Drakenfeld (37 page)

Waving for Leana’s attention, I watched her face crease in delight as the nation of Atrewe was called out by the nearest crier. She rode over to us, carefully jumped down and tied her
horse. Her leg was bloodied with a surface wound across her thigh, and I helped her back through the gap in the barrier.

I embraced her hot, dust- and sweat-covered body, as she mumbled into my shoulder, ‘Now at least they have heard of my country.’

‘They certainly have.’

‘A shame I did not win,’ she replied, acutely aware that we were showing more affection now than we had ever done before.

‘And a shame you bet on her winning, Drakenfeld,’ Veron interrupted, and congratulated Leana on finishing an honourable second.

‘Actually, I placed money on her finishing in the top three. I’m not reckless.’

‘Logic prevails,’ Veron smirked. ‘Now, let’s see if we can find Leana a decent physician. There is meant to be a fine fellow from Koton around here somewhere. They know a
thing or two about medicine. He’ll patch up that leg soon enough.’

It was enjoyable heading back into the tiers of the stadium to see the expressions on the senators’ faces. Leana hobbled up the steps, injured but with her pride intact.
Only one of the senators swallowed his own pride and mumbled his congratulations to her, the others remained cool and distant. Some looked as if the event had well and truly ruined their day. Two
of them spat on the floor in front of us.

Even General Maxant inclined his head in our direction, acknowledging Leana’s performance. The king, it seemed, maintained the same, remote gaze all afternoon.

We enjoyed the rest of the afternoon’s races at a leisurely pace. I did not want to risk being followed or attacked again – particularly if Leana was partially injured, so I
conducted the rest of my questioning at some speed, this time deciding to do it within the tiers of the stadium rather than by the stalls.

At the age of fifty-nine, Senator Gallus was the oldest of the suitors who attempted to charm Lacanta, but he suggested he hadn’t ever been in with much of a chance. There were no games,
he stressed – she was polite and affable, and did not successfully get him to vote with any particular motion, despite trying to. ‘She kept on trying to stop the military from their
campaigns. She didn’t like war. I can’t agree with such ridiculous sentiments. War is in our blood, after all.’

Senator Litren’s initial bitter mutterings subsided into something sensual eventually, and he spoke of their moonlit walks, tinged with anticipation, as one of his most cherished memories
of her. Senator Lobbe, a surprisingly squat man in his forties, and who walked with a noticeable limp, confessed to spending a fortune on gifts for her. But he later found out that Lacanta had
given away several of them to her maids or their families. She calmed his rage when he found out, however. ‘She could always do that,’ he breathed, staring into the deep distance. Only
Lobbe suggested that Lacanta might, on occasion, query how he intended to vote on a particular piece of legislation. A few times she hoped he would vote in favour of her brother’s laws, or to
smooth over some of the warmongering sentiments in the Senate, but his most affectionate times with her did not, he felt, coincide with political requests. That fact had spurred him on
somewhat.

The most important part, for me, was that not one of them boasted of or admitted to sleeping with Lacanta. There was the chance they were lying, trying to conceal any connections with her, but I
did not believe so, because they each confessed to desiring intimacy with her. They admitted to being rivals for her attention – and yet she had sexual relationships with none.

Yet again I felt I was on the verge of something significant. Why would Lacanta deliberately create the impression that she was sleeping around, despite being a very private and chaste woman?
Perhaps there was a benefit in doing so – but why, to mislead others? I could not even make a single connection with General Maxant, either. His potential role in the murder did not seem to
fit.

My eyes settled on the one man I had not yet interviewed more thoroughly: King Licintius. If he indeed played a role in his sister’s murder behind the scenes, he had far too much to lose.
As well as a beloved sister she was a great political ally, furthering his efforts in the Senate in a way that he could not. But if he had something to hide, why would the king insist I did what I
could to find her and permit me access to the most secure building in Detrata? Nothing made sense on that front either.

The mighty general would be the next person to explore further. The fact that he had entered that room first, most likely as some part of an elaborate plan, was the road to understanding just
how Lacanta had been murdered, and having seen what they were capable of, I just had to be careful that General Maxant’s men did not get to me first.

We headed home before sunset. I thanked Veron for his guidance today. He remained with the other senators, somehow managing to bask in the victory of Cettrus the Red.

As we walked through the ancient streets, I demanded that Leana put her pride to one side and place her arm around me for support.

‘Just so you know, if anyone attempts a fight,’ Leana said, ‘I am relying on you to do the work.’

‘You know, I’m actually not a bad fighter. You just never let me get any blows in.’

‘I will believe that when I see it.’

The journey home was uneventful. Whoever had been following us at the Stadium of Lentus was no longer here – or, if they were, they were more talented in their methods of surveillance, and
they were lost in the thinning crowds. Only gentle streams of people accompanied us home, drunk on the pleasures of the races, calling out the chants from the day and wrapping themselves or each
other in the various coloured banners.

The evening was as pleasant as I could have hoped for. The house was busy with three men from the Civil Cohorts, who were settling in to their new, hastily set up offices, and Bellona seemed to
have developed a new-found confidence, ordering them about the place, telling them where they could and could not put their little crates of ledgers. Only three of the men were ever permitted
inside at once, and late at night there would only be one man, who would remain a point of contact. Veron had also suggested constructing some kind of makeshift gaol nearby, and looked at the city
plans to find a suitable location. Though I was happy to share my house with the cohort, the idea of the place turning into a prison did not particularly appeal.

Much to my delight Titiana arrived a little later, wondering how the day had gone.

