Will you be all right with another demon this close? Pen asked her in worry.
Oh, aye. At this rank, we are both tame Temple demons. Think of it like two people’s spouses who can’t abide each other, but feign civility for their mates’ sakes.
Hamo’s mouth, too, fell open in a huff of dismay at what lay in his hall. “No mistake, then.”
“The locators brought her in, sir, and, um… these gentlemen,” the porter supplied. That last was probably meant as a politeness, given Pen’s and Inglis’s grubby day-in-the-country garb, but he left his superiors to sort themselves out, stepping back. Though not very far.
Hamo knelt to touch the woman’s face, then signed himself, lips moving in some short prayer. His jaw clenched as he took in the blood and the stubs of the arrows. He rose and turned to Oswyl, face more deeply lined than a moment ago. “What happened?”
“Her body was found by a lay dedicat of the village temple…” Oswyl went on to summarize the early morning’s events, how he came to be called out on the inquiry, and what he’d first found in the clearing. “I could see at once I wanted a Temple sensitive, and I knew Shaman Inglis and Learned Penric to be fishing not far from there, so I conscripted them to my aid.”
A look of relief came over Hamo’s face, as the uncanniness he could very well sense about the two strangers was slotted into a settled place. He might not know Inglis, but he obviously was well-up on his colleagues and rivals in magics across town at the Royal Fellowship, for he merely nodded and said, “Shaman Inglis. You bear a Great Wolf, I think?”
“Yes, Learned,” said Inglis, returning the nod in like kind.
“Shaman Inglis has some prior experience in my inquiries,” added Oswyl on his behalf. Of course, he didn’t say on which side. Inglis controlled his wince.
“And, Learned Penric…?” Hamo’s face held the usual doubt, given the way the claimed rank clashed with Penric’s apparent youth.
“Learned Penric of Martensbridge”—Penric favored him with a short bow—“court sorcerer to Princess-Archdivine Llewyn of Martensbridge. I followed in Her Grace’s train on her visit for her great-nephew’s name-day ceremonies, and some other Temple business here in Easthome she means to accomplish at the same time.” Given that Llewyn was aunt to the Hallow King, and the mewling infant in question his newborn heir, Pen, too, left Hamo to sort it out for himself.
“Ah!” Hamo sounded enlightened rather than taken aback. “I believe I have heard something of your story.” His eyes narrowed. “You inherited Learned Ruchia’s demon, yes? I thought I recognized that extraordinary density.”
“You knew Ruchia?” asked Penric, interested. Although now was not the time to follow it up.
“We met once or twice.” Also recognizing the diversion, he waved it aside for a much more urgent concern. “You saw where Magal lay? Her soul was not”—he swallowed—“astray or sundered, I trust?”
“Seemingly not.”
Hamo’s shoulders slumped in relief. “That, at least,” he muttered, and tapped his lips in a brief prayer of gratitude to their mutual god.
There followed some time devoted to physical necessities: carrying the sorceress’s body to a decent temporary rest in a sort of infirmary at the far end of the house, sending for the female physician Oswyl recommended as working often with his Order’s unhappy (Penric read it gruesome) inquiries, requisitioning a dedicat to take the locators’ horses back to their mews and the carthorse back to its livery. Junior Locator Thala, perhaps expecting to be sent off on this lowly task, brightened at being allowed to stay by Oswyl’s side.
They eventually fetched up at what was clearly Hamo’s working office on the third floor; crowded shelves, writing table piled high with papers, not quite enough chairs, a lapse Hamo repaired by stealing one from a neighboring chamber.
As soon as they were seated—not settled, Pen gauged unsettled was closer to describing the mood in the room—Oswyl began in what must be practiced formality.
“I am sorry for the loss of your colleague—and friend?”
“Both, I hope,” said Hamo.
“But I must ask a great many questions.”
“Please do,” sighed Hamo. “This is… this is horrible. Mags is lying downstairs, while some sundered fool is out there… Whatever you require, Locator.” And Pen didn’t need second sight to read the sincerity in his voice. Thala removed a little notebook and a lead stylus from her vest, and sat back looking attentive.
“First, I must know Learned Magal’s kin. The porter mentioned children?”
“Yes, two, a daughter and a son. Her daughter lately made a very good marriage to a silversmith, and her son is apprenticed to an instrument maker. Both here in Easthome. Oh gods, I must send someone to tell them, or, no, I should go—”
“I will undertake that task next, Learned. It’s in my mandate for such tragedies, and such close kin should not be told second-hand.”
Hamo looked relieved, and gave up the names and addresses of the two, which the assistant jotted down.
“And a husband?” Oswyl asked. Given that Magal was a member of the Bastard’s Order, the presence of children did not necessarily imply the presence of a husband, howsoever it required a father.
Hamo shook his head. “She was widowed a few years ago. Earlier in her career she served as the divine of a temple in Oxmeade”—a large town a half-day’s ride from Easthome, Pen recalled—“and he was the long-time choirmaster there. A very devoted couple, from all I’ve been able to gather. But her single state was one of her many qualities that made her a good candidate to become a sorceress.”
“Did the widow have any new suitors? Or, pardon but I must ask, lovers?”
Hamo blinked, perhaps realizing for the first time that the locator was collecting a list of suspects. “None that I know. She did not seem to wish for one.”
“Would you know?” asked Oswyl. By sorcerous means, Pen gathered he meant.
“Yes,” said Hamo, more certainly. Oswyl cast a look at Pen, who gave him a brief nod.
Penric then offered a question he wasn’t sure would occur to Oswyclass="underline" “How long ago did she receive her demon?”
“Not long. Just three months. I thought they were settling in so well together.” He rubbed his forehead and burst out, “This makes no sense. She was level-headed, amiable, experienced—a decade serving all sorts of people as a temple divine will certainly disclose one’s character—are you sure it couldn’t have been some terrible accident or mistake?”
“I haven’t ruled out anything yet. Not even that.”
Penric could almost see Oswyl struggling not to say aloud, But it just doesn’t smell right. The locator had earned Pen’s respect last winter. Only now was he beginning to garner Pen’s pity as well. Pen was increasingly glad this grim task was Oswyl’s calling, and not his own.
Oswyl went on, “Any other kin? Or in-laws?”
“Not here in town. Mags has—had none living, and her late husband’s family are all back in Oxmeade.”
“Friends and colleagues here in Easthome?”
“Many of both. She was well-liked.”
“Any of special note?”
Hamo tossed off a few names, which the assistant dutifully jotted down.
“Were any of these colleagues rival candidates to receive a demon?”
Was Oswyl imagining professional jealousy, to add to jealousy in love? Pen supposed he had to cover every aspect.
“Well, Learned Basum is also waiting for the next opportunity, but I wouldn’t call him a rival.”