Green Bridge, October 6th
The rain had cleared out by the morning of the sixth of October, but a chill wind cut through the weak sunlight in the farm country outside Green Bridge. The trees at the edges of the fields swayed and creaked in the wind, scattering orange, yellow, and red leaves in the air all around them. The farm laborers wore heavy overcoats and hats against the wind, making it impossible to distinguish man from woman or old from young.
Cyrus peered gloomily out the windows of the rickety coach that he shared with Veridia, Merrily, and Jonathan Miller. He felt the wind buffet the coach and wondered how long he would be obliged by good form to stand about in it while the burial went on. Cyrus was feeling decidedly delicate this morning.
“Where is Gmork?” asked Merrily quietly. “I didn’t see him in any of the other coaches.”
Cyrus shook his head carefully, trying not to dislodge his brain. “He didn’t come back last night,” he answered. “And he didn’t bring me my coffee.”
“I see you found something else to drink,” remarked Veridia blandly. Wearing a simple, black-dyed wool dress altered to accommodate her belly, she looked rather uncomfortable as she sat in the small box. Cyrus just stared up at her blearily, too hazy to formulate a cutting reply.
“Try this,” said Jonathan, next to him. He offered Cyrus a small silver flask, which Cyrus gratefully unscrewed and sniffed. Finding that its scent presaged the desired remedy, he took a long swig, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and handed it back to the young factor.
Jonathan Miller wore an elegant gray coat and pants, with a heavily starched white shirt and a rather loud cravat of yellow silk. His long overcoat was fastened with polished brass buttons, and his straw-blonde hair was neatly combed. Jonathan was considerably taller than Cyrus, and he had to stoop slightly in the box. He also wore a worried, vaguely pained expression, which Cyrus attributed to the discomfort of the cramped conveyance or possibly to marriage.
“Thank you, Jonathan,” muttered Cyrus, as his headache began to lessen. “That will get me through the funeral, I expect, but don’t lose it. I’ll make it up to you later.”
The coach bumped and rattled on through the countryside, as its occupants sat mostly in silence.
“Just my luck Rolly’s family lived nearby,” muttered Cyrus irritably. “If they’d been farther off, we could have gotten away with putting him in one of the cemeteries in Green Bridge.” He paused, and burped. “Anyone know if they’re going to do religion? I saw Bishop Wildrick getting into a carriage back at Redbun Hall. Never knew Rolly to go in for that sort of thing. If I’m obliged to stand still while Wildrick blathers on about the afterlife, I expect I shall have no choice but to vomit stridently.”
Veridia shook her head. “Rolly took a dim view of the Ecclesia for as long as I knew him. But Queen Anne asked the whole Council to come along, and Wildrick is on the Council, for better or for worse.”
Cyrus snorted. “Worse, I expect. He and his priests will end up joining their southern friends at the bottom of the Green River if they make enough trouble for the Queen to withdraw their refuge.”
“The worst you’re likely to see is a dust-up with the Advocates of Ash,” remarked Jonathan. “They’ve been popping up more frequently in these farm villages since their… prophet… came through in the early summer—and the Ecclesia really doesn’t like them. We even have a few in Hog Hurst.” He looked meaningfully at Merrily. “Gimble Smith is one of them now,” he added.
Merrily, who had dark circles under her eyes and was drooping noticeably, barely reacted. Jonathan looked like he wanted to say more but fell silent and sat back. His pained concern grew more apparent.
Ah, thought Cyrus. Mr. Miller has begun to discover the vinegar that lurks in the bottle appealingly labelled ‘happily ever after.’ He gave the morose young man a pitying shake of the head, and then returned to his own private misery.
They endured another hour of bumpy travel, until at last the convoy of coaches, cabs, and other horse-drawn vehicles from Green Bridge drew to a stop at the side of the little road. They had passed through a small patch of old forest, and a tiny village sat at the far edge. This contained just a handful of small, one-story buildings, a few workshops, and a tiny trading square. The cemetery itself was a broad patch of overgrown lawn, dotted with worn and faded stones in neat ranks. A freshly dug grave was evident at the back of the little yard, and perhaps a dozen people stood around it dressed in shabby formalwear that had gone out of style several generations ago.
The locals were immediately outnumbered by the occupants of the many carriages that had come from Green Bridge. The fashions of the city folk were more up to date, though all were dressed soberly. The Queen and her Council were first to disembark, making their way solemnly up to greet the family while the hearse was unloaded. There followed a great many mathematicians, dressed in flowing black academic robes with colorful trim and looking rather uncomfortable in the bright light of late morning. These esteemed scholars stood around awkwardly by the carriages, making painfully stilted commentary on the journey and the weather for nearly thirty seconds until, by some unspoken signal, they all gave up and started jabbering unintelligibly about mathematics. Someone had brought a small chalkboard, which was quickly stood up near the grave and on which they commenced to draw arcane symbols with stubs of chalk that appeared from their pockets. Soon the stately academic robes were marred with white dust.
The remaining odds and ends of the funeral party appeared to be friends of Rolly’s from the city, and these drifted over to join the crowd now assembled by the grave. Cyrus and Veridia drifted with them, holding hands but saying little to each other. She absently straightened his silk cravat, and he did his best not to fall over. Eventually, the crowd quieted down as the large oak coffin appeared from the roadside, borne by a mathematician at each corner. Cyrus recognized Dean Comland among them.
The pallbearers advanced slowly, and the crowd drew back in respect. The mathematicians at the chalkboard ceased bickering over their arcana and shuffled over to the grave. Queen Anne and the Council stood at the far end, the Queen holding a bouquet of flowers. Cyrus recognized Bishop Wildrick nearby, wearing a black cassock and displaying the Unbroken Circle on a prominent pendant around his neck.
As the coffin was lowered gently into the grave, Queen Anne spoke first.
