The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(83)

There have been at least three murders in two days. The trade rider, stabbed in the East Harbor. A maid, horribly mutilated, found atop a warehouse in the West Harbor. Another maid, with her throat slit or torn open, found in Servants. Plus Chelson’s daughter, badly injured at least, taken from Lesser Silk.

She may be alive. Why would the killer take the body? Chelson, though, took the more pessimistic view, and, not wanting to involve Ject, said that his men would investigate. A second citywide search, which an owner’s daughter would merit, would indeed be very embarrassing, but Ject won’t miss an opportunity to indebt Chelson to him, so he’s ordered his men to make inquiries too.

Ject scrapes off some persistent splatter with the blade then washes off its residue. He shakes out a rolled rag, wraps it around two fingers, and digs out some yellow paste, a traditional dubbin of wax, soda ash, and tallow. This is one of his better batches, but the secret is in his black polish. He rubs it into the leather.

Ject considers the city guard from Quiet who is also missing. No one has seen him since he went on watch two nights ago—or no one’s said so out of fear of dismissal. He was in the same area as the two maids. If he were murdered, how would he fit with the rest?

And now he’s gotten a report of a man who assaulted a woman in Servants. He fled after she fought him off, leaving behind a substantial knife. He wore a long-sleeve black tunic and pants, and, from what little the witnesses saw of her, she resembled Chelson’s daughter. Why would she have been there? Did the same person catch her at home?

Could he have also been this barrowman? Black is the color mandated for night workers, though.

Ject owes that footman for calling the guards. He wouldn’t have heard about the barrowman otherwise. He’ll find a place for him if Chelson finishes or diminishes him.

Ject works the yellow paste methodically up the shaft of his boot as he matches victims to the most likely suspects. Tristaban—Barrowman. Tristaban’s girl—the unidentified assailant or Livion. The rider—Livion. Livion doesn’t strike him as violent, but he can’t deny Livion had the opportunity to kill the girl and he could imagine a motive, nor can he deny Livion had the chance and a possible motive for killing the rider.

They died so differently, though. The girl was probably killed from behind then her body was left in plain sight. The rider was stabbed or slashed many times in the abdomen, as if the killer were enraged or more than one were involved, then his body was hidden. Ject’s seen meek men like Livion go wild and kill, and he’s seen the meek kill methodically, but the same man wouldn’t kill both ways alternately. And the wild don’t hide a body, while the meek don’t leave them out in the open. If Livion killed one, he didn’t kill the other. He’ll put Livion down for the rider.

Perhaps the person who killed the maid was interrupted when killing the girl, the way he was interrupted tonight. That seems a reach. No one’s so bold twice.

Ject trades his cloth for the clean one and scoops up some black, a mixture of bone black and wool grease that will restore his boot’s color and give it an unusual shine. As he starts at the toe again, he realizes the guard, Bern, and the maid have something in common. She was left on a rooftop inaccessible without a ladder. He was stationed atop Quiet, also inaccessible except by the tower stairs. If he didn’t sneak away, what if he were taken while on Quiet? All a person would have to do is fly.

Could he have actually been right about the dragon story?

Too bad the story’s in ruins. Livion’s compromised. He’s compromised. Herse’s story, the only one still standing, however improbable, must command the truth, and Herse will again make the case for war at a special session of Council at seven hours tomorrow. Ject checks his clock. It’s almost midnight.

If the Council submits to his story, half the city could be burned the way it was in the last war. Hundreds, probably thousands, will die before starvation and disease set in. And worst of all Ject, as is traditional and necessary in time of war, will be put under Herse’s command along with Prieve, then likely relieved.

That can’t happen. All he needs to do is produce a dragon.

Or a dragon of sentiment—a roaring fear, a monstrous rage—one that could sway or at least delay the vote.

He twists some black into the tips of his mustache as he decides what to do, curls them while he shapes his plan, and, feeling as revitalized as his mustache, pulls a bell cord to summon Ravis. He unbars the door and gets to work on his other boot. This will be a long night, but by dusk tomorrow Herse may feel like Ject’s boots have been driven deep into his throat.

From atop the city’s exterior gate, Herse and Rego look down Gate Street, one of the few roads winding through Hanoshi Town that’s cobbled and lamplit.

Rego faces Thuban, the pole star, and tilts his head straight up. The star Tarf is nearly overhead. “It’s almost midnight,” he says.

A soldier on the gate tower to their left blows a curling brass horn: the gates will close in ten minutes. They won’t be opened until six hours. In a tavern just outside the gate, someone says, “Last call!”

Rego looks concerned.

“He’ll be here,” Herse says.

Three men, two carters and a stevedore just off shift, hurry out the gate and head for the tavern. They nearly run into a woman stumbling from an adjacent alley. She curses them and smoothes her clothes, which weren’t smooth to start. As the carters go inside, the stevedore asks her something. She shakes her head. He shakes his purse. She looks at the gate then shows him ten spread fingers. He asks something else. Ten fingers again. She’s stunned when he accepts and grudgingly follows her into the alley.