Eastward Dragons (8 page)

Rajin nodded gravely in her direction, then he froze, blinked three times slowly, and turned to stair at Oppen. “Master Ralva?” he called.
 

Oppen did not reply. Dark wine continued to soak into his shirt as he lay slumped in his chair.

“Oppen!” Rajin cried, jumping to his feet and moving down the table to stand beside the man.
 

Havil and Zlata also rose and crowded around Oppen. Rajin put his hand on the man’s shoulder and shook him, but his head only slumped lower on his chest and the wineglass sloshed more of its bright red liquid onto the dead man’s chest.
 

“He is dead,” Havil said. “How?”

“Could it have been the drink?” Zlata asked, her eyes wide. “He didn’t hold it as well as I, but it couldn’t have killed him, could it?”

Rajin grabbed the wineglass and held it up, inspecting it. There was no sign of sediment at the bottom of the glass, but that did not rule out the use of a poison that dissolved more quickly. He sniffed at the glass, scenting nothing that immediately struck him as amiss.
 

He glanced at the others. It was dangerous to use his powers in this place, but he had to know for himself whether a poisoner had been at work here. He blinked, quietly drawing on the anima contained within the fresh fruit on the table, and took the slightest sip of the wine. As it passed his lips the red liquid shimmered and burst into a fine mist, which rolled about in Rajin’s mouth like a cloud bank streaming over a rocky countryside. He concentrated, teasing through the various compounds within the wine until he found one that did not belong, then he concentrated on it, drawing more anima from the fruit to fuel his efforts.
 

Rajin’s eyes grew wide and he spat out the wine.
 

“It is poisoned,” he said, turning to the others. “We must bring word of this to the king. None of us was harmed, so he must have been targeted specifically.”

He handed the glass to Havil and said, “Do not drink of that. Try not to touch it.”

“How do you know that it is poison?”
 

Rajin fixed Havil with a significant glare and gave a slight shake of his head. The spice merchant’s eyes grew wide and he spluttered, “Did you just… it… forbidden…”

“Would you rather wait until we can force a mouse to drink it? We know now. Get Sunil and send him up here, then got tell the king.”

“What will you do?”

“The lady, Jarom, and I will bring him to the third floor. We will say that he is passed out drunk and we want him to awake to a nice surprise. By the time they realize he is dead, you should be back with the palace guards.”

 
Havil nodded. The plan made sense. Best not to draw attention to the murder of a master translator on the night before he was supposed to lead an expedition sponsored by the king himself.

He nodded to Rajin, Zlata, and Jarom, then turned and strode to the stairs that would take him down to the exit.
 

“Help me get him to the stairs,” Rajin said to Zlata, who nodded silently and bent to lift Oppen’s limp right arm over her shoulder. “We’ll be back in a minute, Jarom. If Tracha or Neasa return, let them know what happened.”

Jarom nodded, but did not look at Rajin. His eyes were fixed upon a large silvered tray of fruit, where two apples that had appeared firm and crisp only two minutes before were now nothing but withered brown husks.

⫛

The fading red light of the late evening sun cut a sharp line of shadows across the face of the stone and brick shopfronts that lined the eastern side of the wide, paved street. This late in the evening, nearly all of the shops were closed. Unlike the bustling dock district surrounding the Leaning Timber, where one could buy a drink, purchase supplies, or find paid companionship at any hour of the day or night, or the sprawling shantytown outside the city walls, where the unwary traveler could find their purse missing and a newly sprouted knife in their back from the moment the shadows began to rise until the dawning of the next day, the district of Tal Albahi surrounding the New Tower settled into a safe quietude around dinnertime each day.

It was that quiet, and the accompanying lack of pedestrian traffic along the street, that Neasa depended upon to keep her personal expedition secret.
 

She arrived at the bookseller to find the windows dark and the door locked. She checked the folded note in her pocket, then stepped back to check that she had arrived at the correct location. The shop was marked by a thin metal sign hanging over the street, the metal cut out in the shape of a rune for memory. Across the street was a bakery with a door painted in diagonal red and black stripes.
 

