Traitor's Moon

29 UNEXPECTED DEATH

Klia and the rest of the hunting party were already at breakfast by the time Alec reached the kitchen the next morning. Braknil's decuria had drawn the lucky straw, and Nyal was with them, chatting with Kheeta and Beka.

Heeding Nazien's advice, Klia had dressed in a military tunic and boots, a few Akhendi charms her only ornaments. Alec smiled to himself; in the soft light of the hearth, she looked like the carefree young soldier he'd first met beside a Cirna horse trader's corral.

"Have trouble finding your way out of bed again this morning, did you?" Beka chided good-naturedly, drawing a chuckle from a few of Braknil's riders, presumably those who'd been on sentry duty two nights earlier. Alec ignored her, giving his full attention to a plate of bread and sausage one of the cooks handed him. He'd made certain the balcony door had been tightly shut last night. "You should eat, my lady," Kheeta urged Klia, eyeing the barely touched plate balanced on her knee. "Old Nazien is likely to lead you halfway to Haman and back before dark."

"So I've been warned, but I'm afraid I haven't the stomach for food just yet," Klia replied, patting her belly ruefully. "It's a

sorry thing for a soldier to admit, but I must have drunk a bit past the point of wisdom last night. I still haven't mastered the wines of your country."

"I thought you looked poorly," said Beka. "Perhaps we should put off this hunt? I could send word to Nazien."

"It will take more than a sour stomach and sore head to make me miss this hunt," Klia said, nibbling a slice of apple without much enthusiasm. "Nazien is as good as won over, I'm certain of it. Time's running short and this day can buy us more goodwill than a week's debating."

She reached out and ran a finger through the collection of shatta dangling from Alec's quiver. "You've gamed with them, Alec. What do you say? Which will gain us the greatest favor: shooting very well or very poorly?"

"If we were at Rhiminee, I'd say the latter, my lady. Here, though, I'd say a show of skill is best."

"That would be best, if you want Nazien's respect," Nyal concurred.

Alec paused, considering his next question. "Are you sure it's wise for me to go? The Haman have made it clear that they don't like me any more than they do Seregil, and I wouldn't want to get in your way if you think they're coming around."

"Leave that to me," she replied. "You're a member of this delegation and a friend. Let them accommodate me for a change."

"You're also our best hunter," Beka added with a wink. "Let Emiel and his friends chew that one over!"

"How is Lord Torsin feeling this morning?" asked Nyal.

"Still asleep, I think," Klia replied. "I've ordered the servants not to disturb him. It's just as well, really. Another day's rest will do the poor fellow good."

Kheeta finished his meal and left, returning a short while later with news of the Hamans' arrival.

"Is Emiel i Moranthi with the khirnari today?" asked Klia.

"Yes, along with a dozen or so of his supporters," Kheeta told her. "But Nazien has brought along a number of older kin, too."

Klia exchanged a bemused glance with Beka and Alec. "Shoot well, my friends, and smile nicely."

Nazien i Hari and a score of Haman awaited them on horseback in the street. Their black-and-yellow sen'gai looked fiercely vivid against the hazy morning sky, like the warning colors of a hornet.

All carried bows, javelins, and swords. The quivers of the young bloods of Emiel's faction were heavy with shatta.

We 're outnumbered, Alec noted uneasily, wondering what Klia thought of this reception. A glance in Beka's direction told him she was having similar misgivings.

But Klia strode up to Nazien and clasped hands warmly with him.

Emiel sat his horse in a place of honor just behind his uncle, his expression carefully neutral. For the moment, at least, he seemed content to ignore Alec's presence.

Suits me fine, you arrogant bastard, just so long as you mind your manners, he thought, watching suspiciously as Emiel offered Klia his hand.

They were about to mount when the khirnari of Akhendi and several kinsmen came into view down the street, out for an early stroll. Amali was with him.

"Looks like the morning sickness is still with her," Beka remarked. "She's looking wan."

"It appears you'll have a pleasant day," Rhaish i Arlisandin called out, coming to greet Klia and the others. "I trust you rested well, Klia a Idrilain?"

"Well enough," Klia replied, looking at Amali with concern. "You're the one who looks weary, my dear. What brings you out at this hour?"

Amali clasped Klia's hands, smiling. "Oh, I wake with the sun these days, and it's such a pleasant time to be out." She cast a quick glance in the Haman's direction. "I trust you'll take care today. The hills can be dangerous—for those not used to them."

