~ IAN ~
It was incredible the difference a little bit of stone made. Ground had been broken on a quarry in the south-western tip of the valley a few weeks ago, and the first deliveries were beginning to arrive. It was only small amounts at the moment, mostly unprocessed, but Master Holden was no longer beholden to the limited supply he’d brought with him. He was letting it show. Every building had accents of grey and brown, fine carved cornerstones and patterns of brick in varying colours. And it was an immeasurable improvement on the endless jungle of hewn logs and wood that it used to be.
“Easy does it!” An overseer was yelling at a man who pushed a three-wheeled cart filled with chunks of stone. Even Ian could see that there was too much in there. The man could barely move it, and it looked as though it would topple over at any second. “If that thing goes over, I’m picking up none of the rock.”
In a considerably ill-judged move, the man behind the cart raised two fingers at the overseer. Removing one hand from the cart cost him what little balance he had, and in an instant it toppled. The overseer had turned so red with rage that his skin was pushing the boundaries of the visible light spectrum. Ian couldn’t help but laugh. He found himself thankful that he didn’t have to do any manual labour himself. He’d never been good at it. Chris had joked once about sticking a pickaxe in his hand and sending him to help out with the quarrying. And Chris had quickly learned not to make that joke again.
He walked away from the spilled stone, looking around at the town. It scarcely resembled the empty valley they’d arrived to, three short months ago. Master Holden had justified his place on the Council. It was already resembling somewhere that people lived.
At the heart of the town, the plaza had matured into a social hub. No longer were the buildings around its outer just empty shells. Businesses were thriving now, their signage in gaudy colours. They all looked alike, the florist and the dressmaker, the baker and the clerk, despite their best efforts. On the gable of Madame Dravis’ Emporium, the eponymous Madame’s smiling face had been painted. It made her shop stand out, but unless she wanted her clientele to consist of people with fetishes for the grotesque, she’d have been better off going for the same aesthetic as the rest of them.
A boisterous game of hurney was taking place on the grass, whilst couples in love sat beside the Clearwater, basking hand in hand in the shade of the huge willow. Women wandered the square in twos and threes, all wearing the same dress in different hues, their faces painted the sickly colour of mustard. They paid no mind to the children running riot around them.
The self-styled ‘high society’ was the worst. They had money, which they’d inherited from their parents, who in turn had inherited it from their parents, and so on until somewhere centuries back there was an ancestor who had actually earned the money to begin with. This money had bought them a place on the pioneer ship. It had guaranteed them at the very least a footnote in the history books. And apparently it had bought them the right to swan around the half-built town as if they’d blessed it simply by deigning to allow its existence.
They were rats.
As Ian got closer to the plaza, he realised he could smell cooked meat. It was one of those smells that made him realise just how hungry he was. When had he last eaten properly? He wasn’t sure. Recently, he’d been enjoying himself wandering the valley, feeding himself when he felt like it. It wasn’t a healthy way of living, he knew that well, but every meal would take him at least half an hour to prepare if he wanted to eat something that tasted nice. And half an hour felt like a lot of time to waste. So instead he’d been getting by primarily on whatever nutrition-free snacks were close to hand when he wanted food.
He wandered in the direction of the Tavern, and guided by his unruly nose made his way to the counter. A couple of patrons had already arrived to take up their seats, among them Sergeant Pratley. Pratley nodded at Ian as he passed. There was no sign of Áine the waitress today. Only the owner, the Goodwife Sara Wiles, stood there, focused on a grill upon which several slabs of pink meat were cooking. She was slightly plump, with ruddy cheeks and slowly-greying hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head. Matronly. She turned to Ian.
“Can I help you?”
Ian grinned. “I’d like some of your meat, if you’d be so kind.”
