Night of Sundas
A distant pounding slowly broke my sleep: knuckles against wood, still, I couldn't tell the ceiling for the insides of my eyelids. I was still in that zone where one doesn't know if one's sleeping or awake—and the comfort of my bed was too warm and cozy for me to care.
Still, the pounding persisted—knock-knock-knock, turning into bang-bang-bang—as the knuckles-against-wood turned into a fist-against-slab. It no longer slowly broke my sleep, but rather, tore me out of it.
"By the Divines," I mumbled tiredly to myself, reluctantly forcing my way out from beneath the warmth of the covers—and here I thought my times of getting woken in the middle of the night were long since over. It's been years since I last had a night shift.
"I'm coming!" I yelled out loud as I reached for the folded garments on my chair. Still, the banging on my door aggravatingly persisted—what, in the name of Julianos, is the hurry?!
Pants on and loose white shirt I went for the door, lightening my handheld brass candle with a flint lighter en route. Heavy rain smattered against the dark windows—street lights were out—just how late a night was it?
And the banging only kept testing my patience.
"What in Oblivion is the matter?" I uttered out loud as I got the door open—a tone of 'still asleep' in my voice, rather than the harsh chew I had intended.
"My utmost apologies for waking you, Lieutenant…" the night-guard said promptly as my light fell on him in the doorway, "but I'm afraid you're needed at the—" the sentence stuck in his throat the way a sentence does when one is about to say something one shouldn't, and he looked away from me as he searched for better words.
He looked young, no one I knew, perhaps early twenties. One of the newer guards I suppose. He looked nervous and wide awake, the opposite of me, as he held his arm over his head for the rain. A hesitant look in his anxious eyes. No, I don't recognize him—not one of my men.
"Out with it," I said—the water was splashing on my feet and it was getting cold.
"There's…There's been another animal attack," he finally let out for my provocation.
An animal attack? Well, considering his tone and hesitation, I'd be a fool for believing it an actual ¨animal attack,¨ but that's not the word I reacted on: "Another?" I said: 'bout a month ago that Lieutenant Rubarb Castell got mauled by a bear, wasn't it? Found dead in the woods.
"Yes, sir! Over by the banking district."
"The banking?– then what are you waking me for? That's not my district." The boy was truly beginning to test my patience, and I had a warm bed that was still calling me back. "Speak plainly!"
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not allowed as to–" he bowed his head nervously, "It's just…" and his voice wandered off as he dropped into though. He almost looked spooked before he lifted his head to continue. "The Captain only told me to get you and nothing more."
"Brenhines? The Captain?!…" suddenly my drowsiness and annoyance at disrupted sleep went away—if the Captain was there, this so-called ¨animal attack¨ wasn't one of the usual cover-ups, "…Next time, start off with that."
"I'm sorry, sir,"
"Enough with that, in with you, and wait by the doorway!" I waived my hand once, signaling for him to enter. Subordinate or not, I wasn't about to have him stand in the cold rain as he waited for me to dress.
"Gratitude's, sir," he said with relief as he shook off the rain and entered my hallway, "It… was getting a bit cold."
"Give me a minute," I said as I lit one of the gray candles on the wall-mounted candle stand, to give him some light before I turned to return to my bed-chamber.
Dark lit room, but I didn't need much light to search my drawers. I always kept it organized the same way: pants left, shirts right.
Screw fashion, I grabbed the first ones at the top—light-brown pants and a grass-green shirt—not like it'll show beneath my coat. Socks on and a black vest and I was done. I turned the small framed mirror on the drawer so the light was at least decent, and gave myself a quick look: sharp eyebrows above tired brown eyes, brown hair, the definition of bed-head—as expected—and my mustache looked like the hairy end of a painting brush that should have been thrown out years ago. Though it always looked like that in the morning.
None the less, can't show up like that—my mustache's my pride—so I opened the right top drawer and took out that tiny jar of grease. Opened the lid, dipped two fingers, and hectically brushed them over my upper lip, flattening my pride to the sides before I twisted the edges upward and twirled them between my thumbs and index fingers into a half-circle on each side. Better flatten down the soul patch too, done and done. I reached for the candle.
I set it down on the hardwood desk in my hallway as I returned to the waiting guard. If he had given me a look for the ill-colored shirt, he hid it well—but more likely—he didn't dare to let me notice.
"I assume you brought horses?" I asked, grabbing the gray cotton trench-coat of its hanger—thick-leathered shoulders and visibly weatherworn.
"Yes, sir," he responded with a nod "They're ready outside."
