The Loreticus Intrigues Volume 1 Page 4

  I will be expecting a result in the shortest time.

  General Claisan

  Chapter 4

  Many good artists come from small country towns where their grand imaginations are kindled with very little fuel. And so the mysterious murder of Major Gholan was a boon to the Lores market the next morning as the gossipers ploughed in, boosting the crowds. Stories were told in turn of his delicate doorman, the ghostly scream, the lost love in the capital. No one dared speculate about the actual killer in case it was their own favourite lord, so Lores residents told confidently of how the general stabbed himself with an arrow out of remorse. Gholan had succumbed to guilt for a life spent killing innocents, or for a lost love, or gambling debts.

  Two of the more interested visitors had come from their extensive farm estates outside of the Lores town boundaries. They were refined women, educated and moneyed, and obviously not local by origin. Both were beautiful, and they retained their charisma despite age, children, grey skies and damp air. The women had a shared look, one of strong and intelligent personalities, of lives well spent, of priorities achieved. Tasteful gold rings and chains sat on their manicured fingers and around their thin necks. Their dresses were tailored, fashionable yet practical for the cold and muddy north. A couple of veteran soldiers trailed them subtly from a distance, keeping an eye on anyone who might cause a disturbance. These ladies were Aemilia and Julia, and they had been the first guests to be invited to the Old Town Manor by Major Gholan.

  “Good morning, m’ladies,” said the old woman tending the herb stall. “What might I offer you this morning?”

  “Well,” said Aemilia, smiling warmly, “Firstly, tell me the gossip that everyone’s muttering about. We heard that Major Gholan killed someone last night!”

  The woman’s laugh sounded like a woodpecker. “Not likely!” she croaked. “He was kaput himself. Arrow to the heart, I heard.”

  The two ladies covered their shocked gasps and stared at the woman.

  “Oh, my dears, don’t worry,” she continued. “You’re veterans’ wives, I can tell. Every now and then we have a little murder up around here. Not before in Lores, that’s a first I’ll admit, but then we have a good man looking after us. We’re not as soft as you capital folk reckon.”

  “There’s a killer in town?” asked Julia.

  “Who’s searching for him?” added Aemilia.

  “Or her,” reprimanded the old woman, lifting a stained finger. “I reckon Gholan was involved with too many women. Most of these older bachelors are. The marshal’s looking for the killer. Not sure whether he’ll have any luck, though. You can’t catch a killer unless it’s red handed.” She gestured along the street towards Deciman, who was at that moment trying to scoop up the remnants of a score of eggs he’d dropped in the soft mud.

  Aemilia and Julia watched him for a moment, then with a silent glance to each other, drifted in the opposite direction.

  *

  The embarrassing puking episode gave Deciman sleepless nights. He judged himself a misery of a marshal. He would never have believed that when confronted with a murdered man his stomach would have flown so readily into his mouth. He wondered what Loreticus thought of him and the answers stung. Humiliation and determination powered him through the next two days, as he worked to paint a picture of Gholan which would restore his reputation.

  Once prepared, he strode defiantly across town, drawing looks from the loiterers in the square, then up the path to the villa. The door was answered by Crispan, this time armed with a small blade on his belt. He gave Deciman such a studied examination, as if he were a potential stain hazard, that the marshal wondered whether the vomit story had been retold in his absence and at his expense.

  Crispan led Deciman to Loreticus, who was in the tree garden inspecting an apple tree with the utmost attention. Its fruits were tiny and looked bitter.

  “Greetings, my lord,” Deciman said with a bow to Loreticus’s back.

  Without turning around, Loreticus said, “Hello, Deciman.”

  The marshal, who was steadily becoming paranoid, pondered how Loreticus had known it was him. Was it his scholar’s voice, which his father had told him to deepen when he spoke to important people?

  “Do you think trees have a soul?” Loreticus asked and Deciman mentally stuttered, looking for the right answer. “Because I know that each has a personality.” He turned and gestured towards the tree he had been examining. “This one’s a bastard.”

  “Or a bitch, sir,” added Deciman. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

  Then the spymaster smiled. “Do you have anything for me?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord. Major Gholan’s background. I found a few things.”

  “Wait a moment then.” He turned, then whistled and gestured. Deciman peeked behind him and saw Selban walking up on the path. Loreticus said, “Marshal Deciman here has news.”

  Selban’s arrival brought with it a chill atmosphere. What had been quiet contemplation with Loreticus was now an ill feeling staining the air between the three men. Deciman sensed that he had interrupted a tense conversation. “Major Gholan was the favorite major under General Claisan…”

  “I know that already, Deciman,” Loreticus interrupted. “Tell me something else I need to know.”

  Deciman cleared his throat and began again. “The major attended military academy and rarely saw his parents who were part of the capital’s party crowd. The major got enlisted in the Imperial Army yet still socialized as much as possible, throwing drunken dinners all the time. Very unlike his general.”

  He recounted the major’s childhood, his parentage, his very average military career, and his promotions under General Claisan. Deciman was particular, practiced and thorough. He was upset to see Loreticus waiting impatiently as he drew to the end of his short performance.

