Death's Executioner

Chapter One

Chapter One

‘Seven,’ said Nanda, laying a brightly-inked card upon Konrad’s parlour table. She held four more in her hands, close to her face; these she surveyed with a roguish half-smile, and cast a sideways glance at Konrad.

He was not fooled. Nanda’s strategy for card games was to appear as though she was on the point of winning, always, but never to let on how.

‘Hats,’ said Alexander Nuritov, police inspector by day and… well, frequently by night as well, when he wasn’t playing cards at Bakar House. The deep darkness of full night beat against the parlour windows, but inside all was warmth and cheer. A bright fire crackled in the grate, two of Konrad’s favourite people sat around his table, and all of them were rosy on apple brandy.

Konrad himself might be termed somewhat more than rosy, though not quite inebriated enough to fumble the game. Hopefully.

‘Incorrect,’ said Nanda, with triumph.

Alexander scowled, and drew a card.

‘Chalices,’ said Konrad, in his turn.

Nanda rolled her eyes at him. ‘Your snakies told on me.’

‘They did not.’

‘They did. I can practically feel them slinking about somewhere.’ She cast her eyes around the parlour, her gaze lingering upon the shadows in the corners, and shivered.

‘Are you calling me a cheat?’ Konrad demanded.

‘Yes.’

He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Chalices,’ he repeated.

‘Correct.’

‘I want a three, or a five.’

Nanda gave him a card elaborately inked with a scrolling numeral five. The smug look was back on her slightly too-pale face. She would never own to losing.

I heard that, hissed Eetapi, a sudden jangle at the back of his mind. He shuddered as an icy chill rippled down his spine: she was displeased.

The cheek! he agreed.

Now I shall cheat, just to punish her.

You may not.

Eetapi grumbled. Why not?

Because I would rather lose than cheat, as you very well know.

You never did have any sense, muttered Eetapi.

Konrad ignored that. Play continued, delivering Alexander a pair of nines and Konrad a useless two. He was losing, alas. He had no head for cards, unlike the inspector, who won at least two games out of every three. Nanda and Konrad both had more sense than to play for money, if Alexander was present.

‘Crowns!’ announced Alexander, beaming, and spreading cards before him. He’d won again, curse him. ‘Three, seven, nine, and—’

‘Konrad!’ A youthful, cheery voice hailed him from the parlour door, and Tasha came barrelling in. Fourteen winters old, at least in appearance, and an endless fountain of energy (or so it seemed), she brought a cold wind swirling into the room with her, and had left the door wide open behind.

‘That is Mr. Savast, to you,’ said Konrad, without much hope.

This she waved off. ‘I won’t call you anything so priggish, and you’d hate it if I did.’

‘Priggish?’

‘Only prigs insist on formality. Isn’t that right, Mr. Nuritov?’

Alexander just looked at her, and took a sip of brandy.

‘Cool head,’ said Tasha. ‘I like that.’ She leaned Nanda’s way, and said confidingly, ‘He’s much more fun.’ Her pointing finger indicated Konrad.

‘He does take the bait so nicely,’ Nanda agreed.

Konrad let this pass. ‘Alexander wins,’ he said, and smiled at his friend. ‘Again. I bow to your superior skill.’

‘Many long winters with little else to do,’ Alexander remarked, though he looked pleased.

Konrad was going to enquire why Alexander had found himself so short of entertainments, but Tasha interrupted. ‘Don’t you want to know why I am here?’

‘Do you need a reason, besides the unending desire to disturb our peace?’

‘It is a favourite hobby of mine,’ she allowed. ‘But I did, as it happens, have another reason.’

Konrad sighed. ‘All right. Why are you here?’

Tasha drew herself up importantly. It did not help much. She was an undersized child, and if the lamaeni were capable of physical growth, Konrad had never witnessed any evidence of it. ‘Well—’ she began.

‘Your hat is torn,’ said Konrad, frowning. She wore a black cap and dark coat as a matter of course, indoors and out; in fact, both of them were ripped.

‘I’ve been brawling,’ said Tasha indifferently. ‘Anyway—’

‘Brawling?’ Konrad exchanged a look with Alexander. ‘Is that any way for a police ward to behave?’