This was the place.

She knocked at the door, cursing herself for having trusted the message to a serving boy in the palace. She had hoped that the offer of payment would elicit prompt and honest service from the boy, but she was beginning to worry that he had forged the note from the shopkeeper, knowing that she would be unlikely to report him for failing to complete a job that she clearly wanted kept secret.

A voice drifted through the heavy wood of the door, the whisper harsh in the warm evening air. “We are closed. If you have an appointment, slip the paper under the door, otherwise get off.”

Neasa slipped the paper that instructed where to find the shop under the door and waited. On the far side of the street, a family of five tumbled out of a shop that sold corrective lenses for weak vision, corralled the children, and shuffled down the street.

The latch rattled and the door swung open a hand’s breadth. A peaked face with a scraggly white mustache and dark, sunken eyes peered out through the crack. “You are the buyer?”

Neasa nodded.

“Come in.” The face disappeared back into the darkness and the door swung open a fraction more.

Neasa slipped through the door and pushed it shut behind her. A part of her wished that she had her sword, but she had been compelled to leave it on the ship because the Leaning Timber did not permit any weapons on its premises.
 

The shop was a warren of narrow passages tunneled through shelves laden with books, scrolls, and wrapped parcels of loose paper. A low rail of brown wood, polished to a sheen by decades of hands leaning upon it, separated the shelves from a small waiting area with room for maybe a dozen people to stand or sit upon hard stools. Set against the rail were five desks, four of them narrow affairs intended for customers to use while perusing a book that had been brought to them, while the fifth desk, which was placed directly across from the door and had a narrow gate built into the railing beside it, was an imposing structure of burled wood and wrought iron.
 

The man who had answered the door slipped through the gate and took a position behind the large desk. He reached forward with a long, crooked finger and moved a brass slider set into the base of an ornate brass and cut glass rune lamp. The faint silvery light of the lamp intensified, casting a moonscape of deep shadows and stark white plateaus across his face, undercut by the waterfall of wiry white hair that made up the elderly bookseller’s long mustache.

“You have made some very unusual requests, my lady. Not many are even aware that such books exist. Fewer still have the ability to comprehend them.”

Neasa crossed the waiting area and placed her hands on the desk, leaning forward to speak to the old man. “I have unusual needs. Were you able to find what I requested?”

“Some of them. You strike me as a woman of action and strength, rather than a scholar. Are you sure that you are versed the nuances of runic theory? I have been procuring books for scholars far longer than you have been alive and I still do not understand a half of the formulas in the books you requested.”

Neasa draw a folded sheet of paper from a pocket, picked up a nib pen from the desk, and began sketching in firm, confident strokes. The old man’s eyes narrowed as he watched the seemingly abstract forms and lines take form on the page, then widened as Neasa added the standard runic frame around the symbols.

“Wait! You can’t do that with…” he hissed.

Neasa completed the final line and, with a confident flourish, drew the activation mark at the center of the rune.

The paper flared with a bright silvery fire as the rune for cold light at an intensity half that of the full moon activated, pouring a sudden radiance into the room. The old bookseller grabbed for a bag of sand that he kept beneath his desk, then froze, his gaze fixed upon the paper. After a moment he put the bag of sand down and, hesitantly, reached out to take up the paper bearing the rune that Neasa had just drawn. The glow of the rune was so intense that he could no longer see the ink and the paper itself had been rendered nearly translucent by the brilliant light, turning the small sheet into a veritable ball of silver light in his hand. He tentatively stroked a finger across the paper and his bushy white eyebrows rose nearly to the mop of thin white hair that covered his wrinkled forehead.
 

“It is not hot.”

“Of course not. It is only a light rune.”

“But you did not use the proper inks. And I strongly doubt that you carry rune worthy paper in your pocket at all times.” He touched the paper again. “No. This is nothing but cheap pulp.”