“Rolland Gorp was skilled in his craft, and he served me bravely by going into danger in Uellodon. He made me smile when we spoke, and he also made me wiser. My life is better because he lived.”
There was a brief pause, and then Veridia spoke.
“Rolly made ciphers that saved the lives of my traders when the White Knights tried to take the north,” she said loudly and clearly. Wildrick, he noted, looked uncomfortable at this statement, and gave Veridia a sidelong glance. Cyrus held his breath, wondering if she would say more. But she simply concluded: “My life is better because he lived.”
The brief eulogies continued, as every person who had come to the graveside said a sentence or two and concluded with the phrase, handed down by centuries of Uellish practice: “My life is better because he lived.” All who had come to the grave did so because they wanted to say those words. There was silence between each speaker, until the next person was ready. No one organized the speaking, or the sequence, and occasionally two people spoke at the same time. It didn’t matter. The whole thing sorted itself out. Cyrus found that he had to bite his tongue and blink back tears. Eventually, he felt it was his turn.
“Rolly saved my life with a cart full of horse manure.” He paused in thought for a moment. “I learned from him how to be a better Applied Historian. My life is better because he lived.”
Beside him, Merrily spoke up. Her eyes were dark and shadowed, and it seemed to Cyrus that she swayed slightly in the wind. But her voice was loud and clear. “Rolly hid my words from people who would hurt me. He never saw the world for anything but a joke. My life is better because he lived.”
The eulogies continued, and as Cyrus’s headache had abated with repeated application of the contents of Jonathan’s flask, his thoughts were the freer to wander. He thought of the murder, and who might be a suspect, and who had an interest in the outcome. He admitted to himself that he, Cyrus Stoat, had an interest—both in finding and punishing the man who had killed Rolly, and in clearing a goblin of the crime. He filed that fact away with the other facts he knew so far.
“He gave his heart to Ash. He did as he would and died as he would. Ash loved him as she loves each of us. Our lives are better because he lived.”
Cyrus looked up sharply at the speaker. Others in the crowd were doing the same. Faces that were wet with tears were now also hard with anger.
It was a man slightly taller than Cyrus, with shoulder-length brown hair and a short beard. Cyrus judged his age to be thirty or thirty-five years. He was dressed in a black coat and hose, well cut and with bright silver buttons. He wore a long cloak, also trimmed in silver cloth. A small ornament hung on a pendant around his neck. Cyrus could not see its details from where he stood, but he had a good notion what it was.
Bishop Wildrick, still standing near the Queen, began to push forward angrily toward the man who had spoken. But then he stopped suddenly, as the Queen laid a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. She shook her head slightly. The rest of the crowd, taking their cue from the monarch, limited themselves to hard glares, which faded only reluctantly as the next eulogy began. The man who had spoken, meanwhile, stood calmly for a few moments, smiling despite the angry gazes around him. Then he turned and walked away from the crowd in an unhurried fashion, making for a white palfrey hitched to a post at the corner of the cemetery.
Veridia leaned close to him. “Advocate of Ash,” she murmured. He nodded in agreement.
“There are one or two or perhaps fifty people in this crowd who are going to want words with that man when this is over,” he whispered. “I’d like to get mine in before they rip him apart for associating with the Traitor. Excuse me.” He slowly, discretely made his way out and around the edges of the gathering.
By the time Cyrus reached the man in the silver-trimmed coat, the stranger had already mounted his palfrey. He watched calmly as Cyrus stumped up to him, wearing his blackest scowl.
“Do you want to kill me, Professor Cyrus Stoat?” he asked in a soft voice. The wind rustled his brown hair around his face.
“Not yet,” growled Cyrus in answer. “But I do want you to share what you know about how Rolland Gorp died.”
“I know no more than I said,” answered the man infuriatingly.
“Who are you?” hissed Cyrus.
“I am an advocate of Ash. I withhold my name for my own safety.”
“Yet you come here openly and stir up these people at a burial? Wildrick is about ready to insert his Unbroken Circle down your throat and out the other side.”
“Do you want to know about me, or do you want to know about Mr. Gorp?”
“Both,” snapped Cyrus. “But let’s start with Rolly.” He glanced over his shoulder. The eulogies were winding down by the look of it. Already, a small knot of hard-faced men gathered quietly near the edge of the crowd, looking their way. “You said he died as he would. What does that mean? Rolly didn’t strike me as suicidal.”
The man in the black coat looked down at him gravely. “He died fulfilling his greatest purpose, Professor,” he said quietly. “It was a duty of choice, and a duty to himself. So, I say he died as he would.”
“Can you be more specific, before these gentlemen behind me send you to follow after him?”
“I can, but I will not. My duty of choice today is to honor Mr. Gorp by presence and words, and beyond that I choose only to live another day. If you want to know more about how he died, ask the people who were with him. I understand there was a goblin involved.” And with that he turned the palfrey and galloped off down the road, his black cloak flying behind him.
Cyrus whirled and, cursing softly under his breath, stumped back to the where the people were starting to break up from around the grave. Most made for a row of tables set with beer and lunch, but the hard-faced men who had gathered at the edge stood in Cyrus’s path.
“You spoke with that man,” said one of them, a full foot taller than Cyrus and endowed with an enormous beard. “He’s a friend of the Traitor, by his words. Is he a friend of yours too?”
“Hardly. I don’t count any religious peewits among my friends, as far as I’m aware. I wanted to know why he said what he said.”
“And why was that?” asked the large man, glowering at Cyrus.
Cyrus shrugged. “The very worst reason of all, I’m afraid—because he thought it was right. Now look, my fine fellows. You can try to give me a good thrashing if it will make you feel better, but a brawl is a poor way to honor the dead. If you feel strongly about it, come find me at Peacock Hall in Green Bridge. The name is Stoat. I’m sure we can arrange something private.” He winked at them and slipped off to rejoin Veridia.
