Murder Street was predictably shabby.

The two-storey buildings lining the narrow street were constructed of wood and most leaned drunkenly and lopsidedly on each other, ensuring that not a single right angle existed anywhere in the area. Garbage and chamber pot contents littered the street, and although wooden planks had been thrown over parts of the potholed, unpaved street long ago, the boards were slippery with waste and grime and more hazardous to step on than just walking in the dirt. The stench was made more intense by the dyeing workshops in the area. Dyed pieces of fabric in yellow, red, and green were hung out to dry many places where lines could be drawn between houses. They dripped their colours into the grimy mud.

A few painfully thin dogs scavenged the street and in some of the doorways, rough-looking people, both men and women, were lounging, eying the group suspiciously. Naia stuck out especially with her bright purple and red clothes and the deep green scarf she insisted on tying around her hair when she went out, the only streak of colour in a dingy world.

The sky itself was overcast and grey, doing nothing to lighten the mood.

Murder Street number six was every bit as shabby as the rest of the street. They entered a small hallway with a door on either side. A rickety-looking stair led up to the floor above. From behind one of the doors, the sound of a man and a woman arguing fiercely could be heard.

“It doesn’t say which floor Corwin lived on,” Shale said, looking at the list. “Let’s have a look upstairs. It’s either that or ask…” She nodded towards the door from where the argument could be heard. Something crashed and broke inside the flat and the screaming argument grew louder.

“I’d really rather we just fix this ourselves. Before we get mixed up in another murder,” Ailmon commented dryly, nodding towards the screaming sounds, and set off up the creaking stairs.

The others followed him upstairs to a hallway that was every bit as dingy as the downstairs. Grey, brown, dirty, and dilapidated. There were four doors up here. One was standing slightly ajar, the door itself hanging lopsidedly on the hinges, and the handle was bent as if it had been kicked.

“Do I win something if I guess that’s the murder-room?” Naia asked cheerfully.

“The right to go first?” Aran suggested.

Ignoring them, Shale walked closer and gave the door a gentle push. It scraped noisily on the floorboards.

The flat was comprised of one room with rather sparse furniture. It had obviously been looted. After the scavengers had been here, the furniture was scattered and upended, all except the simple bedtable and the narrow bed that was built into the wall near a small window.

The bed itself must have remained untouched since the corpse had been taken to the Bacon House, because it looked a lot less messy than the rest; the enormous, dried bloodstain blossoming on the sheets and pillow notwithstanding. The blood had spilt through the mattress and pooled on the rough floorboards under the bed.

There was a small desk, the single chair toppled over. In the corner stood a narrow, simple wardrobe that had obviously been rummaged through. A few items of underclothes were strewn about and only a single pair of underwear still lay inside.

The freelancers stood staring at all this for a moment, then Naia exclaimed, “Dibs on the murder-bed!” She went over to look at the bloodied linen, finger tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“Before you do that…” Aran said, pushing the door shut behind them. “Perhaps we should make a plan? What are we searching for exactly?” he asked, looking at Ailmon.

The court scribe raised an eyebrow. “Very well, we are looking for anything that might give us a clue about both the murderer and the victim. Was Corwin involved in something, and that’s what got him killed? How did the murderer find him in particular and how did the murderer gain entrance to the apartment? Look for personal effects, look at the blood and see if the murderer might have left footprints in it. Perhaps there are loose floorboards or things under the mattress.”

“Alright, I’m going to start with the table,” Shale said.

“I’m on the wardrobe, then,” Aran said. “You can supervise,” he added to Ailmon who just gave a small, doubtful nod.

Ailmon went to Naia’s side, studying her as she rummaged around, lifting the hay mattress from the simple bed frame made of wooden boards and peeling the stained sheets apart. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“You’re being very teacher-like right now. Do you want to quiz me?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. Behind them, the sound of knocking was heard as Aran optimistically searched for secret rooms, both inside the wardrobe and on the floorboards.

“I was just thinking maybe the blood was useful to you.”

