.”

Armin’s head was racing, searching for clues. “Do you know what cargo Perano dealt in?”

The shipmaster shrugged. “We’re all guild members. We do as needed. It’s all in the ledgers. The port master has it all written down neat. You can ask him.”

They parted with a shake of their hands, something Armin was not used to in his homeland. He left the pub no smarter than before. Apparently, Perano had been a meticulous guild member who paid his bills. No one seemed to have gained from his death. Money was not the motive here.

He would have to dig further.

His next target was much less cooperative. The widow of the dead chart-maker, Nespos, of the guild of scribes, refused to meet him. He left a note with the head servant and departed.

Armin decided to go back to his mansion on foot. It was a bright, sunny day, and he wanted to see some of Eybalen’s streets. While most locals probably thought the weather was hot and sultry, he found it refreshingly cool compared to his home island. Eybalen was not a pretty city, but it was not ugly either. But then, Armin believed in anthropology as the highest form of entertainment. Walking the streets would be great fun.