Lunch was suitably robust, and came at the expense of the Crown. It seemed to Cyrus a fitting tribute, as Rolly had in life always been fond of a free lunch. When it was over and the tables had been cleared away, the crowd made their way back to their assortment of conveyances for the return trip to Green Bridge. Cyrus took a last look at the lonely, windswept cemetery, shook his head at the sorrows of the world, and climbed in the coach.
✽✽✽
It was late afternoon when they returned to the Charter City. The coach stopped at the Snugg factor house in the trade quarter so Merrily, Jonathan, and Veridia could depart.
“Merrily,” he called as she stepped out of the box. “I’ll need you tonight at Redbun. We must have a close look at Rolly’s office, and I want your help with organizing the interviews tomorrow. We mustn’t waste any more time; you can line them up while I talk to them.”
A flash of irritation and anger crossed her face. “I still have hours of reading to do for Glibgrub’s lecture, an essay on Gorgovian foreign policy for your course, and work to do for the Queen. And in case you’d forgotten, Professor Stoat, I am now married. So—no. I cannot help you tonight at Redbun.” And with that she flounced away angrily, leaving Jonathan to trail awkwardly after her. He, at least, cast a sheepish look over his shoulder at Cyrus in mute apology for his wife. Cyrus scowled at their departing backs, bade farewell to Veridia, and tapped the roof. The driver took his signal and shook the reins, and the carriage rattled off.
He stopped briefly at William Hall to send a message to Captain Vigg, who had promised him a look at the sketches from the murder scene. Then he departed the cab at the gates of Triad, paid off the driver, and stumped inside.
Where is my goblin? The thought had been gnawing at his mind since this morning when Gmork had failed to appear for the ride to the funeral. He’d been avoiding it, and he forced himself to face that. It was unlike his assistant to vanish, and the timing was inconvenient to his peace of mind. His stomach growling, he fetched himself a cup of stale coffee and a biscuit from the faculty lounge, threw a penny in the jar, and made his way back outside and across the lawn to Redbun Hall.
The domain of the College of Applied Mathematics was a towering pile of red stone, accreted more than assembled over the nine centuries since the founding of Triad. Its numerous additions, wings, and oddly placed turrets reflected the changing architectural styles of the times, and frequently clashed absurdly. The steps up to the grand doorway switched to an entirely different design halfway up, as some Dean during the Royal Mediocrity had seen fit to redecorate, but could only squeeze funding for half the steps out of the Provost. The whole edifice carried on in this way. Cyrus, who held a deep and abiding distaste for the actual calculation of sums, nonetheless found the home of its practitioners weirdly attractive.
He knew where to go, as he’d made the trek to Rolly’s office two or three times in the last year. He passed through the richly furnished and well-heated reception chamber and into a narrow, winding stairwell at the back. This went up for nine long stories, and Cyrus gritted his teeth as he took each step one at a time, pivoting carefully on the wooden leg. The door to Rolly’s office was shut, and a young, bored-looking Billy was seated on a wooden chair outside, reading a luridly illustrated novel. The officer looked up as he approached, tucked the book hurriedly under the chair, and tried to look officious without actually standing up.
“This wing is closed,” he said with a grimace that was trying to be a scowl.
Cyrus gave him the real thing, and the young man shrunk back. “I’m authorized,” he replied. “The Queen sent me.”
“How do I know that?” asked the law man, rising to his feet. “Anyone could say that. Do you have papers?”
Cyrus gaped at him. Papers. A policeman asking for papers. The Republic had already won.
“Young man. Do you see this wooden leg? It detaches, you know. If you do not let me into that room at once, I shall insert it into the first opening in you that I encounter, broad end first. If you don’t like that, you can take it up with Captain Vigg, who will take it up with Queen Anne, who, because she is a merciful and good-natured monarch, will smile sweetly and recommend you find a physician to have it removed. In the meanwhile, however, I will have entered the office of the late Mr. Gorp to do my duty to my Queen, and you will have an oak prosthesis shoved up your ass.”
The Billy opened the door hurriedly.
The office was a mess. It had always been a mess. Rolly was not given to cleanliness, order, or any other such mundane distractions. He preferred that his possessions be placed where he found them most convenient, and that they thereafter not move unless provoked by dire necessity. There were heaps of books and papers around the edges of the room and scattered over the table. Writing quills and ink pots adorned the piles with wanton abundance. A considerable assortment of mugs and food plates could also be seen, and some of these still appeared to contain the decomposing remains of their final offering to their master’s lips. A tiny bed hid ashamedly in one corner, mostly concealed beneath unfolded and probably unwashed clothing. One corner of the rickety table was, still, propped up by a flowerpot sprouting a bushy, bright-green hexastrid.
There was a new mess in the center, though. A dark, ugly, reddish-brown stain marred the unfinished wooden floor, and a few of the book piles had been knocked over around the edges. There was a strong smell of dried blood. The outline of a large, fat man was drawn on the floor in chalk. Only one arm was visible; it appeared the other one had fallen beneath the victim.
Cyrus moved carefully around the chalk outline, looking over the details. Rolly’s abode was ‘disturbed’ in its natural state, but other than blood and chalk it did not appear disturbed out of the ordinary. The bed looked as though it had been slept in, but there was no sign that its occupant had last exited with any urgency; a large pile of books remained balanced precariously at its foot. He circled around behind the desk and looked at the surface. There was a clear spot in the center, and one of the drawers was open slightly. The writing quills were neatly tucked into their rack.
That was odd. Rolly’s desk was notoriously cluttered; Cyrus wasn’t sure he’d ever seen its surface before. And his quills had never re-entered their rack since first emerging from it, so far as he could recall. But then, he had only visited Rolly on a small handful of occasions. Perhaps the mathematician had been turning over a new leaf, or had a visitor he wanted to impress.