She grunted and pulled one of the lumps of meat off the grill, dropping it onto a huge green leaf and handing it to Ian. He didn’t get a say in how it was to be cooked. It didn’t look done; the meat was still broadly pink, with a few spots of black char where the heat had seared the outermost portion. Salmon-coloured grease ran down the leaf, onto his hand. Why did she not have plates?
Whatever his misgivings about the way the meat was prepared, they vanished when he took a bite. It was heaven. Tender, juicy, with a taste that was familiar yet strange. Like nothing he’d ever eaten before.
Goodwife Sara had her hand out, palm facing upwards. “I’ll be wanting payment now.”
He laughed. “Here you go,” he said, dropping a couple of copperheads into her palm. “I trust that’ll be sufficient.”
“I never said I needed money,” said Goodwife Sara, not that it stopped her from putting the two copperheads out of reach before Ian grabbed them back. “My husband keeps swanning off all day. Says he’s going to be here helping me earn my keep, but he drops a pile of dead birds off of a morning and I don’t see him again until after dark. He’s up to something, I know it in my bones. You can pay me by finding the little whore he’s seeing and making sure he never sees her again.”
“Expensive meat.”
“Good meat,” she said. “And I’ll hook you up for life if you deal with the bitch.”
He ran his tongue across his teeth, freeing the last few stubborn flakes of meat from the gaps in between. The food was exquisite, there could be no denying that. But he was the Corrack, not some hired gun. It would hardly be appropriate.
His doubt was clearly evident in his face. “Just find out where it is he’s going, for me,” she said, “and then we’ll be even. I can deal with the whore myself. Whoever she is, she’s not the only woman on this rock who knows some good tricks. She won’t enjoy seeing mine.”
Still full on that sumptuous meat, Ian wandered. Goodwife Sara had mentioned her husband heading a few times in the direction of the river. The great Clearwater cut through the valley like a knife, a natural borderline, and thus far he’d never ventured across. Why not today? He might even find out what this husband was getting up to.
Not that he fancied going alone. Every morning, Sergeant Pratley came to find him, and every morning he sent Sergeant Pratley away. The Sergeant always told Ian exactly where he’d be, just in case Ian changed his mind. Ian always pah’ed. He was the Corrack—changing his mind was no longer in his nature. But today he’d changed his mind.
Swallowing his pride, he’d called on Sergeant Pratley before he left the Tavern. Pratley was sat at the table nearest the door, nursing a barely-started half-pint. “Got to be sober to do your bidding,” he said, with a grin on his face. And he was useful, to be fair—moreso than Ian had given him credit for. There was only one way across the Clearwater, apparently, and Sergeant Pratley knew exactly where it was. A wooden trestle bridge a single horse wide had been erected to meet the main dirt track from the Eia. It was a logical place to cross, and not particularly well hidden. Only someone as unobservant as Ian clearly was could have missed it.
Across the river, the skyline was dominated by huge mountains a way distant. They were far enough away that they were partially obscured by the fog of the horizon, and still they towered over even the Mettywood. David had already had the pleasure of exploring this woodland, Ian knew. He thought David must have been mad. Wandering unmapped forest was his idea of a nightmare.
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There was more to this part of the valley than just the Mettywood. For five hundred yards before the treeline, the western shore of the Clearwater was a tranquil paradise of green fields and half-fenced farmland. There were people here. On leisure, mainly. They sat with their feet in the river’s shallows, or lay basking in the sun.
A crowd had gathered at the back of old Hultry’s stables, where the grass had been cleared to make a dirt-floored yard. “What do you think they’re all looking at, sir?” Pratley had scarce asked the question when some semblance of an answer presented itself. Half a dozen soldiers in the deep green uniforms of the Constabulary appeared behind Ian. They pushed their way through the crowd.
Ian wasn’t far behind. A woman in a dress held up by complex knots, her face pale, bounced off one of the Constabulary men and fell to the ground at Ian’s feet. He pulled her up and shoved her aside. “Out of my way,” he growled. “Let me through. I’m the Corrack.” It was a reluctant crowd that parted for him. By the time he got close enough to see what was going on, the Constabulary had taken control of the situation. Three of their number had formed a perimeter; any time a member of the gathered crowd jostled too close, they were violently shoved back.
