Chapter 20 Carver #2
Carver knelt beside Trevill’s body, which had been laid out on the cell floor. A guard had found the former chancellor hanging from a noose fashioned out of his own shirt when he’d carried in Trevill’s breakfast. The conclusion was supposed to be obvious—Trevill had killed himself.
Carver didn’t believe that for a second.
Morelli questioned the two guards at the door—the one who had discovered Trevill, and his partner who had been standing guard in the hall.
Their responses echoed against the stone walls of the prison.
No, Trevill hadn’t had any visitors since Carver had been to see him yesterday.
No, the guards hadn’t heard anything. No, the night guards hadn’t reported anything suspicious.
Yes, Trevill’s dinner had been eaten, his plate left empty.
That meant the former chancellor had died sometime between dinner last night and breakfast this morning.
Trevill’s glassy-eyed stare raised the hair on the back of Carver’s neck.
He tried to focus on other things. The fact that there were no bruises or cuts on his exposed chest, arms, or hands.
A fingernail was torn, but that could have been from anything; Carver didn’t see any other signs that indicated the chancellor had fought his killer, but there was no doubt in Carver’s mind that Trevill had been murdered.
Morelli crouched beside him, expelling a heavy breath.
The cell’s doorway was empty now, the prison guards having retreated into the corridor.
“We’ll need to question the guards who were on duty in this quarter last night.
” Despite being a soldier, Morelli looked a little paler than usual as he studied Trevill’s body.
Carver felt a little ill himself, but he forced himself to speak.
“We also need to talk with the guards stationed at the doors last night.” There were only two entrances to the prison; the main door, which was accessed through the palace, and the door located deeper in the prison that opened onto the palace grounds.
That dedicated entrance was primarily used to bring food and supplies directly into the prison, as well as to remove any bodies of those who died while imprisoned.
Morelli peered at Carver. “Why did you visit him yesterday?”
Carver’s lips pursed. “I was trying to find out if he had anything to do with hiring the assassin that tried to kill Jayveh.”
Morelli’s gaze sharpened. “Did he?”
“He said he didn’t hire the assassin, and I believe him.” Carver released a slow breath. “But something still didn’t feel right.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
“No. He was confident his innocence would be proven, and he’d be released.
” Carver met Morelli’s gaze. “That level of confidence makes me think Trevill had a powerful ally in the palace. One who may have killed him in order to keep him from talking.” There were no marks on Trevill’s body, other than the bruising around his neck.
He hadn’t fought his attacker. He may have known them. Trusted them.
That hadn’t stopped the killer from silencing him permanently.
Saints, what had Trevill known? Irritation burned, because now Carver would never know. “Whoever killed him is either influential enough to have access to this cell, or rich enough to hire an extremely skilled assassin.”
Morelli’s brows knit. “If Trevill was killed by an ally, do you think that same person is the one trying to kill Jayveh?”
“I don’t know.” But Carver would find out.
He looked back at Trevill’s body. He wasn’t exactly sorry the man was dead, but to die like this, alone in a cell . . . No one deserved that.
A small black mark on Trevill’s left side caught Carver’s attention, high on one of his upper ribs. Craning his head for a better look, Carver saw it was a small tattoo.
“Bring the light closer,” he said.
Morelli lifted the lantern at his side, shining light directly on the tattoo. Not much bigger than a thumbnail, it was the image of a hand; palm forward, thumb and fingers stretched up.
“Have you ever seen a symbol like this before?” Carver asked.
Morelli frowned. “No. It doesn’t look new, though, so it might not have anything to do with Trevill’s death.”
“True.” But the tattoo had obviously meant something to Trevill. Carver leaned closer, memorizing the simple design and the placement of the mark. When he drew back, he caught sight of Morelli’s furrowed brow.
“What?” he asked the older man.
Morelli shook his head. “I don’t know. It could have been an ally that killed him, but it’s just as possible an enemy wanted him dead.”
It seemed a lot less likely, though. “He was in prison for treason. Why bother killing him when he was already headed for execution?”
Morelli shrugged. “I don’t know. I just think it’s important to consider all the possibilities before getting stuck on one theory.”
Carver knew Morelli was right. “Trevill kept insisting he was being framed. He cast some suspicion on the clerics, but he named some political rivals as well.”
Sudden understanding dawned in Morelli’s eyes. “Chancellor Kulver too, I take it?”
Carver nodded grimly. “And Chancellor Janson.”
Morelli made a sound low in his throat, his eyes skating over Trevill’s body. “What a bloody mess,” he muttered.
He wasn’t wrong.
Carver knew that Trevill’s killer wasn’t necessarily the same person trying to assassinate Jayveh, but it was a possibility.
And that was a lead he couldn’t ignore—especially since he didn’t have a lot of others.
At the very least, by finding Trevill’s murderer, he would expose a dangerous killer.
And if Trevill had been killed by an ally who’d plotted alongside him, that made the murderer just as responsible for Trevill’s crimes in Esperance.
Cora, Darren, the real Marriset—they’d all been killed by an assassin Trevill had hired to destroy the Craethen Council.
A sudden chill raced down his spine. Now that the emperor was rebuilding the Council, would the Chosen be targets once more? Then again, if the ambush on the road was any indication, they’d never stopped being targets.
Frustration grated as Carver pushed to his feet. He needed answers, and he wasn’t going to get them sitting here.
Morelli stood with him, grasping the lantern and following him out into the narrow prison hallway.
