Mordraud, Book One (44 page)

If his memory didn
’t deceive him – and Dunwich could usually trust his memory blindly – he now had a prime suspect. Smiling with satisfaction, he plumped the torn cushion and went back to sitting in his armchair, to round off the evening on one last glass.

‘
I have to cancel a few appointments tomorrow... and I must remember to speak to the servants, to have them clean the lounge. The gendarmes must be notified of tonight’s attempted burglary, but I won’t do that...’

He had far more important things to
see to, he considered, swallowing the first intense and bitter mouthful.

***

The pair of sleepy soldiers shut the large iron gate and lingered in the middle of the courtyard, betting on who’d be first to sneak off to a remote corner of the park for a few hours’ nap. Firanor, the wealthy merchant owning the mansion, had paid them handsomely for a cushy job.

“
Now who’d want to come and nose about in his affairs?!” exclaimed a smiling young guard, pulling out the coin that would decide the sleep shifts.

“
A thief stealing from a thief, that’s who!” replied the other, chuckling.

The illegal dealing
s, the high-ranking friendships, the political backers – all well-known yet little-discussed business. When it boiled down to it, who had the courage to go poking around in the affairs of one of the city’s most influential merchants? Those two certainly didn’t have the slightest intention of snooping around.

“
So long as he carries on giving us this easy living for doing nothing, may the Gods glory him!”

Firanor
was an apparently calm man who was calculating and self-possessed – so different to his sons as to instil doubt as to whether they were his own flesh and blood. The first-born, Firad, assisted him in his affairs. He was a bulky tall arrogant and hot-headed young man who was full of himself on the basis of his father’s riches, and pursued any vice to be found in Cambria. Powdered flowers from Syl in the West, the strongest spirits, hallucinatory concoctions. A great lover of whores. Instead, the younger brother, Firacan, always conveyed the idea of being incapable, with that idiotic and slow-witted gaze of his and his unfailing habit of making blunders. To the extent that his father was often forced to disburse great quantities of gold to defend his prestigious position in society. The merchant’s wife had passed away many years before, through illness, and the huge house was almost always empty. Business meetings were held in the warehouse the family owned in the general market area, and the few people who came to the villa were women dressed as ladies but made up like harlots. Always different, they were called to entertain father and sons.

“
For a few days now, all we’ve seen is shifty looking characters or stuck-up Imperial officials who decide to drop in on Firanor in the dead of night... Bah... You try and figure out these money-bags. They’re always bent on scheming... I prefer them when they just think about enjoying themselves.”

“
Like we could take part in it too...! Instead we’re out here opening the door to them all.” The gold Scudo came up heads, and the younger soldier whistled in appreciation. “My turn first... Great!”

“
Let’s just hope they don’t go back to howling like wild animals – they sounded like a herd of pigs yesterday!”

“
Uh, I don’t even want to think about it... Firacan must have done something really daft to get lashed with all those insults!” The young man cupped an ear and asked his companion to be quiet. “Hey, did you hear that?! It sounded like... No, false alarm.”

“
They’re behaving tonight... and no sluts by the looks of it...”

“
Yeah. Pity – it’ll be a murderously dull night... Hey... hear that?”

“
What?! Are they arguing again?”

“
I thought I heard... No, it must have been a cat in the courtyard.”

His associate
strained his ear to no avail, looking around listlessly. “You take this job too seriously. Who’d want to get in here?”

“
Me
.”

The guard turned towards his colleague but found only an empty space. Yet he did hear someone reply, he thought. His smile
faded on his lips. A knife shot out and smashed his skull. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground next to the corpse of the other soldier, who’d died without uttering a sound.

Dunwich
approached the door, knelt before the chunky keyhole and placed a finger on it, humming a bright ditty. The lock released its hold without any trouble. The passageway was lit with expensive wall-hung oil lamps and furnished with fine antique watercolours. Six entrances on each side led to the various rooms of the mansion, while a door at the end gave access to a staircase. Just a few paces away, four guards were busy in a whispered debate. They were interrupted by the light swish of the door opening. Not seeing anybody, one of them went towards the hall, calling to the two soldiers in the courtyard. Dunwich appeared precisely at his feet, sliding out of the floor. A concise slit was enough to severe his throat. The remaining soldiers barely had the time to unsheathe their swords. Dunwich emerged from the wall striking at torsos and heads in swift stabs, melding with it again soon afterwards. It was very wide and could accommodate his whole body. More corpses were soon added to his collection left behind in the yard.

‘
The private rooms are usually upstairs. There’ll only be the servants’ quarters and reception rooms on this floor,’ he figured, wondering which way to head.

Dunwich
placed an ear against the doors and heard nothing. He then went to the stairs and quickly climbed the steps, stopping only to decide on which direction to take. The doors all led inwards – two on the right and two on the left of the staircase.

‘
A room each, plus the rich merchant’s study,’ he thought, hesitating over his next move. Dunwich cursed to himself. He would have to try them all to find his man. Unexpectedly, he heard a key turn in a lock: he instinctively flattened against the wall, vanishing within it.

Firanor
and his eldest son, Firad, emerged from the study and walked beyond the staircase, towards Firacan’s private room.

“
That brainless brother of yours wants us dead,” the old merchant snapped.

“
He thought he could hide everything from us... that rotten cheat...” Firad returned, echoing his father’s tone perfectly.

“
And with all I’ve done to get him a prestigious position, one with no risks... If it weren’t for me, that fool would still be just a lewd street hawker.”

