Nine
Shock acted as an anesthetic. For the first few moments, Sarah knelt in her cloak beside her friend's lifeless body, unable to process what she was seeing. Lenia was dead. That beautiful, lively, vivacious girl had been savagely bashed on the top of her head—by someone standing behind her, Sarah realized, filing away the detail almost without conscious effort.
"Your Majesty, the queen's personal guard has been summoned," said the guard nearest Sarah.
Sensation returned in a cold, hard rush, and Sarah stood, a wave of practicality sweeping over her. She turned at once to the guard.
"Fetch me paper, ink, and a good pen," she ordered.
"Your Majesty…?"
"A visual record needs to be made of the body," Sarah said. "Go, now, quickly!" The woman scurried away, and Sarah turned to the other guards.
"Have any of you touched the body, or moved it in any way?"
Their heads shook in unison.
"Bring torches and lanterns, then," Sarah commanded. "We need as much light around her as possible." In response to their baffled expressions, Sarah told them, "There may be physical evidence on the body that will lead us to her murderer. It needs to be collected before it can be removed or disturbed or contaminated."
The five women swung into action, collecting the nearest available sources of light and bringing them to Sarah. A moment later, the first guard came running back into the corridor, hands full of writing materials; there must be an office or a salon nearby. She had also taken the extra step of bringing a small, portable writing desk. Sarah blessed her forethought.
Without the tools of modern forensic investigation—about which Sarah admittedly knew very little—she would have to rely on visual detail. There would be no autopsy, no chemical analyses of bodily fluids. Sarah first made a note of the location: further down the corridor was an arched doorway, doubtless leading to another building in the south wing. To the right of Lenia's body, about ten feet away, was the base of a staircase leading up into darkness.
"Where do those stairs go?" Sarah asked.
"Up to the Shrike Suite, your majesty," one of the guards responded. "The royal family of Varan is quartered there for the coronation."
Sarah jotted down that information, then went on with her inspection. To the left of the body was a smooth expanse of stone wall, set with the usual lanterns in niches at intervals. There were no other doorways or windows; the corridor was essentially at basement level. The cold was intense.
Sarah next made a sketch of Lenia's body where it lay, blessing her years of art lessons. Willing her cold hands to be steady, she made four quick drawings: from the front, from the back, from each side, taking care to note in particular the position of head and hands. Most difficult was drawing the fatal head wound. When she was done, Sarah set aside the writing desk and crawled around the body on her hands and knees, observing every detail. Beneath the aubergine cloak, Lenia had been wearing a plain linen dress of the same deep purple. She was not wearing any jewelry. Her forearms were uninjured, the garments neither torn nor blood-stained; she did not appear to have made any attempt to defend herself. There had been only one, fatal blow. On her feet she wore low-heeled, fur-lined shoes.
Sarah examined the horrible indentation in Lenia's skull, probing gently with a fingertip, but she could not feel any debris that would give a hint of the murder weapon—no slivers of wood, for example. Judging by the shape of the concavity, the killer had used something with a rounded surface—the image of a baseball bat came to Sarah's mind; she knew it wasn't possible, but the idea refused to budge.
In spite of the intense cold, some warmth remained in the body's core, which Sarah determined by sliding two fingers inside the collar of Lenia's gown, over the collarbone and down to the soft breast tissue.
"When was she found, and by whom?" Sarah barked.
"On the change of watch, less than an hour ago, just after midnight," one of the guards provided. Sarah made a note of that as well.
Finally, she used her nose, sniffing up and down the length of Lenia's body, mouth slightly open, letting all the scents available pass through her nose and over her tongue. Not caring how ridiculous she looked, Sarah closed her eyes and let her goblin senses process the information. The gown and cloak belonged to Lenia: both garments were steeped in her scent. Overall, Lenia smelled clean—very clean, almost as if she had recently washed; about the body hung a strong miasma of almond soap and rosewater. Lenia normally wore her freesia scent, which must come from some kind of perfume or powder. Just that evening at dinner, Sarah had caught a whiff of it. But Sarah could not detect it now; more interestingly, the floral scent also was absent from Lenia's gown and cloak.
Trying not to seem grotesque, Sarah lingered for a moment over the area of Lenia's buttocks. She could only detect the girl's clean, female scent. There was not even a hint of the distinctive musk of male sex. The olfactory evidence confirmed that presented by Lenia's undisturbed clothing. She hadn't been raped. Not only that, she hadn't engaged in any sexual activity—at least with a man—since washing herself.
Sarah got to her feet, trying to ignore the guards' expressions of shock and disapproval, scribbling quick notes of everything she'd observed. When she took one last look to see if there was anything she'd missed, her gaze fell on Lenia's feet, her shoes. Apart from the day they'd gone riding, Sarah didn't think she'd seen Lenia wearing any shoes other than those with heels. She always knew when Lenia was coming, because she could hear the tippity-tapping of the girl's high-heeled shoes. Not only were these shoes warm and low-heeled, a layer of felted wool had been cleverly stitched over the outer soles.