The two guards Morelli had already questioned stood at the end of the corridor. They spoke in hissing whispers to each other, their hands slicing through the air. They straightened to strict attention when they spotted the two generals.
“Don’t stop on our account,” Carver said, hardening his voice just enough to carry some authority.
The shorter guard paled, the ring of keys jangling in his hand. “General, we weren’t—I mean, it might be nothing, but—what I mean to say, is—”
“Do you have something to add to your report?” Carver asked, cutting into the man’s flustered speech.
“No, sir,” the taller guard said, shooting a quelling look at the other. “Terrent here just has an active imagination.”
“How so?” Morelli asked.
When the short guard—Terrent—hesitated, the tall one threw out his hands. “Well, go on and tell them. Before you become a suspect yourself, you idiot.”
Terrent’s gaze darted between Morelli and Carver. “I was just saying, this attack—if it was an attack, and not just a prisoner hanging himself—then, well, it could have been the Wraith.”
As if on cue, a torch guttered on the wall, making Terrent flinch. The keys in his hand jangled, the sound echoing down the darkened corridor.
“The Wraith?” Morelli repeated dryly.
Terrent flushed. “We’ve all heard the stories,” he said, almost defensively.
“Yes,” Morelli said. “But they’re stories.”
The Wraith was an assassin that had been whispered about long before Carver’s birth.
The stories were many and varied, and the Wraith’s victims ranged from clerics and noblemen to soldiers and merchants.
It was said he could make multiple kills in a single night, on opposite sides of the empire.
Each story was always filled with horror and gore.
The sorts of tales young boys—and young soldiers—were inclined to share with each other on a dark night.
Some of the tales even had a supernatural bent, claiming the Wraith could walk through walls, or that he was an empath who could appear in your dreams and kill you there.
In other words, utter fictions. Though, after hearing what empaths like Tiras and those Acolytes were capable of . . .
“The Wraith isn’t real,” the taller guard snapped.
“He is!” Terrent burst out. “My father was a guard in Lord Ettle’s home. Do you remember him? He was found with his throat slit in his locked room. My father didn’t hear a thing, and he was standing guard outside the door the whole night!”
“Any worthy assassin could have done the same,” the tall guard pointed out. “All he had to do was make a quick kill after climbing through a window. There were windows in the lord’s bedroom, weren’t there?”
Terrent’s mouth opened, his eyes blazing.
“Thank you for sharing your theory,” Carver interrupted. “Your reports will be officially recorded later. In the meantime, I want that cell door to remain locked and under constant guard. No one goes in or out until further notice. Understood?”
Both guards nodded. “Yes, General Vincetti.”
Carver and Morelli walked around them, making their way toward the prison entrance. They were nearly to the final staircase when shouts reached them.
“This is insanity! You can’t just throw me in a cell. I demand to see the emperor—now!”
“Oh, shut up already,” a familiar voice drawled.
Carver quickened his pace, hurrying to climb the last steps—and there was Ford.
His hands were braced on his hips as he watched a man in once-regal clothes—that were now as dirty as Ford’s—be led into one of the interrogation rooms.
Ford spotted Carver and flashed a smile. “And here I thought I’d have to hunt you down. You owe me two drinks, General.”
Carver threw his arms around his friend, clapping him hard on the back.
Ford returned the embrace, his hold tight enough that Carver’s bruised side protested. “You missed me, then?”
“Saints, no.”
Ford snorted. “Lies.”
“Did Jamir give you any trouble?” Carver asked as he pulled back.
“Just a raging headache.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That man never shuts up.” Jayveh’s uncle was indeed still issuing demands, even as he was secured in a holding room. “I think you owe me three drinks for listening to that insufferable man for days on end,” Ford added.
“If Carver’s buying, I’ll be there,” Morelli chimed in.
Ford grinned, even as Carver said, “You’d be there regardless.”
Morelli laughed good-naturedly. “True.”
“It’s good to see you, Morelli,” Ford said warmly, greeting the older general with a soldier’s arm clasp.
“You too, Ford. Keeping out of trouble?”
“Nah, trouble seems to like me.” He smirked. “Then again, what’s not to like?”
“You reek,” Carver told him blandly.
Ford huffed. “You sure know how to make a person feel loved, Carve. It’s a wonder you got Amryn to like you.”
From the holding room, Jamir bellowed, “Gallo! I demand to see the emperor!”
Ford rolled his eyes. “It’s a bloody miracle I didn’t strangle him on the journey.”
“Was there any sign of Tam?” Carver asked. He knew if Ford had actually found her in the Xerran castle, she would have been in chains, too.
It still made his gut clench when Ford shook his head.
“No. There was no sign of Argent, either.” His eyes narrowed.
“Jamir’s denying all involvement with the Rising, but we know that’s utter rot.
He kept calling Jayveh a liar. I’m hoping he’ll cooperate better now that he’s in an actual prison.
” Ford’s weariness was suddenly all too apparent.
Morelli patted his shoulder. “Get some food and clean up a bit. I’ll tell the emperor Jamir is here.” He glanced at Carver. “I’ll tell him about Trevill as well.”
Carver nodded his thanks. As Morelli disappeared up the stairs, Ford asked, “What about Trevill?”
“He was killed in his cell last night.”
Ford’s eyes widened. “Saints.”
“That’s not all,” Carver said grimly.
“Why am I not surprised?” Ford muttered. “What else happened while I was gone?”
Carver sighed. “Someone tried to kill Jayveh.”