‘It is if they are named Tasha.’

‘Let it go,’ murmured Alexander. ‘You will never prevail with her.’

Konrad grinned. ‘I don’t expect to. I am just enjoying forestalling the news she is dying to tell us.’

‘It is important,’ snapped Tasha.

‘How important?’

‘To you? Supremely. In fact—’

‘I had better let you get on with it, then, had I not?’

Tasha gave him a flat stare of pure hatred. ‘Don’t think I won’t drain the life out of you, just because you’re the Malykant.’

‘You cannot,’ said Nanda serenely. ‘Konrad isn’t allowed to die anymore, remember?’

‘Then he had better behave himself, hadn’t he?’

‘Fine,’ said Konrad, and sat back, letting his cards fall to the table. ‘Tell us your news.’

‘There is a dead body,’ said Tasha, slowly and distinctly, ‘in the alley behind this house.’

‘There is no alley behind this house.’

‘All right, it isn’t directly behind— oh, hold your tongue.’

Konrad permitted himself a brief smirk. He did not often get the best of Tasha. ‘Is there truly a dead body, or are you just entertaining yourself at our expense?’

‘As often as the latter is true, no. There is a body, and it’s headless, and you should maybe think about looking into it.’

Headless! trilled Eetapi with glee.

She is right, Master, said Ootapi, wafting into the parlour by way of the wall. I have observed it myself.

No doubt you took the greatest pleasure in it, Konrad said sourly.

Ootapi said nothing, only radiated blissful satisfaction.

‘Ugh. Well. If you will excuse me.’ Konrad rose from his elegant chair, pausing for an instant before he made for the door; if he was drunk enough to suffer a swimming head, he had better discover that fact before he fell over his own feet.

Alexander rose, too, and followed him to the door.

So did Nanda.

‘Nan,’ he murmured. ‘There can be no occasion for you to be dragged into the snow on such a night, and for such a reason.’

‘Can’t there?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to try to stop me from going with you?’

‘I would prefer it if you remained here where it is warm.’

‘And safe?’

‘And also safe.’

‘It is good of you to share your perspective.’ Nanda went out into the hall, plainly in search of her coat.

Konrad sighed. Since Nanda had become, in some mysterious way, ill, she had if anything grown more prickly about being (as she saw it) coddled. Even the smallest solicitude, or the most sensible precaution, tended to irritate.

He had watched her for signs of deterioration, trying to do so without seeming to. On the latter point, he’d failed; Nan always knew, somehow. But to his relief, his vigilance had so far proved unnecessary. She was her usual self, if a little wan at times.

Corpses, Konrad reminded himself, withdrawing his attention from Nanda with an effort. He could worry about his best friend later. First, he had to be the Malykant for a while.

Tasha led them to the site of the murder, walking like a tiny military general, her head held high.

‘You shouldn’t be quite so pleased with yourself for stumbling over corpses,’ said Konrad, raising his voice to carry over the freezing wind.

‘It is a skill any self-respecting Malykant’s assistant ought to have in her arsenal,’ she retorted.

‘Hush,’ growled Konrad. ‘Do you want everyone to hear?’ His identity as the Malykant was — had to be — a deep, dark secret, or he’d have half the city on his doorstep, all of them wanting something. His death, perhaps, or someone else’s.

‘Everyone who?’ said Tasha, and made a show of looking around at the deserted street.

‘You never know who might be listening,’ he chided, though she was right enough. The night was unusually forbidding, even for Ekamet. The coldest he could remember for some years; even the alcohol singing in his blood could not blunt its effects. Bundled though he was in thick layers, the high, shrieking wind pierced him to his bones. Most of the city’s residents had sense enough to remain indoors.

At least it was not snowing, now, though several days’ worth of accumulated snowfall lay piled against the dark brick walls of the houses, pale and glinting in the moonlight.

He should be thankful, perhaps, that Tasha’s reported corpse had fallen close to home. No carriage would brave the snow-clogged streets on a night like this, and he did not relish the prospect of having to trudge very far though a few feet of snow.

