HEART GULES, PIERCED BY A DAGGER ARGENT
(a Birthright Lord High Executioner Story: 3)
by Dru Pagliassotti
Black, charred wood crunched underfoot, and fire-scorched stone walls stood raggedly around the perimeter of the disaster. Dawn was just breaking over the ocean, washing everything in stark black and white. Dozens of men, women, and children had collapsed, exhausted, around the blackened swath the fire had left.
Over twenty houses had been lost before they'd managed to get the blaze under control, and nearly every adult in Seasedge had been fighting the fire all night - carrying water from the ocean, soaking the neighboring roofs to keep them from catching fire, or trying to run ahead of the flames, searching each building to make sure it had been completely evacuated. Even sickly Magus Daved Gereint had finally come down from the castle to help, and with his sorcery they had managed to check the devouring flames just a few hours after midnight.
Jon Coffin crouched in the ashes, running rag-wrapped fingers through the detritus. He was covered in soot from head to toe, his clothes grimy, sweat-stained, and charred from floating embers. Corbin crouched next to him, looking no better.
"What?"
"Somebody got hisself caught." Jon brushed ash off a bone. "This was one of the first houses to catch, wasn't it?"
Corbin looked around, trying to remember. Around them, people were starting to drift away, some to the ocean to clean up, others to get something to eat or to retrieve family members who had been evacuated to a nearby guild hall.
"I think so. I don't know whose it is, though."
"Me either." The undertaker brushed more ash away. Corbin reached out to pick up one of the bones. It was still warm - there were embers in the ashes. A handful of constables was pouring water over the ruined buildings, trying to prevent the wind from blowing up another flame.
Jon glanced over.
"That'd be a rib."
"We should report this to Bracken."
"I'll get him. I figgered you'd want to see these first, though. I'm pretty sure they're human, not just someone's dog got caught inside. Won't be able to tell for sure `til we find more, though."
Corbin nodded, wiping soot away. Beneath the dark ash, the bone had been burned grey-white.
"Thank you."
Months ago, he'd asked the undertaker to teach him something about how bodies decayed, what human bones looked like. There was no other way for him to find out. The priests wouldn't permit human bodies to be cut apart out of simple curiosity. They were equally stubborn about permitting graves or tombs to be opened. As Boeruine's Lord High Executioner, he knew a great deal about fresh corpses. But as an amateur member of Seasedge's constabulary, he had found himself seeing more and more bodies that had been dead for a while. Like this one.
Jon left to find Captain Bracken. Corbin picked through the ash, gathering as many bones as he could. His gloved fingers caught on a notch in one of them and he turned it over. Another rib, with a narrow cut along the bottom edge. He frowned, then began searching more thoroughly. He found the skull wedged under a fallen chunk of wood. He carefully worked it out and held it up. Human. He tilted it back and forth, scrutinizing its features and flaws.
"You look like the mad prince in that Brechtian play," Bracken said, cautiously picking his way through the rubble. "Only dirtier."
"Hmm?" Corbin looked up. The captain was leaning heavily on his cane and looked like hell. He'd been up all night fighting the fire, too, and was staying to oversee the constables who were dampening down the ashes.
"Never mind." Bracken joined him and looked down at the skull in his hands. "Looks like somebody didn't make it out."
"I think he was dead before the fire started," Corbin replied, standing and holding out the skull. Bracken took it from him. "See there, and there?" He pointed. "Those are dents in the bone. It looks like somebody hit him over the head, very hard."
The captain studied the skull, running his fingers over the marks.
"You may be right."
"He might have been murdered."
Bracken glanced up.
"I've seen a man get his head caved in with a hammer and live another fifteen years. His head was all dented in on one side, but as far as I could tell, it never slowed him down. I imagine that accident left a mark in his skull, too."
Corbin leaned over and picked up the rib he'd found.
"Well, then this probably killed him," he said, pointing to the notch in the bone. Bracken absently handed the skull to Jon. The undertaker tucked it under an arm and peered over their shoulders.
