Still chuckling, he was about to turn away and check on the food disbursements to scores of people living in makeshift tents and shelters when a filthy kitchen lackey ran up.
“Master Saworth, sir!” the boy called, shuffling his bare feet in the cold mud. “I done fed the prisoners like I do ever day, sir, but we got us a dead un this mornin.”
Dien sighed and forgot about draperies and carpets. “One of the drunks choke on his puke again, Hort?”
The boy shook his head. “No, sir. Least ways I don’t think so. I think he bled to death.”
Dien paused before Dubric’s office door, his hands clenching and unclenching. Peg! I do NOT want to go through this frigging crap again! He took a deep breath and knocked.
When Dubric grunted his usual greeting, Dien opened the door.
Dubric sat at his deck, finalizing paperwork from the Council. He looked up and his smile faded. “What happened?”
“Jelke’s dead, sir,” Dien said.
Dubric stood. “What?! How?”
“I’m not sure, sir. He’s locked in his cell, face down in a pool of blood.”
Dubric looked to every corner of the room and behind him before turning back to Dien, relief shining in his eyes. “He must have killed himself. At least it saves us the trouble of hanging him.”
What the peg?! “Sir? Perhaps you should come take a look. I don’t think this was suicide.”
Dubric nodded and smoothed his vest. “All right. Let us take a look then.” As he walked by Dien he shook his head and smiled. “Maybe you need some time off after all the murders this past moon. Not every death is a murder, you know.”
Dien sighed and followed. Maybe so, but this one sure as peg is.
Dien smelled the blood before they reached the cell, the piss and vomit reek of the gaol merely an overture to the sickly-sweet stench of death. Dubric looked through the bars of Jelke’s cell and sighed, frowning. He turned his head and glanced behind him.
What the peg is he looking for? “Sir,” Dien said, opening his notebook, “the cell keys were all locked in the gaol office last night. I checked the office door before I came to see you.”
Dubric rubbed his eyes then glanced over both shoulders again. “Were any keys missing?”
“Just the ones from the cells we kept Risley in. Yand or Railn must still have those.”
Dubric sighed. “And only you, I, the gaol master, and Lars have keys to the gaol office.”
“Yes, sir. And Otlee. I assigned him a set a couple phases ago. Aghy’s still laid up with a busted leg from the riots and can’t walk, so hasn’t been down here. A couple of kitchen lackeys, Otlee, and I’ve been covering for him.”
Dubric knelt to examine the keyhole. “Fetch a lamp, will you? I need more light.”
Dien strode down the hall, frowning, and yanked a lamp from its hook on the wall. None of the prisoners made a peep, although many peeked through their doors. “Seems rather quiet here today, wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“I noticed,” Dubric said as he prodded the keyhole with a finger. “I do not see any scratches. The lock has not been jimmied.”
“Sir,” Dien said.
“Hmm?” Dubric peeked through the keyhole.
“Blood on the door. Not much, just a few drops.” Dien took a step back as Dubric stood and the light shifted. “On the floor too.”
Dubric muttered a low curse and stepped away from the door. A single long spatter of blood darkened the straw at their feet, scattered and scuffled from being walked on. He glanced at Dien. “It appears you were correct about the murder, but something is not right. This...” he paused and rubbed his eyes. “This just cannot be.”
“Yes, sir.” Dien reached past Dubric to unlock the cell door. He was tired of murders too.
Dubric pulled out his notebook as they entered the cell. Jelke sprawled face down in a drying puddle of blood, his chained hands dark with gore. Hundreds of flies, used to a standard fare of vomit and excrement, buzzed in happy chorus. Dien held the light while Dubric examined the scene.
The inside of the door was awash with blood, and Dien frowned as Dubric measured the spatter and began taking notes. “He talked to whoever killed him, sir.”
Dubric nodded and sketched the streaks of blood curving across the filthy floor. “It would appear so.”
Dien hung the lamp on a shackle hook then knelt beside the body. He waved away some flies and touched the side of Jelke’s scrawny neck. “Cold. Dead maybe four, five bells.”
“I have it drawn. Go ahead and roll him over.”
Jelke had stiffened and the blood-soaked corpse moaned softly as the last gasp of air left its lungs. Dien hid his grimace. Peg, I hate that! Gives me the creeps. “There it is,” he said, lifting Jelke’s chin.
Dubric frowned and leaned over the body to examine the wound. Not much wider than Jelke’s jugular, the slash was small but deep.
Dubric sighed. “I wish I would have kept one of the boys here.”
Dien nodded and stood. Both Lars and Otlee were handy errand runners. “If there’s a choice, would you prefer Physician Rolle or Halld?”
“Rolle. But Halld is on duty this morning.” Dubric stood as well and brushed dirty straw off his knees. “I am getting too old for this.”
“Me too, sir.” Sighing, Dien walked from the cell and wondered if he should tell his daughters to stay at their grandparents’ a little longer.
On the road, south-central Faldorrah
Lars thought they were making good time. The morning had blossomed cool and clear, damp and wormy smelling with the promise of the coming spring. Although they had been on the road no longer than a couple of bells or so, they were almost to the third village south of the castle. Fifteen, perhaps twenty miles had already passed behind them.
The village of Reyburne came into sight, nestled at the base of a gentle hill and tucked amongst pastures and fields. A rusted hulk of an ancient structure spanned a nearby creek and had been converted to a bridge with boards planked across metal beams. While the thatched roof seemed well maintained, the walls sported many corroded holes and gaps where no sheeting remained. Lars suppressed a shiver. Somehow being surrounded by metal felt unwholesome and wretched. No wonder Dubric had cleared all such ruins from central Faldorrah, he thought, gripping his reins tighter.
“We stopping in this piss hole town?” Serian asked from the back of the group, his voice ringing against the metal walls and framework as if he had struck them with his sword.
Lars looked back to the others as he rode into the sunshine again. Otlee, as usual, appeared eager and alert, and none of the others seemed tired. For Goddess sake, they’d only been on the road a couple of bells. But Reyburne had an inn and the next village with an inn wasn’t until halfway across Haenpar. Another five or six bells of riding, at least. Perhaps Reyburne would be a good place to stop and get a drink and take a leak before continuing on, but then again any delay put them further behind.
Lars sighed and shook his head. Think of the mission. “No. We need to keep moving.”
Serian barked out a laugh. “I think diddy boy here needs changing. Maybe a nap too.”