“Oh, well, not really. It’s a little too old and blood rituals were never really where I excelled. Only works with my grandmother.” She patted her chest.

Ailmon shook his head briefly, not comprehending the gesture.

Naia pulled a chain that hung around her neck up from her cleavage, dangling the small vial encased in metal filigree. Inside was a grimy, dark liquid that seemed to still be viscously fluid.

“I see. Family is different, I suppose. Alright, so what are your thoughts?” He gestured to the bed and then clasped his hands behind his back again.

“Seriously?” Naia let the vial slip back under the low neckline of her dress and gave him a long, flat stare. Then she rolled her eyes and crouched down to look under the bed. “The scavengers even stole the chamber pot and I’m not seeing any incriminating footsteps, so I guess that means he wa–“

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Or she.”

“Fine! He or she or it was either careful not to step in the blood or clambered out the window after slashing Corwin’s throat.” She stepped onto the bed to look out, opening the narrow window. “I guess for a tall, strong person, it wouldn’t be that bad of a climb, really. Plenty of garbage down there to cushion the fall, too. If you don’t mind bouncing into the equivalent of a latrine pit.” She waved a hand before her nose. “I swear, Sonderport is the only place in the world where opening the window in a murder room makes the smell worse.”

“Perhaps someone saw the murderer afterwards. Climbing out,” Ailmon mused. “That’s a lot of blood. The murderer would be painted red.”

“Oh, aaand!” Naia handed him a small cloth bag, which she’d held concealed in the hand. “This was under the bed.”

Ailmon stared sternly at her and then took the bag. A small paper tag was attached to the string. “Rutherford Dibble’s fever cure. Guaranteed relief,” he read. Then he sniffed the bag. “Some sort of herbs.”

“So Corwin was sick before he died!” Naia exclaimed.

“I think I have something. Come look at this,” Shale said. She had taken the narrow, empty drawer out of the desk and was working it with a knife. “There we are. Hidden compartment. Pure dumb luck the scavengers didn’t take it.”

With the tip of the knife, she lifted a wooden plate inside the drawer, revealing a small leather bag. She cast a glance to the door, making sure it was closed, and then emptied the contents onto the table.

“Oooh,” Naia began at the sight of the small golden gost coins that tumbled out, and then blurted out: “No, gods damn this!”

At the bottom of the small moneybag was a flat, circular disk. It even had the gall to look cheerful in the gloomy room, green and bright purple veins intermingling prettily across the surface.

“What the Hells are these things?” Aran asked. “Vision-people, any thoughts?” He looked from Ailmon to Shale.

Ailmon crossed his arms defensively.

“I think someone is distributing these. The person whose…” Shale shrugged, “whose memory or dreams or whatever it was that I glimpsed. We glimpsed,” she amended.

“What are we going to do with that information, though?” Aran asked, thinking out loud. “We can assume this person is giving these things out, and somehow that ends up getting them killed, but a small rock obviously doesn’t wield a knife. So perhaps they function as some sort of sign? Some of the gangs in Wallsen have that sort of thing going on. To spread terror.”

“The Stain likes to send their soon-to-be victims dead birds…” Shale mused. “The woman I saw in my vision, though… She didn’t look threatened or worried in the least. More like a little amused and grateful almost. I don’t know.”

“Well, we need to know if anyone in the area saw or heard something, so I suppose joining the downstairs argument is inevitable. Let’s knock on doors on this floor, too. The surrounding area as well. I suppose Corwin’s small fortune can grease their palms. It’s in his best interest that we find the killer.”

“And get a few rounds for our troubles,” Naia added. “Should we split up?”

Shale shook her head. “Two and two might work, but nobody should find themselves alone here. Bad idea.”

“Let’s stick together here, then we can knock on doors outside, as long as each group stays in sight of each other,” Aran said and counted out half of the gost coins, giving them to Shale.

o-0-o

The upstairs information-gathering yielded no results as nobody was home, and though Naia suggested they break in, she was voted down.

They stopped before the door where the noisy dispute was still going on and Aran knocked loudly. The sounds from inside stopped and stomping footsteps were heard approaching.

