Main characters. Why couldn’t they wallow in their own happily-ever-afters? Why must they go around forging contract marriages between unsuspecting ladies and dead bodies?
‘I’m afraid I’ll need to take your account of your interactions with the deceased, as you are the chief beneficiary,’ Sir Edwin was saying, but the words were wrapped in jelly, struggling to float through a layer of familiar, buzzing anger.
Except it was not Ari’s.
She stared at Claribel’s ghostly face, cold and pale despite the warm flames from the hearth.
~How dare she?! How DARE she?!~
‘An account will take some time to gather. Please allow my lady time to put on a clean gown,’ said Sir Dagon. ‘She shall be here afterwards as well, as this is her home.’
‘Good sirs… the… the remains…’ Ari stepped up, pushing Claribel’s white-hot rage to the back, like she’d practised so many times with her own.
‘I am not sure where you acquired these…’
‘They may be Malory’s, and I had been trying to return them to Tristram. I can’t ask my chambermaids to clear them… I… I…’ She tried Claribel’s trick of tearing up, but no tears heeded her summons.
‘Understood. Sir Beren and I shall handle the freshening of your solar, my lady.’
‘What? Me?’ cried Sir Beren.
She dipped her head at the poor knight and slipped out, Natty at her side.
‘Your bloodlust is still leaking, you know,’ Natty murmured, keeping a wise foot-wide gap between their shoulders. ‘Make sure the chambermaids don’t come. Otherwise Sir Beren would have to scrub the bedroom next.’
~What do you mean it’s still–~
Claribel flew ahead and stared into her own eyes, possessed, and flinched. A mirror into her soul.
‘Ha! Ari’s an assassin. A very effective one at that. Don’t tell me you, like, forgot? Just because you spent a few hours together talking knightly outfits and embroidery doesn’t erase a lifetime of training, you know?’
Ari knew. She’d been playing nice, just like she’d once played Becky. But it was tiring. So tiring, hiding the real Ari.
Who was the real Ari? Did she know that? Know that at all?
‘Did you expect true assassins to spend all day thinking about how to kill every single person in the room?’ Natty tittered on. ‘Like… sorry to say this, but no thoughts required unless you get to someone Sir Edwin’s level. Just deep, ingrained reflexes. Or did you expect her to be dangerous only if she spent all day ruminating over darkness, death and destruction, which, to be fair, sounds like the lyrics to something on Ari’s playlist. How did it go again?’ Testing out a low growl, Natty channelled the chorus of her favourite Trojan Threnody song. ‘Troy has… FALLEN. Death is… CALLING. Shred my flesh against the breast of Mother Earth–’
‘No it isn’t!’ Ari hissed under her breath. ‘It’s “Mother Gaia”.’
‘Same difference.’
‘“Earth” doesn’t rhyme with “pyre”.’
‘Neither does “Gaia”.’
‘Oh come on, it’s close enough.’
‘Then what’s wrong with “Earth”? Close enough.’
‘What’s wrong with “Earth”? Because it’s wrong, that’s what it is. You know what. If you’re going to be like that, I’m going to sing you a song by your queen. It’s called “Pringle Ladies”.’
‘Arghhh… No! No, no no-no-no-no-no. Don’t you dare taint my going-out song with product placement.’ Natty’s arms flailed around, deceptively aimless, until they gently rested on Ari’s shoulders. One pat. Safe. Then another. Softly, she said, ‘Better now?’
Ari nodded. She could be whatever they wanted her to be, as long as she could snuff out those lives standing between her and a Mission Complete. Better. She could be better now.
~It’s not whatever they want you to be, is it?~ Claribel’s voice had regained its composure, and now thrummed within her head, no louder than an echoing thought. ~It’s our lives. Yes, there will be times when we take good advice from a mother, a father or a friend, and yes, there will be times when we waver from our path because we bent too hard towards someone else’s wishes, but ultimately we must choose the path we want to follow.~
Ari felt her heart, their heart, slow to its usual lulling beat.
