Scimitar War (2 page)

“Ah, there you are, Master Upton.” Captain Donnely rose from where he knelt beside the body and gestured for
Cape Storm
’s surgeon to do the same. The captain flicked a glance toward Huffington, then regarded the spymaster once again. “We’ve got a nasty bit of business here. About forty minutes ago, the sentry taking over the watch found blood on the dock, and fetched the corporal and a lantern. They found Yarel here on the sea bottom beside the dock. The location of the wound suggests that his throat was cut, but my surgeon here questions that.”

“It don’t look like no blade cut that I ever seen,” the surgeon declared.

“Unfortunately,” Donnely concluded, “we can’t really tell what was used. From the look of it, some bloody big fish got to him before we did.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Upton said as he leaned closer to the body. The crowd shuffled a bit closer, and Upton glanced around and grimaced. “Captain, please instruct your men to move away, and tell them to have a care where they put their feet. They are treading on evidence. Mister Huffington,” he continued without a breath, “a light if you please.”

“Back off, everyone,” Captain Donnely ordered. As the soldiers retreated, Huffington took a lantern from one of them and placed it on the dock near the body.

The spymaster crooked a finger, beckoning, and Huffington knelt beside him, the damp boards of the dock cool under his knee. The sharp smell of blood wafted to him from the clotted pool farther along the dock, but the body itself seemed abnormally clean and rather sterile, a consequence of being in the water, he supposed.

“Clear the way for the admiral!” called the corporal. Sailors and marines parted and snapped to attention.

“Captain Donnely!” Admiral Joslan huffed as he pulled down on the hem of his uniform’s waistcoat. His face was still puffy with sleep and a wild strand of white hair strayed out from under his hat. “What exactly happened here?”

“Master Upton is examining the scene, sir,” Donnely replied. “Hopefully he will come up with some explanation.” The admiral’s only reply was a discontented snort.

“Your thoughts, Mister Huffington?” Upton asked.

Huffington looked back at the unfortunate marine. The wound in the man’s neck, while not particularly deep, was ragged and torn; not surprising, considering that he’d probably been submerged for several hours. Barracuda and other scavengers commonly patrolled these waters. It likely hadn’t been a shark; too much of the body remained. The wound was not particularly deep, but the main arteries had been severed, and the trachea had been torn. He pressed on the corpse’s stomach and noted that no water issued from either the trachea or mouth. Upton had unbuttoned the marine’s uniform jacket, and the mail shirt beneath glittered in the lamplight, obviously well cared for. The neckcloth was relatively clean below the wound, but the man’s shirt beneath the mail, protected from the cleansing water by the tightly buttoned jacket, was stained crimson.

“He was dead before he hit the water,” he concluded, “and it wasn’t a blade that killed him.” He stood and looked at the broad bloodstain, pointing at the center of the dark mass. “It happened there, and the body was flung into the sea. His pouch is still on his belt and full of coin, so it wasn’t robbery.”

Upton stood up slowly and wiped his hands on his coat.

“What do you mean, not a blade?” the admiral asked with a frown. “And, Master Upton, what is the count’s
secretary
doing here?”

“Mister Huffington has had considerable experience with such matters, Admiral.” He quirked a sly smile even as Huffington caught his breath. “He worked closely with the Tsing constabulary prior to entering the count’s service, so it seemed prudent to ask his opinion.”

Huffington carefully exhaled as he listened to Upton’s lie, and wondered if the spymaster sought to beholden him with threats to reveal secrets about his past. That trap, he resolved, he would not get caught in. But for the time being, he would play along.

“And, since I concur with all he has said so far,” Upton continued, “I suggest we listen without interruption.”

The admiral huffed and Captain Donnely narrowed his eyes, but Huffington saw the surgeon turn away to hide a smile.

“Though the wound’s been corrupted, its shape and depth show that it wasn’t a lateral cut to start with,” Huffington explained, uncomfortable at the center of attention. He drew his thumb across his own throat in illustration. “A cross cut to the neck is usually bone deep but narrow, whereas this is shallow and was probably ragged even before the fish got to it.” He rose and walked over to the pool of blood.

“Then there’s the pattern of the blood.” Huffington stooped and pointed. Despite his nervousness, he was intrigued by the pattern of bloodstains, smeared though they were. “It’s easiest to slit a man’s throat from behind: it’s a natural slashing motion, the killer can surprise his victim and it’s cleaner…for the killer that is. But blood sprays everywhere—for quite a distance, really—until the heart stops. It makes a hell of a mess. But we don’t see blood all over the dock, only here, and not much of it. To my mind, that means that the killer was standing in front of his victim. That’s an awkward stroke with a knife, and the victim would certainly see it coming and try to defend himself.”