"What are you waiting for then?" I said with a look.
"Of course, sir," he quickly answered for the hint and scurried off as I adorned the old coat.
I blew out the candles, pulled the thick coat-hood over my head, and took off after him through the open door. Into the cold, pouring, rain.
Brick buildings with oak-log frames and dark windows passed quickly as we raced the cut-stone streets. Sound of water splashing beneath iron hoofs underneath the low rumble of rolling thunder. I could hardly see shit for the pouring rain and mid-night dark, but that's the good thing about horses—they usually know the way on their own.
Heavy coat or not, we were soaked to the skin by the time we closed in on our destination. But at least we were here—I could see the distant torches from men guarding the building—and as the horses slowed down.
I know this building, Andane Marshog lives here—the lieutenant in charge of the bank district.
"Whoah-whoah-whoah," I said to curb the horse by the sidewalk. One of the men hurried toward me to grab the reins. "Sir," he greeted tiredly as he steadied the horse, and I heaved one leg over the horse and slid out of the slippery saddle, and took up a fast walk the second my feet hit the hard street. I wanted out of the rain that my hand couldn't keep out of my eyes.
"Where's Brenhines? Where's the Captain?!" I shouted over the weather at the men pressed against the building wall to keep out of the rain. They neither greeted nor looked up to in recognition. But one of them gestured toward the double door with his torch as I walked past.
Another young guard rushed out of the door and down the few steps as I approached, hand covering his mouth as he brushed past me and suddenly threw up onto the sidewalk. It took me by surprise as I stopped in my tracks and looked at him, bending over forward with his hands on his knees as he continued belching between his feet.
A feeling of disturbing discomfort swirled in my stomach. ¨Animal¨ attack, huh? Just what have I been dragged into?
With a brace-for-the-worst inhale, I turned away and climbed the stairs, pulling back the hood as I finally got under a roof. A hard jump-down-on-my-heels shook off most of the rain before I reached for the decorative copper handle and entered.
Smelled of tobacco smoke as I entered—the Captain's here alright—but the entrance looked unexpectedly normal. Bright green carpets on a hardwood floor, egg-shell-gray wall moldings up to the waist, green and yellow flower-patterned wallpapers up to the ceiling. Paintings, busts, and vases decorating every wall and table surface I could see. And, except for the muddy footprints the guards had caused, everything was clean and polished.
I took off my wet coat and gave it a light shrug as I took in the surrounding, folded it over my arm as I made my way through the short entry.
The decorations showing off luxury only increased as I made my way into the main hall—all high ceiling and rounded stairs—chandelier and all. Expensive doors and lit silver candles.
That's the bank district for you. Didn't matter who you were or what you worked with, if you lived here, it showed. And, sure, as a lieutenant for the city guard taxes paid the rent, but that was a shitty excuse, taxes never pay for the inside.
Why wasn't I placed in charge of this district? A brief touch of envy scolded over me but it washed away as quickly as it had been born, for a dark ill-boding suspicion began to beg the question—why was I standing in Andane's house?
"There you are," a familiar grumpy voice spoke from my side.
"Captain," I greeted as I turned, feeling that old need to straighten myself in the presence of higher rank.
Sure enough, he was puffing on that fat-headed snub pipe of his—made me wish I had brought my own—as he walked over, cupping it with his fingers as he audibly drew in the smoke, soon followed up by an exhausted exhale—white thick smoke forcing their way through relaxed lips on a clenched mouth, as he eyed me up and down.
"That's how you dress to a crime scene? Where's your uniform?" he mumbled with the pipe back in his mouth.
So it is a crime scene—nothing in the room said it was. "I was told to hurry?"
"What for? He's already dead," he mumbled after another tired inhale before taking the pipe out of his mouth and he indifferently taped out the ashes on the polished desk beside him.
Already dead? Then it is as I suspected. "Andane?" Still, I had to ask.
"M-hm…" he confirmed, tucking that pipe of his down his left jacket pocket, "sometime tonight."
"That's…" too bad, I was about to say. His death didn't feel that much, not that we ever were close.
We were colleagues, sure, but I always believed him too spoiled and 'brown-nosed' to get to know him outside of meetings and work—climbing rank because of the depths of his father's pockets kissing the right blue-blooded asses. The house was proof enough, sure, taxes paid the rent, but the decor screamed ¨daddy pays!¨ And with no wife to spoil, he spoiled himself with pretty shaped marmor, pretty shaped bottles, and pretty shaped ladies—of a questionable age if one listened to rumors. Though I can't deny him, the man had taste.