*
The smell clung to the solar’s floors more keenly than it did to her body; it only took some good-old upside-down dipping in a cold basin of water to get the traces of other human beings out of her hair. Claribel yelped at the clumps of hair that had drifted away into the basin water, forever severed from her head, leaving her thinning locks all the thinner.
By the time she’d wiggled into a new linen shift, two men burst in, shaking their heads. They were nearly two dead men, had Claribel not frozen her hand and introduced them as Little Walton and Morran, her Wardrobe and her Chamberlain. Lucy, Patricia and Wini trailed in behind.
‘My lady, gibberish,’ they said, holding up stuff.
~It’s not gibberish! And it’s not just stuff!~ Claribel snapped with none of her usual reserve.
The chambermaids extracted two dreaded dresses from the wardrobes of her dressing room, a flimsy wall away from the carnage in the solar. Morran took position a step in front of them, bearing a silver jewelled box with a blue gem the same shade as his eyes.
‘My lady, we must pick the optimal outfit for the meeting with the Royal Coroner,’ he said in a deep, honey-warm voice, as if the colour of her gown could change the course of the evening. ‘Sir Irriforth has accompanied Sir Edwin to the study. He shall reprimand the guards later for failing to… escort him to the correct entrance of your manor earlier.’
Little Walton, who sported a not-so-little moustache, a most impressive beard and enormous traps–
~Enormous what?~
~Oh. I see what you mean.~
–enormous traps, and… Where was she? Ah yes. Little Walton stared at her gravely and pointed to the dress in Lucy’s hands.
‘For the second meeting with Sir Edwin, I was thinking… How about something that plays to your Aquilon heritage? We need to remind him not to cross our House.’
Lucy held up a dusky blue dress with peony prints and contrasting yellow sleeves that bloomed out with an ombre effect like triple-layered bellflowers. To tie the outfit together, she draped a gauzy yellow shawl over the dress.
‘It has Jumont influences and brings out your eyes,’ he continued. ‘Or we can go for something more mage-inspired, which should remind him that you are the only Master wind mage in the room. I have prepared your green silk kirtle and livery gown with the mage-symbol forepart and foresleeves.’
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Poor Wini waved an emerald-green pinafore dress with a matching bell-sleeved cardigan-like item of clothing and a golden apron embroidered with the four-point compass symbol, then placed them down to flap two reasonable-sized golden hooped fabric at Ari.
~Oh come on! Just say yes to whatever Little Walton recommends. He is my Wardrobe for a reason.~
~Just smile and nod, and Morran will offer the answer.~
As if on cue, Morran clicked open the box and proffered a pair of earrings with a small emerald stud and a pearl teardrop beneath. ‘If you go for the latter gown, I would recommend these. It would also complement the green on the lining of your livery.’
‘Very well,’ said Ari.
‘A wise choice, my lady,’ gushed Little Walton, as if she’d spoken more than two words during the whole ordeal. ‘The outfit is similar to what you wore earlier today, showcasing the true depth of our pockets. We are not in need of gold from Taur – or whatever it is that he is accusing you of. None of us believe it, my lady. We all stand behind you, for what it’s worth.’
‘Thank you, Little Walton,’ said Ari. ‘It’s worth everything.’
*
The study turned out to be the room directly below the library, tucked away a right-turn away from the entrance to the manor, away from the more enticing grandeur of the Great Hall.
It was grand in its own way. Ari wondered if Sir Edwin had been herded into this room for the purpose of displaying the depth of Claribel’s pockets too; if so, it was certainly doing its job.
A portrait, quite unlike the sketches left by the portside, stared down at her with life-like eyes: eyes that glowed the same feral-amber as her own. Each strand of his raven-black hair had been picked out by a skilled sweep of the artist’s brush, and his ermine cloak looked soft enough to sink her fingers in. Under the cloak, he wore a blue robe so vibrant that it glowed, which Claribel declared was ultramarine, and was probably ultra-expensive. A golden pattern of ravens had been delicately applied over it, and the same foil filled the skies with hundreds of golden eyes. A golden brooch melted into the metallic sea, only distinct by the overwhelming richness of the colours by a circle of black and white stones carving out its edges; they looked all-the-world like pearl and onyx, so probably were.