He bent over, carefully moving his wooden leg behind him to maintain his balance on one foot, to examine the drawers—
“Professor Stoat? There you are. Sorry I missed you earlier.”
It was Vigg. The portly captain of the Billies was standing in Rolly’s door—was it still Rolly’s door?—with a roll of papers in his hand. Cyrus straightened up.
“Thank you, Captain. Are those your man’s drawings?”
Vigg nodded. “They are. I called for him just as soon as I heard the news, and I warrant to you, Professor, that nothing was touched in the room between when I got here and when he did.” He handed over the drawings.
Cyrus unrolled them and looked carefully. One was drawn from the doorway, and the other from one of the opposite corners, looking over the desk and bed. They were reasonably detailed; Rolly could be seen lying face down in a pool of blood, one arm beneath him and one splayed out to the side. Cyrus compared it to the chalk outline, and found that they matched.
“Your artist did good work,” he congratulated Vigg. “I’m surprised you keep someone with this talent on staff.”
“Oh, we don’t keep him on staff,” said Vigg, shaking his head firmly. “He works in the streets during the day, making his living by sketching for passers-by. He’s a favorite among the wealthier set of young people, I understand. But he knows we pay more for a crime scene, so he’s always happy to come quickly when I ask.”
Cyrus chuckled. “Is he a suspect? Sounds like the setup for a Thom Verasee novel. The artist makes bodies appear so he can get paid to draw them.”
Vigg shrugged. “Can’t rule him out. If you can place him in Redbun on the night of the 27th of September, we’ll bring him in for questioning.”
Cyrus shook his head. “We can’t run off into dark fantasy, Captain. But speaking of questioning—I will need to ask a great favor. Will you lend me a Billy or two? It’s always a bit easier to barge in on someone important and demand answers if you’ve got a shiny brass badge to wave.”
“I’ll do it myself,” answered Vigg. “People know me, and they’ll come along if I ask. Might as well cut through the complaining and arguing.”
Cyrus’s eyes widened slightly. “Appreciate that, Captain. I thought you’d have other responsibilities.”
Vigg looked at him seriously. “The Queen needs this buttoned up, Professor. One more problem is one more than she needs. Things have been tricky here, what with the National Assembly, and the troubles with the landowners of the Great Basin, and no sign of the Crown Prince… I do think the young man gives her more sleepless nights than most. She took it hard when General Logwall spirited him out of the city, and it makes her position that much harder. So that’s all to say, Professor, that if you need something from me to make this problem go away, you shall have it.”
Stolen story; please report.
Cyrus nodded. “Here’s the list.” He drew out a tattered piece of hemp paper from his pocket and handed it over. Vigg glanced at it, and then made for the door. “I’ll have everyone I can find in the sitting room downstairs in an hour, Professor.”
Cyrus turned back to the sketches, and the room. He held up the drawings, and looked back and forth from them to the floor.
Mess around the edges. Mess around the edges. The same.
Mess on the bed. Mess on the bed. The same.
Mess on the table. Mess on the… different. Less mess on the table.
He peered at the second drawing again. Yes—there was plainly more mess on the table in the drawing. The spot on the desk that was now clean appeared in the illustration with a number of sheets of paper in its place. The artist had even helpfully filled in some squiggly lines to suggest writing. The quills were scattered about on the pile, not stowed in their rack.
He looked more closely.
Potted plant holding up the desk. Potted plant holding up the desk. The same. But this drawing was made nine days ago. Hexastrid should have wilted in nine days without water, but this one appeared perfectly happy. He lowered himself down and felt the soil—still slightly damp. Someone had watered it within the last few days; perhaps five at the outside.
Someone had removed something from the surface of the desk after the crime—and put the quills back in their rack. The someone had watered the plant. It was a someone who liked a clean office and couldn’t resist the impulse to tidy this one a bit. Unprofessional.
He circled around the desk and pulled open the drawer. Empty.
It was a clean-up job.
✽✽✽
Cyrus questioned two nervous, younger mathematicians who had been on the ninth floor the night of the murder.
“Did you hear any sounds from Rolly’s office?”
“No,” answered both.
“Did you see anyone unusual in the hall?”
“No,” answered both.
“Did you see anyone at all in the hall?”
They were working in their offices until they heard the commotion, they replied.
“Did Rolly meet with anyone unusual in the weeks before the murder?”
“No.” Cyrus took notes. Vigg let the men leave.
✽✽✽
He questioned Dean Howard Comland.
“The goblin who came to tell you Rolly was dead. What was his name?” Cyrus already knew this, but he wondered if Dean Comland knew.
“Obilly Smallhat,” answered the stuffy, irritable Dean of the College of Applied Mathematics.
“Was he nervous?”
“Of course he was nervous! He’d just seen a dead body.”
“Did he tell you anything about what he’d seen or heard before he found Mr. Gorp?”
The Dean shook his head. “He was in a terrible bother, Professor Stoat. I didn’t ask him questions about what else he’d seen.”
“How long had Mr. Smallhat been at the College?”
“He began in the fall semester of ’14. Just over a year ago. Came in with a few others of his kind. They had letters of recommendation from Snugg. We gave them a chance; Snugg’s a major patron to the College. Most of them couldn’t grasp the material and we sent them over to Literature, but Smallhat and another one did pretty well, and passed their exams tolerably. We let them pick their programs after that. Smallhat took cryptography, which is why he got paired up with Mr. Gorp.”
Cyrus looked up sharply.
“Cryptography? Isn’t that fairly advanced for a first-year student with no formal education?”
The Dean scowled at him. “You don’t turn away talent just because it comes without a primary education, do you Professor? That sweet little thing Merrily Hunter—”
“—is supremely qualified, and near the top of her class,” interrupted Cyrus sharply.