Bellona cooked a meal for all of us, Constable Farrum and his men included, and we took several couches outside and dined humbly but happily in the garden. I don’t think I’d been as
happy in a long time, all of us there under that balmy Detratan evening, faces occasionally walking past the pools of light offered by the lanterns, talking, laughing. Titiana had lost her
inhibitions about being seen with me in public, though we were not overly affectionate together. It was progress at least.

At first everyone had seemed on edge, possibly feeling some unease among these luxurious surroundings, but Leana spoke of her time in the stadium, immediately endearing herself to the gathered
cohort. People began to relax and eventually a few of them told jokes and drank heavily from the jugs of watered-down wine. Bellona seemed delighted at the many compliments to her food and I heard
her laugh for the first time – a warm, hearty laugh.

As for me? I did not want to interfere too much. I knew that if I spoke it might make people feel awkward or on ceremony, and I was more than happy to know that they were enjoying themselves.
Their good humour would go some way to blowing away the dark clouds this house had seen with my father’s debts and his suspicious demise.

So I lounged in the background with Titiana, inhaling her jasmine perfume, waiting to be alone with her.

She managed to persuade me to head out with her into the evening, to a ‘tavern of her choice’.

My reaction must have been reasonably dismissive, because she started calling me ‘po-faced’ and ‘pretentious’. I didn’t mind being pretentious – there was
nothing wrong with appreciating good things – but I took exception to being called po-faced.

Her teasing grew more and more immature and so I stood up – perhaps with more drama than intended – and said that Lucan Drakenfeld could drink and talk with anyone, in any place. I
suspect I was too busy trying to impress her to understand what I was letting myself in for.

Secretly, I was delighted to be going out into the city with her.

The more I grew to know Titiana, the less predictable she became; but as soon as I’d realized that fact, I felt at ease with it. It was nice not to be myself for a while,
to escape into being someone else. For one night it felt alluringly unsettling to let go, to be willingly guided by her hand into Tryum’s darker places.

The whole experience seemed like some mythological story. I had seen some strange sights in the underbelly of Venyn City, but Tryum could offer as much, if not more, in the way of debauched
proceedings.

Colour exploded across the city. Uncertain of our location, we passed along tall, narrow lanes and compact plazas lit up by braziers and lanterns, so that shadows lurched and waned repeatedly.
Cheap street performers wearing masks jumped out from alcoves and archways, chanting at me in foreign dialects. Illicit figures were pushing vials upon those who walked by, practically tearing
coins from their grip so that it seemed more like a robbery than a transaction. A curse-dealer came by with leather patches on which to transcribe one’s hatred of another, and there were
street drummers and dancers and a dark festival atmosphere. People had painted their faces for the various gods and wore strange outfits made entirely from leaves.

Prostitutes were offering their trade from the side of the street, calling out – almost heckling – the crowds of night-goers. They were not coy about their business, either –
both men and women exposing themselves to anyone who might look their way. Their hands crawled up bare legs like insects. But one might see the inherent loneliness of such a business – the
vacant expression, the hollow laughter. Tonight their work possessed a raw, animalistic nature; in fact, one couple was engaged in a feral transaction up against the walls of a tavern, either
unaware or delighted that they were providing a spectacle.

Titiana laughed at all the goings-on, finding wonder in the sheer variety of offerings. We continued through this dreamlike neighbourhood, one that seemed utterly detached from the Tryum of
daytime, and eventually down some steps, into a small underground tavern.

If all the chaos we had seen outside had been condensed into the large room, that would have been – almost – a sufficient description of the place. Surprisingly, those from the
senatorial class mixing with the less fortunate didn’t seem to be the Tryum way. Among the soft light of a hundred lanterns, there were battered cushioned couches, amphorae full of wine,
cheap food and generally people not wearing much in the way of clothing. Drinks were thrust into my hand, and I refused them; flesh flashed before my eyes. Both women and men made passes at me, but
not the kind that one could take as a compliment. Smoke whirled around my head, a heady, herbal concoction. Despite remaining sober, the rest of the evening became a fast blur of images:
expressions of numb ecstasy, Titiana kissing me in a darkened corner of a dingy tavern.

At what point the ghost came to me, it is difficult to say. Titiana had gone to find more drink and I was sitting on a stool in one of the rare quiet spaces, away from the music and other
people, as I tried to clear my head from the fug of smoke and stench of spilt wine. If there was another partygoer in the room, they had probably passed out, or were sprawling on a couch,
intoxicated on some herbal concoction.

Into this relative calm stepped the eyeless man I had seen in the tombs outside Tryum.

His hair was unkempt, his skin pale, his clothing in tatters, yet he moved with the confidence of someone who was doing very well for himself. I rose to meet him, losing my gaze in the vacant
spaces within his head.

‘You are Drakenfeld?’ he rasped, barely audible in these surroundings.

‘What do you want?’

‘My wife,’ he replied.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I’m looking for my wife. Have you seen her?’

‘I don’t know who she is, nor do I know who you are.’

It is difficult to gauge the expressions of another when one cannot see their eyes, but nevertheless he seemed disappointed. There was something about his manner, his slumped shoulders, his
slightly bowed head.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

‘The tombs,’ came his reply. ‘The mausoleums. I . . . came back from them.’

‘You rose from the dead?’ I asked, incredulous that the words even came from my mouth.

‘I was brought back. A woman greeted me, a rich woman.’ He proceeded to describe Senator Divran, and then his own life as it came back to him. He was the first to admit that he
wasn’t entirely certain himself. Though he had no name, he claimed to have once been an important man in the city, a politician or senior administrator; he could not remember the name of the
king he served under, nor could he recall his address. All he really remembered were patchy snippets of his life, echoes of his past, but with some clarity he recalled his wife. He asked me once
again for my help. He said he had heard my name mentioned about the city as someone who could help the dead.