A thin human woman opened the door a crack, peering angrily out at them. Her mousy hair hung limp around a haggard face, and though she was presumably not very old, there were crow’s-feet at her eyes and two sour lines between her brows. “What do you want!” she barked at them. “Piss off. We already paid taxes.”

Aran tried to conceal an incredulous laugh at the likely lie. “We’re not tax collectors. Your neighbour was murdered three days ago. We were wondering if you heard or saw something.”

The woman stared at them with her eyes screwed up. “Wot! He owe you money or something?”

“Nope. We’re just concerned citizens,” Aran lied. She was about to close the door, when he added, “And we’ll pay for any information you could give us.”

He found one of the golden coins in his pocket and held it up. The woman hesitated. Footsteps were heard behind her and a man appeared next to her, opening the door further. He was tall and lanky with sunken cheeks, thin hair, and wearing a dirty, stained tunic over threadbare brown trousers. He snatched at the coin, but Aran quickly closed his hand.

“Information first!”

“Fine! What do you want to know?” the man asked aggressively.

“Your upstairs neighbour was found dead a couple of days ago. Did you hear or see anything that might have something to do with that?”

“Yeah, what with the blood dripping down here. Disgusting. So I went up for a look-see.”

“So you were the one who found him?” Aran asked.

“Yeah, kicked down the door and he was all dead and staring. Blood all over the place.”

“When did this happen?” Ailmon interjected, taking a step forward to be next to Aran.

“Couple days ago. We already said!” the woman answered sourly.

“Alright, how many days are a couple? And did you hear anything the night before?”

“How many days? Stupid gong-farmer! Couple days is a couple days, you daft?” she responded.

“You trying to be all posh and look down on us; you can piss off!” the man sneered vehemently, leaning close to Ailmon who didn’t as much as flinch.

Behind them, Shale straightened up in her full height and gave a growl in her throat, which made Naia giggle.

The man leaned backwards again, into the safety of the doorway, and the woman punched his arm.

“Alright, fine,” Aran said before a fistfight had a chance to evolve. “So did you hear anything, the night before the blood started dripping?”

“Sure. We heard creaking, like someone snuffling ‘round and some shouts, and we thought it was someone getting their business on, so we listened in,” the woman said, completely unabashed.

Aran and Ailmon cast a quick glance in each other’s direction.

“What kind of creaking? Like someone walked past in the hall and the stairs?” Ailmon asked.

“Nah, not like that,” the man said. “Like someone rummaging with a window or door. Then there was a scream, all hoarse and gahh-like.”

“Some man shouted something like, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t let her something or another’,” the woman added.

“Was that a verbatim rendition?” Ailmon asked, eyebrow raised.

“Wot?” both residents of the downstairs flat chorused.

“Did the voice actually say, ‘I can’t let her something or another’?” Ailmon clarified.

“Nah, course not, you stupid?” the man snapped. “He said something all smart, but we didn’t really hear it, and it didn’t sound like he was getting it on, if you know what I mean. But that dumb knobface deserved it. Always prancing ‘round like he owned the place.”

“Corwin? Did you know him? What sort of fellow was he?” Aran asked.

“Corwin? That his name?” the woman said. “He was all with his nose in the air like he was better than everyone. All quiet and know-it-all.”

“How long did he live here?”

“A year, maybe. I don’t know,” she shrugged.

“Did he have any friends that came over?” Aran enquired.

“Nah,” the woman said. “No girls either or boys or whatever.”

“Did he leave every morning? Do you know where he worked?”

“How should I know? I’m not his mum, am I!”

Aran looked at the others to see if any more questions were forthcoming.

“You said you kicked down the door…” Ailmon said. “Did you try the handle first?”

“Sure I did. He’d locked it, all important like,” the man said in a tone like that was an insult.

Ailmon just nodded and took a small step back, obviously done with the questions.

“Alright, thank you for your help.” Aran handed the woman the coin.

She snatched it and as the group left the building, she screeched, “Hey, that was worth a lot more than one sodding gost!”