Sarah had just finished jotting down that final note when a cadre of Petronia's guards burst into the corridor. They took charge of the scene with such force and efficiency that Sarah was grateful for whatever impulse had prompted her to gather as much evidence from the body as possible. She handed the small writing table to the youngest of the guards, gathered up the sheets of her notes, and concealed the rolled parchment beneath her cloak.
"By the Goddess!" one of the guards thundered. "It's Lenia! Who could have done this?"
Sarah's ears detected the sounds of an angry struggle, muffled, but rapidly approaching. The door at the far end of the corridor banged open, wood slamming against stone with a report as loud as a gunshot. Two more guards appeared, dragging a small, childlike figure between them. They must have overheard the question, because one of the women shouted, "We found this one here, wandering about an empty salon upstairs, unable to properly account for himself!" She gave the figure a shove forward. "What do you have to say about that, hmm? Do you recognize that girl on the floor, you monstrous little beast?"
The object of her wrath staggered forward, toppling onto his hands and knees. When he landed, the impact knocked aside the hood of his threadbare cloak, and Sarah stared at him, uncomprehending. The oversized bald head, fringed by white hair, the enormous bulbous nose, the blue eyes, watery from the cold, blinking with a mixture of terror and confusion. It was impossible. This couldn't be real.
It was Hoggle.
(ii)
If the discovery of the body had been bad, the confrontation with Petronia that followed was somehow even worse.
The queen sat in her large, comfortable chair, feet propped on a small, tapestry-upholstered stool in front of her. When she shifted her legs, the hem of her nightgown—an exquisitely embroidered silk, Sarah noted with odd, clinical detachment—shifted, showing for a brief moment Petronia's bare, puffy white ankles. Her feet were swollen. A cloak, fur-trimmed and fur-lined, was draped about her shoulders, her hair glowing vermillion against the sable. Seated beside the queen, holding her hand, was King Tylas, tousled and ineffectual.
Judging by the queen's stony face, she had not appreciated being awakened in the depths of night, and she'd been in no mood to hear the inevitable tragic news. On a settee near the queen sat Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama. Oddly, it was the sinister Gannet who was hunched over weeping, while Jacama, the dead girl's mother, sat expressionless, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her nightdress in convulsive little jerks.
A door opened, and in shuffled Alaemon, followed a few minutes later by her husband, who appeared untidy and breathless, as if he'd run to the Eagle Suite from another part of the palace. Alaemon had arranged her face into an expression of shock, outrage, and sorrow, but the practiced mask could not conceal an underlying irritation: at having been awakened so rudely; at her sister, even in death, always being the center of attention. Her husband Turnix tried to take her arm in a comforting gesture, and she angrily swatted him away. Alaemon stalked to the most comfortable empty chair and lowered herself into it, exhaling a long-suffering sigh as she did.
The guards made their report to the queen. The night watch, which changed shortly after midnight, had discovered Lenia's body in the corridor of the Shrike Suite's lowest level. The guards' last duty, before they retired from their shifts, was to make a quick pass through the building in which they were posted. Depending on the size of a building, there might be anywhere from six to two dozen guards on duty at any given time, and they rotated "sweeping," as they called it, among them. The two women who'd been standing watch outside the Varanese royal family's quarters had been the designated sweepers for that night, and they'd found Lenia when they'd gone down to inspect the basement level. One woman had remained with the body while the other had summoned four more guards. It must have been this commotion which had awakened Sarah.
Petronia's cold blue gaze settled on the Goblin Queen. "And why were you about at such a wretched hour?"
"The disturbance awoke me, Your Majesty."
"All the way from the Falcon Suite?" Petronia scoffed.
"I have excellent hearing, Your Majesty."
Petronia let that pass. Her eyes swiveled in the direction of the two guards standing watch over poor Hoggle. Sarah tried to keep her face impassive.
"And what is that repulsive thing?"
One of the guards said, "We'd been alerted to the discovery of the body, Your Majesty, and we thought it prudent to search the rest of the Shrike Suite. We found him wandering around an empty salon, not doing anything, just stumbling about. We questioned him, but he wouldn't answer."
He was lost, Sarah thought.
From her comfortable chair, Alaemon yawned, "Oh, for pity's sake, it's our servant. His name is Mephitis. He's as harmless as a worm. And you won't get anything out of him; he can't speak."
"Can he write?" one the guards asked.
Alaemon scowled, "Why would a thing like that be able to write?"
"Where is he from?" asked Petronia, her expression distasteful, as though Hoggle were a mud puddle to avoid stepping in.