The other three were looking at a tall, bare tree whose roots were pushing through the dirt. A noose had been looped around one of the branches. Hanging from it was a man, clearly dead, his skin darkened where the blood had pooled. He’d been stripped of all his clothes; a dizzy spiral was tattooed on his chest, the corners squared off.
Sergeant Pratley appeared at Ian’s side. “There’s been a murder,” he said, with a wry smile.
“You almost look like you’re happy about it,” said Ian.
“I wouldn’t say happy,” said Pratley. “But it’s excitement.”
One of the Constabulary soldiers appeared in front of them, hands on her hips. Her nose was large, and curved slightly, like it had been broken and not properly healed. She’d dispensed with the formal green kepi, instead wearing a celadon scrunchie in shoulder-length blonde hair. “You need to clear the area, sir, this is a crime scene.”
“I’m the Corrack,” said Ian.
The soldier nodded. “I know who you are. This is still a crime scene.”
He tried to shove his way past her, but that was easier said than done. Without him even noticing it, she managed to spin her rifle and block his way with the butt. “I just want to see the body,” he said.
She shook her head. “I have my orders. If you don’t like it, you need to take that up with the Lord Constable.”
“Lord Constable,” Sergeant Pratley scoffed. “What sort of poncy name is that?”
“Easy, Sergeant,” said Ian. The big-nosed soldier’s face had hardened, and she still had a discomfitingly tight grip on her gun. “Where is the Lord Constable? I think I would like a word with him, now that I think on it.”
“He’ll be on his way here now,” said the soldier.
“Brilliant, I’ll wait.”
She shook her head. “You’ll need to make an appointment. The Lord Constable is a very busy man.”
But Ian had already turned away from her, Sergeant Pratley in tow. “I’m the Corrack. I’m sure he’ll find time for me.” He had no doubt the Lord Constable would be along soon, and there was only one real way of getting here. Hultry had put up a narrow fence along the border of his land. The posts were spindly and the wood baking hot after being all day in the heat of the full sun, and it was the perfect place to wait.
Sergeant Pratley stuck to him like glue. “Three times,” he said, when they were out of Constabulary earshot. “Three times you said ‘I am the Corrack’.”
Ian looked at him. “What of it? It’s true.”
“It makes you sound like a right pompous dickhead.”
“When I want someone to call me a dickhead, Sergeant Pratley, I’ll ask you.”
In the end, Ian’s hunch proved accurate. It wasn’t five minutes later that he caught sight of the Lord Constable just crossing the bridge. He straightened up.
“What is it, sir?” asked Pratley.
“Lord Constable approaching.”
Pratley laughed. “Brilliant! This rabble’s useless—the mob’s getting rowdier by the minute. I love to watch a good bollocking.”
Ian didn’t respond. He’d already gone off to catch the Lord Constable on his way. They’d met a few times before, only briefly, and Ian knew him on sight. The Lord Constable was softly spoken, but today accompanied by a thin Lieutenant who had a bark surprisingly powerful given her gaunt stature. It seemed a good combination. Without someone to shout for him, the Lord Constable would probably have been ignored. As it was, the crowds backed away as he passed. The sound of the Lieutenant’s voice seemed to gee up the Constabulary soldiers already here. At once, Ian heard from the stables renewed shouts of “back away, this is Constabulary business”. Obviously this Lieutenant was good at her job.
The Lieutenant had the nerve to try her shouting at Ian. “Stand back,” she said, putting a hand on Ian’s chest. Sergeant Pratley batted her hand away. Ian ignored her altogether, and turned to the Lord Constable.
“Ian Fitzhenry,” he said. “You must be Lord Constable Mannam.”
Mannam tutted. “So much for being anonymous.”
