The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (9 page)

‘Rojak,’ I interrupted with a cold feeling in my stomach. ‘I’ve heard the name mentioned at my club. Can’t remember what about, but it’s
foreign, Embere I believe.’

‘Rojak then. Anyway;

‘“he said, ‘tell your master, he’s been prying where he shouldn’t and he owes me a debt already. He’ll see me next time I
come.’

“Then he just turned around and left. When I told Master Veser the next day, he took me straight to the marshal. I told him how it happened, but he didn’t say anything. He just
looked ready to be sick, and locked himself up in his study the rest o’ the day.

“The minstrel never came back in the end. If it weren’t for the master’s reaction I’d have thought he’d come to the wrong house. I did smell something like peach
brandy when I opened the window and wondered if he’d been drunk – though no drunk I ever saw looked so focused as that. Can’t for the life o’ me think how the master might
know him though; to owe him money or anything of the sort. He never gambled or did anything illegal. He was as good a man as any I ever met, kind to us all and the Lady Calath too. To mix with a
rogue like that, I just can’t imagine it.”’

I was quiet a long while.

‘It’s too much of a coincidence for the man to have found the wrong house,’ I admitted at last, my fervour for the mystery now waned. ‘However, the marshal makes a
strange candidate for blackmail, the more likely coincidence could be that a man from his past came to collect on an old debt from a wilder youth – hearing Calath was settled and respectable
there might be more to collect.’

On another day I might have felt this was a prank to be played on retired watchmen with not enough to occupy their days, but I knew that was not the case. I could not admit it to Brandt, but I
knew the name Rojak – had heard mention of a minstrel cruel and utterly without morals from men who moved in more dangerous circles than I – and did not envy him the involvement.

‘I can find no real political interests at all,’ Brandt said in agreement, apparently accepting my plausible assessment, ‘nothing that would require corrupt dealings and his
personal life seems to be one of sleepy contentment. Marshal Calath appears in all respects to have been a man of learning who lived on a stable income and well within his means. From what I know
of his research the only illegal works would be useless to him, but a nobleman’s reputation can be a fragile thing.’

‘Useless in what way?’

‘Well, there are no legal limitations on access to historical or academic works, certainly not to a man so highly respected as Marshal Calath. The only works that are banned are the
dangerous magical tomes and I’m told they’re just books unless you have the ability to use them. To you or I they are nothing but words on paper, no matter how knowledgeable one might
be.’ At my expression he added, ‘I went to the College of Magic and spoke to the Archmage. He explained all of this, and checked that none of the books we found were banned even to
mages.’

‘That tells us nothing, bar the fact that the killer might have found what he was looking for. Still, I assume you would be more animated if Calath had been capable of magic so perhaps we
should be looking elsewhere.’

For the next account Brandt took position by the empty fireplace, leaning easily on the mantelpiece with a rather more relaxed air about him.

‘We have now a report taken yesterday from a shopkeeper on the Springs Road, a man named Gorters. It refers to an incident that took place just over a month after the marshal’s first
fit. The manservant, Veser, tells me that this instance – of which he was unaware until I asked him – preceded a dramatic tumble in both spirits and health of Marshal Calath.

‘“Marshal and Lady Calath had entered the shop with something of a celebratory air, so Gorters was careful to state at the outset. Though the marshal’s leg
seemed to be affording him a little discomfort it didn’t appear to have affected his mood a shred as they went about looking for a present for the lady. The shop is one that sells fine gifts;
ornaments and furniture of the highest quality I’m told, but with people like my brother and his family passing most of the year in Narkang these days, I’m sure trade remains
good.”’

Brandt and I shared a smile there. His brother, Suzerain Toquin, was a proud and extravagant man whose wealth had increased dramatically as Narkang prospered. The brothers
lived very different lives nowadays and I knew Brandt was more comfortable as a part of my family than his own.

‘“The shopkeeper guessed from their demeanour that she was expecting a child – though when we questioned the servants there none claimed to know of it so
we must assume Gorters was wrong – but they would take no suggestion from him and were content to browse.

