The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (10 page)

‘His manservant insists that both the marshal and lady were in excellent spirits. They had spent many hours reading and writing together in his study and it was as if the fruits of this
endeavour had restored their strength. They ate well, both taking a healthier colour due to restful sleep and many hours in their garden.

‘Anyway, the scene,’ he reminded me. ‘On the marshal’s desk was a book that dealt with exorcism and they had inscribed various symbols to this accompaniment on the wooden
floor, having rolled back the rugs. Various historical works were scattered on the desk, all pertaining to Calath’s usual studies according to Count Antern.

‘The most significant addition to the room, aside from the mirror – which betrays a certain courage considering their experiences – was an amulet that was hung from the
mirror’s frame itself. It appeared that they had secured its loan from a friend of the Antern family, a priest of the temple of Larat who, among other things, had tutored Marshal Calath in
his more arcane research. The amulet was a charm against hostile magics. All I can conclude from it is that they were taking a scientific approach to the matter . . .’

‘And attempting to rule out malevolent curses or spells cast by any unknown enemy,’ I finished for him. ‘A commendable effort, and I suppose one that will aid us later on since
it can be tested by some authority in the city for validity.’

‘Indeed,’ said Brandt, sounding slightly put out that I had jumped in. ‘I’ve already done so; as far as can be determined the amulet is not a fraud, but was not required
that evening. Apparently it would have broken had malign magic been done against Calath, or at least broken before anything so fatal could have taken place.

‘The windows of his study were fastened securely; in fact they had been nailed in by the stablehand that morning. An iron grille set into the brickwork protected the chimney flue, we
cannot determine any possible point of entry that would leave no trace, nor alert the servants below who had remained in the building. As a last measure the same priest of Larat had consecrated the
room, supposedly sealing it against intrusion by malign spirits.’

‘So, we have a room that must, as far as I can tell, contain the killer. Continue.’

‘The servants had received strict instructions not to intrude. They did not until it became clear the next morning that the marshal and lady had not left the room at all during the night.
They broke the door down to discover their bodies lying on the floor; the marshal before the mirror, the Lady Calath a little way closer to the door, but evidently she had made that distance
crawling weakly. The blood trail is quite distinct – that she made it even a few feet while losing so much blood attests to a remarkable strength of will.

‘The room was untouched, but there was a hole in the mirror – whatever had made that hole had smashed through the glass with enough force to shower them in shards. One such piece had
torn the throat of the Lady Calath and remained lodged in the wound, the others caused a dozen minor wounds to each.

‘The marshal had died where he had stood. Some weapon or implement had been driven through his chest, crushing the bones that stood in its way before ripping at his heart and rending it to
pieces. That is all they found and nothing was touched before I arrived.’

He hesitated. ‘And there is our problem. Our only explanation is that Marshal Calath in some fit of madness murdered his own wife for no reason, then managed to rip out his own heart using
just shards of a mirror.’

Brandt stopped, seeing the effect his words had had on me. I bowed my head in prayer as I pictured the pale, waifish figure of Marshal Calath – my watchman’s mind making it all too
easy to see him broken and dead on the floor. It was an even more shocking image when my thoughts turned to the joyful and gracious lady I had seen from afar on several occasions; pain where once
there was only sweetness and cheer. Sitting down opposite me once more, Brandt maintained his silence while the awful scene played before both our eyes; a whirl of sickness and horror filling my
head.

Danc, perceiving the quiet from the room that he had left mere minutes before, took this quiet to be a natural break in proceedings and hurried in. He faltered somewhat when taking in my ashen
features, wracked with confusion for a murder I could not explain no matter what my experience had boasted when Brandt arrived.

Handing Commander Brandt an envelope with a muttered apology, Danc retired hurriedly and closed the door behind him. Brandt took one look at the seal and glanced up with increased concern etched
on his youthful features.

‘It’s from the king. The courier must have been directed here from my office.’

‘Well open it, what does he say?’