Dean Comland smirked unpleasantly. “No doubt she is. But you’ll concede she didn’t start doing that until she walked through the gates here with a scholarship from Cyrus Stoat. Smallhat and Herberta took to mathematics like a historian to a thousand-year-old turd. They’ve got sharp minds, they learn at a pace that’s terrifying to see, and they practically never sleep. So yes, we gave them a place—Smallhat in crypto, and Herberta in astronomy. She was working with Agaberth Tentimes, before Tentimes left to visit family in Roosterfoot this past June. And now they’re both gone, and I look like an idiot for having let them in.”
Cyrus mulled that over.
“Did Mr. Gorp have any new friends? Or new enemies?”
The Dean shrugged. “Not that I know. He wasn’t exactly at the top of my faculty. Ninth floor.”
“Was the desk covered in papers when you came into his office?”
“Of course it was! Man lived like a pig. I don’t think he’d cleaned that room since we let him move in there.”
“Were the quills in their rack on his desk?”
“No clue.”
Cyrus took notes. Vigg let the Dean leave.
✽✽✽
He interviewed the man who cleaned the ninth floor. He was a hunched, bearded old fellow with a badly scarred face and long, scraggly hair that hung over his eyes. He smelled of stale sweat and corn starch. His name was Demiter Filtch.
“Did you kill Rolland Gorp?” Cyrus started with a bang, hoping to catch the man off guard.
“No,” came the answer.
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone unusual on the ninth floor that night?”
“Yes.”
Cyrus waited.
“Who was it?” he asked, after no elaboration was forthcoming.
“A goblin.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes.”
“This was before the murder?”
“Don’t know when the murder was, sir. But it was before all the commotion. It was after the supper hour, sir.”
“Professor,” corrected Cyrus automatically. “Which goblin was it?”
“They all look the same to me.”
“But you’re sure it was a goblin? Did he have a hat on?”
“He was about four feet tall. Could have been a midget, I suppose. Haven’t seen any midgets around here lately, though. He wore a hood, not a hat.”
“What did he do?”
“Went into Mr. Gorp’s office. Came out a few minutes later all quiet like, wipin’ his hands on the cloak, and closed the door. Walked off quick to the stairway, sir.” Cyrus glared at him in irritation.
“That’s Professor. You work at the College of Applied Mathematics, and you don’t know how to address a professor?”
The elderly servant shrugged. “Don’t see many professors, professor. I work at night and clean the floors.”
Cyrus shook his head in disgust, and took notes. Vigg let Mr. Filtch leave.
✽✽✽
He interviewed Andrew Hypote, Professor of Applied Mathematics.
“Did you kill Rolland Gorp?” He gave it another try.
“Certainly not!” answered Professor Hypote. “He was my graduate student, and one of the finest cryptographers I’ve ever met.”
“So: You worked with him regularly?”
“Every day,” answered Hypote confidently.
“Did he have any new friends or contacts?”
Hypote frowned. “Not that I know of. The last year was busy for Mr. Gorp, though. The Queen had him over at the palace quite frequently, and he does work for Snugg on the side. He might have met someone I never saw.”
“Did he tell you of any trouble he was in? Debts, failed love interest, that sort of thing?”
The mathematician shook his head. “No. Snugg paid him well, and Mr. Gorp never mentioned romance. If anyone would have heard of it, Professor, I’d think it would have been you. I understand he saw you and Professor Rayth quite regularly.”
Cyrus stroked the stubble on his face, wrinkling his brow in frustration. Nobody saw anything unusual, except the janitor saw a mysterious goblin wearing a hood—and no hat—go into Rolly’s office at just the right time to be the principal suspect.
Cyrus took notes, and Vigg waved Professor Hypote toward the door.
“You should ask Professor Pie,” volunteered the mathematician as he stood up. “Mr. Gorp was working with him on some kind of project.”
Cyrus looked carefully at Hypote. “Graduate students work with professors all the time. What made this one special?”
Professor Hypote shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. But Foulwart Pie isn’t a cryptographer—he’s a natural mathematician.”
“Natural mathematician?”
“He studies how mathematics is manifested in and affects the physical world. Dropping different sized balls off balconies and all that. I was surprised when Rolly asked my permission to work with him, but I saw no harm in it.”
“And where would I find Professor Pie?” asked Cyrus eagerly.
“If you discover that, you’d better tell Dean Comland,” replied Hypote sardonically. “He’s been missing for over a month now.”
✽✽✽
“I’d dearly like to talk to this Herberta,” remarked Cyrus, looking over his notes by the fading light of a late October afternoon streaming through the tall windows in the sitting room of Redbun Hall. “If she was the only other goblin in the College of Applied Mathematics, I imagine she and Smallhat got to know each other rather well.”
Vigg shook his head. “I already asked the Dean. I’ll give you one guess whether she’s been missing for the last nine days.”
He cursed in disgust. “She and every other grayskin in this city has decided to take an early winter holiday, or else been discretely murdered.” He thought it over, looking again at his notes.
“Was anyone allowed into the room after the murder, Captain?”
“No, professor,” answered Vigg. “I gave my men strict orders that no one should go in—or out, actually, but that seemed less likely.”
“Not even Mr. Filtch?”
Vigg shook his head. “No. But if it’s all the same to you, Dean Comland has been needling me to let him have the room cleaned and reoccupied. The smell is becoming an unwelcome neighbor, if you take my meaning.”
Cyrus thought about it. “Have your artist draw it again from the same angles, if you would,” he asked finally. “And then, yes. I’m sure Rolly’s family would appreciate having his effects back.”
He looked hard at the notes again, willing something to jump off the page. A mathematician murdered. A goblin seen with him that night. Smallhat reported the body, then disappeared. Which goblin was with him earlier?
Something taken from the desk after the first sketch. Quills put back, plant watered. Amateurish and neurotic, but not revelatory. What was on the desk, and why did someone want it?