"Nobody knows," said Alaemon. "Kosma and her brother Ochen found him when they were playing by the river. He washed up on the bank."
My vision, Sarah realized. The reason for her dream became clear: it had nothing to do with Kosma and everything to do with Hoggle. He must have come to the palace with the rest of Alaemon's party—with a rush of comprehension, Sarah remembered the figures of children she'd seen in the gatehouse the night the storm began, the vague sense that one of them looked familiar. Her heart compressed: it must have been Hoggle under one of those cloaks. Why, oh why, had she not recognized him?
Petronia was speaking. "Where was he quartered?" she asked.
"In the east wing, with the rest of our household," said Alaemon. "I believe they're in the Vireo Suite."
"So why was he roaming around the south wing in the dead of night?" said Petronia.
Sarah dared to speak up. "Your Majesty, perhaps he was on an errand."
The guard said, "We shook him down, and there's no papers on him."
"Looking to see what he could steal," said Alaemon, twirling a strand of her hair like a Valley Girl.
"Has he ever stolen anything at your farm?" Sarah asked her.
"Not that I'm aware of," the young mother responded. "But look at him. A face like that, he couldn't have been up to anything good."
Sarah asked the guards, "Did you find any stolen property on him?"
The women shook their heads.
Sarah said, "Your Majesty, this man is a dwarf. He couldn't possibly have murdered Lenia—he wouldn't have been able to reach her head."
"Lenia was not a tall woman," Petronia scowled.
Sarah gestured to one of Petronia's maids of honor, and when the girl stepped forward, Sarah motioned for her to stand in front of Hoggle, both of them in profile to Petronia. The girl was about Lenia's height.
"Lenia was struck on the top of her head, not the back of it," Sarah went on. "This dwarf has short, stubby arms—it would have been physically impossible for him to strike her that way."
"Perhaps he stood on something," King Tylas suggested.
"He fetched a footstool to commit murder?" Sarah argued. "That's beyond the bounds of common sense."
"Nevertheless, he was the only one in the south wing who can't account for his presence there," said Petronia.
"Because he can't speak or write," Sarah countered. She kept glancing at Hoggle, who gave no indication whatsoever that the recognized her. Her heart shriveled with pain. "Are you going to condemn him without giving him a chance to defend himself?"
"Oh, don't be so tiresome!" Petronia exploded. "I'm tired of you always putting your goblin snout in my affairs, Queen Sarah!" She gestured to the guards. "Lock him up. He'll be sentenced after the Pax Deorum ends."
"But Your Majesty, the real killer could be—" Sarah's words died in her mouth; Petronia had already swept from the presence chamber, a trail of simpering ladies in her wake. From deeper inside the suite, a door slammed. Sarah watched, helpless, as Hoggle was led out by the guards. Turnix was helping Alaemon to her feet, and some of the maids had swooped in to assist Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama.
"Your Majesty, let me escort you back to the Falcon Suite," a guard murmured, and Sarah had no choice but to go along, her cold fingers clutching the rolled parchments beneath her cloak.
(iii)
"He's alive. How could he be alive?"
Jareth and Sarah paced the lower level of the Falcon Suite, surrounded by swooping and shrieking goblins. The days of the storm had done nothing to lessen their wild energy and madcap antics. Sarah had chosen this location to provide cover for her voice and Jareth's; she still couldn't shake off the worry about eavesdroppers.
This question didn't overly perplex Jareth. "He was stunned by the cold, and the Great River carried him into Aves. He must have washed into one of the river's tributaries." Maybe Hoggle had been in a coma, which had allowed him to survive.
"We have to tell them!" Sarah insisted. "We have to tell them we know him—Hoggle wouldn't hurt a fly! We can tell Petronia he went under the ice, and—"
"We can't," said Jareth. "The Great River flows out of Eutheria into Aranea, and from Aranea directly into Aves—it's nowhere near the Underground. Petronia will want to know what Hogshead was doing in Aranea. We can't do that without admitting we were there, too."
"We have to," Sarah insisted.
Jareth barked a short laugh, devoid of mirth. "Do you, Sarah? You murdered Portia. You murdered Theridion, Petronia's brother. How do you think she'd react to that? She'd have both of us summarily executed. Is that what you want—to leave Lizzie an orphan?"
"There must be some way."
"There isn't."
Sarah turned slightly from Jareth, staring at the tumbling, noisy goblins. How like him to do nothing. He was right about Lizzie, he was right about how Petronia would react if she knew Jareth and Sarah were responsible for her brother's death. But Jareth had always regarded Hoggle as a rival for Sarah's affections, so his very legitimate worries dovetailed nicely with his longstanding dislike of the dwarf.