“
Sure. But it wasn’t enough for him, was it!” Firad went on, growing heated. “He had to tread on the toes of a Lance commander! Father, if I’d been able to find out who’s helping him in this folly, I vow I wouldn’t have bothered you with it... He really is a vile coward! He came to me whining that he had a huge problem, even asking me not to tell you. And now who’s going to stop that monster Dunwich!”

“
I’ll send someone to smooth him over. It’ll cost me a fortune, damn it! All because of that wretched friend of his...”

“
Who, Erain? He’s an even worse chicken than my brother! No, he’s taken the fop home just the once, and to try and make himself look better he even offered up a whore. You should have heard how he screamed, the poor kid!”

“
No, not Erain. The other one... When I find him I’ll break his neck with my own hands, if it’s the last thing I do... For love of the Gods, have you any idea what it’ll cost me to keep Dunwich quiet?!”

They both stopped in front of the door to a room.
Firanor stretched a hand out to unlock it.

“
Don’t bother with the money. I just want Firacan.”

Dunwich
appeared behind them, sword in hand. Firad sprang back, swallowing a smothered cry. His father lost none of his composure.

“
We can come to an arrangement, Lance... Don’t be rash.”

Only the beads of sweat dotting his forehead betrayed his real
state. His son Firad had taken a step away and stood with his back to the door.

“
And what do you propose?”

“
I have no intention of making myself an enemy of a Lance captain. You’re taking great risks in exposing yourself like this. So we both need an agreement.”

Dunwich s
mirked, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand. “An agreement... Go on, speak! I have no time to waste with you. I have other people expecting me this evening.”

Firanor
didn’t take long to think.

“
My son won’t see the morning.”

Firad
’s face went from purple to ash.

“
That’s not enough. I want to know who his accomplices are.”

“
You can speak to him,” said Firanor, “but I’ll be the one to see to him. Nobody must know about it. And I want no dead bodies in my house.”

Dunwich
nodded and bowed with elegant unconcern.

“
Certainly. I understand. But I’m afraid you might need to review your security. I’d advise you to get some new guards And, may I observe: an excellent father, it must be said! A pact can be made. But I have to see him dead, I cannot trust you on your word. I want his head, two nights from now, from your own hands. And beware: I’m a chanter, as you know. Don’t try tricking me with the wrong corpse, otherwise not even a brick will remain of this house!”

“
My word is as good as the gold I possess.”

“
Fine. Because if it was worth as much as your sons’ lives, it wouldn’t have much value.”

“
But, father...” Firad attempted to interject. His father struck him with a thundering look.

Firad
stepped back, as his father opened the door to Dunwich.

The room was lit by an elaborate six-arm candelabra. Flickering flames danced on the weapons hung on the wall and the parade armour standing in a corne
r. The bed was adorned with a sumptuous fire-red canopy, in the same tone as the large neat and resplendent desk. Firacan was resting his head on the tabletop. He seemed asleep, but the sound of the door opening made him lift his head and stare at Dunwich, with a dull gaze.

“
Father? Is that you?” he inquired in a muffled voice. He was of extremely stocky yet slack and flabby build. His cinder-coloured dishevelled hair and watery eyes gave him the air of an overgrown child.

“
No, Firacan,” replied Dunwich.

The young man stared at him
without recognition, then saw the door close after the stranger. And hidden behind Dunwich, his father, who was looking on in icy indifference. Firacan understood everything, and the deadened bang of the door marked the start of a long cry.

***

The lounge was furnished in a vaguely old-fashioned style. A broad window provided light and a splendid view of the garden well-tended by expert green hands. Dunwich was seated in a broad red velvet armchair, sipping the rounded mature wine the attendant had just poured into his silver goblet. Two elegantly dressed men sat opposite him: the older one puffed on an inlaid pipe, while the younger was engrossed in the landscape. They looked very much alike. Tall and slim, with slightly wavy blond hair, peppered in ash grey for the father, glossy and well-groomed for the son.

“
And so, you took part in the Rampart massacre... The accounts that reached the city were horrific.”

“
Yes, it was a very bloody battle.”

“
Unfortunately my son was seriously ill, and so could not set off with your men. I hope his absence caused no problems, captain.”

“
No, I wouldn’t say it did. In any case, he was lucky. We lost a lot of men over there.”

Dunwich
drank from his goblet and stared at the young man, who still hadn’t uttered a word. He’d opted for less risky tactics in proceeding in his investigations. His long chat with Firacan had been only partly fruitful. Untangling the words from the tears had been the hardest task. Having him spit out a couple of names had been a true liberation.

‘
The trouble is, he had nothing to tell me, that fat lump.’

Firacan
had paid a cut-throat upon orders from someone else, who in turn had been contacted by nameless men. He didn’t like what he’d done, so he’d tried not to think on it too much. He’d presented the plan to the killer, who’d then left his home and tried to follow Dunwich. Who had noticed him. The executioner had tried to assassinate him, and had failed. Firacan had to die because of that mistake. A concept as simple as it was consolatory.

Dunwich had
decided against further ambushes for that night, so he’d asked to meet with Erain’s family the following morning. He’d heard this second suspect’s name from both the lard barrel and his father. A young man of good ranking. His social position protected him far more than in Firacan’s case: Erid, his father, was a member of the city’s council, as a representative of the people. A prestigious position. Dunwich doubted whether his was such a foolish hand as to risk it by plotting against the Empire. Yet he now had a path to follow, and he’d take it to its end.