"Yes," Bracken agreed, "that probably killed him." He took the bone and fingered the notch. "A dagger's the most common weapon for this sort of thing. It must have been driven with a lot of force, to leave a mark like that."
"So, he was hit over the head a couple of times and then stabbed through the ribs. Or maybe the other way around." Corbin looked around. "I think he was murdered. What if it was no accident, the fire starting here?"
The captain handed the rib back.
"Interesting theory, but it would help to know how old the skeleton is," Bracken cautioned. "For all we know, it might have been hidden in a wardrobe for years. But I'm willing to let you look into it."
"Me? But, captain -"
"I’m not going to have time to work on a flight of fancy like this." The captain cocked his head, indicating the fire-ravaged houses, the busily working constables, the shocked survivors returning to stare at what was left of their homes. "You're good at ferreting out clues from corpses. This one's deader than most, but Coffin here knows his bones."
The undertaker nodded, standing a little straighter.
"But - this could be important!" Corbin felt a touch of panic at the thought of taking on a case all by himself.
"Then I suggest you don't make any mistakes," Bracken said firmly, walking off.
***
"Did he have any distinguishing marks?"
"Oh, Llewedd was a striking fellow," the boarding house owner said, pulling her chair closer to the fireplace. A group of children began shrieking, and Corbin cast a sharp look in their direction. The guild warehouse had been opened up to the fire's victims until they could arrange some other housing. The adults were still subdued and tired, but the children seemed to have recovered already. "Tall, long black hair. A beard and mustache. He had the oddest eyes - one was green and the other was blue. The sort of thing that immediately catches your attention. I'd never seen the like before."
"And he had a guest?"
The old lady shrugged.
"Came home with some drunk last night. Made some noise on the stairs, arguing, so I came out to make sure it wasn't robbers. I think one of them had fallen down. Llewedd said his friend needed to sleep it off." She shrugged again. "`Twasn't my business, so long as they kept quiet and didn't sick up on my sheets or floor."
"Last night. Before the fire?"
"Oh ... yes. It must have been hours before the fire started. They came in just a wee bit after I doused all the lamps and locked the door, and I do that as soon as the bells ring vespers.
"Can you tell me what his friend looked like?" Corbin gently took the teacup from her and refilled it from the pot by the fire. She nodded with gratitude as he handed it back.
"I didn't get much of a look, in the dark. He was middling size, I guess." She frowned, concentrating. "Seems to me he had a bush of red hair. But that's all I remember. It was dark in the hall," she repeated, looking apologetic.
"That's all right. Did you see either of them leave?"
"No," she said, "but the fire started...."
"Did the fire start in your house?"
"I don't know." She suddenly looked frightened. "I'm always careful to make sure the fire's proper and banked -"
"No, it's all right, I'm not blaming you," Corbin said quickly. "But there's a chance your guest - Llewedd - may have started the fire. I need to know everything you can remember about him."
"Oh." She pondered that a moment, sipping her tea. "Well, it might have started at my house. I don't recall - everything was so confusing, with people shouting and pounding on all the doors...."
"Can you tell me anything else about Llewedd? Did he wear any jewelry, carry any weapons?"
"Yes," she said hesitantly. "A sword. A nice one, very pretty. Expensive. Maybe more expensive than his clothes."
"What do you mean by `pretty'?"
"Oh, you know, a palace sword, not a soldier's sword." She waved her hand in the air, describing a circle. "The hilt was all curvy, not straight, and the blade looked like it was thinner than most. Not like a real sword."
The executioner sketched a simple basket hilt in the ash on the hearth.
"Like that?"
"No, no, I've seen those. This was more open, like it wouldn't protect a person's hand."
He sketched a rapier hilt and looked inquiringly at her.
"Yes, that's more like it," she nodded. "I haven't ever seen a sword like that before. Can't imagine what a man would do with it!"
"No," Corbin mused, looking at the sketch. "They're not very common in Anuire. Brechtians like them, though."
"Oh," she said knowingly. "Brecht. Well, they're like that up there, aren't they? He didn't sound Brechtian, but they're a sly folk...."