“When the marshal expressed dissatisfaction with the wares on display, the shopkeeper directed him to the back room where some of his most recent arrivals were stored. Accordingly, the
marshal entered this room, leaving his wife admiring a cabinet of trinkets with Gorters.

“Only a minute had gone past when the heard a cry of dismay, a yelp like a frightened dog so the shopkeeper described it, but Lady Calath rushed through as if it were a matter of life
and death and Gorters followed. When they entered they discovered the marshal facing a massive ornate mirror; one Gorters had bought from an auctioned estate only a week previously. It was of an
old style; unremarkable in form or provenance but of a sort recently popular with the merchants of the city apparently.

“The marshal stood with his back to the door, hands gripping the frame of the mirror and shoulders trembling. His wife rushed to his side, but Gorters said he could not bring himself to
enter the room. While Lady Calath tried in vain to drag her husband away from the mirror, crying out his name in a terrified voice, Gorters caught sight of the marshal’s reflection. The man
was quite willing to express his cowardice in this matter, rather surprisingly I felt, but the man was adamant about what he saw.

“In the mirror he could see the marshal’s face clearly, or rather, in his own words; ‘it was the face of Marshal Calath, but distorted into something awful. His features
were twisted, his eyes filled with shadows racing like clouds on the wind, lip curled in purest hatred.’

“Whatever Gorters truly saw, it shocked and horrified him enough to ignore Lady Calath’s repeated calls for his assistance. As he stood there, transfixed by that ‘daemonic
visage’ he heard a voice, a voice he claims came from the mirror rather than the marshal himself.”’

‘Well, his fear got the better of him then, this is clearly another symptom of Calath’s illness,’ I said, unable to keep my opinions to myself. ‘At
this point I don’t believe in any supernatural explanation. I may not understand the workings of lunacy, but I’ve heard enough of it to believe our marshal had become a truly ill
man.’

Brandt looked at me with what I term his professional expression; one he normally reserved for overeager young watchmen. It was only my advanced years that reminded me not to apologise, even if
I kept quiet thereon.

‘“The voice was distant; echoing and faint, but still it burned into my memory and I’ll never forget that moment. It said ‘no escape from the
shadows.’ In response the marshal spoke, a single word in the voice of a man near dead with terror: Azaer. I don’t know what it means but he spoke clear enough and it seemed to shock
Lady Calath as much as I – more, for she seemed to recognise it and went white at its meaning.”

‘And that is the real reason I came to speak to you,’ Brandt said in a subdued voice. ‘As much as I value your experience, I’ll win no friends by
consulting with you on a case such as this – not with the reputation they painted you with. But I remember that case not long after I came to work for you – when you killed a vampire,
or at least that’s what the whole city said. Years later, when I married Liese, you told me the truth about that, how it was a madman who thought he was possessed by a daemon called
Azaer.’

Brandt had a grave expression on his face, but what I wondered most was how much was he resting on this case. That celebrated victory over a ‘vampire’ changed my life and Brandt knew
this all too well. It set me upon a path other than that of a simple watchman. Was he hoping that for a similar turn of fortunes, an avenue into high office that had been denied to him by three
elder brothers?

He raised the parchment without waiting for me to find a response and cleared his voice.

‘“Before anything more could occur the marshal wrenched his hands off the frame of the mirror and drew a dagger from his belt. Because of his leg he had never
been trained to use a blade and wore none, but carried a dagger that had been a gift from his father instead of the more traditional blade. The marshal raised the weapon in both hands above his
head, struggling as though either his own body resisted or it were the weight of a grown man he lifted. Only then did Gorters find his courage, his fear of that monstrous face in the mirror
eclipsed by his fear for Lady Calath’s life now a weapon was drawn.