“If you wanted to be anonymous, you should have picked less obnoxious uniforms,” said Ian, and Mannam nodded. Even amongst the Constabulary, Mannam stood out. In place of the usual serge, Mannam wore a green dolman fastened with gold buttons, over straw breeches and stockings to match the jacket. He looked like he belonged more in a masquerade ball than a murder scene—and the grim expression on his face suggested he knew it. Ian gestured towards the dead man. “What’s happened here?”
“The dead man’s name was Edmote Wenderwind,” said Mannam. “A farm labourer, according to the ship registry. He was billeted to Deadshrike, but he was reported missing a few weeks back. Apparently he found faith.”
Ian frowned. “How do you mean?”
Mannam shrugged. “You recognise his tattoo? That’s Castan’s Spiral. One of Wenderwind’s church pals reported the body to us, said there’d been an attack. Presumably Wenderwind has been living at this church.”
“I didn’t know there was a church here,” said Ian.
“Neither did I,” said Mannam. “The odd preacher, sure. Wenderwind’s buddy clammed up when we asked him where the church was, and disappeared when our backs were turned.”
“It’s the uniforms. He knows you’re law. He doesn’t want to tangle.”
“A criminal’s attitude,” Mannam spat. “If he was a law-abiding man, he’d help us see his friend brought to justice. As it is... well, where do I even start? Their church could be anywhere. Might not even be a proper building. These sorts often gather around campfires by the river.”
“You’ve got the manpower,” said Ian. “It wouldn’t be too hard to track them down, surely.”
“With this lot? Don’t make me laugh. They’re bloody useless. Can’t even find three soldiers, and they’ve been looking for weeks.”
“I’m not useless,” said his Lieutenant, pouting.
“Then why are you standing next to me? Look, every little twat this side of the river is trying to cop a feel of poor Wenderwind. Go and keep order.” The Lieutenant, chastened, pushed her way through the crowds to join her colleagues in front of the body. She must have put all her humiliation into her shouts for order. They were loud enough for Chris and Caro to have heard, all the way in their Eia quarters.
“You’re too harsh on her, Lord Constable,” said Ian. “She sounds like she’s doing a fine job.”
Mannam nodded. “Aye. Cause I’m harsh with her, when she needs it. Helps them learn. Jess will make senior leadership one day, and it’ll be me she thanks for it.”
“All of your soldiers are doing the right thing, from where I’m standing,” Ian said. “The blonde one wouldn’t even let me near the body.”
“As well she shouldn’t,” said Mannam, with a derisory snort. “Did you think just cause you’re somebody big in the council hall you can just walk around my crime scenes? Or did you think Onslow might be a pushover, just because she’s small? That one’s got a bite.”
“Well...” Ian fumbled for a response. The Lord Constable’s already less than friendly tone had suddenly turned icy cold.
“I suggest you clear out of here now, and let the people with real jobs to do get on with them.” Mannam didn’t leave Ian opportunity to respond. He span on his heel and marched off towards Hultry’s stable.
Ian turned to Sergeant Pratley. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”
In the excitement, Ian hadn’t noticed mid-morning turning into early evening. The sun was already preparing to set, and Sara Wiles’ husband was unlikely to be found at this time. Rather than keep wandering aimlessly, towards the western woods and whatever mysteries lay beyond, Ian started back. As always, Sergeant Pratley followed. Well, not followed. Led the way. He overtook quite quickly, after Ian caught sight of a brilliant azure flower that reminded him of happier times and for a second froze. By the time they reached the bridge, Ian was struggling to keep pace.
“Do you think you could track this place down?” Ian waited until they were across the river before speaking up.
Sergeant Pratley turned to him, a frown on his face. “Edmote Wenderwind’s church? Give me a week.”
“Brilliant.” Ian smiled. “That will be all for today, Sergeant. Go and finish your pint.”
“It was a half, sir.”