SHORT STORIES

In Tatlankel once I rented a room in the Precinct of Life. A few deities had found their way to me and not yet been sent forth in the pursuit of drink or games of chance. Many think to enjoy a fine residence but few think to enjoy the maintenance. So it was that I selected a passably clean kilt and tunic, girded my waist, and went forth in the morning to seek employment, rather than stay in a comfortable bed. “Stranger!” I was accosted by one of the Flower Guard when I emerged into the sunlight. I was indeed a stranger, for I avoided their notice when I could, and had not resided in that room for long. “What were you about last night?” I had spent the night alone, as was my wont, without even the company of a drink, which was less common. I thought the deities might be better companionship, but was finding their luster chilly. This would not have satisfied my interrogator, and I could see there were more of his sort milling about the insula across the street. Trouble was in the offing but for a timely interruption. “Ai! Titi is no stranger! Mind your manners!” Both of us were surprised by the newcomer, who was a stranger to neither. The muruch who inserted himself in this discussion had a crescent of dark scales on either cheek and was called Shile, or sometimes the Busybody. He knew many of the Flower Guard for he often meddled in their business. Our acquaintance was made that way as well. It developed that there had been a murder in the insula during the night, and after Shile convinced the Flower Guard I was not a suspect, he proceeded to involve me. “Come.” His toothy smile always accompanied that peremptory tone. “I want to see what happened.” The murder had been committed on the fifth floor, well above the street. Because the Flower Guard were harassing passers-by, Shile and I strode right into the room where the crime transpired. The victim was still there, covered by a blanket. A great deal of blood was spilled but there was no covering that. Shile lifted the blanket to inspect the deceased. “You have some passing familiarity with violence,” he noted, “what do you see?” “This is a soldati!” It was my good fortune to have not encountered one in several years. To provide less obvious commentary I added, “nearly beheaded, by rough work.” Several deep chops had not quite removed his red, brutish head from his scarred shoulders. One was very strong and nearly completed the job, but was followed by efforts that were middling at best. “I did not know one was about.” “Few did, I wager,” Shile agreed. There was a fug in the air, one of shut windows, of meals taken alone, of a warrior and his gear sweating in a cheap room. He pointed at the heavy drapes over the single narrow casement. Iron bars kept out what the stained canvas did not. “As I live and breathe, it is the Busybody.” The sardonic statement heralded the arrival of another of the muruch’s many acquaintances. Hem Likhopsef was a magistrate appointed by the Nomarch, and Shile’s impositions on matters of law and order made the two familiar. The priest gathered his somber robes and joined my examination. “A personal appearance by a worthy of the court!” needled Shile, though the Hem was a frequent visitor in the aftermath of crimes. “This must be an important soldati.” Likhopsef looked sharply at Shile and held him in a considering gaze. “The Nomarch takes an interest in all the goings on of his domain.” He said no more, but I observed in the muruch a cunning expression that I knew well. Shile spoke no further of the business of the soldati and changed the subject. “Titi, look how the room is upset! It must have been a terrible commotion!” To my eye it was not, but I took his meaning and turned my attention upon the wider scene. The furnishings were more plain than mine at the time. A neatly-made cot, a single chair and small table, a shelf with a basin and shaving kit, all were squared away with disciplined precision save the upended chair. Bundled loosely on the bed was a small fortune in rods, somehow unfilched by the Flower Guard. Of personal effects, there was a rucksack of foreign design, an armor stand with a brigandine hanging from it and one of the invaders’ curious flat-tipped hacking swords. Some rumpled clothes and a cloak were discarded on the floor, along with another layer of armor, a chain shirt. All were steeped in the pooled blood and a broad-bladed dagger was tangled among them. A notched stabbing sword, turned to cruder use for the murder, lay there as well. “Less than you might think,” the priest replied as I was examining the room, “a family in an adjoining apartment was woken by an argument in a foreign language. They heard shouts, then silence. A patrol of the Flower Guard was fetched, but the door was locked tight. The building’s owner had to be found to allow entry. No one was seen to go in before, or emerge