But Sarah couldn't abide the thought of poor, dear Hoggle being put to death for a murder he didn't commit. She couldn't bear watching him either be executed outright or condemned to a living death in the salt plains. Even worse, Lenia's actual killer would walk free, unscathed. Hoggle was Sarah's friend. Lenia had been her friend. The thought that one friend would be falsely accused of murdering the other was intolerable. She glared at Jareth, who stood with his arms folded on his chest, face set in an obdurate expression. He just wouldn't understand. Jareth didn't have friends. Oh, he loved Sarah—loved her, loved Lizzie. If one of them had been in peril, he'd have wrestled a dragon bare-handed to save them. But everyone else was his minion or his adversary. Friendship was an alien concept to him.
Sarah realized if Hoggle were going to be exonerated, she would have to identify Lenia's killer herself and gather enough evidence so that Petronia would be forced to capitulate. Hoggle deserved justice. Lenia deserved to be avenged.
For a moment, Sarah's resolve flagged. She was in a foreign kingdom; everything was against her; she was a goblin; nobody would trust her. Then she remembered how she'd outwitted Jareth at fifteen years old. And how did you do that? she asked herself. Even Jareth had once admitted the secret of her triumph—she'd made friends and gotten them to help her.
"I'll do it, then." Before Jareth could utter so much as a protest, Sarah had whirled on her heel and flown up the steps. It was time for battle.
(iv)
"So, you see, there's no way that dwarf could have killed her."
Queen Inula and her daughter-in-law Marsilea sat at the small table, listening as Sarah made her case. When Sarah finished talking, she gulped warm, sweet wine. She knew her hands were shaking, her face white, but that was no matter. Let them think her concern was all about justice for Lenia. She prayed the two women from Vitis could be trusted.
Inula's gaze scanned over the sheets of parchment, glancing up at Sarah with admiration. "I wonder you had the presence of mind to record all this."
"I realize it's ghoulish and I apologize for that, but I thought there should be a written account, in case someone tried to contradict me later."
"That was very wise," said Marsilea.
"She was wearing a purple dress and a purple cloak?" Queen Inula frowned.
"Yes," Sarah responded.
"That's very peculiar, because it's what the royal dancers wear. That color."
Sarah shrugged her shoulders: up and down, once. If possible, she did not want to divulge Lenia's secret affair with the Estridian dancer.
Marsilea broke the awkward silence. "How can we help?"
Sarah said to Inula, "You know the palace better than I do. I need to know who's staying where. Where is everyone quartered?"
Inula said to her daughter-in-law, "Fetch my writing things." Marsilea hastened from the room.
Inula said quietly, "You do know how difficult this is going to be. Petronia will shield whoever is responsible, from a sense of pride. It would be impossible for her to admit one of her pets may have done this."
"That's why I need evidence not even Petronia can argue with."
When Marsilea returned with the queen's small writing desk, Inula began to sketch out a schematic of the palace. The four major wings of the palace aligned with the points of the compass, and the other four wings were within those points. Inula didn't attempt to sketch each individual building, but she did make a note of where everyone was staying.
"The Eagle Suite is in the south wing, and the other members of Petronia's family have their quarters in the south wing as well, including Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama. They obviously have their own homes in the Queen's Yards, but most of the time they're here in the palace."
"Lenia's sister Alaemon and her husband, Turnix, are quartered there as well," Sarah added. "But the rest of their household is in the east wing. And the royal family from Varan is in the south wing, in the Shrike Suite."
Marsilea said, "The farmers from the countryside are all quartered in the north wing."
Sarah said, "The salt miners and peat boggers are bunking in the Summer Hall." As they spoke, Inula's quill scratched across the parchment.
"And we're here in the northeast wing," said Marsilea.
"What else is in the east wing, besides Alaemon's party?" asked Sarah. "I know the museum is there, too, but there are other buildings."
"There's a barracks for the guards in the east wing," said Inula, making a note. "And a smaller barracks in the west wing, as well."
Marsilea said, "The conservatory is in the southeast wing, and the dancers are quartered there, aren't they?"
"Yes." Inula's pen scratched in swift strokes. "The royal family from Eutheria is being quartered in the southwest wing, I believe in the Pelican Suite. And of course you and Jareth are there as well, in the Falcon Suite."
"What's in the west wing, besides the library and the smaller guards' barracks?" asked Marsilea. "Anything?"
"The Sabalians are there, in the old Corvus House," said Queen Inula. She told Sarah, "It was a freestanding building at one time, but now it's incorporated into the main palace."
"What about the northwest wing?" asked Marsilea.
Inula said, "I believe that's where Petronia quartered the families from the Market Circle."
Sarah said, "There's a family from the Queen's Yards in the Falcon Wing with us."
"Those families are scattered over the southeast, south, and southwest wings," said Inula, making notes. That completed all the points of the compass.