Corbin frowned. His ancestors were from Brecht, although the Rooks had lived in Anuire for generations now. Still, his pale blond hair and fair skin were inherited from those northern climes.
"You know, I don't recall seeing him when we evacuated the building," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe he and his friend had already left? I mean, if he set the fire, they'd have left right away."
"It's possible." Corbin stood.
"When you find him, milord, you'll kill him, won't you?"
He sighed at the false title but didn't bother to correct the mistake.
"That's up to the judges, not me."
She scowled.
"If that bastard burned my house down, I'd as soon put the rope around his neck myself!"
"Oh." Corbin raised an eyebrow, taken aback. "Well, I'll keep that in mind."
The fresh spring air was a relief after sitting so close to the fire, and the clatter of hooves and waggons on the street was a pleasant change from the shrieking children. Corbin stifled a yawn and clasped his hands behind his back.
Seasedge, the capital of Boeruine, was no small town. He couldn't possibly go door-to-door searching for one man. There were fewer ships in the harbor than there would be in two or three months, but there was still plenty of opportunity for a murderer to get out of the city. A fugitive could buy passage on one of the ships that did dare the Sea of Storms in the early spring, or take a fishing boat out along the coast and hike the rest of the way out, or join one of the trading caravans that were beginning to leave the city now that the rains were abating ... or could just head out alone, if he felt brave enough to dare the roads by himself.
Corbin fought back another yawn, then gave up and ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. He'd only gone home long enough to wash, change, and reassure his mother that the fire had been put out. Right now, he wanted to do nothing more than crawl into bed for a few hours. Yesterday had been a long day, from hanging a poacher in the morning to fighting the fire all night. The poacher ... he groaned. The body still had to be pulled down. With a sigh, he started walking toward Executioner's Square. Halfway there, he saw a familiar face.
"Alan!"
"Rook?" The constable turned around. His clothes were still grubby with ash, and he carried a long sailor's bag over one shoulder. The constable's hands and face were both streaked with soot. "Hey, I hear the captain has you on a case of your own at last."
The executioner shrugged and glanced curiously at the bag. Alan gently lowered it to the cobblestones.
"Stuff that survived the fire. The captain's having us collect everything from each house and put it in storage. Later, he'll figure out which house was which and give it all back to the owners."
"The house where the fire started - have you done that one yet?"
Alan nodded.
"Your undertaker friend took a lot of it, but the rest's been checked in at the mason's hall. You can go there and take a look through, if you want."
"I think I will." Corbin sighed. "Alan, I think I have a description of the man who started the fire."
"Then you're pretty sure this was arson?"
Corbin hesitated. He didn't want to make a fool of himself by making predictions so early. He was almost certain, but....
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Well, who should I be looking out for?"
"He took a room at the boarding house under the name Gaelen Llewedd. It may be false." Corbin quickly described the man and his sword.
"Huh. Shouldn't be too hard to find, if he's still in town," Alan said. "Just remember that he may have cut his hair and shaved ... speaking of which, aren't you overdue?"
Corbin ran a gloved hand over his mouth, embarrassed.
"Everyone's wearing mustaches and beards this year," he said, self-consciously. "Since I'm around the castle so often...."
"Oho, turning into a courtier, are you?" Alan laughed at Corbin's discomfort. "Well, it's about time you got rid of that baby face." He hoisted the bag back onto his shoulder as Corbin bristled. "C'mon - I'll get that bag pulled for you."
Corbin followed, scowling and wishing he had a mirror.
***
Jon Coffin leaned over the table, his gaunt face alive with interest as he gazed at the collection of bones and rescued scrap. His son, Tomas, helped Corbin piece the skeleton together. Parts were missing, but they had found most of the big bones.
"That's a man, all right," the elder Coffin pronounced. "Look at that pelvis and the size of them arms. Tall, too. Got hisself pretty well stuck, though. Right through the heart, it looks like. Nice bit o' sharpwork."
"Hand me that sword." Corbin pointed to the heavy executioner's broadsword that he'd brought to the undertaker's cottage. Coffin brought it over and Corbin picked up the notched rib, comparing it to the sword's edge.
