Orbilio dangling friendship as the bait for his trap.
There was the trauma of finding Sarra, before Claudia had had time to come to terms with Clytie's death, so horribly reminiscent of her own mother's suicide.
And now Swarbric, risking everything for a pair of selfish lovers who would not thank him for his intervention.
Combined, these things were bound to induce suspicion, mistrust, a feeling of being watched, but let's keep this in perspective, she thought. Simply because one girl has been butchered this morning doesn't mean there's a maniac stalking the woods. Sarra, like Clytie, had been killed for a reason… even if Claudia didn't know what it was. Orbilio claimed motive was the key to solving a murder but if, as she feared, Sarra's death was nothing but a callous diversion, motive might well be the last thing she figured out.
Fearn certainly had a motive, as well as the means and the opportunity, though proving her guilt would be difficult, if not impossible. Even so, she mustn't allow single-mindedness to blind her to what, in the end, might be false speculation. Lives were at stake, young lives at that, and she couldn't afford to overlook clues in her quest to prove Fearn a murderess, only to find she was wrong. Claudia slapped a mosquito that alighted on her wrist. For one thing, she hadn't ruled out Pod as a suspect, though it was unlikely the Hundred-Handed would be prepared to conceal his role in a murder. However much they valued a dwarf's healing powers, there was a limit to how far that loyalty extended — especially when the victim was one of their own! No, no, the more Claudia thought about it, the more she was convinced that Clytie's killer was close to the College's heart — of which the pentagram was its pivot.
All roads lead to Fearn…
At the point in the woods where the track opened out, she could hear the singing and revelry from the Field of Celebration, as the people who relied on this forest for survival rejoiced in its ripeness and wisdom. There would be games for the children (she could hear them squealing), revolving around the dependable oak. There would be demonstrations of how to prevent weevils from making blotches and displays of the woodcarvers' skills. Dora, ably flanked by the Priestesses of Buckthorn and Broom, whose trees also favoured oakwoods, would be mingling among bargain-hunters at the Midsummer Fair, while her brown-clad novices danced an intricate jig round a board shaped like an acorn. But it was not to the festivities that Claudia's feet took her. Turning to the left, she was at Swarbric's hut within less than a minute and, staring up at its thatch, scenes unfolded like acts in a theatre.
It's early in the year. The trees are without leaf. An accident occurs, which results in Swarbric dislocating his shoulder blade. Mavor is summoned at once.
Despite the double tragedy that hung in the air, Claudia smiled to herself.
Between you and me, he yelped like a girl.
It was always the same, she reflected wryly. Heartbreak and comedy walk hand in hand. One rarely exists without a glimpse of its opposite …
The actors on the stage moved again. Now Mavor is calming his pain with soft words and a potion. She manipulates the joint, clicks it back into place. Swarbric sweats with the pain, his face is waxy and grey, but now he is being bandaged tightly for his own good. Cold compresses cool him. A soft hand stokes his forehead. Breasts that another time would pulse sensual splendour have become a bosom of comfort and care. Long-forgotten memories surface as he lies helpless on his own bed. He is a child again, three years old, and this is his mother. His mother loved him, he remembers, he loved her in return, and now Swarbric is cocooned not in bandages, but in worship, and the more Mavor returns to tend to his shoulder, the deeper the young man reveres her. Through her tender ministrations, she has cured his pain and averted deformity, and in a way that prevents any recurrence of ligament damage. In his eyes, she is deified, and of course there was no affair. It would be an insult, an affront, to the woman he adores. Swarbric will do anything for her…
Claudia sighed. Dammit, if he was sentimental enough to charge off in the hope of saving two infatuated lovers from the Pit of Reflection, Jupiter knows what cause the empty-headed fool might champion for a redheaded beauty!.. what a mess, what a mess, don't you understand, we can't hide it-'
Mavor's voice inside the hut was full of anguish, but it was calmed by a male voice that was too low for Claudia to hear who she was talking to.
'Of course we can't hide it here, how could we? You're asking too much of Swarbric and too much of me-'
The man cut in again. His tone oozed sympathy, reassur ance, sorrow and doggedness, but above all, his voice remained calm and no matter how hard Claudia strained to listen, only an indistinct murmur came back. If the hut had had windows, perhaps she might have caught a few words. But nothing penetrated the walls or the thatch.
'You don't understand,' Mavor cried, and Claudia could almost sense her pulling away from the man as he attempted to calm her. 'Look, I know how hard this is for you, truly I do, but don't you see? I have no choice!'
With her ear pressed to the wall, Claudia had no inkling that Mavor had come rushing out until she rounded the corner. There was no time to feign a stone in her sandal but, with her face swollen from tears and her auburn tresses flying wild, the Bird Priestess was deep in a world of her own.
'I… was looking for Swarbric,' Claudia blustered, walking forward to meet her. 'Is he home?'
'What?' For a couple of seconds, Mavor was unable to focus, but three hundred years of training don't run through the blood without leaving their mettle. 'No, my dear, no,' she said, mustering a smile. 'In fact, I came looking for him myself, but… but the door's locked.'
Claudia glanced at the entrance over Mavor's shoulder and tutted. 'Never mind, I'll just have to call back later, I suppose.'
Her eyes ranged over the priestess's rich russet robes. They were crumpled and creased, as though they'd been slept in, but through all the hundreds of crinkles she could not detect one spot of blood.
'Do you want to talk about what's upset you?' she asked. 'Is it Sarra?'
'Nothing's upset me, I was just next to some onions — what do you mean?' Mavor's face was with blank with bewilderment. 'What should Sarra have said to upset me?'
Claudia reeled. 'You… haven't heard?'
'Heard what, my dear?'
'Sarra was found early this morning in a glade beneath an oak,' she said gently. 'She'd been stabbed a number of times.'
What little colour was left in Mavor's cheeks drained away. 'She's dead?' She blinked in incomprehension. 'Sarra's dead?'
When Claudia nodded, her shoulders began to tremble.
'Sweet Avita,' she muttered, hiding her face with her hands. 'Oh no, not this again, oh dear heaven, not this again.'
'Not what again?'
'This is terrible,' Mavor said, and there was no doubt she meant it. 'I don't know what he'll do when he finds out, I can't imagine-'
The rest of her sentence was drowned by four long blasts on a horn, but before Claudia could press her further, she was sprinting down the path like a hare with the hounds on its trail. It was a good morning for running, Claudia thought ruefully, and as a final blast on the horn told revellers that it was time to stop partying and prepare for the loosing of the midsummer arrows, she slowly walked up to the door and tried the latch. It wouldn't lift. She tried again in case it was stiff.
The door's locked, Mavor had said, but Mavor was lying. Caught off guard, she'd said the first thing that came into her head, and from then on, the door was in Claudia's sight all the time. She stared at the latch. Unless Mavor's companion had rushed out immediately after her and then took off down the other path, she'd have seen him — and how likely was that, if he'd taken such great pains to console her inside the hut? The odds were similar to the sun rising in the north, she decided.