Drakenfeld (38 page)

Who was this figure? Was he a ghost? Had Senator Divran returned him from the dead? I could not say precisely, but if the latter was the case, it wasn’t going to be easy to let him know
that his wife had most likely died long ago.

My only suggestion was for him to go back to the mausoleums and scrutinize their facades in the hope that one of them would remind him of his wife – presuming she had been buried alongside
him. He left me suddenly when he realized that I could be of little help, and disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he had come.

Had I imagined the whole thing? Had the heady smoke of the room gone to my head? It left open the question: if this ghost’s, or dead man’s, story was real, could Lacanta’s
murder have truly been a supernatural act after all? Should Senator Divran be questioned once again?

This was senseless thinking. The ghost surely had nothing to do with the murder, which, as I said to Divran, had the marks of a living human all over it. Unless hard evidence steered me in
another direction, I would continue my business with the living.

Much later, deep into the night, after I had driven the ghost from my mind as far as possible, I hauled myself out of the establishment and gasped the blissful, cooler night
air. Titiana kissed my face and asked if I was enjoying myself, saying that this was how she liked to spend any free time she had. I couldn’t determine how truthful it was, and how much free
time from her family she had.

She was drunk, she was falling over me and, occasionally, when she focused on me properly, she started to cry. Her behaviour was confusing: this was, more or less, what we’d done in our
youth, but it didn’t seem the same any more, it didn’t seem as exciting as it used to, and Titiana wasn’t upset back then. She said that this was her life now, but she
didn’t seem sincere about it; she said it as if it was a call for help rather than a statement of happiness.

Titiana had not sobered up by the time we returned home. She stumbled through the door and into my bedroom, where she collapsed on the bed and attempted to pull off her dress, all the while
asking me to take her. She was not in control of her thoughts. With me almost sober, and Titiana in this state – nothing positive could ever come from such a union. So instead I pulled the
blanket across her and kissed her brow before lying down exhausted alongside her.

As the ceiling slowly came into focus, I wondered, sadly, if the dead man would find rest tonight, or if I was right to be so sceptical of the supernatural as I had been through my life.

News of General Maxant’s suicide reached us not long after dawn.

A messenger had contacted several senators just before midday, including Senator Veron, who was present at my house, and delivered the tragic news. It had been an odd morning: Titiana had left
again during the night, leaving only her impression in the pillow, and her scent within the ruffled bedsheets.

My morning had been spent organizing the new offices of the cohort, with Veron arriving purely to order Constable Farrum about like a slave; he grew so increasingly disdainful towards the man
that I took the senator to one side and spoke of the importance of these men feeling valued if they were to do a decent job. The news concerning Maxant was very clear and very simple: the general
had killed himself on the beach in front of his villa – a knife to his chest, his hands around the blade – and had been discovered by his servants first thing that morning. I stressed
the urgency of getting to the scene of the incident before others could disturb it too much, and Veron immediately sent for horses so that we could ride out to the coast.

I hastily scrawled a note to my superiors concerning Maxant’s death, thinking it powerful enough information to request assistance; I stuffed it in a messenger tube before issuing it to
one of the men from the Civil Cohorts, demanding he dispatch it immediately.

Within the hour, Leana, Veron, myself and Constable Farrum were riding out of the city at a ferocious speed.

Along the coast the wind was strong, and the skies were as usual clear and mesmerizing. Little licks of white surf littered the sea and birds sliced through the sky in all
directions. There was a pungent, vegetative tang, which cleared my head. It was an invigorating change from the odours of the city.

The journey had not taken long and just after midday we came on the final stretch of road, which led to Maxant’s villa. Though much of the land on the approach had been put aside for
agricultural use, a few olive and fig trees were dotted about the local landscape. Either side of the road, enormous, narrow poplars reached up like the fingers of a god.

Eventually we reached Maxant’s villa, a splendid, sprawling red-roofed, limestone house with several similar, smaller structures nearby. The estate was large enough that I guessed some of
these may have been for religious purposes or were even purely ornamental. A soft haze had rolled in from the sea, and so his formal gardens to our right had taken on the appearance of some
mythological scene. The rest of the property seemed to be in the middle of being refurbished, which was not unusual considering he had spent many of his recent years abroad on military
campaigns.

One of the servants stumbled out to greet us – a pale-skinned, old, bald man wearing a grubby white tunic. With tears in his eyes he told us, much to my relief, that we were the first
people from Tryum to have arrived at the scene. The servant fell to one knee after Veron announced who he was, but the senator picked the old man up by the shoulder with a tenderness that surprised
me. When he began to tell us what had gone on, the servant babbled incoherently. I asked him to speak more clearly and he said, ‘Thank Trymus you’ve come so soon. We . . . we were going
mad. We don’t know what to do.’

‘You need not worry now,’ Veron said calmly, glancing towards me. ‘Please, show us the way.’

Three other servants gathered in the villa, their concerned expressions obvious: probably worried what their future would now hold for them given their master was dead. They ushered us outside,
through the house itself, which was also in some state of renovation, out through the ornamental gardens and down to the beach. The servant gestured for us to stop, and he indicated the footprints
in the sand. ‘These are the master’s steps. They lead down to his body.’ My gaze followed the footprints to the high-tide mark, the sea having receded into the distance, where
wading birds strode through the shallow pools.

‘Where are your footprints?’ I asked.

‘Mine?’ he asked, his eyes wide in fear. ‘No, I came from another way – they are over there. That is the route I took.’

‘Why did you go that way and not straight down to the shore from the house?’