“Which he did not,” Upton interrupted, taking up the narrative. The spymaster examined Yarel’s hands, then pulled a short dagger from inside his jacket, ran the tip under the corpse’s fingernails. “There is no sign of a struggle. No broken skin on the hands, and no flesh or blood under the nails. The murderer managed to walk up to your marine, then silence him and kill him almost instantly.”

“It also means that the killer was spattered in blood, which is a hard thing to hide, sir.” Huffington started to glance away when something caught his eye. “What’s this?” he said as he stepped over the pool of blood and squatted down. He traced his finger along the outline of a partially smudged print, narrow, with five tiny toe prints clearly visible. “Look here, Master Upton; a footprint. Too small to be a man. Could be a boy or a woman. And unshod, so probably a native.”

“A native woman did this?” the admiral sputtered in anger. “What about that Paska shrew, always screeching about how I need to give them
Flothrindel
so they can run off to help their friends?”

“With respect, sir,” Huffington said quickly, “I don’t think it could be Paska. For one thing,
Flothrindel
is still here. Whoever killed your man stood right here in front of him, tore his throat out, tossed the body into the sea and just walked away.”

“Tore his throat out?” Donnely said with a grimace.

Huffington ignored Donnely’s comment and continued. “It seems to me that the most likely explanation is that not all the cannibals left the island after their attack. Maybe a few stayed, hidden in the jungle. They file their teeth. That would explain the wound and the blood pattern.”

“Preposterous!” Admiral Joslan said, disbelief painted on his piggish features. “You suggest that some
woman
ripped this man’s throat out with her
teeth
?”

Huffington shrugged and glanced toward Upton. The emperor’s master of security was looking at him with an appraising—and unnerving—gaze. Huffington dropped his eyes.

“This is exactly what he is suggesting, Admiral,” Upton said. “And again, I agree. I suggest that you send out search parties and double your guard. Let no one venture out alone, especially at night.”

Joslan looked taken aback, a glint of fear in his eyes. Huffington didn’t blame him; he hoped to never meet the cannibals who had wreaked such havoc here, but something about his own explanation bothered him.
If it was cannibals
, he thought,
then why didn’t they take the body
?

The admiral finally found his voice. “Yes, I…I agree that precautions are necessary. See to it, Captain Donnely.”

“Aye, Admiral.” The captain saluted, then turned to Upton. “Are you finished here, sir?”

“I would like to take a sketch of that print, Captain, but I think we have learned everything we can from the body. Bury your man. It may also be wise, Admiral, to spread the word among the natives. They are better acquainted with this enemy than we are, and perhaps can shed some light on this mystery.” He beckoned to Huffington, and the two of them strode up the dock toward the beach. Only when they were well out of earshot did Upton lean close and speak.

“Something is amiss here, Mister Huffington. Have a care.”

“I…always do, Master Upton,” Huffington said, eying the spymaster and trying to decide if the last had been a warning, or a threat.

≈

Camilla drifted from sleep to wakefulness in a cocoon of warmth. Half opening one eye, she saw the bright blue sky of a new day beyond the gossamer drapes of the balcony. It was morning. She blinked and stretched, relishing the sensation of soft sheets caressing her bare skin. She felt wonderful, better than she had in days. Her sleep had been deep and dreamless.

She rolled over and smiled at the sight of Emil still sleeping beside her, snoring softly, his dark hair in disarray, the sheets thrown off sometime in the night. She watched him breathe, recalling their tumultuous lovemaking of the night before. Like the storm that had passed, their passion had been both violent and purging. She frowned at the scratches that marred his chest and shoulders, reaching out to touch them.

He stirred, eyes fluttering open, blinking to focus on her. “Mmm…morning,” he mumbled with a smile, reaching around to cradle her in the crook of his arm, her cheek against his chest. “Sleep well, my dear?”

“Wonderfully, thanks to you,” she said as she snuggled into the heat of his body, tracing her fingertips down his chest. She craned her neck to look up into his sweet face, his eyes so filled with adoration that she wanted to weep with gratitude. Here in his arms, she felt safe as she never had before. Safe…and loved. She touched the scratches and frowned apologetically. “Sorry about those. I got a little carried away.”

“It’s nothing, my dear,” he said, drawing her close and running his fingers through her hair. “Battle scars…”

“Battle scars?” she said with a smirk, tickling his ribs until he twitched and laughed. “Seriously, though, thank you for indulging me last night. I needed it.” She held him close, kissing his chest. “I feel better, whole again, finally.”

“Mmmm. It was my pleasure.” He ran his fingers through her hair, and she pressed herself tight against him. Sudden desire welled up from deep within her, setting her skin alive with tingles of pleasure.

“
You
make me whole, Emil,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes. “How can I ever repay you?”

“Oh, I’m sure you can think of
something
, my dear.”

