The violence hadn't been limited to the house. She could smell where the blood had seeped into the soil, run between the stones of the walkway. This near to the earth she saw scratches in the cobblestones and pebbles, perhaps where weapons were dropped or armored bodies fell. If the murderer had battled someone outside, there might be witnesses; she made a mental note to mention it to Corvis.
Corvis. Seilloah felt a surge of uncharacteristic anger, and though she squelched it with a will so strong it had already defied death, she could not wholly forget it. Twenty-three years ago, six years ago, it didn't matter; she'd joined him willingly, stood by his side committing horrors scarcely less foul than his own. She'd well understood there might one day be a price to pay, and it had never stopped her. And it had been the Baron of Braetlyn's blade, not the Terror of the East's, that had cut her down.
Yet she could not entirely shrug off the chilling knowledge that she was already dead save for the formalities, wasting away her last days in a sequence of diseased, agonizing bodies-and that it was, in part, because of Corvis Rebaine.
Seilloah leapt from the grass to land atop a windowsill and wormed her tiny form between the wobbly shutters. Again the scent of death wafted over her, and she directed her attentions to the task at hand.
She wouldn't blame Corvis, at least not much-and certainly no more than he would himself. And if the witch required any small vengeance on the friend she'd followed unto death, his own guilt would surely suffice. THE HOUSE HAD BEEN CLEANED, at least to an extent. The worst of the blood and other humors had been washed away, the tattered bodies and mangled clothes removed, the shattered furniture discarded. Still, senses far less acute than those Seilloah currently enjoyed would have detected lingering signs of murder. The carpet looked diseased, showing stains of a deep, brittle brown. Several walls were badly scorched, and a few corners retained bits of splintered wood. The stench was overwhelming to her feline nose, and even if she were to go utterly blind, she'd have easily pinpointed the precise locations where death had come.
Between the distractions of her new form and the agonies of her current condition, Seilloah could perhaps be forgiven for initially failing to discover anything of import. Yes, some of the victims had died by fire and some by blade, some by magic and some brute force, but this they already knew. And yes, she could, if asked, have provided a precise count of the slain, but she couldn't imagine what possible value such information might have.
Dining room, kitchen, back to the living room, occasionally stopping to lick bits of dried carnage from her paws, and Seilloah grew ever more irritated. They were wasting their time; there was nothing here, nothing of use…
Nearing the front door, she froze, save for the slight twitch of her tail and the quickened flare of her nostrils. Most of the room was nothing but an empty abattoir, specific details obscured by the remnants of half a dozen lives running together in a single stain beneath the carpeting and between the floorboards. But off to one side, a single man-probably a bodyguard, perhaps a servant-had died just a few steps from the others, far enough that the scents and stains of his death weren't mixed with the general filth.
She sniffed where he'd stood, where he'd stumbled back as he died. She saw the faint remnants of a soap-scrubbed stain, scented the edges of the blood, the bone, and the brain that had splattered themselves across the wall.
And Seilloah's own blood ran cold, her tiny heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, as she recognized the evidence before her.
She'd seen it last in Mecepheum, when Audriss the Serpent had wielded the power of not one demon, but two, against the assembled aristocracy. She'd seen it far more often in Corvis's campaign, over two decades past, when he'd allowed Khanda to feast upon the souls the demon needed to maintain his power.
She'd watched the victims hemorrhage, from eyes and nose, ears and mouth, before the skull itself, unable to bear the pressures that consumed the soul from within, simply blew itself apart.
It was certainly a disturbing death to witness, and it wasn't precisely a secret. Many had seen it happen during the Terror's conquest, for Corvis had wielded Khanda as a bludgeon, hoping to cow the nation into surrender. But few knew the purpose of that peculiar method of killing, knew enough to associate it with the demon-spawned magics the warlord wielded.
That whoever was framing Corvis now had thought to include such a means of death-regardless of what magics they actually used to imitate it-suggested at the very least a deliberate attention to the details of all his past crimes.
And just possibly a greater knowledge of his methods than any random murderer, however potent, should possess.
Frowning as far as her snout would permit, uncomfortable with any of the myriad directions her thoughts were taking, Seilloah bounded back through the window and toward her waiting companions. "… WISH I COULD HELP YOU," the guard was apologizing, though he didn't really sound like he cared much one way or the other. "Kassek knows I'd like to see the bastard brought down. But I'm just not authorized to allow anyone into the duke's quarters. His family doesn't want people poking around in there."
Corvis-or rather, so far as the soldier knew, Evislan Kade the bounty hunter-stood in the lee of the great keep, watching the flickering of torches dance across its dark stone wall, and could only nod his understanding. Perhaps he might sneak in under illusion, or slip Seilloah past the soldiers at the gate, but honestly, he didn't really think he needed to see the second murder scene.
He was already well and truly disturbed by what they'd found at the first.
But that didn't mean there was nothing else left to learn. "I understand," he said affably. "And I certainly wouldn't want to cause the grieving family any more hassle." He offered a disingenuous grin. "People tend to forget to pay when they're upset."
The guard grunted something.
"I also understand," Corvis continued, dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "that some of your fellow guardsmen actually fought the bastard outside the Guildsman's house? I'd sure love to speak to one of them, see if he can tell me anything new. And of course, I'd be more than generous with whoever pointed me the right way."
That brought an uncertain frown. "I don't think," the soldier said slowly, "that that's the sort of stuff I ought to be blabbing, you know? I mean, giving guards' names to strangers…"
Corvis sighed and reached into a leather pouch at his belt, muttering under his breath. Then, with a sequence of individual clanks, he methodically dropped ten gold coins into the palms of the slack-jawed fellow before him.
"Ask around for Corporal Tiviam," the guard whispered breathlessly. "He lives in the barracks within the keep, so you wouldn't be permitted access, but he likes to drink at the Three Sheets."
Of course he does. Corvis shook his head, wondering when the gods might finally have had enough entertainment at his expense.
'Not for a while yet, I'm sure. I'm certainly still laughing at you.'
"You should have no difficulty finding him there," the young sentinel continued. "He's been there a lot since that day, and his arm's still in a sling."
Corvis nodded in quick thanks and strode away. He wanted to be long gone before the muttered illusion faded, and the "gold" coins transformed once more to brass.