New project with Professor Pie, who is missing. Worked with Obilly Smallhat, who is missing. Smallhat probably knew Herberta well, but Herberta is missing. Herberta did most of her work for Professor Tentimes, who has left for Roosterfoot. There were gaps through which he could comfortably maneuver a Broobian elephant chariot, and most of them were missing persons.
Cyrus looked at the waning light through the windows in the large foyer. Idly, he fingered something long and thin and cold in his pocket. Pulling it out, he found it was the very thin rod of pitch-black metal that he had rescued from Ghorpol Ossa, during the field trip right before he learned of Rolly’s death. The metal reflected no light at all from the sunset, and as he fingered it, it seemed to resist his movements slightly. He tucked it back in his pocket and looked again at the room.
“I’m going to have supper with Veridia and think this over,” he announced. “If I need anything later, I’ll have a message sent over to William Hall.”
✽✽✽
Cyrus’s mind wandered as the old hackney carriage bounced and jolted through the streets of Green Bridge toward the trade quarter. He still felt a bit delicate from last night, he admitted to himself. A man got into the cab at Pigsgate, and then got out at Lower Shoe. A woman got in at the Blackwine Crossing and tried to talk to him, but he ignored her. She got out somewhere about Pie Street. Cyrus simply stared out the window at the darkening skies of October, watching the lamplighters struggle to keep their hats and scarves on while they reached up their long poles with one hand.
He was awakened by stillness. The dirty interior of the hackney was motionless and quiet, and it was nearly pitch-black outside. He shivered in the chill air and reached for the door. But before he could turn its handle, he shivered again—this time from the sudden realization that this was not right. If they were stopped at the Snugg factor house, the driver would be banging on the door.
He quietly reached into a pocket inside his coat, withdrew his miniature hand-crossbow, inserted the handle, and winched it. The gear turned in near silence; he kept it well-oiled and dry. He pulled a single quarrel out of the pocket and set it to the bridle, holding it in place with his right hand. Then he tucked his hand under his coat, opened the door, grasped his sheathed broadsword with his left hand, and slithered out.
The driver’s arm flopped loosely from where he lay slumped over in the seat, dragging against the door as it opened. The shaft of some arrow-like projectile could be seen protruding from his chest. The team of two horses stood still, waiting patiently for someone to tell them where to pull.
He did not recognize the street, but it was dark. Clouds had drifted into the sky again as he travelled, and the only light below them in Cyrus’s sliver of Green Bridge was the lamp on the carriage and a single lamppost some distance ahead. He began to walk forward, keeping his right hand beneath the cloak and carrying the sword in his left hand. Then he froze as a figure resolved itself in the darkness ahead, at the edge of the lamp light.
It was a woman; that much was certain from the hips and waist. She was slim, but had broad shoulders. She wore hose, a leather vest, and a heavy, hooded cloak. Her lower face was obscured by a strip of cloth, and she gave Cyrus a look that was only slightly less piercing than the light crossbow she pointed at his chest.
He stared at her silently, watching her breathing and her fingers. The October wind rustled the cloak and unhelpfully blew Cyrus’s wide-brimmed felt hat off his head. As the hat flew off, his eyes followed it instinctively, and she depressed the trigger.
He heard the twang and reacted. Following some instinct arising from years of the vigorous application of historical theory to the problems and opportunities of the present day, he turned the left side of his body backward, presenting his right side as a narrower target. Time slowed, as it does in these moments. He could see the quarrel piercing through the air toward him, unfazed by the wind.
The projectile passed in front of him, where moments before his chest had been.
Swiftly, he raised his right arm, sighting down the stubby stock of his own weapon and stabilizing his aim with his left arm. He pulled the trigger, and his own bolt sailed toward its target—and to the right. He fastidiously tucked the hand crossbow into his pocket and drew his broadsword.
His opponent sized him up. She had pulled a small knife out of her belt, but plainly was not expecting to face two feet of steel. Weighing in her consideration, he knew, was his own lack of mobility; one does not, if possible, engage in any variety of close quarters fighting with just one leg. He spread his foot and wooden leg somewhat farther apart and held up the sword, point first.
She threw the knife at him, spinning swiftly. Cyrus quickly lowered the sword point and presented its blade in prime, focusing on the advancing knife. There was a clash of steel and sparks flew as the knife clattered off to one side.
The woman ran.
✽✽✽
Cyrus came to supper driving a hackney coach with a dead man in it.
“Why is there a dead man in your coach, Cyrus?” asked Veridia, standing outside the side door to the Snugg warehouse. “And why are you driving?”
“It is only marginally, and in an exceedingly attenuated fashion that would never stand up in any civil or criminal legal proceeding, my fault.”
“Yes, but why?”
She helped him down from the driver’s seat.
“Someone murdered my driver while I was dozing in the carriage. That person then tried the same trick on me.”
“Did it work?”
He looked himself over.
“No. What’s for supper?”
He stumped over to the exterior stairs to the attached residence. She surveyed the interior of the coach.
“I take it you would like our assistance in dealing with this?”
“Thank you for offering. Yes. What’s for supper? I’ll make out a sworn statement and whatever else the Billies want. Condolences to the family, etc.”
She gave a few curt orders to the mercenaries standing guard at the base of the warehouse, then followed him up the stairs.
Supper, it turned out, was a shoulder of roast beef, potatoes, beans, and a very acceptable Floreana red. Cyrus tucked in and did justice to the meal with ferocious concentration. It was only after he had wiped his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and gratefully accepted another glass of wine that Veridia began to pester him.
“Did you get a look at the attacker?”
“Not really,” he lied.
“How did he try to do it?”
“Are you looking for professional advice?”
“Cyrus!” she half-shouted. “A man has tried to kill you, and you won’t tell me—or the Billies—anything more about it? Are you insane, suicidal, or just stupid?”
He looked up at her from over the rim of his wine glass.
