“So you came here, and the next day you found Stricta here, too.” She turned red, and Stricta turned red, so I hurried on. “Whom Bilicho was hiding to protect everybody, and then Mollius came and told you Rhodri was arrested and then I got home.”
“Yes. And now you must tell us what to do, Ardur.”
I scratched my head. “I wish I knew. We still don’t know why Maecenas was murdered, even if we have a good idea how. But the place to begin is Caelius. Maybe I can scare him into talking. I think he may be blackmailing someone-the man we don’t know, the one with the money. That necklace wasn’t a cheap little souvenir of Londinium. And then there’s his payment of your father’s debts.” I looked at her. “We’ll start there, in fact. You and I will go to Urien. He may know something about Caelius that can help us. Bilicho, can you find out about the mine? If Maecenas had any business partners?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” I scratched my head again. “I keep thinking I’ve seen Narbo somewhere.”
“He probably followed you. That’s how he knew you were out of town, and why he decided to try to rob us that night.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Gwyna and I left a little later. The sun was smiling weakly, as if it were glad to be alive. It felt good after the drizzle the day before, but we kept our heads covered anyway. She was wearing an old cloak of mine which was much too big, but it kept her face and body better hidden than anything of her own.
The streets weren’t busy but we didn’t talk. I could feel how anxious she was to see her father. So was I. Caelius had some kind of hold on the old man, and I was going to break it. Along with Caelius himself.
The house was quiet. It looked forlorn, like a maiden aunt whose dinner guests all leave at once. I knocked on the door, and after a few moments Meuric answered. He was slightly out of breath and not too pleased to see me. But Gwyna stepped forward, and he said with surprise: “My lady! Your father will be happy you’re home! He was talking about you this morning, before he sent me with the message.”
She brushed past him, in a hurry.
I asked: “What message?”
His mouth turned down in a strong grimace, and he spit out the door before shutting it. “To that man. The one he betrothed my lady to.”
“Caelius? What was it?”
Before he could answer, I heard a noise, not particularly loud, but one I’d heard before. Gwyna had gone ahead of me, into the main room by the fire. It was a rumbling cross between a groan and a gasp, a noise that was heavier than a gold throne and more final than a handful of dirt over a coffin. I ran.
She was standing in front of Urien. He looked like he was sleeping. But the posture was wrong. He’d tried to get up, maybe tried to call for help. His legs wouldn’t work, so he’d slumped over, as if he were cold and the fire was warming him. But nothing would ever warm him again. There was a knife wound in his side, and a slow drip of blood had made a pool on the wooden floor.
She was in shock and breathing hard, her eyes wide and dry and empty. I knelt down. He was still breathing, but it wouldn’t be for long. His pale, milky eyes were still open. He was watching his daughter and then he looked at me.
“Gwyna-he wants to say something.”
She moved very deliberately, as if any motion would make her crack and fall apart, and knelt by him, the hem of the cloak slowly soaking her father’s blood from the floor. Urien’s breath was ragged. He’d been bleeding for a while. The sharp features were beginning to blur, and the hawk-blind eyes groped for something to hold on to, something to see, but were slipping backward into nothing.
“Daughter.” A dry, rattling gasp. Then more breaths. Not many left. His eyes moved to me. I could feel him trying, feel him taxing his body for one last battle.
“Caelius. Wrong message.”
He closed his eyes, and I thought we’d lost him. I picked up his hand, and Gwyna was holding her mouth and shaking all over. But he opened them again, and there was less worry on his face. Maybe even a little peace.
“Daughter. Proud.” She broke down then, and sobbed, still shaking, and held on to him, the blood of his wound brushing a macabre pattern on her cloak.
“Why don’t you do something? He’s dying, goddamn it, Ardur, my father is dying!”
I shook my head and stroked her hair. Meuric stood by, frozen and numb, the dull gold of Urien’s prize of valor gleaming in the firelight. He never regained consciousness. His fierce face relaxed into what he must have been before he was sick, before he was old and bitter and disappointed and lonely. Before he lost his money, before he lost his wife. He died in his daughter’s arms.
Meuric said: “I was in the kitchen. Sioned is at the market, buying some food. I thought he was sleeping.” His bearded face crumpled, and his mouth opened to make a wail, but no sound came out.
“Tell me the message you took.”
He looked at me but didn’t see me. But he was an old servant, and servants are trained to respond.
“That he was to come see him. The Master. He did at once, returned here with me. I left them alone together.”
“Was that the last time you saw Urien?”
He stared down at the old man’s body. Gwyna was cradling it in her arms, a low keening sound coming from her lips. He didn’t need to answer me.
Sioned opened the door, and started to walk into the room and stopped. Her knees began to fold underneath her, and I strode over and held her up by the arm.
“Your master’s dead. Murdered. I’m going to settle the one who did it. Take care of her. You and Meuric-lay him out. Put his best clothes on him.”
She nodded, again her training keeping her upright. She walked slowly over to Gwyna, and put her arms around her. Gwyna started to sob into Sioned’s chest, and they held on to one another, rocking back and forth. Meuric watched dully, his stained beard ragged in the flickering light.
“Meuric. Leave the women here. Go to my house-the big one by the river-and tell my freedman what happened. Tell him I’m going to see Caelius. Can you remember that?”
He nodded dumbly.
“Go. And hurry.”
He hovered for a moment, and then turned, and walked out the door. I hoped he could find my house. But I knew he couldn’t hurry, and I didn’t care. I wanted to deal with Caelius by myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
People must have passed me on the way. I didn’t see any. I could only see one face, belonging to the smooth, pleasant, well-bred Marcus Caelius Prato.
The whorehouse was still closed. A sign announced that it would be reopening with new girls after the Kalends. I tried the door. It was bolted. So I started kicking it, and by the time I had one plank out, Pigeon-Chest opened it, looking terrified.
“Where is he?”
“W-Who? Lupo? He’s-”
“You know goddamn well who I mean. Caelius.”
He trembled a little. “Upstairs.”
“Show me.”
I followed him to the landing. The hallway still stank. He walked to the left, and then I saw how Caelius had appeared so suddenly, in front of Rhodri, staring at the pouch on Maecenas’ side.
Right by the stairs was what I thought was a wall. I’d never looked at it closely; I’d tried not to look closely at much in that place. But there was a thin gap, door height, cut into the wall, and a little latch to hold it in place.
Pigeon-Chest watched me, trying not to wet his pants. I said: “Don’t knock.”
He twisted the latch, and with his fingernails, pried open the door a little. I shoved him out of the way and walked through.