"So why am I here?" I asked, "Mornd lives closer, and after what happened to Rubarb, he's your right-hand man."
"You've dealt with murders before," he said as if it was an explanation.
"Murder?" Sure, I've dealt with the occasional bar-fight-turned-stabbing and one too many triangle-dramas-gone-wrong—I always pitied how the women were the usual victims of those, ¨if I can't 'ave her, he sure can't!¨ Barbarians. "Sure… but so has Mornd."
"Mornd's still out of town…" he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
I had forgotten about that… temporary relocation for family purpose was it? About two weeks ago? Still, I had believed him to return by now.
"So right now, you're the only one I have," he continued, still rubbing away. Though now I got the feeling he was rubbing away annoyance for that very fact—he always chose me last.
It had taken me a while to overcome the indignation of that, when I first became a Lieutenant, sitting on the sidewalk while the ¨trophies¨ paraded. But it didn't take me long to realize the truth of how this city worked: Have the right parents. As ugly as it was, this is Wayrest—being born with the right family-name meant far more than the quality of one's character . . . or efforts.
Everybody loved hearing how the Bank Owner's son solved a case, or how the Duke's nephew busted a skooma den. Not to mention the reputation and donations it brought the City Guards. But whenever a nobody did good, it was nothing more than a pat on the shoulder and a ¨good job¨ from people who didn't even care to learn my name.
And me? I was a pure-blooded nobody. Born and raised by nobodies, on a street of nobodies, befriending nobodies, living the life of nobody… and that's the sole reason he kept me on the sidewalk even after I got made lieutenant. Even put me in charge of the Merchant District so the only people I ever got to work with were strangers and the occasionally reoccurring travelers, in other words, I never got to deal with anyone of influence or importance. A nobody stationed amongst the temporary.
So how did I become a lieutenant? Well, not by having the right hands shake the right names with empty promises on fake smiles. No. ¨He got lucky, caught a break,¨ they had said, ¨the right place at the right time,¨ ¨He had it easy,¨ and so on. All excuses avoiding the truth they relucted: they sucked, I didn't. Not gonna lie, it had been the opposite of ease—been with the guards since 16 and worked trice as hard as any and all spoiled competitors who only had to stick their nose up the right crack to smell their next raise.
Still, I was almost 40 by the time it actually paid off. In other words, the Captain knew my worth. But as a political piece, I was worthless—no one donated the guards' gratitude for the success of a nobody. Fuck 'em all.
"Well, might as well get this over with. This way," he said with a small nonchalant wave of his hand and moved with heavy steps for the stairs.
Thin lips and coat in hand, I followed.
"Can't wait for the paperwork on this one," he spoke with sarcastic sighs as we climbed the stairs, "there will be a shit-ton. Not to mention the shit-storm that'll rain down on me when I'll have to explain to the Duke how I've lost yet another of my Lieutenants to yet another ¨animal attack.¨" His tone took on that off pissed-annoyance as he scratched the gray hair by the base of his neck as he sighed. "And with the festival coming up tomorrow—or today is it?—the last thing I need is city-wide rumors unsettling the citizens when they should be celebrating."
"Another?" I asked, "You mean Rubarb?"
"Eh—yes… Rubarb," he answered, clearing his throat between the words—something I've long since learned the old man does whenever he's hiding something. Needless to say, one eyebrow up, the other down. "Here we are," he said as we finally reached the double door between the two stairways. "Though…" he hesitated as he grabbed the door, "I should warn you, it's quite gruesome."
"I doubt it's worse than anything I've seen," I said—hauled my fair share of bloated, fish eaten, corpses by the docks while I still did grunt work. Drunken sailors too young and high on upcoming adventures to know the difference between sea-legs and booze-legs—all too late they learned their lesson.
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," he said pushing forward as he walked through the door.
It was a library: tall bookshelves between the high rain covered windows on the opposite walls, more toward the right. Though the first thing to grab my attention was the signs of struggle—flipped over couch table, broken vases, and a torn aside tasseled rug. The usual signs—all text-book.
"Over there," he said, pointing my attention to the left.
"By the Eight…" A whisper I didn't intend to let out as my jaw dropped and I felt the blood leave my face. There was Andane, lying on the floor in front of a fireplace—feet toward us—in a pool of his own blood, guts, torn out of his stomach, hanging down his side.
"Get's uglier," the Captain said as he made his way over to the body, waiving his finger toward the head, "What 'you make of this?"