The man was certainly not Claribel’s father.
~Not quite. That’s Clarus the Seer.~ For sure, backed by all those eyes. ~His original name was Serk the Slayer, and he became the first from our House to take a name from Ventinon, thereby making peace with the land ravaged by his father.~
Two marble statues flanked the painting, carved with such skill that the creatures looked like they were rising out of real water, dripping. On the left was a bird-like creature, tail too long to be another raven, stretching its beak towards the whale-like monstrosity on the right.
They seemed to be having some effect on Sir Edwin; he cowered under their gaze more than he’d ever cowered at the sight of Sir Beren and Sir Dagon’s swords.
‘My lady!’ he cried at the sight of her.
Ari stalked over to the chair he’d been sitting on and gently placed a hand on its back.
‘Thank you for saving my seat,’ she said, powered by the rage that still simmered within Claribel’s heart, sweeping the swirl of green silks as she took her place directly under the painting of Clarus, staring back at him with the same eyes as an ancestor who wasn’t truly hers.
Sir Edwin opened his mouth, but thought better of it, and shuffled to the other end of the table, nearly knocking over some sacks filled with strange linen scraps.
He laid his coroner’s badge on the table, as if laying out a peace offering. It was much easier to make out the engraving of the scale of justice balancing on a sword now that she was not trying to kill him.
Two of the servants from the kitchens set down a selection of dried dates, crumbly cheeses and tarts next to the usual pitcher of pressed apple juice and pot of turmeric tea.
Natty took her place, standing to the side of the room as Sir Beren, Sir Dagon, Sir Irriforth and Bador took their positions next to her.
‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ said Ari. ‘I hope you feel my sincerity and the warmth of my welcome. Now, Sir Edwin, I believe you were about to explain to me the circumstances of my marriage.’
Sir Edwin managed to shake his head. ‘I’m afraid I have shared all I know on that subject. Would you… Would you like me to explain everything from the beginning?’
‘I have Father Mathis, who’d do a better job at that.’
‘All right, all right, just from this morning, after receiving word that Tristram has passed into the Fated One. Do you know what I do after I am notified of a sudden death among my jurisdiction?’ he said to no one in particular.
Ari nodded at him to continue. Did Natty already know? Was she the only one who didn’t know what a coroner did in this world?
‘I have to do two things at the same time,’ he said, words flowing more freely once more. ‘One is, I ask my squire to strip the body for examination. In this case, the kind-hearted perpetrator has performed the first step for me. I look at him, head to toe, and I see no incisions, no usage of blunt force, no marks of strangulation. I smell him. I’m a very unfortunate man, you see. I smell him, and all I get is the stink of alcohol and sweat. No bitter almond. Nothing out of the ordinary. But unfortunately, his body is going red. Really red. Red, when he should have been purple. So, you see, I have to write on my roll: suspected murder.
‘The other thing is, I put in a request for the will and accounts of the deceased, because you see, if a man is murdered, the answer is often in the will. And what do I find in Tristram’s last will and testimony? That he has drawn up a new will just three weeks ago, and has bequeathed all his land and wealth to his secret, contract wife. Tell me, my lady, who has the motive for murder?’
‘Those who did not know about the secret wife and would have been benefactors of his old will, I presume,’ said Ari, returning the stare that he’d regained enough courage to give to her.
‘Oh, don’t worry, my lady, I shan’t make them feel left out. But I’m afraid you will be the first suspect I question, because let’s face it. You of all people would benefit the most out of his death.’
‘And you think I’m in want of what? More money?’
‘No, my lady. I believe you want the title of duchess for yourself, and, with the utmost respect, I believe you have reasons to avoid a real marriage.’