“The transfer is imperfect, but if you anticipate that and make the necessary compensations in your scribing, it is possible to delay the build up of excessive heat. I would not recommend leaving that paper unattended outside a fireplace though. It probably has a five, perhaps ten minute life before the ink and paper degrade and it begins to heat up.”

The old bookseller folded the glowing paper in half, then again three more times, then pushed the wad of glowing paper into the sandbag on his desk. The light in the room immediately diminished and they both found themselves blinking away yellow ghosts as their eyes adjusted to the softer illumination of the rune lamp.

“Do you still doubt that I am worthy to purchase your books?” Neasa asked.

“Certainly not,” he replied. He bent and unlocked a drawer in the base of the large desk. When he stood again, the old man held a set of books wrapped in oilskin and tied with a leather thong. “I have two of the books that you requested here. The third which I was able to find, well…” he cleared his throat and blinked twice.
 

Neasa raised her eyebrows and gave him a dubious stair.
 

“My lady, the third book that I managed to procure for you was very nearly banned by the
Holy Tribunal
.”

“Nearly.”

“It was still restricted, my lady. Nobody is permitted to possess that volume without demonstrating both need for the knowledge and understanding of its implementation.”

“I believe I have demonstrated my understanding, sir. I am a loyal follower of the one who wanders and a sworn defender of the commonwealth.” Neasa unbuttoned the top of her shirt and pulled the loose collar down over her left shoulder, revealing the tattooed rune indicating her indenture to the Commonwealth army. Though it had been modified to remove her from the command structure so that no one but the king could give her direct orders, the central facets of the rune were still untouched and as recognizable to any citizen as their mother’s face.

The bookseller swallowed hard. His eyes studied Neasa’s face as she buttoned her shirt and waited for him to respond.
 

“You have the gold?” he finally asked.

In response, Neasa drew a pouch from beneath her cloak and tossed it on the desk. The bookseller took it and meticulously counted each coin from the pouch into a slot cut in the top of the desk. The coins clattered as they fell, but Neasa could not hear them land. The slot must, she decided, reach into a vault in the basement of the shop.
 

The old man stopped counting and lay the empty purse atop the books. “If you wish to inspect your purchases while I go and get the final one, I would not be offended.”

He turned and disappeared down one of the tunnels between the shelves. Neasa watched him go, then drew the wrapped books closer to her. She untied the thong, pulled aside the oilskin and looked down at her purchases.
 

Yes, she thought. These were exactly what she needed.

⫛

“We have no way of determining who the murderer is?”

“It would involve a significant effort, my lord,” Sunil Diventru said. He glanced from his king, to Biho Erdenech, to the mysterious heretic Rajin. To the side of the chamber, the spice merchant Havil A’Mar was slumped in a chair, seemingly transfixed by the mural on the wall across from him. “When I was commander of the New Tower, your half sister killed two dreamers in their beds. She claimed that they were about to release a gythral and that by killing them she had stopped the beast from crossing over.”

“What does that have to do with the poisoning of Oppen Ralva? And, now that you mention her, where in all the hells in Neasa?” The king swore and stalked to a side table to pour himself a glass of wine. “Do not tell me that she is dead as well.”

“To my knowledge, Neasa is alive. According to the guards at the door, she departed the Leaning Timber several minutes before Oppen’s death saying she had business to attend to before she left the city.”

“I can attest to that, King Berech,” Rajin interjected. “She and I spoke at length before I returned to the table.”

Sunil grimaced at being interrupted, but pressed forward. “The point of my story is that when Neasa Veatro killed two dreamers, and confessed to the deed, it still took nearly ten days for us to determine whether or not she ought to be punished for the deed, in accordance with the rules of the military court. In that time, we interviewed a dozen other guards and as many dreamers and scholars. Investigations are long, tedious, drawn-out affairs. I already spent the entire first watch of the night interviewing all of the servers and none of them could give evidence of how the poison found its way into Oppen’s cup.”

“I truly hope that you are not saying what I believe you are,” Biho muttered.