Drawing a knife from his belt, Brandt slid it under the seal and removed the expensive vellum that bore the crest of the king. As Brandt flashed the page toward me, I saw it was in the
king’s own ornate script. The letter had not been sent by a palace functionary but King Emin himself.

Brandt cleared his through. ‘It reads:

‘“Commander, The matter concerning the death of Marshal and Lady Calath is closed. The thief who broke in and committed this deed has been apprehended and
justice served. You are to be commended for your efforts and I trust fanciful theories pertaining to this matter will be discouraged.”

‘I . . .’ Brandt looked up with a bewildered and pained expression, one I recognised only too well from my past.

Rising, I took the papers from where Brandt had left them and dropped them into the empty fireplace. I had no intention of actually setting them alight, but the look in Brandt’s eyes
showed I had secured the desired reaction of resigned agreement.

‘This isn’t the first time, trust me. The concerns of the king are not ours. Not justice, not the facts that detail each movement and action, not whatever you think of as truth.
Truth is, to him, merely a weapon; a tool to use for whatever—’

He raised a hand to cut my feeble speech short. With an effort that seemed to add twenty years to him, Brandt lifted himself from his seat and made his way to the door.

‘I’ve heard enough of your stories to know what you mean – and seen the king greet you personally, which tells me enough of their validity. You’ve been more of a father
to me than my true sire. If you’ve lived with it and keep a respect for yourself then so can I.’

He paused and stood a little taller before he continued. ‘Then so must I. I’ve always trusted your guiding hand when I couldn’t see the way myself. I hope you’ll explain
to me one day, but until then I’ll follow.’

He reached the door and then turned with a curious expression on his face. ‘Tell me one thing though. With the circles you run in now, who was it that wrote the book – the book that
disproved the existence of the Azaer cult?’

I gave him a weak smile, no humour in it but a trace of pride in the instincts he’d learned at my side.

‘A friend.’

Morghien looked up at the man staring at him from the next table. A blacksmith’s brawn, a mule’s face and a pig farmer’s smell – this wasn’t
encouraging. Ever since Morghien had sat down with his beer and taken that first blessed mouthful, mule-face had been glaring at him. It was late afternoon and the village tavern had a half-dozen
patrons, but only this one was giving him the evil eye.

Grey-haired and old enough to be unsure of when his prime had been, Morghien cut a nondescript figure at the best of times. The life of a restless wanderer did little for a man’s
appearance and his face bore the marks of two lifetimes, neither of which had been a whole lot of fun. It wasn’t often he felt over-dressed in a tavern, but his soon-to-be adversary
wasn’t even wearing boots. Everything below the man’s knee was caked in pale, crusting mud and his shirt was torn in several places.

The farmer had clearly been working all day rather than drinking and Morghien guessed it had been the summer sun that turned the farmer’s mood rather than beer. Lady Midday’s
whispers normally made a man faint or heave his guts, but Morghien had seen enough of the Land’s strangeness to rule nothing out.

Gods, he can’t be sizing me up, can he?
Morghien wondered with a sinking feeling.
I look older than his father, what sort of shit-brained hick could think he needs to prove
himself against me?

Morghien gave the man a wide, friendly grin. It didn’t seem to improve matters. The farmer’s hand tightened into a fist and he didn’t take his eyes off Morghien even as he
drained his own beer.

There he goes. So much for a quiet drink.

‘Bit early isn’t it?’ Morghien called, quiet enough that only the folk nearest him paid any attention.

‘You talkin’ to me?’

Morghien blinked. ‘My apologies – I assumed looking straight at you when I spoke would’ve been clue enough.’

‘You tryin’ to be smart?’

‘Doubt your reaction’s going to be much different either way,’ Morghien muttered under his breath. ‘Yes, I’m talking to you; you’ve been glaring at me since I
came in. Now I might have pissed off folk up and down this fair Land, but I don’t reckon we’ve met before, so don’t you think it’s a bit early for the
“we
don’t like strangers in these here parts”
crap?’

‘For an old bastard you got a big mouth on ya,’ the farmer growled, pushing himself to his feet. Turned out he looked bigger standing than hunched over a beer. ‘Strangers in
these parts we don’t mind, but troublemakers get thrown out on their arses and I reckon I know which you is.’