"And the temple's in the center of the palace," said Marsilea. "Don't forget that."
Inula made another notation, and for a few moments, the three of them sat in silence, examining the diagram.
"What about the servants?" asked Sarah. "Where are they quartered?"
"In the basements—there are four kitchens and two laundry areas on the lowest levels," Inula provided. "The servants' quarters are adjacent to the kitchen and laundry areas, because of the warmth from the fires." The point of her quill scratched across the parchment once again.
"So how did H—Mephitis get from the east wing to the south wing?" asked Sarah.
"Pretty easily," said Inula. "There's a corridor that goes past the entrance to the guards' barracks directly into the south wing, so that guards can get to the royal suite quickly if needed—it completely cuts off the southeast wing." She made a line on the paper, indicating roughly where the corridor would be. "It leads into the south wing two floors above the basement level."
"That's where they found Mephitis," said Sarah. "So he may have come directly from the east wing."
Marsilea said, "It's easy enough to get lost in the palace because the layouts of the buildings are different from each other, and the buildings don't always connect in the same way. Agrostis and I have been misdirected a couple of times."
"A servant wouldn't be wandering around on his own in the dead of night," Sarah remarked. "He must have been out and about for a reason."
"Probably an errand," said Inula. The three women glanced at each other.
Sarah voiced their unspoken thought. "What kind of errand do you send a mute amnesiac on in the middle of the night?"
Marsilea said, "An errand you don't want anyone to know about."
"So who in Alaemon's household would have the authority to send a servant on a secret errand at midnight?" asked Sarah.
Inula said, "A steward. The property overseer, perhaps. But a dwarf wouldn't be sent into the south wing, the royal quarters—that would reflect poorly on Alaemon."
"Alaemon wouldn't want him around, I can tell you that much," Sarah nodded. "She thinks he's revolting."
Marsilea said, "He's the sort of servant you'd send to the stables, maybe the kitchens."
"At midnight?" asked Sarah, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "In the freezing cold?"
Marsilea shrugged and gave a soft laugh. "It does seem unlikely." Her honey-brown eyes returned to the diagram of the palace. "What we really need is to talk to someone in the household, someone who knows Mephitis, who knows the kinds of work he does, the kinds of errands he might be sent on."
Queen Inula said, "I'm no help there. I scarcely know the woman. She didn't attend Eucissa's funeral."
Sarah thought for a few moments, thought about someone who might be persuaded to talk, someone who might be free with details. Inspiration struck her. She thought she knew exactly the right person, but she would need some sort of pretext for an introduction. Excited, she turned to Inula.
"I need you to host a little get-together," she said. "But it has to be a very special kind of party." And she told Inula what she needed.
(v)
Jareth surveyed the scene of unfolding chaos; hands on his hips, he pronounced with some satisfaction, "Goblins make less noise than this lot."
"Good," Sarah nodded, handing Lizzie to him with a smile.
"And what's my role in this hullabaloo?" he inquired.
"Add to it," Sarah grinned. "Be a goblin—what you do best."
For the party, Queen Inula had commandeered the largest room in the northeast wing—small by usual palace standards, but the closest thing to a ballroom that was available to her.
Racing harum-scarum around the polished wooden floor was a gaggle of young children, as many kids as were in all probability currently resident in the palace. There were the children of the royal families and their retainers, the children of the noble families, the children of the families who resided in the Queen's Yards, and for good measure, the children of the Market Circle families. The only kids who weren't invited were the farmers' children and obviously the young salt miners and peat boggers. Based on a quick headcount, there were nearly two hundred youngsters in the room, ranging in ages from about five up through about thirteen or fourteen. Some older teenagers acted as chaperones. Marsilea was there with her husband Agrostis and their son Delonix, providing guidance to the young merry-makers.
Sarah had dictated the menu to Inula, and the palace servants had come through without fail: candied fruits, honey-coated nuts, and all manner of sweet tarts and custards. A handful of apprentice musicians in pale blue linen gowns provided a constant stream of lively music, and a group of novice dancers in lavender garb were instructing the children in folk jigs and reels. Young choristers in pale green led the children in singing popular songs. Later, there would be a storyteller. The combination of sugar, music, dancing, and general excitement had turned the staid ballroom into a scene of well-organized pandemonium.
The pretext of the party, of course, was to celebrate the end of the storm and give the cooped-up kids something fun to do. In reality, the noisy affair would provide cover for Sarah's personal agenda, which required a certain amount of subterfuge.
She identified her quarry early and followed him visually throughout the party, keeping him in her sightlines while she danced with Jareth and Lizzie and sang along with the folk tunes of Aves. She gauged the mood of the party, and when the revelry had reached a fevered pitch, she slipped away from Jareth and cornered her prey at the sweets table.
"Hello," she said, treating the boy to her most dazzling smile. "You must be Ochen."