“He dragged her away from her husband, but the marshal seemed not to even notice her absence. It took all his strength to face down whatever he saw in the mirror before he stabbed the
dagger down into the mirror itself – right into that twisted face, so Gorters tells. The moment ended, Calath slumped to one knee and would have collapsed entirely, knife abandoned on the
floor, had his wife not run to gather him. Gorters particularly noticed the marshal heaving for breath, gasping like a man who had just run a race across the city”.’

‘Indeed, or perhaps more fittingly, fought a battle – with whatever daemon inhabits his soul.’

‘Daemon?’ questioned Brandt.

‘Daemon of the spirit,’ I corrected. ‘This man was not possessed, nor haunted I’ll wager. Calath is – was – learned, and learned in the supernatural. That
means he may well have come across the Azaer cult in his studies.’

‘But what was that? I can find no trace of any such cult in any library or history.’

‘And nor will you,’ I said firmly. ‘I doubt you’d be allowed to enter the sorts of collections that contain such a reference unless your brother was the one to make the
request. They would only be found in the king’s private collection and other closed libraries, but that’s of little matter. The Azaer cult has been dead for years; knowledge of it is
restricted because about a decade back a necromancer tried to revive it. Though the order was long dead the name still carries weight among men of power, most especially those who are trained in
magical arts. There’s an irrational fear they carry from the old wives’ tales taught to novices at such places. Once you get them to acknowledge the truth of the Azaer cult, I’m
told they do admit the foolishness of their fears, but it’s a fear that lingers in the bones and defies explanation or exorcism.’

‘So this is a dead end?’ asked Brandt with a most disappointed tone. I am afraid that under my tutelage he must have contracted a love of the mysterious, one I should have
discouraged. Few of us can profitably spend too long considering the stranger side of this Land and even fewer remember to consider the inherent dangers. Even with the example of my own disgrace,
Brandt remained fascinated by things that went beyond everyday life.

‘I’m afraid so,’ I confirmed. ‘There’s no way this extinct cult could have caused any deaths, excepting the foolish or mad enacting deeds in the cult’s name.
A friend of mine wrote a work on the subject once, “The Origins and Place in History of the Azaer Cult” I believe. He’d seen the hurt caused by rumour and ignorance so he sought
to consign it to history – demonstrate how there had never been a daemon called Azaer and those who acted in its name were merely the credulous or the criminal.’

‘Damn,’ Brandt said with abrupt finality. He gave the sheaf of papers one last look then dropped them lightly on a table and turned his back on them.

‘Well then, I’ll not bother you with the other accounts here. They’re merely the same events recorded from the memories of others involved.’ He then gave me a curious
look. A sparkle of mischievous cunning I felt, one that made me wonder what foolishness I had just uttered. ‘I shall therefore proceed straight to the murder report, wherein lies the
mystery.’

Brandt took a moment to stretch his limbs, quite aware of the torment he was now causing. Walking over to the window he stared out at the gardens below, the faint smile on his face at my expense
since I doubted the gardener at work was a sufficiently enjoyable sight. Brandt was a tall lad and at that moment I was struck by the realisation of how he towered over me. Despite my advancing
years I still thought of Brandt as the awkward youth who had once scurried around the watch-house and blushed whenever he saw my daughter – not least because I had delighted in passing on her
intentions to marry him as soon as she announced them.

Liese had been a mature girl of sixteen at the time, he a bumbling youth of fourteen. The difference in their station had been entirely overcast by the embarrassed awe he held my daughter in. It
was hard to remember that this tall and powerful man was that same boy, now possessing a sharp mind and political aspirations.

‘To begin with I shall set the scene,’ he started suddenly, rounding on me with a smile on his face, but his eyes grave. ‘As I have told you, the marshal and lady were found
together, dead. We are not entirely sure what they were doing, but they were in his chamber with the door locked from the inside. They had brought out the only other large mirror they owned in the
house . . .’

‘Wait, what was the condition of the marshal in the days before?’ I asked in a professional capacity. If the man was touched by madness then his demeanour in the preceding days would
have been crucial to shedding light on the deaths. If a man was to spiral down towards murder and suicide, there would surely be worsening signs in the days and weeks prior.