“I’ll tell you all about the woman who attacked me, Veridia, if you’ll tell me why you cleaned out Rolly’s office after the murder.”
There was a long, frosty silence at the table.
“What makes you think—”
“Because you watered the plant, Veridia, and you put the quills back in their case.” He glanced around the immaculate dining room. He knew she cleaned it herself. “I have become well acquainted with your obsessions over the last year, and I know your hand when I see it. You might as well have left a signed note. Now tell me what you removed from the office, and why.”
“Assuming, hypothetically, that someone might have removed items of interest—”
“Stop it,” he interrupted her. “You’re not a lawyer, and I’m not a judge. There’s some obscure evidentiary privilege for people who share a pillow, I’ve heard, and in any case I won’t be running to the law to turn you in. But I need to know what, and why.”
She glared at him a moment, but then gave it up.
“Rolly worked for me.”
“I know that. Everyone knows that.”
“He had some projects that I didn’t want anyone else to know about.”
“What were they?”
“‘Anyone else’ includes you, Cyrus.”
“I’m reconsidering my promise not to run to the law, Veridia. And don’t make a crack about me running. That bit is old and soggy.”
She pursed her lips, made a tent with her hands, and otherwise looked genuinely concerned.
“He was developing a new cryptographic method for us. And more than that—a new way of doing cryptograms. You remember the scheduling wheels we used to use for the trade routes during the invasion?”
He nodded.
“Well, it was going to be like that, but… bigger. I can’t really describe the math behind it, but it would have done all the substitutions and sums that you need to write out an encrypted message so quickly and efficiently that you could make them much stronger. Right now, we’re limited, really, by the capacity of a human being to store the substitution grids in his mind while he’s working out a message. It works, but it’s weak. Our adversaries regularly steal them, or bribe one of our agents to disclose them, and then we have to change it all again. All our people have to learn new schemes every six months or so, which is grossly inefficient and bad for morale. With a machine, it could all be automated, and you could just adjust it to use a new scheme any time you wanted to.”
“And that’s what you took?” he asked. “This… crypto-machine?”
She shook her head. “No. Just the designs; the preliminary engineering and his notes on the algorithm.”
He thought it over. “This sounds like a motive for murder,” he concluded.
She shook her head. “I thought that too, but whoever killed Rolly left all the notes right there. They’d have been a treasure for the right buyer, but the murderer didn’t know what he was looking at, or didn’t care.”
“And that’s all you took?” he asked, leaning forward intently. “How did you get access to the room?”
“I rappelled down the outer wall of Redbun and slipped in the window.”
There was a long silence. Cyrus gaped at her.
“You’re right. That’s a lie. I bribed the Billy on duty and left a young, attractive secretary to keep him occupied while I worked. And yes, Cyrus, I did put the quills back and water the plant. Rolly was a slob in life, and that plant deserved better.”
He tapped his fingers on the table. “You didn’t answer my first question. Were Rolly’s… designs… all that you took?”
She looked at the table for a time. “I don’t know. I was in a hurry, and I swept up a few things that I don’t really understand.”
“What things?” he asked curiously.
“Well… quite a few sheets of mathematical calculations, of the sort that litter the entire building. And… this.” She reached into her coat, drew forth a rather bedraggled sheet of paper, and handed it to Cyrus.
The paper was covered in neat rows and columns of letters and numbers.
“It looks like a cryptogram. Not one I’m familiar with. Is this your new algorithm?”
She shook her head. “No. The first part of it is in one of our own regular ciphers. The second part isn’t anything that I recognize, nor any of my staff.”
He looked at it again. Looking at an unknown cipher was singularly unenlightening.
“Alright, Veridia. I’ll nibble. What about this is interesting enough for you to bring it up and show me?”
She took back the sheet, put on a pair of spectacles that she’d taken to using lately for reading, and stared at the paper.
“‘Give this letter to Cyrus Stoat,’” she read. “‘My little gray friends have the method and the key.’”
He gaped at her again.
“Why did you fail to tell me of this?” he asked furiously.
“There wasn’t time!” she replied, with equal fury. “You only got back to Green Bridge last night, and this morning was the funeral…”
“You found time for us to be alone last night,” reminded Cyrus.
She blushed. “I did. I… I suppose I also wasn’t eager to reveal that I’d stolen evidence from a crime scene in which the Queen took a personal interest.” She looked up at him nervously through her thin eyelashes.
“You are a scoundrel, Veridia Snipe, and I love you for that,” he said. “And that business with the eyelashes doesn’t hurt either. But next time this happens you must tell me when a dead man has left me a note!”
He circled around the table and kissed her, then returned to his seat.
“Now. ‘My little gray friends’ is unmistakable. He gave the encryption method and the key to goblins. And I reckon I know which two—there were only two goblins in the entire College of Applied Mathematics. Obilly Smallhat and Herberta. But they’re both missing, along with Gmork, Foulwart Pie, and Agaberth Tentimes, and probably a dozen other material witnesses to the crime.”
“Professor Tentimes is a witness?” asked Veridia in surprise. “She left Triad in June.”
“How do you know that?” he asked in surprise.
“Because Snugg is a major patron to the College of Applied Mathematics, and from time to time they tell us what their professors are doing. Tentimes was an astronomer; she was working on recording new celestial bodies. But she took a sabbatical to visit family in Roosterfoot and picked up stakes. Rolly mentioned he did a bit of work for her for extra cash over the summer.”
Cyrus shook his head. “Too many details, too many red fish. The only reason I mentioned Tentimes is that Herberta was one of her students. And if Rolly gave his method and key to any two goblins, it would have been those two. I’d stake my hat on it. But nobody knows where they are—probably at the bottom of the Green River, the way my luck’s been.”
She smiled at him. “Your luck is changing, Cyrus Stoat,” she purred. Then she stood up and pulled on her coat. “Follow me.”