I drew for air, but that only made me aware of the smell—blood, and foul intestine odor—and that breath quickly took the form of a gag that needed to be stopped by my hand. I felt sick.
Reluctantly, I walked across the room with suspicion. Felt like one of those moments when you knew you'd be better off turning back—stomach's weaker than the job—and as if taken straight out of a horror story, a flash of white lightning lit up the body as I got up close.
"Oh, what in Oblivion!" I exclaimed—as unintentionally as last time—as Andane's head came into view—head squeezed flat from the sides, nose pointing straight up, eyes popped out of their sockets, hanging in their nerves, front teeth standing straight out of the gums while he maulers had gathered down his throat as they had been pressed in, and worst of all—the final piece my stomach couldn't take—top of the head burst open—all blood and brain on the floor.
I turned away, bending over as I felt sick to my bones, throat clamping up as my stomach already forced out the content of my missed breakfast—nothing but sour acid and bile—eyes tearing up as it quickly turned into a painful dry heave.
"Told you," the Captain spoke indifferently behind me as the stomach cramps finally began to settle—not for lack of disgust, there's still plenty of that.
Still bent over, I reached down my vest pocket and took out the cotton handkerchief to press against my lips, a brief moment of dotting and wiping before I forced myself to straighten up and swallow back that dry-sour taste where it came from. "Fuck me," I mumbled as I built up the strength to turn back. Bloated corpses with eaten eyes're one thing, but that? That's just plain horrid.
Cotton against dry lips I finally worked up the stomach to look back, "You sure that's him?" I asked. Honestly, face as it was, I couldn't tell.
"Clothes are his, as well as his family ring." –he pointed at the ring on his finger– "And who else'd be in his house at this hour?"
"Sure," the clothes fit, ring too, and the blond hair on his… cracked open skull.
"So…" he cleaned his throat, "What do you think?"
I had to draw for air. I honestly didn't know what to think. Though, I finally got the ¨animal attack¨ cover—it did look like an honest to God animal attack; as if an actual bear had gotten to him. "You sure this is murder?"
"Don't tell me you're buying into that bullshit cover story?"
"Never did," I'd be a fool if I thought a bear could sneak through city-walls and up the second floor of a locked residence to maul a man to death, and, on top of it all, get away. "But… I don't know yet. I'll have to take a look around before jumping to conclusions."
"You do that," he said in ponder.
"Any witnesses?" I said, straightening up as I turned away from the corpse—the stench remained.
"Not much," he said. "One neighbor thought she heard screaming and… a roar."
"A roar?"
"Not even sure about that one—said she first thought it was the thunder. Either way, she's a dead end—saw nothing and, as I said, blamed most of what she heard on thunder."
Well… if one had a taste for murder, tonight's the perfect night for it—weather covering up any cry for help.
"Who found the body?"
"The housemaid found him. Poor thing was running through the rain, screaming for the first best guard she met not even an hour ago."
"Housemaid? In the middle of the night? She here?"
"Downstairs. I talked to her already but," he sighed, "Well, she's a bit shaken up to say the least."
"I'll have to talk to her."
"Though as much—it's why I kept her here."
"Yes," I said, turning my attention to Andane . . . the body. "I'll have a look around here before I see her."
"I'll leave you too it then," he said, reaching down his pocket to bring out his pipe and tobacco sack again. "I'll head down and have a talk with the men, let'em know not to spread rumors," he lit a match and sucked the flame into the pipe, puffing trice as the tobacco came alive. "That goes for you too…" he said after a deep inhale and exhale of smoke, "As far as rumors go, this is nothing more than a freak animal attack."
"You really think people will buy that?"
"That's my job to worry about, you focus on yours—find out who did this?"
"Who?" I said as I glanced bac at him, "I'm not entirely sure it's a ¨who¨ that did this."
"Well then figure out what," he said as he began heading for the door, "I'll be back as soon as I've dealt with the others."
"Fuck me," I mumbled, "Light a candle would you," I said as I turned to look at the body, "I'm gonna need some light."
"Sure thing." He lit the candle and left right after.
Left me in the dark library. Left me in the light of a single candle and a brief flash of white. Left me in the silence of nothing but sharp thunder and rain against windows. But at least I wasn't alone—though I've been with the company of fairer faces.
I unfolded the old trench coat and reached for my pipe in its right pocked, only to with a sigh be reminded that I left it at home.
An annoyed smack of my tongue against the roof of my mouth as I leaned back where I stood and looked up at the ceiling with another sigh.
I remember now… I always hated the night shifts.