"Too thick," Tomas said. "I figger he got knifed."
"That's what the captain suggested." Corbin swapped the sword for Jon's knife and tried it against the rib. The fit was much closer.
"Well, it looks like it must have been done with some sort of knife, or maybe that rapier he's supposed to be carrying." The executioner handed the blade back. "What do you think about the dents on the skull?"
"Bottle," Jon opined.
"Big hammer, maybe," Tomas suggested. "The kind Ma'd pound meat with."
"Nobody carries one of them around with him." Jon ran a finger along the arc, then closed it in a complete circle. The radius was about an inch. "I say a bottle."
"Hmm. There wasn't one in the stuff we brought up, was there?" Corbin sorted through the metal scrap - many nails, several hinges, a chain, a padlock, assorted utensils, a knife blade - he handed it to Tomas, who set it against the rib. Again, it didn't fit. Corbin kept sifting. Some pots and pans, a handful of coins, a poker. Several pewter buttons, some iron clasps, an earring with a blue stone. He picked up the last item.
"Recognize it?"
"You might try askin' around some of the local goldsmiths and jewelers," Coffin suggested, peering at it. "Pretty piece of work. Wonder how much it's worth?"
"More than you and I will ever make," Corbin said wryly, setting it aside. "Is there anything interesting in the rest of the piles?"
Tomas and Jon sorted through the piles of ceramic and porcelain, glass, wood, and stone that had been saved from the boarding house. Jon picked up a flat leather case and turned it curiously.
"Seems like this woulda burnt right up," the undertaker said, handing it to Corbin. "Looks like one of them document cases the justices carry."
Corbin's eyes lit up, and he tried to pull the case open. Nothing happened. Frowning, he tried harder, then wiped the soot off and peered more closely at it.
"What do you make of this?" he asked, showing the markings to the Coffins. They both shrugged.
"Writing?" Jon asked, uncertainly. Corbin inspected the marks. His father had taught him to read. Executioners were often literate - they needed to announce the crimes each condemned criminal had committed and keep official records of the deaths. But if these were letters, they weren't of any type he'd seen before.
"Maybe it's Brechtian." He set the case next to the earring. "Is there anything else?"
"That's about it," Jon reported. "Mebbe you want the widow out here to pick out what's hers. Then anything left we can work with."
"I suppose," Corbin sighed. "Would you mind if I sent her down here, Jon? Just be certain to cover the body when she shows up. Oh, and don't forget to bury that poacher." The corpse was still sitting in Jon's waggon, carried there from the gallows.
"Sure thing."
Corbin nodded gratefully, then picked up the earring and map case and headed back to town.
***
It was close to midnight. The executioner walked through the narrow, dark streets of Seasedge with a blanket-wrapped bundle under one arm. Despite getting no sleep the night before, he'd restlessly tossed and turned in bed. Finally he'd gotten up and quietly let himself out of the house.
He'd walked through Seasedge all afternoon, going from one business to the next trying to identify either the earring or the writing on the leather case. The merchants hadn't been much help. The stone was a sapphire. The writing wasn't Brechtian, or Rjurjik, Voss, Khinasi, or anything else the merchants readily recognized. As far as Corbin knew, that left only the nonhuman races, and he had never had contact with any of them. He wasn't even sure how to find a nonhuman in Seasedge. Instead, he'd described Llewedd to the captains and mates of the ships in port and told them to report to a guard if the man contacted them. He hadn't been able to return home until nightfall. His mother had scolded him for being late to dinner.
Tonight the streets were surprisingly empty. Most people were in bed, catching up on the sleep they'd lost the night before. Only the inns, taverns, and brothels were still open, catering to foreigners, caravaneers, and sailors. Corbin climbed down the broad shoreline steps to the quay, pausing to look at the ships that rocked gently in the harbor. A few lamps hung from the rails, sending ribbons of light reflecting off the water. Come summer, the docks would be busy all day and night. Now there were still enough storms on the open water to keep most ships away.
