‘I’m afraid I can’t say. But I take it you know what it is?’
She laughed incredulously. ‘Oh yes. I do. It is hemlock.’
My eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Are you quite certain of this?’
‘One cannot be completely sure with poisons, but I would say this probably contained a poison made from hemlock. I was schooled early on in my life to recognize such vile odours.’
‘Is it easily available?’ I asked.
‘If you know where to look, anything is easily available in Tryum,’ she replied.
‘No, I mean are there many apothecaries in Tryum who genuinely trade in such things? Other than the quite legitimate Mordia Lapmus, of course.’
Her eyes widened at the mention of her name, and she opened her mouth to reply, but seemed to consider her words more carefully. ‘It was certainly not me. I specialize in making people feel better, not in the arts of death, though there are those who practise such things in Detrata. The last time you came here, you mentioned henbane, and now you bring hemlock. If you work with death, I’d rather you took your work elsewhere.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t deal in such sinister arts myself and I share your appreciation for the living. But with a little help I might be able to track down who sold this or, more importantly, who bought it.’
‘Whoever buys hemlock wishes to kill another – or themselves,’ Mordia replied. ‘It’s very simple. No good comes of the substance. There is no justification for owning it.’
‘OK, so do you know who might sell similar blue vials? Or is there anyone who trades in hemlock in Tryum?’
‘The vial is not common,’ Mordia said. ‘But neither is it rare. I wouldn’t be able to match it, off the top of my head, but I can give you a list of other apothecaries who work in the city.’ She paused, and looked around with impatience. ‘I will write down a list for you. I only ever know the reputable traders, though – it may well be that your search will put you in contact with more unscrupulous traders.’
She reached across to one side and, with a reed pen, scrawled on a ledger, while I regarded the vial once again. What would my father be doing with poison? Had his personal situation become so bad, had his debts caused him so much anguish, that he felt the need to take his own life?
‘There.’ She ripped out the thick page from the ledger, folded it up and thrust it at me. ‘I know only of seven other apothecaries who may be able to help you further. If there are illegitimate tradesmen, which there may well be, then I make a point of not knowing them.’
Many of the addresses were situated in the higher or mid levels of the city. None of them were in Plutum or Barrantum.
‘Thanks for your time, Mordia.’ I moved over to the door. ‘I promise not to bother you any more.’
‘Just make sure your father keeps drinking his tisanes,’ Mordia replied, more warmly than before, but now distant – utterly focused on the contents of her pan.
Seeking to hire a horse, I wandered the backstreets of Tradum to the biggest of the city stables, a large, noisy and pungent courtyard. An array of tradesmen, blacksmiths and armourers laboured around the perimeter of the structure, forming a lively, self-contained community.
I examined some of the remarkably ornate signs and chatted to the workers. Paying fifty pecullas for the day, apparently, I could be riding a wonderful brown stallion fit for the military. But given my finances, instead I paid ten pecullas for an old white mare with a huge personality. She seemed happy to go anywhere today and I was happy to ride with her.
From there I rode down to the Temple of Polla, where the pontiff was waiting for me, to collect my father’s ashes. In the shaded entrance he gave me the key to our mausoleum, which was stored safely within the temple. A smell of incense pervaded from the never-ending fire. Calludian Drakenfeld’s ashes were contained within a large urn, on which a battle scene from the Visions of Polla, with relief lines around Polla herself, was painted. There was a remarkable level of skill involved in its creation – this was a beautiful send-off for my father. Two rings lay buried within the ashes, the pontiff told me, which were found on his body at the time.
I thanked the pontiff for his assiduous and respectful preparations, wrapped and placed both the urn and the key within a shoulder bag, before heading back to my house.
While I waited for Titiana, I took a quick look around my father’s room to see if there were any other items to take to the mausoleum with me, something that might make for a good send-off. He had not been a great collector of trinkets and my mother would always hassle him not to hoard useless items. In the end I settled on his Sun Chamber brooch, which was located in a drawer, deciding that it was more than appropriate.
But then it struck me: if he was wearing his rings at the time of his death, when he was found in his offices, why was his brooch of office here in a drawer? What was the reason for him taking it off ?
I placed the brooch within the urn, sealed it once again and tucked it away. The knock on the main door moments later was Titiana. She stood before me in a long blue tunic and black cloak, her hair tied in thin silver bands and brought forward around her neck; her sensual, olive-brown skin seemed to glow in the clarity of the morning sun.
On seeing her I realized how grateful I was not to be taking my father’s ashes to the mausoleum alone.
Mausoleums, crypts, tombs and exposed sarcophagi – the houses of the dead were scattered throughout the hillsides near Tryum in all directions, and my father’s lay to the south-east. In that way, it was deemed that the dead should surround the living, ensuring we did not forget their presence. I could certainly vouch for the effectiveness of that plan: my father’s own departure through to the Underworld and beyond had certainly overshadowed my arrival in Tryum. Even in death he managed to be sending me about the city and, for better or worse, I felt I knew him more in death than when he was still alive.
With Titiana sitting behind me, we rode towards the south gate and the day was already starting to get hot. The road was full of tradesmen and shoppers, wanderers and home-comers. Aqueducts towered across neighbourhoods, casting even tall buildings in shadow. Plutum lay to our left, Barrantum to our right, the south road dividing the poorer districts in two. Not that anyone would notice a difference between them – poverty did not discriminate, after all. But it was heartening to witness at least two priests wandering the slums and giving alms to the poor.
Pairs of soldiers from the City Watch marched up and down the wide road at regular intervals, maintaining the sense of order here, though a glimpse into the streets beyond would suggest there was very little order to be found. The old city wall, built during the Detratan Empire, had long since been looted for stone, and stood as an impotent barrier, where only two watch-towers now remained. Tryum had bloomed over the years and the resplendent new city wall loomed in the distance in all its limestone glory, cracked and weathered already, but a good deal more robust than its predecessor. It was reassuring to see such scrutiny from the soldiers as they assessed who was going in and out.
Eventually we managed to head out of the gates to the countryside beyond. The mare was a reliable companion for us, and she soon picked up her pace once she was free of the streets.
Titiana held on to me. A decade disappeared in an instant.
As the sun rose ever higher, we continued on the road through farmland. Hills shimmered and in the distance were the outlines of the monuments to the dead. The yellow and black banners of Detrata rippled in the wind above them. Such structures, for reasons I never fully understood, tended to cluster around auspicious hilltops that were important in Detrata’s history, or for religious reasons that had largely been forgotten. It’s strange, sometimes, how rituals become established practice and no one ever knows their true origins. We just do what we’re told, and act in certain ways, until it’s engraved on our souls.