✽✽✽
At the base of the warehouse, several Billies were examining the dead driver in the hackney. Cyrus stopped briefly to promise he would give a sworn statement at William Hall in the morning. Then he followed Veridia into the windy October night, stumping along as fast as he could and refusing to ask her to slow down.
She led him deeper into the trade quarter, past several of the new warehouses. Lights could be seen inside, and the heavily armed and armored guards at their gates glared at them forbiddingly—until they recognized Veridia. Then they straightened up, tucked in their shirts, and saluted crisply.
“What are you people storing in those warehouses?” he asked tentatively.
“What have I told you about fishing?” she replied with a half-smile.
“I think you owe me some information after holding out on me with Rolly’s note.”
The half-smile turned to ice. “And you owe me some information on the woman who tried to kill you a few hours ago,” she replied.
Cyrus knew when to shut up.
Veridia stopped outside an older, rather shabby warehouse near the city walls. Cyrus hadn’t realized this was a Snugg property; he’d always assumed it was abandoned. There were no guards, and no light on inside. Part of the roof had a visible hole in it. His guide inserted a heavy iron key into an iron lock, turned it, and drew aside the chains. She paused to light a small lantern, then walked into the darkness, beckoning for Cyrus to follow. He took a moment to re-crank the hand crossbow, then went in after her.
In the dark interior, she located a bulkhead door and pulled it open. A light came from within, and the sound of voices.
They were goblin voices. Cyrus knew it immediately.
The two humans descended together into the basement of the dilapidated warehouse, and found that the place was shockingly well-populated with grayskins. There were perhaps a score of them, with a single lantern to give light and an old coal stove radiating heat, hooked up to a makeshift pipe leading upstairs. They appeared to be finishing a meal as Veridia and Cyrus descended into their midst. Immediately all conversation ceased, and their large, owlish eyes regarded the newcomers anxiously. Cyrus shifted his weight slightly, preparing the hand crossbow under his cloak.
“No need for worry,” announced Veridia confidently, speaking slightly slower than she did customarily. She walked forward into their company, speaking a few low words to each goblin that she encountered. Cyrus, mystified, simply stood and watched.
When she returned, two goblins trailed along behind her. Cyrus recognized one immediately.
“Gmork!” he exclaimed in relief, switching to Gmork’s own dialect. “Where have you been, you rancid meat-sack? I was worried you had been thrown in the river or eaten by dogs!”
Gmork dashed up to him happily and bounced up and down in excitement.
“Boss!” he squeaked. “I am happy to see you too! This big-man wife told us all to come here, and she promised us lots of food. Then she told us to stay, because big mans were hunting us.”
He looked up abruptly at Veridia.
“I don’t know what he said,” she replied, “but if he told you why they’re here, then the answer is yes. We keep a record of all goblins that come and go from Green Bridge for… security reasons… and when rumors started circulating that a goblin killed Rolland Gorp I had them brought here. The last thing I need this month is some hothead salving his own feeble insecurities at a failed and miserable life by stirring up a pogrom against our new trading partners in coal. They’ll be safe here until this blows over.”
“Did you consider perhaps telling anyone?” he asked sarcastically. “Dean Comland thinks they’ve absconded. I shudder to think what the rest of their employers and friends think.”
She shrugged. “We’ll compensate them for their trouble,” she answered. “Now before you say anything about what can and cannot be made whole with money, Cyrus, why don’t you ask Miss Herberta about Rolly’s note?”
He knelt down and placed his face at eye level with the second goblin. She was robust at about four feet tall, with smooth gray skin, the usual bulging eyes and squat head, and a hat of woven sticks. The hat was adorned with tiny models of stars and planets, all carved from wood.
“You are Herberta?” he asked in the goblin tongue.
“I speak Uellish, Professor,” she replied. And indeed, she had only the faintest accent. He sighed regretfully.
“Very well, Miss Herberta. I have a note here from Mr. Gorp that says you have something for me. And I would personally be very grateful if you would tell me everything you know about Mr. Gorp’s last days.”
They sat together, apart from the others, while Herberta told him what she knew.
✽✽✽
I met Mr. Gorp working with Professor Tentimes. The professor brought him in to help with some of the calculations on her latest project. It’s not his specialty, but he was very good with the work that needed a lot of calculations. Professor Tentimes was going to make him a co-author along with me. I hope she still does.
He got to be friends with me and with Obilly. That’s the name he took—we both wanted Uellish names, so we left behind the old names. Mr. Gorp would take us out on the river sometimes, or buy us food at Bastings, or show us around Green Bridge. I think he was lonely.
He was working on something else too. I don’t know what it was. He spent a lot of time shut in with Professor Pie over the summer, and we wouldn’t be able to see him for days at a time when they were working. When Professor Pie disappeared, Mr. Gorp got scared. I don’t know what he was scared of. Mathematicians don’t have enemies, do they? Nobody tries to eat a mathematician.
But he wanted to keep something secret, Professor Stoat, so only you could have it. At least, that’s what Obilly said. I didn’t see Mr. Gorp, at the end. Only Obilly did. He told me that if I saw you, I should say this to you, and not say it to anyone else: Gennington Trifid, Alistair’s Foursquare. Do those mean something to you? They do? Good. I don’t know what they are. Obilly said that you would need something else, and that he would give it to you when he returned.
He was scared, Professor. We were all scared. We knew that humans would be angry at us if a goblin had killed a man. When Miss Snipe told us all to come here, most came, but Obilly said he would go back to the Gray Kingdom. He has gone there now, to the lands of our brothers and sisters in the forest beyond the river. He would take messages and presents to King Simon, he said, and return when Green Bridge was safe. He traveled alone, and left just after we knew that Mr. Gorp had been killed.
I do not know if he reached the Gray Kingdom, Professor Stoat, but now I wish that I had gone with him.