Nazien bristled noticeably. "I'm sure we will keep her safe."

"Of course you will," Rhaish agreed coolly. "Good hunting to you all."

A warning, perhaps? wondered Alec, listening to this odd exchange of pleasantries.

The Akhendi continued on their way, but he saw Amali cast one final look back.

Bokthersan servants brought out horses for Klia and her party. Once mounted, Alec found his position of rank threw him in next to Emiel. There was no avoiding him, it seemed. Emiel soon proved him right.

"Your companion is not joining us?" he asked.

"I think you know the answer to that already," Alec replied coldly.

"Just as well. He was never any hand with a bow. Blades, though—now that was another matter."

Alec forced a smile. "You're right. He's an able teacher, too. Perhaps you'd like to cross swords with me sometime in a friendly contest?"

The Haman's smirk widened. "I'd welcome the opportunity."

Nyal sidled his horse closer. "Even practice bouts are forbidden in the city. They fall under the proscription against violence." He gave the Haman a pointed look. "You of all people should know that."

Emiel reined his horse sharply away, followed by his companions.

Nyal watched them with evident amusement. "Touchy fellow, isn't he?"

Watching from an upstairs window, Seregil counted sen'gai unhappily. He hadn't liked the idea in the first place, and liked it even less seeing how outnumbered the Skalans were. Klia appeared unconcerned, laughing with Nazien and praising the horses.

You see it, too, don't you, tali? he thought, reading even at a distance Alec's attitude of quiet watchfulness.

The day ahead of him suddenly loomed very long indeed.

When the hunting party had ridden off at last, Seregil headed down to the bath chamber and found he had the place to himself.

"Shall I prepare a bath for you?" Olmis asked, rising from a stool in the corner.

"Yes, and as hot as you can make it." Keeping his still fading bruises secret had meant doing without proper baths for days. This man already knew his guilty secret, and had kept it, too.

Stripping down, Seregil slid into the hot, fragrant water and let it lull him as he floated limply just beneath the surface.

"You're looking much better this morning," Olmis observed, bringing him a rough sponge and soap.

"I'm feeling much better," Seregil said, wondering if he dared take the time for a proper massage. Before he could make up his mind, however, Thero rushed in. The normally fastidious wizard was unshaven and uncombed, his coat buttoned awry.

"Seregil, I need your help at once!" he said in Skalan, stopping just inside the doorway. "Lord Torsin has been found dead."

"Found?" Splashing up out of the tub, Seregil reached for a towel. "Found where?"

Thero's eyes widened perceptibly at the sight of Seregil's battered body, but thankfully he let it pass for the moment. "At the Vhadasoori. Some Bry'khans—"

"By the Light!" Seregil hissed. The last thing Klia or the negotiations needed was another death. "Does anyone know when he went out this morning?"

"I haven't had time to ask."

Seregil tugged on his breeches and boots, hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other in his haste. "Tell whoever found him that he's not to be moved!"

"Too late for that, I'm afraid. The woman who brought the news says her kinsmen are already on their way with the body. They should be here any time now."

"Bilairy's Balls!" Seregil threw on his coat and followed.

The sound of raised voices guided them to the main hall. A middle-aged Bry'khan woman and two youths had just arrived, carrying a cloak-shrouded body on a shutter. The contorted angles beneath the makeshift pall already suggested that Torsin had not died peacefully. Escorted by Sergeant Rhylin and four riders, they set their makeshift litter down in the center of the room. The woman introduced herself as Alia a Makinia. The young men with her were her sons.

"I found this beside him," one of the boys said, handing Seregil a bloody handkerchief.

"Thank you. Sergeant Rhylin, post a guard at the doors outside and send someone to inform my sisters of what's happened." He turned back to the Bry'khans. "The rest of you stay a moment, please."

A welcome sense of detachment settled over Seregil as he knelt by the litter, the body already reduced in his mind to a puzzle to be solved.

Drawing back the cloak, he found Torsin lying on his back, knees drawn up and twisted to the left. His right arm was extended stiffly above his head, the splayed hand white and swollen beneath a thin layer of drying mud. The left hand was clenched tightly against his chest. The robe was the same one Torsin had worn the night before, but soiled and damp now. Bits of dead grass were tangled in the old man's hair and in the links of his heavy gold chain.

Someone had tied a cloth around the dead man's face. Black blood had soaked through it by the mouth. More blood had dried on the front of his coat and the back of the fist clutched awkwardly to his chest.