He turned and walked down to the old fishing pier that had been abandoned after the big storm five years ago. The pier was far enough away from the ships, behind a turn in the coast, to keep him from bothering anybody. In summer, children dove off of it and lovers used it as a rendezvous. This early in the year, it was still abandoned.
He walked to the broken edge of the ramshackle pier and unwrapped the blanket, tucking the rebec and bow it had held under one arm. He carefully spread the blanket over the tarred wood so that he could sit without getting his uniform dirty.
The instrument was all that was left of an unpleasant incident during the winter - the rebec and the long pink scar on his side. He'd stopped practicing for a few months, but he'd finally picked it up again. The music had nothing to do with the gipsies' lies. Or his own stupidity.
Thinking about the incident still made his cheeks burn, so he resolutely thrust the memory out of his mind and concentrated on the music.
Corbin had run through the handful of tunes the gipsy had taught him and was starting to guess his way through a new one when moonlight flashed off the edge of a rapier. His bow skidded across the strings with a piercing screech as the point dropped to his neck beneath his uniform's high collar. Steel pressed firmly against his carotid artery.
He slowly lowered the instrument and bow.
"Is my practice bothering you?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. Inside, he damned himself for a fool. The captain had warned him over and over about letting down his guard.
The stranger chuckled.
"You could use a few more lessons." The Brechtian gutturals were almost gone from the stranger's accent, but Corbin could still just make them out. His heart pounded. "If you don't mind some musical advice, the rebec is a barbaric instrument. You should take up something civilized, like the violin."
His mouth was dry. He started to reply, cleared his throat, and tried again.
"I've never heard of it."
"Oh, they're all the rage in Brecht. I even understand they're being used in the City. Same concept as a rebec, you know, but not as many strings. And a much better sound. The rebec's a Khinasi instrument," the stranger said, with a touch of scorn.
"You're a musician?"
"A gentleman. I understand that you are an executioner."
"Yes."
The rapier tip still pressed against his neck.
"One of the infamous Rooks of Boeruine."
Corbin remained silent, bridling at the adjective.
"There's no use denying it. I recognize the badge on your uniform," the stranger said after a moment. "Now, Rook, I have a business proposition for you. I wouldn't normally bother, but killing you would stir up a fuss, and I've generally found executioners to be very pragmatic men. Now, I hear you've been going around asking questions about a leather case. I'm interested in that case myself - in fact, I rather wonder where you found it. I'll pay you fifty crowns for it, right now. Or I'll kill you. Your choice."
Corbin licked his lips. Fifty crowns? That was more than he ever expected to see in his lifetime. He thought of the meager meals he and his mother had been eating for the past month and the neatly sewn patches on his uniform, her dresses. He could do a lot with fifty crowns.
"The case is at home," he said at last. "But I'll get it for you."
"Really?" The voice was calm but skeptical.
"For fifty crowns. And a violin."
This time the stranger laughed out loud, the rapier tip pressing harder against Corbin's neck.
"You really are a musician, Rook! Very well. I doubt I'll be able to find a violin here, but the fifty crowns will be yours, nonetheless. You don't mind if I search you, do you? Just to make sure that you don't actually have it here?"
"I can't stop you."
The rapier lifted and pressed against Corbin's spine as the stranger crouched and ran a hand over his jacket, made sure he wasn't wearing a pouch on his belt. For a moment the executioner considered trying to lunge at him, fight him off - but he dismissed the thought just as quickly. He would be no match for a skilled swordsman, even if he were carrying a weapon. And the longsword Bracken had given him was hanging over his bedpost at home.
"All right. Now, let's see. Why don't you bring the case out here tomorrow night? I'll leave your payment here, you drop the case, take the crowns, and go. Of course, just to keep things honest, I'll be watching you tomorrow. I don't like being double-crossed. I understand you have a mother here?"
Corbin stiffened.
"Leave her alone."
"Be good, and I will." The rapier tip left his spine. Corbin started to turn and something cracked against his skull. Before he could catch himself, something hit him again, and he fell unconscious.