  The spymaster opened his arms in a gesture of “Is that all?”

  Deciman’s mind raced, and he started blurting out facts about which he wasn’t certain. “In all honesty, my lord, Major Gholan was a mystery. As a young officer, he was always out around the capital, but something happened and he was assigned to General Claisan. After that he was introverted and miserable. And—,” he squinted as he tried to remember, “he came to Lores with a young woman, Amle, I think, and he brought her here with the intention of retiring. He knows – knew - the local militia captain of Lores and it was this captain who suggested he come here.”

  “There’s the connection!” muttered Selban, exhaling with a strange satisfaction.

  “He wasn’t of retirement age, yet,” Loreticus said. “So why did he come?”

  “He left the military anyway,” said Deciman. “I hear there was a scandal with a member of the Imperial family before he left the capital. I wasn’t able to hear the full story. It’s probably just gossip.”

  Loreticus nodded at Deciman’s words, and on the spymaster’s face appeared the little smile that the marshal had been seeking. It crept up until his eyes were almost closed, and then Loreticus clapped his hands. He shot an eye at Selban.

  “Then he must have left with a few enemies lumbering after him,” the spymaster commented with a smirk. “I know that feeling.”

  “My Lord, I think also I know the exact kind of bow we should be looking for,” continued Deciman, encouraged.

  “Oh?” Loreticus said, placing one hand on his hip. “Do continue.”

  “We are not looking for a bow used by a local poacher but one used by an imperial officer. The length of the arrow is far too long for our poaching bows. In fact, the arrow is simply too elaborate to be made anywhere other than the capital.”

  “So,” Loreticus asked, with a sideways glance, “it can neither be Florian or Laurentius?”

  “No,” the marshal replied.

  Loreticus’s mind snapped back to the scene of the murder and as he considered the arrow, he realized the marshal had seen something that he hadn’t. The mi
ssile was long, made from a rich dark wood with elegant flights. It had gold decorations. It was no meaty poacher’s arrow. How could he have missed that?

  “Now aren’t you a clever man?” Selban said to Deciman, causing him to blush at the approval.

  “You know,” said Loreticus. “We have to presume that the shutters were open for the arrow to come through. We should look for any evidence of tracks in the trees behind the Old Manor.”

  Something snapped in Deciman’s expression, and Loreticus watched him for a moment. Then the spymaster turned, leading them out to the horses.

  “What are we looking for?” moaned Selban as his expensive city boot made contact with the thick mud at the edge of the forest. “Pig dung?”

  “Don’t worry,” replied Deciman, “The ground is drier under the trees.”

  “Selban, my little princess, we are looking for the shot that killed the major,” said Loreticus. “By my calculation, the assassin was stood somewhere along this tree line. And perhaps he or she left some sort of indication as to who they were.”

  “Why would they do that?” asked Deciman, moving more quickly than the others, searching the ground and the trees nervously. He had already been kitted in a more suitable outfit than the other two, the soles of his boots gripping into the damp ground. The wood line approached, its birds quiet in expectation of the impending rain.

  “By accident, of course,” replied Loreticus. “The murderer was a reckless fool who didn’t care about being caught. Why put an arrow in the major when poison or a failed mugging would have the same effect but wouldn’t leave an unsolved crime? Passion is the answer. Angry, uncontrolled passion.”

  “Doesn’t sound like our local folk then,” commented the marshal.

  They traced the path that led just inside the tree line, listening to the heavy thump of the first rain drops as they made their way through the canopy. The pines on the ground released a citric odour, which marked the air pleasantly. Selban managed to somehow flick the scratching spines into his low-cut shoes with impressive frequency, causing more swearing and self-serving pity.

  The woodlands weren’t dense, but an hour quickly passed and they found nothing. The men constantly bent and stood, stretching, feeling the cold rain slap their ears and necks. Loreticus expanded his hunt, wandering across the land leading up from the village to the forest and then back to the path.

  “I’ve found something,” Loreticus cried.

  “I don’t believe it!” Deciman exclaimed and raced over. They peered at a partial footprint, protected by a heavy fern which stood guard over a dry patch of earth.

  “I doubt that we can do anything with it,” Loreticus complained. Selban gave him a strange look.

  “Then why shout?” grumbled Selban.

  “Because I wanted to let you know that our search hadn’t been a pointless exercise. Without the rain, we would have had tracks, my miserable Selban,” Loreticus said. “Do you think that you would be able to have made the shot from here?”

  Selban studied the distance to the window in the Old Manor, imagining the path of the arrow.

  “There’s no way I could have made the shot from here with my bow,” he said. “In fact, I don’t know anyone with common martial training that could either.”

  “He couldn’t have been closer than here,” said Loreticus, gesturing at the open land in front of them. “He would have stood out to anyone near the window. And he would have left tracks which we would see even in this rain.”

  “Well, we don’t have tracks. And I’m going back to the villa. I need a warm bath and a big meal before the general sends his men up to kill us.”

  Deciman blanched.

  “Are we in danger?” he asked, his voice curling with a soft panic.