"By the Light, his throat's been cut!" Thero exclaimed.

Seregil probed beneath the jaw pressed rigidly to the chest. "No, his neck's sound."

He pulled the cloth from the dead man's face, certainty already

taking shape in his mind. The lips, chin, and beard were streaked with dried blood and flecked with bits of dead grass and mud. Death had cruelly transformed the dignified features, and insects had been busy in the open eyes and between the parted lips. The left side of the head had turned a mottled purple and was peppered with small indentations. The rest of the face and neck were a leaden hue.

Thero caught his breath sharply and made a warding sign.

"There's no need for that," Seregil told him. He'd seen more corpses than he cared to recall and knew the marks of death like an alphabet. He pressed a fingertip into the livid cheek and released it. "This side of his head rested against the ground. It's the settling of the blood after death that discolors the skin this way. See here, on the undersides of his arms and neck?" He pressed the darkened skin again, noting that it didn't blanch beneath his fingers. "He's been dead since last night."

He looked up at the Bry'khans again. "When you found him, he was lying on his face at the water's edge, wasn't he? With this hand outstretched in the water, the other curled under him?"

The Bry'khans exchanged startled looks. "Yes," Alia replied. "We went to the Vhadasoori for blessing water this morning and found him lying just as you said. How did you know?"

Preoccupied, Seregil ignored the question. "Where was the Cup?"

"On the ground beside him. He must have dropped it while drinking." She made a blessing sign over the dead man. "We treated him with all respect and said the words of passing over him."

"You and your kin have my gratitude, Alia a Makinia, and that of the princess," Seregil said, wishing they'd left Torsin where he lay. "Did you find anything else near the body?"

"Just the cloth."

"Where is the Cup now?"

The older boy shrugged. "I put it back on the stone."

"Go and fetch it at once!" Seregil ordered sharply. "Better yet, carry it to Brythir i Nien of Silmai and explain what has happened. Tell the khirnari I fear poison."

"Aura's Cup poisoned?" the woman gasped. "That's impossible!"

"There's no sense taking chances. If you can, learn if anyone has used it in the meantime. Hurry, please!"

The moment they were gone, he let out a snort of annoyance. "Thanks to their kindness, we may never pick up the trail now."

"No wonder no one saw him go out," Thero murmured, hunkering down beside the body. "These are the clothes he had on last night. He must not have come home at all."

"Beka said he refused an escort home from Ulan's house."

The wizard touched Torsin's face gingerly. "My experience with death is still quite limited, it seems. I've never seen a person turn blue like that. What can it mean?"

"Suffocation, most likely." Seregil held up the handkerchief. "His lungs finally gave out on him, drowning him in his own blood. Of course, he may have been strangled or smothered, too. We'd better have a look at the rest of him, just to be sure. Help me strip him."

And pray to Aura he wasn't murdered, he thought. There had never been a murder in Sarikali as far as he knew. Better that Skala didn't set the precedent. There was no telling how the 'faie would react to that.

Thero might be unversed in death, but the war had toughened him to its aftermath. In his sheltered days at the Oreska House, the young wizard had lacked the stomach for such things; now he worked with grim determination, mouth pressed into a tight line as they cut and pulled the clothes from the stiff limbs.

They found no obvious wounds or bruising, nor any evidence of theft. Torsin's skull and long bones were sound, and his right hand and wrists showed no wounds indicating he'd warded off an attacker; the left fist would have to wait until the rigor passed.

"So what do you think? Was it poison?" Thero whispered when they'd finished.

Seregil prodded at the rigid muscles of the dead man's face and neck, then pried back the wrinkled lips. "It's hard to say with the discoloration. Any feel of magic on him?"

"None. What was he doing by the pool?"

"It lies between here and Viresse fai'thast. He must have stopped there to wet his throat, then collapsed. He was staggering by the time he reached it."

"How do you know that?"

Seregil picked up a discarded shoe. "Look at the toe, how scuffed and stained it is. Torsin would never wear dirty shoes to a banquet; therefore, it happened after he left. And see how dirt is ground into the front of his robe about the knees and arms? He fell at least twice getting to the water, yet had the presence of mind to use the Cup instead of simply dipping it up with his hand. He was sick, all right, but I'd say death itself overtook him suddenly there at the water's edge."

"But the contortion of the body?"

"It hasn't the look of a death agony, if that's what you mean. He collapsed and fell over sideways. The death rigor hardened his limbs this way. It makes for a grisly corpse, I grant you, but there's nothing unusual about it. All the same, I want a look at where they found him."

