Suppose Sarra's death wasn't connected to Clyties?
Nonsense, she argued, it had to be. Look at the similarities. Huge amounts of blood spilled at both murders. Both killed with a knife, and the places where their bodies had been found were not accidental, either. The altar block for Clytie, the oak for Sarra. They had to be the same hand.
Not necessarily, a small voice argued back. Yes, blood was a common denominator both times, but Clytie was lured to her death, she didn't put up a fight (why not? had she been drugged?) and her wrists were slashed in a manner that could almost be described as peaceful.
Whereas Sarra was stabbed at least twenty times in a frenzied attack where she fought back until her very last breath, suggesting passion, rage, but maybe also desperation, and leaving Fearn as the number one suspect.
But!
Suppose Sarra was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Clytie's killer sees her standing under the oak tree and knows that she's waiting for Pod. Inspiration strikes. Oak tree? Midsummer? In the grey light of dawn there's the flash of a knife blade. A struggle ensues. Blood gushes out. But surprise is the killer's best weapon. In less time than it takes to boil a hen's egg, a girl lies dead at the edge of the glade…
The notion was nauseating, abhorrent, sickening and obscene, but suppose Sarra's murder was a callous, but quite deliberate, distraction engineered purely to throw the investigation off the scent?
Claudia tasted bile in the back of her throat. This was no ordinary enemy she was dealing with now, for what twisted mind would treat life so cheaply?
How cold must the killer's heart be?
Cold or not, twisted or not, Sarra's killer drew great satisfaction from a job well done.
Twenty-Two
Have you seen Sarra?' a little voice asked.
'We need to report in-'
'- only we haven't seen her for hours-'
'- and if she finds out we've been watching otters instead of taking our nap, she'll skin us alive-'
'- and hang our pigtails up on her wall,' Aridella finished with a poorly masked giggle.
Claudia looked down. Three unrepentant faces. Three bobbing blonde heads. Three small lives about to be shattered. Again.
'We couldn't sleep,' Lin said, her cheeks dimpling with pride. 'Not with Vanessia winning the contest-'
'- and the otter pups are so cuddly-'
'- though you have to know where to look-'
'- but if we don't report in to Sarra soon, Dora might find out-'
'- and then we'll get our hides spanked for sure.'
'I'll give you spanked hides myself, if you lot don't clear out of here,' a deeper voice laughed with a lilting Teutonic accent.
The girls spun round in unison.
'Oh, Swarbric, you won't tell on us, will you?' Vanessia pleaded.
'No, please don't.'
The young German scowled down at them, folded his arms over his chest and rocked back and forth on his heels.
'That depends on whether you reach the Field of Celebration before I do,' he said, pretending to consider. 'Suppose we say on three. One, two and-'
At the clap of his hands, the novices set off at a squealing run, their ceremonial skirts billowing behind them, their acorn headdresses skew-whiff, as they pelted back down the path. The instant they'd gone, the easy grin dropped from his face.
'Best that one of their own breaks the bad news,' he said. That way they'll know who to turn to for comfort.' His shock of grey hair shook from side to side. 'Poor little cows,' he added under his breath.
Looking at him, his handsome face twisted in a picture of empathy and compassion, one could be tempted to take him at face value. Except that Claudia had overheard him in conversation with Connal the morning before, outside his hut…
It doesn't matter whether you like it or not, he'd told him, shoving him against the wall. You bloody well do your job.
I'm not some sodding bear that can be forced to dance or be beaten to within an inch of its life, Connal had retorted, but Swarbric had contradicted him fiercely.
See these? He'd jabbed at his tight linen pants and the shirt that revealed most of his bared chest. This is the livery of a performing bear, he had growled, insisting the lad would get used to it in time.
And then later that morning — You enjoy your job, don't you? Claudia had asked on their way back from the Pit of Reflection.
Lets say I've become skilled at it, he'd replied, which was not the same thing. Not at all. We all have minds of our own, son, he had told Connal. It's our bodies that are in thrall
How often must a slave also be an actor? Claudia wondered. And what role was Swarbric playing now?
That he was embittered went without saying. Love! Do you think any of these women cares a copper quadran for you? They don't know the meaning of the bloody word, he had growled, and what happens to a caged tiger when it's had its teeth and claws pulled? Does it become less aggressive? The hell it does. It uses its massive paws like a club instead. The instinct to kill or be killed never dies…
She picked a sprig of chamomile and held it to her nose.
'Don't your people worship the sun?' she asked.
'Fire, the sun and the moon, aye.'
All three of which played a crucial role during the two equinoxes and both summer and winter solstices, she mused grimly. And all of which required sacrifice.
'Nothing you can't practise here, then?' she breezed.
A lopsided grin twisted his face. 'Assuming I wanted to, there'd be nothing to stop me, of course not. But let me tell you something else my tribe hold great store by among men. Chastity. Even their most powerful warriors believe carnal knowledge diminishes a man's muscles and makes him feeble in combat.' He flexed his with comic ostentation. 'What's your opinion on that, Lady Claudia?'
'I don't believe the preachings of men who swill beer from their boots, wear horns on their helmets and knot their hair over one ear can be taken seriously, either,' she said. 'How are your investigations going?'
He frowned. 'What investigations?'
'Beth told me she'd sent for you,' Claudia said. 'I assumed it was to enquire into the manner of Sarra's death.'
'Can't imagine why,' he said, shrugging. 'My job as Guardian of the Sacred Gate is to ensure that no one breaches the College boundaries, and on that matter I was able to reassure her. It is for others to investigate the circumstances, not me.'
'Because you're not qualified?'
'Because I'm not a woman,' he corrected. 'The HundredHanded conduct their own investigations and, my dear Lady Claudia, no man is privy to that.'
'Unless he can read their sign language.'
'Possibly, though I don't know of any who can.'
I do, she thought. Pod. And the law of averages said he couldn't be the only man curious enough to want to decipher their silent code. Gurdo, for instance, was an obvious candidate. No man could have had the run of the place, and for so long, without picking up at least the basic signals.
Oh, Pod, if they ever find out you can cipher Sarra's reaction had been one of sheer horror, when she discovered Pod could read hands, which meant Swarbric was either covering up for his fellow slaves or the slaves weren't owning up. Either way, Claudia decided, ignorance did not wash.
'So if you weren't investigating Sarra's murder,' she said, 'why were you bent over the body?'
'Hardly bent,' he said. (Well, it was worth a try.) 'But having assured the pentagram that security had not been breached by outsiders, I–I went searching…' He scratched his thick mop. 'Look, you haven't seen Connal by any chance, have you? Young lad, this tall,' he indicated with the flat of his hand a point just below the bridge of his nose, 'with fuzzy dark hair, only I sent him out on an errand around midnight last night and… well, he hasn't returned.'