‘Each morning before dawn I walk the beach. When the sun rises there is little chance to stop working. I came from that direction. We do not like to disturb the firmer sand around where
master likes to look. It isn’t proper and it annoys him greatly.’ He pointed along the shoreline. ‘Those are the steps I made on the way back.’

‘And it was you who sent the messenger.’

‘I sent the boy with a note and some coin to go to the nearest town for help, very early on. He was lucky to find someone to send a message so soon.’

‘You said it was suicide.’

‘Yes,’ the servant said. ‘I hope I did not do wrong.’

I shook my head. ‘Can I confirm you found the body before sunrise?’

‘I did not hear the master return last night, but he is a man of exquisite skill and such a quiet return would not be surprising. Sometimes . . . sometimes we were going about our work and
he would suddenly be there, talking to us, ordering us about. Like a spirit he could move through rooms.’

‘You’ve not known him long have you?’

‘Many years, though I have not seen him for much of this time. I help manage the estates while master is away.’

I examined the one set of footsteps, Maxant’s own as he moved down the beach from the garden. I asked the others politely if they could refrain from disturbing the tracks for the time
being, and so we took a long looping route to the body.

When we arrived it was clear to see that only one other set of footprints led here, along the shore – tracks that belonged to the servant. There was hardly anything to
suggest signs of a disturbance. The sand here was well compacted, meaning that the wind would not create ripples – any disruption to the surface would have been by a human or animal. But
there was simply nothing else.

I enquired if anyone had moved Maxant’s body at all. The servant said he had pulled the corpse over onto its back to see if he was truly dead, but other than that no one had touched
it.

The hilt of a blade stuck out of Maxant’s chest directly over his heart, and his clothing was soaked with blood. The general had been wearing the same formal garb he had on yesterday, at
the Stadium of Lentus, including his crimson military cloak. Though he had been quite a presence in life, his dead body was just like all the others, and it was a cold, grim reminder of one’s
own mortality.

This was such a waste of a life. The servant began weeping once again and I asked him to leave us in peace for the time being.

Rigor mortis had set in some hours ago, and Maxant’s skin was currently in the process of changing colour; but none of these signs told me anything more than I knew already. We had all
seen him late yesterday afternoon and now we could all see him here. If indeed this was a suicide – and all the signs did appear to indicate this – then he would have returned late from
the Blood Races and in the hours of darkness seen that his own life was ended.

What reason could a victorious general – one who had been experiencing glories that hadn’t been seen since the days of Empire – possibly possess for killing himself ?

‘Well, Drakenfeld,’ Veron called over above the wind, ‘what do you make of this suicide business? Maybe the general suffered from some military trauma and could no longer stand
to be around. It happens to veterans, now and then, so I hear. Being around death so much can do that.’

As I crouched down over Maxant’s corpse, Constable Farrum leaned in. ‘I would see it as an honour, sir, if you could teach me something about the signs you’re looking for on
this body?’

‘Oh, come on,’ Veron scoffed. ‘Now’s not the time, surely? Let the man do his work, Farrum. We can play such games later. Besides, what’s to see, other than that
sword?’

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘there is much to learn here at the scene. And I think I am starting to piece together exactly what might have happened.’

‘How do you mean?’ Veron asked.

‘I do not believe this to be a suicide,’ I announced above the sound of the surf.

Veron gave an expression of surprise. ‘I’ll be impressed if you can explain how it is not.’

‘Constable, have a sniff of this.’ I beckoned Farrum forwards, to his knees alongside the corpse, so that he could smell a dubious stain on Maxant’s cloak. The constable leaned
forward eagerly.

Then he wrenched his head back, creasing his face in disgust. ‘Gods’ breath. What on earth is that?’

‘It is vomit,’ I suggested. ‘And you can see there is another stain on the front of his tunic, but it has been slightly obscured by the blood.’

‘Some last-minute fear?’ Veron wondered.

‘For a man of his reputation?’ I replied. ‘No. I’d suggest that Maxant’s body was attempting to rid itself of poison.’

‘Poisoned?’ Veron said. ‘And then stabbed . . .’

‘Indeed.’ I opened up Maxant’s mouth and sniffed the rancid contents. There were traces of vomit there, too. ‘What a perfect location to stage a suicide attempt,’ I
continued. ‘We have the ideal set-up: one set of footprints with no one else around, and a clear method of death. If we hadn’t arrived here, Maxant’s death would have almost
certainly been registered as a suicide. But you see, the general once told me in person and with some conviction that suicide was a “cowardly way out” and that the gods didn’t
look kindly on those who took their own lives. I came here with doubts, certainly, but these were confirmed when I realized there was too little blood on the sand for such a wound. Something like
this would have created far more of a mess.’

Constable Farrum frowned. ‘How could it ’ve been done? Maxant’s a heavy man. No one could’ve just killed him, dragged his body here. I mean to say, there should be signs
of some kind of effort, something of a struggle?’

‘What’s to say they used the beach? The murderer could have sailed here with the body. We’re standing just a fraction on the other side of the high-tide mark.’ I
indicated the vegetative detritus. ‘Yes, a small boat could easily have pulled up here some hours ago at high tide with Maxant’s pre-prepared body, dumped it overboard and . . . Now
here’s the interesting thing. The killer could have walked towards the garden, creating the illusion that Maxant came out here himself, knowing there was no one else around and that the beach
was private property. That strikes me as a very important point. It’s all very well planned, but whoever had done this hadn’t taken into account Maxant’s vomit.’