Morghien rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to let the man talk his way into trouble. He could frighten off the brainless mule easily enough, but he really didn’t need the trouble of a
public display. Old he might have been, but Morghien had a few tricks lurking in the dark corners of his mind – tricks even his friends in the Narkang Brotherhood wouldn’t choose to
tangle with.

All around him the room had fallen silent, tense and twitching like rabbits waiting to run. He took a moment to inspect the faces watching him from elsewhere in the tavern, determined not to
rush into a confrontation for a change. Most of the onlookers seemed apprehensive at what the farmer was looking to start, but not all. A small woman sat at the end of the bar with a thin-faced man
and they both simply watched the scene unfold.

Dispassionate, iron-grey eyes watched him while the woman idly played knotted black threads through her fingers. Morghien had noticed her as soon as he’d arrived and done the right thing
when he had, bought the witch a drink as a mark of respect before retreating to a table of his own. The man – her husband or something approximating it – had long dark hair, a thin
beard and hollow cheeks, but the piercing eyes of a crow. He was at least curious and watched Morghien with a strange intensity, while the witch hadn’t decided to pay him much attention.

‘Is this how strangers are greeted in these parts?’ Morghien asked the room in general, his eyes on the witch. ‘When you first came here, Mistress, were they so
friendly?’

The witch took a sip of beer and considered the question. ‘Not so much,’ she said finally, prompting the man beside her to smile. ‘But you know respect sometimes has to be
earned, sometimes taught.’

The farmer glanced between Morghien and the witch, unwilling to back down, but not so stupid as to go against the witch’s wishes.

‘I’m a bit old for teaching anyone about respect,’ Morghien said.

He glanced down as surreptitiously as he could at the axe that hung from a loop on his pack. He wasn’t sure he could reach it in time, which was a shame. It would be enough of a threat to
make an unarmed man back off, while the dagger at his belt was more likely to get him killed than anything else. Every man wore a knife, certainly in parts such as these. Lady Midday might not be a
spirit one feared, but there were plenty of others around that would do more than whisper at you.

‘Who says you’ll be doin’ the teachin’?’ the farmer snapped, trying to regain the initiative.

‘Oh I think you’d learn somethin’ any road,’ the witch drawled. ‘Might be a good lesson too. Or you could show our new friend here that you’re a real man and
buy him a beer instead. Brawling’s for little boys after all, drinking’s for men I’m told.’

The farmer pursed his lips, then gave a sharp nod and sat back down. He didn’t look happy with the outcome, but the witch’s tone had been clear enough; the fun was over. With an
approving nod the witch touched the hand of the man beside her and he slipped behind the bar. When two beers had been poured the witch herself brought them over, sitting at Morghien’s table
as she did so.

Her grey hair was seamed with black. Looking closely, Morghien realised she wasn’t as old as he’d assumed – a good ten years younger than he himself appeared – but the
eyes were cold and knowing. This close he knew for sure she wasn’t just a medicine woman, a soul like that ruled the village, not served it.

Morghien accepted the beer and raised it in a toast to the farmer. The man gave a gruff grunt and looked away, but Morghien saw his shoulders relax a little and guessed the gesture had had the
desired effect.

‘So stranger, why are you in these parts?’ the witch asked with a deliberate lack of edge to her tone.

Without meaning to, Morghien glanced out the window. The shadows were long over the dirt path leading up to the tavern, the ghost hour wasn’t yet upon the Land.

‘Can’t a man be just passing through?’

The witch gave a knowing smile. ‘Could be, but we’re not on the way to much here – and anyways, you ain’t a normal sort o’ stranger.’

Morghien gave a snort. ‘Coming from a witch with a husband?’ he said softly, looking over at the thin man who’d returned to his seat at the bar.

The man’s deep-set eyes and narrow beard made him look something rather more sinister than a tavern-owner, but he placidly endured Morghien’s attention and raised his drink in toast
without comment.