~…~
‘Am I mistaken, my lady?’
‘Good sir, I have been aware of my duty since I first understood the meaning of marriage. My own mother married my father out of necessity, and though love blossomed, I was never under the illusion that the same would happen for me. I love Aquilon. Not just my House, but my land, and my people. I would not commit murder for my own, personal happiness in order to become duchess of another land.’
‘Interesting. For someone so willing to fulfil their duties, contract aside, you had managed to remain unmarried and unbetrothed to the grand old age of twenty-one… which, for a daughter of a duke… I can only think of one other example, who is, as you well know, Lady Oriana.’
‘I was busy with my Masterpiece in order to become a Master Mage, so–’
‘Too busy for love. Isn’t it an amazing excuse. I use it regularly myself. In fact, it’s going to come in handy in… about… a week. Picture this. On one side of the tiltyard, me, one of the youngest elected coroners, proudly bearing my chain of office, coming home for the Midwinter Festival; on the other side, my mother, also proud mother to two married daughters, arms wide open at the door to our old hut. First tilt, she hits me square with, “Edwin, you’re looking too skinny these days. Eat, eat, eat!” Second tilt, she levels her lance and charges at me with, “Edwin, oh Edwin, why aren’t you married yet? Don’t you meet any good maidens when you take home gold from the Crown each month? Is it because all the maidens you meet are dead? Oh Edwin, why don’t you come home and tend to our field? Our hen needs a good pair of hands to feed, and with the gold you’ve saved, surely you can buy us a cow? Why do you have to hang out with dead bodies all day? You know, Rumi Tree-Face turned down Winky Ned and married Tom with the one-brow because she couldn’t stand Winky Ned working at the butcher’s, and she’d much rather marry a good and honest wheat-grower like Tom.
‘So I try and strike her with my own, “Oh no Mother, it’s nothing like that. Maidens love men who are surrounded by dead bodies. Just look at how they swoon over other knights. The higher the body count in battle, the better. I am just the next level up. Bodies swarm around me even in times of peace. They call a certain duke the Mad Dog of Taur, but do you know what they call me? The Stray Dog of, ummm, Nowhere in Particular, as that is the definition of a stray. But. Alas. I am too busy for love.
‘So…’ Sir Edwin laced his fingers and leaned his chin on top. ‘Now that I’ve given you a nice monologue so that you can organise your thoughts, which would you like to tell me first: where were you last night, or an account of your relationship with Tristram?’
Ari had been trying to organise her thoughts on the latter during Sir Edwin’s speech, though what was there to say beyond their common noble statuses. As for the former…
‘I visited La Petite Mort last night looking for His Grace, as I’d thought of him then, not knowing that he was about to become, or perhaps had already become Tristram. Fabia, my fool, accompanied me.’
Sir Edwin arched a brow. But what else was there to do but to spill the truth? Several of Claribel’s household staff had spotted them coming and going, and there was no way to know that all of them would remain loyal to their lady. A trusted person of your trusted person was not someone you could blindly trust; this household employed more than five people, so the odds were impossible. It was better to reveal the truth from the very beginning; having it revealed by someone else later down the line would only cause unnecessary suspicion.
So she told him about meeting the heir to Taur in the City Square, next to the pickle-seller, about spotting Hesperus in La Petite Mort, about acquiring the remains of Malory, only sanitising her account by omitting the nettles and the theft.
He scratched away, ink on parchment, underlining ‘Lord Coell, heir’, ‘Hesperus’ and ‘who saw him last at La Petite Mort’ like she’d hoped.
‘This has been… most illuminating, my lady,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’
‘You might find it illuminating to know that Hesperus only returned to his manor early this morning. In fact, I’m sure his account of where he was last night would be most interesting.’
There. Ticking bomb successfully lobbed to the nearest target. The truth would be nice, but she didn’t need an accusation hanging over her while she went looking for it. If Hesperus knew what was good for him, he’d better lob the bomb sideways at Lord Coell.