"We can't just leave him lying here."

"Have the servants lay him out upstairs."

Thero looked down at his soiled hands and sighed. "First Idrilain and now him. Death seems to be dogging us."

Seregil sighed. "Both were sick and old. Let's hope Bilairy has had enough of us through his gate for a while."

Adzriel arrived in the hall just as Seregil and Thero were leaving for the Vhadasoori.

"Kheeta sent word. Poor Lord Torsin!" she exclaimed. "He'll be greatly missed. Will there be another mourning period, do you think?"

"I doubt it," Seregil replied. "He wasn't royal kin."

"That's just as well," she mused, pragmatic despite her concern. "The negotiations are tenuous enough as things stand."

"We're off to see the place where he was found. Care to come along?"

"Perhaps I should."

The sun had cleared the tallest of Sarikali's towers by the time they reached the sacred pool. To Seregil's dismay, a small crowd of gawkers had gathered outside the ring of stones. Inside, old Brythir i Nien stood next to the Cup with Lhaar a Iriel and Ulan i Sathil. Of these, the Viresse looked the most visibly shaken.

Here to test the wind, now that your principal advocate is gone? thought Seregil.

"Stay here a moment, please," he told Adzriel and Thero. "There have already been enough people trampling around."

Using the pedestal and Ulan's house as reference points, he went slowly over the area Torsin had most likely crossed, starting near the stone statues and working in.

There'd been a heavy dew the night before, and the grass was still moist. Here and there Seregil found the marks of what appeared to be Skalan shoes, overlaid with dew. The heels made a deeper impression than the flat boots favored by the 'faie. The uneven spacing and occasional small gouge or dent in the turf spoke of a man already unsteady on his feet.

He might have found more distinct signs near the water's edge if his well-meaning predecessors had not in their zeal trampled over the area. Even Micum would have been hard-pressed to make sense of this mess, he fumed silently.

His persistence was repaid in part, however. At the water's edge he found four long marks scored by grasping fingers. A flattened patch of ground showed where the body had lain, a nexus for various sets of footprints. Here were a few uneven steps—Torsin's last. Parallel marks of Aurenfaie boots were most likely those of the Bry'khans who'd borne him away. At some point, someone had knelt by the body. These tracks had been crossed by the Bry'khans. All of them crossed Torsin's prints.

Straightening, he waved Thero and his sister over.

"We grieve for your loss," Brythir told him, his wizened face somber. "No one has touched the Cup since I arrived."

"You imagined it poisoned, I suppose,".Lhaar said acidly. "You have lived too long among the Tir. No Aurenfaie would poison the Cup of Aura."

"I spoke in haste, Khirnari," Seregil replied, bowing. "When I heard that the Cup had been found by the body, I wished to chance no mishap. Having looked the ground over, however, I'm reasonably certain that Torsin met his end alone, and that he was dying before he reached the water."

"May I examine the Cup, Khirnari?" asked Thero. "It might be possible to learn something of his state of mind if he touched it before he died."

"Aurenfaie law forbids the touching of minds," the Khatme replied tersely.

Brythir placed a hand on her arm. "A guest has died while under our protection, Lhaar a Iriel. It is only right for his people to pursue their own manner of inquiry to satisfy themselves as to the nature of that death. Besides, the mind of Torsin has gone with his departed khi. Thero i Procepios seeks only memories in stone. You may proceed, young wizard. What can you learn from this mute object?"

Thero examined the alabaster bowl closely, even going so far as to dip up a little water and taste it.

"You let him dishonor us with his suspicions," the Khatme muttered.

"The truth dishonors no one," said Ulan i Sathil.

Undeterred, Thero pressed the cup to his brow and mouthed a silent incantation. After several minutes he replaced it on its rough pedestal and shook his head. "This vessel has known only reverence until Torsin came here. He alone touched it with a discordant mind, and that was due to the extremity of his illness."

"You can feel his illness?" asked Adzriel.

Thero pressed a hand to his chest. "I felt some of what Torsin felt as he held it—a burning pain here, under the breastbone."

"What of his last thoughts?" challenged the Khatme.

"I do not possess such magic as that would take," Thero replied.

"Thank you for your patience, Khirnari, said Seregil. "There's nothing to be done now but await Klia's return."

Brythir shook his head sadly. "What a pity to spoil her fine day with such news."