Xanin’s frown deepened, his expression now openly hostile, making Andri wonder if Irulan’s difficulties with Maellas didn’t actually stem from this man.
“I’ll need a list of all the victims, their family members, and any witnesses.”
“Of course,” Maellas replied, while Xanin glowered. “I’ll have my chief aide, Margil, coordinate with the captain of the watch to get that information to you.”
“Very good. I’d like it by the end of the day, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Andri pushed his chair back, then waited for Maellas and Xanin to rise before standing himself. He kissed Maellas’s ring, then paused, waiting for Xanin to offer his. The Ancillary Bishop kept his hands at his sides, balled into fists, not the first evidence of anger Andri had seen from him. Nor, he was sure, would it be the last.
“May the Flame light your path, Your Excellencies,” he said, bowing to them both. He turned and exited from the Bishop’s dining room, not bothering to wait for a response.
The files had arrived that evening as requested, and since the only living witness to any of the murders, Zoden ir’Marktaros, had wisely left town, Andri and Irulan spent the next two days going through the list in reverse order, from the most recent murders to the earliest. Their questioning yielded little that was not already contained in the notes the Bishop had provided, and while it seemed clear that at least some of the witnesses had been coerced, Andri was unable to determine if that coercion was due to actual malfeasance, or simply to the pervading desire the survivors felt to see someone-anyone-brought to justice for the murders. The Tankard was the duo’s last stop before evening Mass and dinner. The proprietor, Edven Irvallo, was a retired sergeant in the Thrane army and his son had been the first identified victim.
As they entered the tavern, Andri reflexively stepped away from the door, removing himself as a target while his eyes adjusted to the common room’s dim interior. His gaze swept the room, taking in an old dog busy scratching itself in front of the low fire, a couple at a back table exchanging coy looks and coin, and the stout man behind the counter whose business had clearly seen better days.
Andri approached the bar with an easy smile, intending to order a drink before questioning the man. The paladin was thirsty and Irvallo could obviously use the coin.
Irvallo smiled widely in answer, sizing up Andri’s armor and rich tabard quickly and no doubt thinking that his luck was about to improve. Once he got a good look at Irulan, however, his demeanor changed and his welcoming smile was replaced by a dark scowl.
“No animals allowed, shifter.”
Irulan’s lips pulled back in a snarl and her hand dropped to her hilt, but Andri stayed her with an impatient gesture.
“She’s with me,” he said, drawing Irvallo’s heated gaze back to him, and the livery he wore.
“Sorry, sir,” the man replied. “No pets allowed, either.”
Andri heard the familiar shing of a blade sliding out of its scabbard, and he stepped forward quickly, interposing himself between the old soldier and the shifter before she could do more than flash a bit of steel and growl.
“I understand your anger, friend, but it is misplaced. I know you believe a shifter killed your son-”
“Not one from Aruldusk,” Irulan muttered behind him, but he ignored her, focusing his attention on the man in front of him whose face was still dark with rage.
“But even if that is true-and we have no definitive proof that it is-this shifter has done you no harm.” His tone was calm, placating. “Stand down, sergeant.”
Irvallo glared. “And if I won’t … sir?”
Andri’s hand flashed out. He grabbed the man by his beard, heaving him off his feet and onto the bar. He pulled Irvallo so close that he could see the ring of darker brown around the man’s caramel-colored irises and smell the stale beer on his clothes.
“If you won’t, then I will personally recommend to Bishop Maellas that this flea-infested brothel be shut down and cleansed, and that you spend the rest of your life doing penance in the iron mines. Do I make myself clear, soldier?”
“Yes,” Irvallo said through gritted teeth, glare never wavering.
“Good.” Andri released him. “Now, suppose you get me and my companion a mug of your best ale and tell us about Mikal.”
Irvallo led them grudgingly over to a table near the bar, calling for a maid to bring out three tankards of the Nightwood. A middle-aged woman, well past her prime, came out of the kitchen a few moments later carrying a tray in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. She slapped the mugs down on the table, sloshing golden froth everywhere. She turned away, unconcerned, and was about to walk off when Andri called her back.
“What?” she asked, and Andri saw Irvallo wince at the rude tone. The paladin slid a sovereign across the table, avoiding a dark puddle of ale.
“Thank you,” he said.
She picked the silver coin up and looked suspiciously at it, and him, before tucking it into her apron pocket. Then she wiped up the spilled ale with her rag, and stalked back into the kitchen.
Andri took a drink of the dark brew, savoring the full, robust flavor that had only been slightly watered down. He did not often drink and would have preferred to order wine or mead, but he sensed both Irulan and the barkeep were in need of something stronger. He continued to drink slowly until they followed his lead, and the three spent several long moments in silence enjoying the Karrnathi ale. When Andri judged that tempers had cooled all around, he set his mug down and turned to Irvallo.
“We’re here investigating the recent murders on behalf of the Council of Cardinals,” he explained. “I know it’s painful to dredge up these memories, but I need you to tell me about Mikal’s death.”
“No dredging required,” Irvallo retorted, finishing his own ale and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pain’s still as fresh as if it happened this morning.”
He slammed his mug down on the table but didn’t release the handle, his fingers turning white with the force of his grasp.
“Mikal was a good lad, and bright. Would have done better for himself than I ever did. Well-liked, made friends easy, didn’t run with the wrong crowd. He was apprenticing with the baker, Syra Corus, down near the Market District. He’d be up hours before dawn firing the ovens and getting things ready for her. Always woke me up when he left, no matter how quiet he tried to be. I learned to sleep light during the War and haven’t been able to shake the habit.” He gave a small chuckle, sad and disparaging, before continuing. “Left that morning like he always did. Sometimes I’d worry, him walking all that way in the dark, but both Zarantyr and Barrakas were full, so I knew he’d have plenty of light. Next thing I know, one of Syra’s delivery boys is pounding on my door, telling me to come quick. They’d found Mikal’s body in the alley behind her shop. His throat had been ripped out. He never even made it in to work.”
Irvallo’s grief was a raw, open wound, even after all these months. Andri wished, not for the first time today, that his ability to heal went beyond the physical. No one should have to relive the heinous murder of a loved one-he knew how painful stirring up those memories could be, and how hard it was to quiet them once they had been so roused.
But if he could learn even one thing that would prevent the Keeper’s darkest fear from coming to pass, then he would not only open the wounds, but douse them in brine. The pain experienced by a few families in Aruldusk was as nothing compared to the anguish of a continent mourning an entire race.
“You were there when they interrogated Mikal after his death, correct? Do you remember anything he might have said about his attacker?”
Irvallo laughed, loudly this time. Bitterly.