after.” Shile had picked up one of the articles of discarded clothing and was measuring it against his arm, but relinquished that in favor of the dagger when I drew his attention to it. “The invader exacted some measure of revenge.” He peered closely at the stained blade before gingerly setting it aside with a warning. “Do not touch the edge.” “Even wounded, one could make their escape with magic.” Likhopsef turned his attention to the money on the bed. He counted the platinum under his breath and nodded, satisfied with the result. The priest looked around for Shile, and found him now peering through the door’s keyhole. “It is time for spectators to depart,” the magistrate announced, “the body will be removed and the room cleansed with appropriate ceremony!” A Flower Guard appeared at his call and Shile and I absented ourselves as instructed. Once beneath the sun’s gaze again, the muruch turned to me. “Tell me, Titi, what do you think occurred in that room?” Being used to Shile’s games of deduction, I assayed my best effort. “A spellcaster, perhaps a soldati known to the victim, was allowed to enter, or infiltrated the room by magic. They and the soldati quarreled, with the victim injuring his murderer before succumbing. The murderer fled through magical means, without disturbing the locked door and barred window.” “You say ‘quarreled.’” my acquaintance noted, “why?” “The overheard argument. It was a crime of the moment,” of this I was sure, “all those rods were left in the open. That much platinum would make anyone stop to taste the air.” “And how would you pursue the murderer?” “I would look from the window, and search places within easy sight for blood or other sign of their passage,” I followed my theory, “and if I found none, I would seek connections to the victim.” We had been walking aimlessly on the street while we spoke, and I sensed that Shile’s attention was elsewhere. He was looking around as if searching for someone. I was about to take mild offense when suddenly he raised a hand to gesture me to silence. “There.” Surreptitiously he pointed out a remarkable figure. They lurked one alley down from the corner of the street, peering toward the insula where the Flower Guard flocked. “Keep your distance.” The personage that Shile approached was shrouded head to toe, and wearing a molded leather mask of a cherubic face. It was a tylwyth, perhaps a young one, little taller than Shile himself. The muruch spoke to him shortly, but I was not able to hear from my discrete vantage point, and the tylwyth departed with shoulders slumped beneath his pall. My curiosity was unbounded and they scarcely left our sight before I demanded to know what transpired. “Your surmise was partially correct as was your plan to seek connections,” allowed Shile, “but you mistook the murderer for their hated foe. The murderer was a tylwyth warrior. They entered the room in their manner, through the keyhole like a breeze. It was the only route visible for this trick. There, they declared their presence and set upon the soldati, but the invader drew blood with the dagger. It was poisoned, and one could see the failing strength of the murderer in their weakening blows to the soldati’s neck. The deed accomplished, they expired.” “The discarded clothes, the empty armor on the floor!” I exclaimed, understanding finally, “they were not the soldati’s. The murderer turned to air when slain. I have seen it happen myself in the south.” “Just so. The garments were the wrong size, and nothing else showed the soldati would abide disarray in his belongings.” The muruch sighed, “perhaps the murderer would have helped themselves to the Nomarch’s rods if they lived.” “The Nomarch?” As ever, Shile’s mind darted in twists and turns like a fish through the reeds, and I could only catch glimpses. “What invader, secreted in such simple surroundings, has use of newly-minted platinum? His kind would rattle with chains and scales, the better for buying day-old tamales and cheap wine without causing remark,” posited my acquaintance, “what’s more, the good Hem was aware of the amount the soldati was paid and the Flower Guard feared to touch that treasure. It is said that the new Dynast seeks mercenaries to teach the Strong Arms new ways of war. Perhaps the ruler of the City of Wisdom thinks to do the same.” I had nothing to say to that. Indeed, war was like nothing I ever imagined when I first held an axe. Before such thoughts could darken my mood, I returned to my earlier question. “And of the other tylwyth?” “In their words, the soldati took something precious. The murderer was seeking recompense for that affront.” Shile was pensive. “What was stolen was not something to be delivered by hand, it seems.” “But why did they reveal this to you?” “I told them their kin would not be returning.” After that our morning perambulation continued in silence.