He looked up at her with an expression akin to amazement, then remembered his manners and bent forward in an adorable bow, still clutching fistfuls of candied nuts in his hands.
"Are you enjoying the party?" Sarah inquired.
"Very much, Your Majesty," the boy breathed.
"What do you like best?"
"The dancing," he said, his face lighting up. Sarah put his age at perhaps ten, a year or two older than his sister Kosma.
"That's hardly surprising," Sarah told him in an easy, conversational voice. "Your father, King Tylas, is an accomplished dancer."
His gray eyes went wide at the offhand mention of his distinguished sire, and Sarah returned his thunderstruck expression with an indulgent smile.
"Of course I know who your father is," she said. "You should be proud to be the king's child. Is this your first visit to Phoebetria?"
He nodded.
"Have you enjoyed yourself?" When the boy hesitated, Sarah laughed and said, "Don't worry; I won't tell anyone if you're feeling bored or restless."
"It was a long, frightening journey here," the boy admitted. "And cold. It's cold here, too. And Kosma's always in the queen's rooms now. She won't play with me anymore."
"She's not here today," observed Sarah, privately relieved at the girl's absence. One day Kosma would grow up to be like Baroness Gannet: able to see through walls.
"No, Queen Petronia wouldn't let her come."
Of course not, Sarah thought. A children's party would be beneath the dignity of a girl being groomed as a priestess. Heaven forbid the queen's new pet rub elbows with the hoi polloi.
"Don't you have other friends?" asked Sarah.
"Only Mephitis, and they took him away, too. The guards said he did something wicked."
Sarah's eyes went wide with sympathy. "Is Mephitis your friend?"
"He's our servant. He's a dwarf. He makes me laugh."
"Why, does he do things that are funny?"
"No, he's funny cos he doesn't know where he comes from, and he can't speak."
That didn't sound very funny to Sarah, but she didn't chide Ochen for his cruelty. Instead, she asked, "What kind of work does a dwarf do on your farm?"
"He mostly weeds the gardens. Sometimes he goes fishing."
"Mmh-hmm," Sarah encouraged, wrestling back a pang of sadness: Hoggle had loved to fish. "It must be easy for a dwarf to weed gardens, being so short."
Ochen nodded in agreement, now eager to share with his new confidante. "And he runs errands for her ladyship's husband."
"Well, that must be useful for Turnix," said Sarah, hoping her casual use of the first name would create an affinity between her and Turnix in the boy's mind. "I'd imagine Mephitis runs errands for all sorts of people."
"No, just for his lordship."
"There are lots of guards and servants who run errands in the palace," Sarah remarked. As a joke, she added, "You can't step outside your room without tripping over one of them—always in such a hurry, too."
Ochen giggled. He said, "Mephitis runs errands here."
"Does he? It's such a big place, to learn your way around."
"His lordship was always sending Mephitis somewhere when I wanted to play with him." Ochen pouted.
"Did you go on the errands with him?"
"No," the boy sulked. "I wanted to go with Mephitis, once, but his lordship wouldn't let me."
"That wasn't fair to you, to take away your playmate for so long."
"It wasn't that long," the boy admitted. "Mephitis would come back soon—the candles wouldn't even be burned down."
"Well, that's not so bad, then," Sarah responded, giving the boy another smile. He preened at this show of royal favor. "It wouldn't be fair, would it, to send someone with short legs over a long distance?"
"I suppose," the boy said, looking doubtful.
The piece of music that was playing came to a spirited conclusion, and Sarah told Ochen, "They'll be starting another dance; why don't you join them?"
"All right!" he said, and he scampered across the room, shoving the fistfuls of nuts into his mouth as he ran. Sarah crossed the room in a different direction, melting into the crowd of adults, exhaling and glancing about. Her entire conversation with Ochen had taken less than five minutes, and as far as she could tell, nobody had given the exchange any particular notice. With seamless grace, she took Lizzie from Jareth and joined the group of dancers, bouncing the baby girl, who clapped her fat hands and shrieked with excitement.
(vi)
Back in the Falcon Suite that evening, Sarah thought over everything Ochen had revealed. Based on what he'd said, it sounded as though Turnix had been quartered in the east wing with the rest of his household, not in the south wing with his wife and daughter. Sarah recalled how he'd come running into Petronia's quarters the night of the murder.
So if Turnix had sent Hoggle on an errand from the east wing, where could a dwarf have gone—and come back—in a brief amount of time—say between fifteen and thirty minutes? Sarah studied once again the map of the palace. The east wing had its own kitchen, and it also was one of the two wings with a laundry, so Hoggle might have gone down to the basement. But at midnight? Sarah would need to confirm the hours that the servants were expected to work, but it seemed to her even they would be asleep at that hour.