She laughed, and then did.

≈

Paska glowered at the imperial marines who stood guard at the doors to the keep’s great hall, and bounced little Koybur on her hip to quiet him.

Beside her, Tipos flashed her a warning with his eyes. Rumors of the soldier’s death were flying like leaves in a hurricane. It would not do to aggravate Admiral Joslan now; this was the first time he had actually sent for them.

It will be different when Shambata Daroo returns
, she thought, adamant that the seamage and her husband would return, though others thought it less than likely.
Cynthia won’t let this admiral push her around.

Admiral Joslan had claimed the great hall as his center of operations and conducted all his business here. The long table that had been the site of so many pleasant meals was now strewn with papers and charts, letters and scrolls. As usual, the admiral sat at the head of the table, a silver tea and blackbrew service placed within reach, and his ever-present steward hovering nearby. To the admiral’s left sat Count Norris and Miss Cammy. Paska breathed a silent sigh of relief; Miss Cammy was looking better every day. This morning her cheeks had some color and her eyes were less sunken, though she didn’t look very happy.

It took Paska a moment to realize what was out of place. Count Norris’ secretary, Huffington, stood not by his master, but at the Admiral’s elbow next to a short man whose blank features shone like a mask, concealing secrets she was certain she didn’t want to know.

“Admiral,” Paska said, keeping her tone amiable, “you be sendin’ fer us?”

“I did.” He indicated two empty chairs across from Camilla and Norris. “Thank you for coming. Please have a seat. Would you care for anything? Blackbrew, tea?”

“Not’in’ fer me, t’anke,” she said, sharing a covert glance with Tipos as he declined the offer and they took seats; the admiral was being cordial, which was not like him at all. “Dis about dat soldier who was killed?”

“It is.” He raised a hand toward Huffington and the other man. “This is Master Upton, the emperor’s Master of Security. You know Mister Huffington. They are investigating the death, and they thought you might be able to shed some light on the subject.”

“We don’t know not’in’ ‘bout it, Admiral,” Tipos said, quelling Paska’s outraged reply with a tap on her leg under the table. “If you’re t’ink one of oua people—”

“I am not suggesting that any of your people had anything to do with it,” the admiral interrupted, “but we have questions that we hoped you might be able to help answer.”

“Questions?” Paska asked, arching her brow. “What kinda questions?”

The admiral opened his mouth to answer, but Master Upton stepped forward. “Admiral, if I may explain.”

“By all means, Master Upton,” the admiral said, reaching for his cup. Paska noted the distaste in his voice and his flushed features. The admiral did not like this Master Upton. Then again, as far as she had seen, the admiral didn’t like anyone.

They listened to Upton describe what they had discovered about the marine’s murder, the strange wound, blood pattern and lack of robbery or other injury. He spoke without a hint of emotion, but his eyes bored into them as if to catch any movement or glance that might suggest guilt. His gaze made Paska shudder; this man didn’t miss much. When he finished his recitation he showed them the sketch of the bloody footprint they had found and looked expectantly at them.

Paska looked to Tipos, who shrugged. “Dere’s no kinda animal on de islan’ to kill a man like dat. And dat footprint…”

“The footprint suggests that a
woman
,” the admiral said as he squinted at Paska, “killed this marine.”

“Admiral!” exclaimed the count.

Paska’s anger flared. Grabbing the cup in front of the count, she dashed the liquid to the floor, stepped in the puddle, then stamped her foot onto dry stone. “Dere!” she fumed. “Dat’s my footprint. I didn’t kill nobody!”

Paska’s footprint was longer, wider, and flatter than the sketch. She sat back down, glaring at the admiral.

“We were not,” Upton said with a glance toward the fuming admiral, “suggesting that it was one of the local natives. But perhaps some cannibals remained on the island after the attack?” He raised his eyebrows speculatively.

“Coulda been one of dem,” Tipos agreed. “If a woman jus’ walk up to de man, he might not suspec’ ‘til too late. But de cannibals don’t just tear out t’roats. Dey use clubs and such, too, and wouldn’t jus’ leave de body. We could look ‘round. Oua people probably bein’ betta at trackin’ in de jungle dan you, we might—”

“But before we help you wit’ dis,” Paska interrupted, nudging Tipos under the table, “what you willin’ to give us in trade?”

“Trade?” Joslan said, a flush of anger suffusing his face. “I’m not going to
barter
with you. I would think that you would want to help find the killer for your own safety’s sake.”

“Wasn’t one of oua people was killed, Admiral,” Paska said. She fought not to scream at the foolish man. This was the only chance they had to get what they needed, and she had to play it just right. “If it was one of dem cannibals, and dey be hidin’ somewhere in de jungle, you neva gonna find dem. We maybe find dem for you…if you give us
Flothrindel
.”