Besides, Karitha was killed by a very strong person—she had been picked up and flung against a wall at one point. And the killer had not been gentle with Deru or Athaniel, either. Lirrin scarcely looked strong enough to do anything like that. She wasn’t as scrawny and underfed as some apprentices, but she still had more bone showing than muscle. Of course, with magic, anything is possible... Sarai realized that she had reached the bottom of the stairs and was now staring into Lirrin’s face from a distance of only four or five feet.
“I’m sorry,” Sarai said, trying to sound sincere. She was sorry that Serem was dead, genuinely sorry, but right now she was thinking too hard about who might have killed him to get real emotion into her voice.
Lirrin grimaced. “I guess you see things like this all the time, Lady Sarai,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“No,” Sarai said. “No, I don’t. Usually the guard takes care of... of deaths without calling me in. They’re usually simple— someone lost his temper and is sitting there crying and confessing, or there are a dozen witnesses. If it’s not that obvious, then we call in the magicians, and generally we have the perpetrator in the dungeons the next day.” She sighed. “But this time,” she said, “we seem to be dealing with a lunatic of some sort, one who uses magic that hides all his traces. So they called me in, because I’m supposed to be good at figuring these things out. And I’m trying, Lirrin, I really am, but I just don’t know how to catch this one.”
“Oh,” the apprentice—the former apprentice, Sarai reminded herself, since the apprenticeship was over and done, and Lirrin would have to prove herself worthy of journeyman status before the representatives of the Wizards’ Guild, despite missing the final year of her studies—said, in a tiny voice.
Sarai hesitated before saying any more, but finally spoke. “Lirrin,” she said, “you’re Serem’s heir, and that means you’re responsible for his funeral rites. But before you build a pyre, I have a favor to ask, a big one.”
“What?” Lirrin was clearly on the verge of tears.
“Could you summon a necromancer to see if someone can speak to Serem’s ghost? His soul won’t be free to flee to Heaven until his body is destroyed; if we can question him, ask who stabbed him—he must have seen who it was. He might not know a name, he might not remember everything—ghosts often don’t—but anything he could tell us might help.”
Lirrin blinked, and a tear spilled down one cheek. “You said there were others...”
Sarai sighed again.
“There were,” sheadmitted, “but with the first few we didn’t know it would be necessary until it was too late, until after the funeral. We did finally try with the demonologist; her soul was gone without a trace, probably taken by some demon she owed a debt to. We hope to do better with Serem. With your permission.”
“Of course,” Lirrin said weakly. “Of course.”
The smoke from the pyre drifted lazily upward; the weather was starting to turn cooler again, and the air was clear, the sky a dazzling turquoise blue.
“Damn it,” Sarai muttered.
Captain Tikri glanced sideways at her, then across at Lirrin. The apprentice seemed oblivious to everything but the burning remains of her master. The handful of friends and family in attendance were lost in their own thoughts or talking to one another.
“Troubled, Lady Sarai?” Tikri murmured.
“Of course I am!” she said in reply. “It’s all so wasteful and stupid! Even this funeral—it’s just empty ritual. His soul isn’t even in there; there’s nothing to be freed!”
“You’re sure?”
“The necromancer was sure, anyway, or at least he said he was.”
Tikri didn’t reply for a moment; when he did, it was to ask, “Which sort of necromancer was it?” “A wizard,” Sarai answered. “Does it matter, though?” Tikri shrugged, showing her an empty palm. “I don’t know,” he said. “It might. My Aunt Thithenna always used a theurgist to talk to Uncle Gar, after he died—at least, until the priest said she should leave him alone and let him enjoy the afterlife. Worked fine.”
Sarai sighed. “Your Aunt Thithenna was lucky,” she said. “Half the time theurgical necromancers can’t find the one you want, even when there isn’t any question of other magic. And demonological necromancers are worse—unless the ghost you want is a dead demonologist; they’re lucky to contact one out of ten. Sorcerers and warlocks don’t do necromancy at all— they’re probably smart. It’s a messy business. And as often as not the ghost doesn’t remember anything useful.” “What about a witch, then?” It was Sarai’s turn to shrug.
“It’s a little late now,” she said. “I know theurgists and de-monologists don’t need the body, but witches do, even more than wizards. I did have a witch look at him, though—Kelder of Quarter Street. You know him, don’t you?” Tikri thought for a moment, then nodded. “Well, he’s not a real necromancer,” Sarai said. “But he couldn’t see anything.”
“Too bad.” Tikri hesitated, and said, “There’s news, though. I was going to wait until after the funeral to tell you, but maybe I should mention it now.” “Oh? What is it?” “It’s not good news.”
Sarai sighed again. “In this case, I wasn’t expecting good news. What is it, another body?” “No, no,” Tikri hastily assured her. “Not that bad.” “Not even a dog?” Tikri shook his head. “Well, then?” Sarai demanded.
“Well, it looks like we have more than one killer. Mereth and her apprentice were studying the traces in Athaniel’s shop—the actual break-in was done by warlockry.”
Sarai frowned. “But it wasn’t warlockry that killed him. Mereth was sure of that.”
Tikri nodded. “So if our killer is a wizard, he has a warlock working with him,” he said.
“Maybe it’s a warlock who’s gotten hold of an enchanted dagger somewhere,” Sarai suggested.
“Maybe,” Tikri conceded. “But why would a warlock be doing any of this? A warlock can stop a man’s heart without touching him; why cut throats?”
“Why would anybody do all this?” Sarai retorted.
“A demonologist making a sacrifice, maybe? Or a wizard collecting the ingredients for a spell?”
“And how would a demonologist or a wizard do warlockry?” Sarai started to take a deep breath to say more and accidentally caught a lungful of smoke from the pyre; she lost whatever she had intended to say in an extended coughing fit. Tikri stood silently by, waiting.
When she regained control of herself, Sarai was no longer thinking entirely about warlocks or motives; the coughing had reminded her of her father’s failing health and poor Kalthon the Younger with his fits. Her family was not exactly robust or numerous anymore. She had to face the possibility that any day, she could find herself the new Minister of Justice permanently, not just filling in—and she would still be Minister of Investigation, as well.
As a girl, she had never expected to have this sort of responsibility; her father and brother were supposed to handle the Ministry of Justice, and back then there had been no Minister of Investigation yet. By rights, she shouldn’t have had a government job at all; she should have been married off years ago to a wealthy merchant, or to some noble not too closely related to her. She should be raising chickens and sewing clothes and tending children, not standing here watching a murdered friend burn and worrying about who killed him instead of remembering his life.