  “Oh, I doubt you are,” snapped Selban. “I think that probably the boss and I will be taken out to the woods and . . .” He made a gestured to indicate a rope around his neck, baring his great yellow teeth and mossy white tongue at the hoist.

  “Go home now, Deciman,” said Loreticus resignedly. “It’s time to make preparations.”

  The marshal hesitated, then, seeing no give in his master’s expression, turned and left for the edge of the village, towards a cold, white house which needed its torch lit and a fire in its hearth. A gloam had wrapped itself around the marshal’s home, heightening the sense that it was some empty spirit waiting for his return.

  Selban waited, then turned slowly to the spymaster.

  “Explain,” he said simply.

  “Firstly, you need to clean your teeth. Secondly, this.” Loreticus moved his foot to lift the other part of the fern. Underneath were two clean pairs of footprints, perfectly formed in dry mud. “It must have been wet before they came up,” he said. “They stepped in this to look at the Old Manor. It’s only just started raining again, so we’ve been lucky to find this much.”

  Selban looked up from the position, imagining himself with bow in hand. Directly in front of him was the Old Manor, the huge ornate windows of the main bedrooms at the rear open and dark. He mimicked a bow pull.

  “You do know that the assassin was right next to you that night?” asked Loreticus with a smirk. “You seem very calm about that.”

  “Gods,” whispered Selban, looking away. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Now I’m quite scared in retrospect.”

  “Well,” said Loreticus. “Nothing to do about it now. At least these tracks will bring us closer to the murderer’s identity.”

  “Then why not tell the puppy?”

  “Because, Selban, I wanted to see where the puppy went home,” replied Loreticus in a didactic tone. “Come with me and look carefully at where I tread.”

  They traced back along the path, out on to the grass and mud. Faint but identifiable were the footprints of the first set of boots that they had seen. Short nails had been hammered into the soles as studs, and for every four or five that were hidden or destroyed, the next was almost perfect, caught in the now damp mud.

  They followed the tracks to the edge of the village, then looked up as the vicinity of the buildings made them conscious of prying eyes. The tracks continued close to the walls behind the houses on an informal pathway which was becoming worn with frequent use.

  “Look where they go,” whispered Loreticus and Selban raised his eyes. At that moment, dead in front of them, the only building was newly illuminated by a gentle glow from within. The marshal had lit his hearth.

  Chapter 5

  Aemilia and Julia entered the tavern cautiously, their thick-necked minders close behind them. The goons took seats by the door and glowered at the few locals in the place.

  The locals swivelled to watch the women, conversations stopping as they walked quietly across the room to a table with a wine bottle and a collection of clean, empty glasses. Deciman stepped forward and introduced himself.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said and gestured for them to sit down.

  They sat, carefully, eying the marshal and readying themselves for a confrontation. Julia reached out, poured wine for the three, then rested back with a glass in her hand.

  “Rather dramatic, marshal,” she said. “Sending a child to deliver a mysterious note? All quite overthought.”

  Deciman raised his eyebrows and spread his hands in supplication.

  “That wasn’t me. That was Loreticus. He’s the person you’re here to meet.”

  “The spymaster Loreticus?” laughed Aemilia. Deciman felt envious of the deference in her voice, knowing that he would never win such an accolade. “Don’t scare us with bogeymen.”

  “Bogeymen?” came a voice from the table next to them, and the two ladies jumped. “I have been called many things before but not that. I wanted to get an indication of you before we met, m’ladies. I’m afraid that I rely too heavily on the little expressions that people make when they talk.”

  “Oh, well, how did we perform for you, sir?” asked Julia, a nervous ton
e replacing her poise. “Did we entertain the spymaster?”

  Loreticus stood and sat down next to Deciman. He was their junior by twenty years, and yet the air which moved around him gave him gravity. He looked at them both calmly, Julia returning his gaze defiantly and Aemilia staring at her hand on the stem of her glass.

  “Why were you asking about the major?” he began.

  “Major who?” asked Julia.

  Loreticus ignored her, turning towards Aemilia.

  “Tell me, Aemilia, why were you asking about Gholan? Why did you visit him and what was he to you?”

  “We loaned him a considerable sum,” said Aemilia. “He had been the commander of our late husbands’ battalion and when he reached out, we responded. The poor man had been hounded out of the capital for politics which he hadn’t chosen. He was a simple man, a good commander who took care of his people. He wanted a quiet life with his new wife and yet you people from the capital found him up here.” She looked up with a gentle defiance, accusing Loreticus of the major’s death.

  “Let me reassure you that I had nothing to do with his death,” said Loreticus, adding quickly, “That I know of. This is my family’s town and so of course I have been curious as to why he chose to settle here, and why he started calling himself ‘lord’ of my village. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even speak to him.” He paused. “But then, he didn’t owe me money so I didn’t hold any grudge.”

  “How dare you?” snapped Julia. “Don’t put us into your gang of assassins.”

  “I don’t,” replied Loreticus calmly. He poured some wine for himself. “Just remember that for every bad debtor there’s a bad creditor. You are the ones sneaking into my town lending money to a disgraced veteran, then coming back to reclaim your gold after his murder.”