‘Here we are,’ said Tasha brightly, pausing some twelve feet into the entrance of a narrow alley. Konrad’s house, handsome and expensive, was built in the most salubrious quarter of the city. Alleys it had, but the clean kind; they were even swept, occasionally, though not when choked with snow.

Someone had cleared a thin path through the snowfall, just wide enough for one person to venture down. The path ended abruptly in a wall of snow four feet high, obscuring access to the rest of the alley.

Just below it lay the body.

‘Good work, assistant,’ Konrad said, crouching down for a nearer view.

Tasha said nothing, but he felt her puff up just a bit with pride. Old beyond her years she may be, but she was still young enough to seek approval — even if she would deny it to her last breath.

The body was that of a man, though nothing of his age and little of his appearance could be determined. Not only was the body headless, but the head was missing.

Konrad wasted little time searching for it. If it had rolled away, its trail would be clearly visible in the snow. If it was not with the body, then whoever had removed it had also taken it.

‘What do you think, Alexander?’ murmured Konrad.

Nuritov joined him, and spent a moment observing the body in silent thought. ‘Could be anything at all,’ he decided.

He was right. Konrad could draw conclusions from the man’s clothing, if he wanted: the attire was both fashionable and expensive, indicative of wealth and status. But anybody could wear a gentleman’s clothes. By themselves, the garments meant nothing.

‘Why does he have no coat?’ said Nanda, peeping over Konrad’s shoulder.

‘That is a point of interest,’ Konrad agreed, perhaps the only obvious one. The man wore the dark suit and pale waistcoat of formal, evening attire, but he had neither coat nor cloak, and there was no sign of a hat. Konrad did not imagine the killer had bothered to cart the hat away with him; more likely, the man had not been wearing one at all.

Had he been attending a ball, somewhere in the vicinity? But what might have brought him charging out into so unforgiving a night, without even pausing to retrieve a coat? And what had he been doing, forcing his way down a snow-choked alley in the dark?

‘Soaked,’ Alexander observed. ‘Everything, including his sleeves. He must have been tunnelling his way down, using his hands like shovels.’

‘He badly wanted to get somewhere,’ Konrad agreed. ‘One of the houses on this street?’ He glanced down the length of the alley, as far as he could see. The rear entrances of several city mansions could be so accessed.

‘He cannot have known himself pursued,’ Nanda said. ‘Or he would not have chosen so difficult a route, surely.’

‘I think you are right, Nan,’ said Konrad. ‘But then what was so urgent as to bring him out here at all?’

‘And where,’ said Tasha with relish, ‘is the head?’

Without the head, it would be virtually impossible to identify the man. Konrad went through the motions of searching the man’s evening coat and waistcoat for identification, but without much hope. Nobody carried anything with them to a ball. Any identifying objects the man might have possessed were doubtless still in his overcoat, or cloak, or whatever he had worn to the party.

His fingers encountered nothing — no, there was something. A slight bulge in the tiny pocket of the man’s waistcoat yielded up a ring. He held it up, straining to discern much about it even in the strong light of an almost full moon. Smooth, the band, and unadorned; his fingers told him that not a single jewel graced the ring.

‘Plain, for an apparently wealthy man,’ he said.

‘Could be anybody,’ Nuritov reminded him.

‘Clothes do not make the man? My tailor will be disappointed to hear it.’

Nuritov smiled, and gave his own modest garments a deprecating glance. ‘I hope they don’t.’

‘In your case, no,’ said Nanda. ‘You ought to be dressed like a prince, Alexander.’

Konrad privately agreed, but did not choose to say so aloud, for the inspector shuffled from foot to foot in an obvious mixture of pleasure and discomfort. He was probably blushing.

‘Very well,’ Konrad said. ‘You will please to turn your backs for a moment, while I perform the repulsive part of my duties.’ He had to take a bone from the hapless murdered man, even if he did not yet know who it was.

‘And then what?’ demanded Tasha.

‘Then, we find out who’s been holding evening entertainments in these parts tonight; who might be missing someone from their guest list; and we definitely need to find out what’s become of the head.’

‘That last part should be quite easy,’ Tasha said, dripping sarcasm.

‘Actually,’ said Konrad, ‘it might.’