That left the guards' barracks. Sarah had not until that moment thought very much about the city and palace guards: they were tall, athletic women, anonymous in their robin's egg blue tunics. But some were pretty—she thought of Fayannah, the guard who'd ridden out with her the afternoon the storm began. Sarah sat up straighter, gears awhirl in her mind. Fayannah, young and pretty, with her fair curls and rosy face. Fayannah, who had accompanied Turnix back to the palace with Alaemon's litter. Turnix and Fayannah, riding side by side in a desperate race against time. Sarah jumped to her feet, propelled into motion by a sudden hunch.
(vii)
At the guards' barracks in the east wing, she requested to speak with Fayannah. The guard on duty sent a young trainee to fetch her.
While Sarah waited, she studied the layout of the entrance to the barracks. As Inula had said, a corridor ran straight from the south wing to the east wing two floors above basement level. Sarah had located the disused parlor where Hoggle had been apprehended—there were a few pieces of furniture still askew from the scuffle—and traced backwards the path he seemed to have taken. The straightaway from south to east wing was indistinguishable from other corridors in the palace, and by night, illumination would have been minimal. Sarah could see how someone unfamiliar with the palace could lose all sense of direction in the maze-like corridors.
A few moments later, Fayannah emerged from the interior of the guards' quarters. She wore a robin's egg blue tunic over black leggings. Out of her armor she appeared slighter than Sarah remembered, but she still was a powerful young woman, easily six feet tall and broad-shouldered. Her physique brought to mind student athletes from Sarah's college days, the girls who had swam and rowed crew for Oneida University. One of Sarah's freshman year dorm-mates had been a high school butterfly champion, her build very like Fayannah's.
"Your Majesty," the girl smiled. "Please allow me the opportunity to make a proper bow." And she bent gracefully at the waist.
"It's nice to see you again, Fayannah," Sarah responded. "You look well." And she did, her face now healed from its angry red windburn.
"Can I be of assistance to you, Your Majesty?"
"Yes—is there anywhere we could speak in private?"
"Of course." Fayannah led Sarah to a nearby door, which opened into a small room with a table and two chairs. The plain furniture reminded Sarah of the pieces in the high lookout tower, and she fought back a shudder. Rather than sit, she remained standing. She prayed the heavy wooden door and stone walls would muffle the sounds of their conversation.
Without preamble or bothering to mince words, Sarah commanded, "Tell me about your affair with Turnix."
The look on the girl's face, a mix of shock and abject terror, was perversely gratifying. Sarah's suspicion had amounted to a wild shot in the dark, which she hadn't been sure would strike its target with such unerring precision.
"Your—Your Majesty," Fayannah stammered. "Please—"
From beneath her bodice, Sarah withdrew her amulet with the Dragon's Heart, the only time she'd shown it to anyone since her arrival in Aves.
"Don't try to lie to me." Sarah kept her voice quiet. "This is a goblin-stone; it will burn if you lie." She tucked the gem beneath her shift. "And yes, it works even with the Pax Deorum in effect—the magic is intrinsic in the stone."
The poor guard's eyes were bulging with fear now, and she'd begun to tremble.
"Your Majesty, it was just—we didn't mean anything—he only wanted company!" Fayannah's control broke, and she began to sob. "He's so lonely, and I was so afraid, because of the storm—because of the voices! When I was with him, the voices weren't so horrible!"
Sarah let out an impatient sigh. "Just tell me," she said. "When, where, how often."
"There's rooms that aren't in use, even with so many people staying here," the girl said, words tumbling out . "We'd use those—never the same room twice. We've been together four—no, five times since the storm."
"How did it start?" asked Sarah. "When?"
"The night after the child was born," Fayannah said miserably. "You know, he hasn't lain with his wife since early in her pregnancy? The midwives counseled against it. Then their household came here, and he's not being allowed to stay with her. Her ladyship Alaemon is quartered with the queen. Turnix was ordered to stay with their household in the east wing."
"The first time?" Sarah pressed. "How did it happen?"
"He was on his way back to his quarters the night after the birth. We crossed paths when I was on my way back from a few hours' liberty—I've been mostly off duty, to recover from when we rode out to meet their party. He inquired after my health and thanked me for seeing his wife to safety. I asked him about the baby. He said he'd barely seen her, hadn't even held her—his own daughter, and they won't let him touch her. I could see he was upset, so I invited him to take a drink with me. He—I—it just happened so suddenly. One moment we were talking, the next we were in each other's arms." With a shaky hitch of her breath, the young guard said, "Please, your majesty, I beg you—please believe we meant nothing by this, beyond a need for pleasure and comfort."
"And after that first night?"
"He sent messages for me to the guards' barracks, telling me where to meet him."
"How did he send the messages? Weren't you afraid of being found out?"
"He sent them by a mute dwarf," said Fayannah. "Written in code on tiny scraps of paper."
"Including the night of Lenia's murder?"
"I never learned his name." Fayannah nodded, eyes brimming again. "The dwarf's name. They're saying he murdered her."
"What time?" Sarah pressed.
"I received the message from Turnix at midnight," the guard said. "I went to him right away."
"You made love?"
"We were always quick about it," Fayannah mumbled. "I was back in the barracks less than an later, and he returned to his quarters."
No wonder Turnix had looked so harried when he'd come running into the Eagle Suite, Sarah realized. He'd probably been in bed, sound asleep, snoring in post-coital bliss when the alarm had been raised.
"After the dwarf gave you the message, where did he go?"
"Back to the—" A look of comprehension dawned in Fayannah's eyes. "Oh! We'd had a late dinner in the barracks, a little celebration because the storm ended. There was food left over, and I told the dwarf he could help himself to whatever he wanted. The maids hadn't come by to clear the tables."
"Where?"
"In the guards' mess."
"Is there a separate way in and out of the mess hall?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," said Fayannah, looking baffled.
"Show me."
Fayannah wiped her face on her sleeve, and with her composure restored, she led Sarah from the small room. The guards' barracks—a hodgepodge of sleeping quarters, common rooms, a lavatory, and the mess hall—formed a rough square, bounded on all four sides by corridors. The main entrance to the barracks was in one corridor. The mess hall could be accessed internally from the main entrance—and also through a separate door in another hallway. Sarah could see immediately what Hoggle had done: he'd left the mess through the second exit, turned left, and then left again, which instead of taking him to his own quarters, had taken him into the corridor that led to the south wing. In the freezing cold night, one dimly-lit corridor looked very like another, and Sarah could only imagine the confusion that must have arisen in his amnesiac mind when he'd found himself in the dark, unfamiliar rooms.
At the moment, the mess was empty and quiet. Sarah asked Fayannah, "Did you keep those messages?"
Fayannah gave a vehement shake of her head. "No, Your Majesty, I burned them right away." Red-rimmed blue eyes pleaded with Sarah to believe her.
Sarah didn't relax her stern countenance. She said, "It might be necessary for you to testify about all this before Petronia."
"This will ruin me," the guard said. "And Turnix may deny it all anyway."
"That remains to be seen. Now, go to your rooms. Say nothing of this to anyone, unless I send for you."
"Of course, Your Majesty." And the girl scurried away with a furtive, almost sideways movement, like a crab.
(viii)
Sarah took the long way back to the southwest wing. She could think better when her body was in motion, and Fayannah had given her a lot to consider.
Sarah had no doubts that Turnix, if confronted, would deny everything Fayannah had said—and Turnix would not be duped by Sarah's lie about the Dragon's Heart.
What a weasel. If the midwives had ordered Turnix and Alaemon to abstain from sex during the later months of Alaemon's pregnancy, there might have been a very good reason for it. Yes, Turnix had endured bitter cold and mortal terror during the journey to Phoebetria, but Alaemon had been cold and afraid, too, and also suffering through the agony of childbirth. The storm had been nightmarish, yes, but it must have been as frightening for Alaemon as anyone else—if not more so. Perhaps it was cruel for Petronia to separate the couple, but could Turnix have expected anything different? Alaemon was a daughter of the premier Tinamotean family, and she'd just presented the clade with another girl—naturally, she was going to be fawned over. Turnix had only provided the raw material for his wife's triumph.
Sarah's brows pulled together in a black scowl. She disliked cheaters, but any man who would step out on his mate twenty-four hours after she'd given birth under such harrowing circumstances was a particular brand of asshole. As a married woman and mother, Sarah found it impossible to pity him. Oh, she could understand why any man would grow weary of a woman like Alaemon, but she didn't think that gave Turnix carte blanche to cheat on his wife.
She reserved more sympathy for Fayannah, who in all honesty should have known better, but who had the excuse of being young and foolish. Turnix was a prime sleazeball, Sarah thought, for having taken advantage of the girl's gullibility.
The horrible thing was that none of this mattered. With the notes destroyed, there was no evidence for Hoggle's errand. If Petronia had been willing to disregard such obvious physical proof as Hoggle's being too short to reach the top of Lenia's head, she certainly wouldn't consider the possibility that Hoggle had been confused by the layout of the guards' barracks. Sarah would gain nothing; worse, she'd make a fool of herself if she took this sordid tale to the queen, and Petronia would only be further enraged by the insult to her husband's family.
Sarah's inquiry had accomplished one thing, though—she now knew Turnix couldn't have been the killer—Fayannah had provided him with an inadvertent alibi for the time of Lenia's death. Sarah scratched Alaemon's husband off her mental list of suspects. It was time to tackle the rest.
To be continued…
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