Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Roremar
“Roremar,” Emmeline snapped. “Are you listening to a word I’ve said?”
“Every syllable, Miss DeLeoste,” Roremar drawled as they strolled down the Promenade of Revels toward the Eastern Port, the afternoon sun warming the air and birds calling to each other across the sea.
At the base of the stone path, wooden docks jutted out into the ocean, a maze of walkways for ships to tie off.
Warriors hollered from deck to shore, unloading imports and updating logs based on their wares and who sailed them.
At his claim, Emmeline leveled Roremar a disbelieving, narrowed stare, and he recited, “You’ve been thinking about the tattoos both victims had, but instead of whoever drew them, you’re wondering about the symbol itself.”
The owner of Angel’s Draw still hadn’t returned, and Emmeline and Roremar had spoken to all his neighbors. Everyone had the same story. He’d gone to a neighboring isle to help a sick family member. Roremar was still suspicious of him, even if Emmeline was more convinced of the cult theory.
She nodded in approval of his recollection, and Roremar nearly laughed at her self-satisfied smile. Her long, sky-blue skirt swished around her ankles as they followed the curve in the path, the silver threading reflecting the sun and glinting to match the thrill in her eye.
“Yes, they both bore the twelve-pointed star, right?” Emmeline asked.
“Correct.” Roremar side-stepped a man carrying a wooden crate from the recently docked ships. The lid was near to bursting, a sign on the side declaring precious, confidential cargo within.
Reflexively, his hand braced Emmeline’s lower back as she swiveled through the crowd and stopped beside the wooden railing overlooking the sea, water beating against the stone beneath their feet.
He pretended not to notice how she arched at his touch, continuing, “And one of the points was longer than the rest.” Roremar froze, the breeze off the ocean lifting his waves. “Do you think that was intentional? It wasn’t the same on either.”
On a typical dial of a twelve-pointed star, each spear represented a Fate, but if his exemplary memory served him, the tattoos hadn’t been identical matches. Both uneven in their own rights. He’d assumed they were just done by a messy hand but perhaps not.
Emmeline gazed out over the hectic sea, her eyes narrowing on the boat currently being unloaded.
“I was wondering less about the points—though, that’s another route to explore—and more about the purpose of the tattoo in the first place.
If this is cult activity”—Roremar opened his mouth to respond, but Emmeline went on—“I know you aren’t convinced it is and want us to keep our attention piqued on all possibilities, but humor me for a moment? ”
She looked up at him over her shoulder. The sea breeze lifted the tendrils framing her face, her cheeks flushed, and the many colors in her hazel eyes glowed with anticipation.
Though he wanted to insist otherwise, Roremar understood that feeling well.
The high of nearing in on a solution to a puzzle sent his blood pounding.
“Keep going,” he instructed, voice rough. Fates, what was happening to him?
Emmeline turned, leaning an elbow on the railing. “Tattoos always have purpose. Most of us have a reason for etching something so permanently on our bodies, right?”
“Yes,” Roremar answered immediately, mind flitting through the cause for each of his own, the people and moments they represented.
“The Fates always have purpose, too.”
Roremar scoffed.
“I know they can be vague.” He was surprised to hear her admit that, given how clear her loyalty to her Fate tie was.
“But even when they’re ambiguous, Fates don’t communicate readings without reason.
It’s not their nature. They leave the choices up to us but seek to establish paths by which we can navigate uncertain futures and uphold the Balance of Power with clarity.
That’s what everything comes back to, with every form of magic on Ambrisk or in other realms. Balance. ”
“What are you on to, Huntress?” Roremar asked.
“I had a conversation with a student yesterday. She’s…
working to understand her readings, and when I explained to her that the Fates don’t do anything without purpose, it seemed to bolster her.
” Emmeline shrugged, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.
“It made me wonder about the why of these specific pieces of evidence, rather than just the who.”
“So you think the Fates are involved in this case?” The idea made his skin itch, his shoulders knot.
“No.” Emmeline waved him off. “Just the idea of purpose. Whether or not this is cult activity, the deaths seem ritualistic. The tattoo would have to be very specifically chosen. Why that symbol? What’s it trying to evoke?”
“And by that reasoning, why that placement?” Roremar tacked on.
Both locations had been exact, on the chest, beneath a slit throat.
Was it a combination of the blood spilled on the mark?
He looked out over the sea of boats. He should ask Desmond more about ink imports, if any new recipes for imbuing were floating around his circles.
“And maybe by extension of those questions, we can find out why them,” Emmeline whispered, hope threatening to crack her voice. Roremar heard it—recognized it as if from a past life—and it filled a hollow within his own chest with an unfamiliar warmth.
“Understanding the psychology of the killer to help lead us to them,” he muttered over the full feeling. “Okay, DeLeoste. I’m following now.” It was similar to what he’d been doing from the start, trying to decipher why the killer left the bodies in public areas, but from a different angle.
“The twelve-pointed star could be an homage to Lyra, recreating the sigil.” Emmeline seemed energized by his agreement, her steps hurried as she turned and scampered toward their destination, weaving between warriors with Roremar on her heels.
“Maybe the killer was interrupted before the tattoo was done,” Roremar suggested. “I’m going to drop by Angel’s Draw again tonight, but I should have some time afterward to keep looking into this.”
Emmeline had already told him she wouldn’t be able to join him at the tattoo parlor, having a late meeting at the Academy and work to catch up on for lessons.
“We should stop by the Accords after this and see if we can find anything helpful.”
“Good idea,” Roremar said. “But I still think we were smart to come to the docks.”
At that first ill-fated breakfast, before he and Emmeline swore off the case, he said he was going to check the ports for any records of travelers who have disappeared, but he had yet to get here with how busy his schedule was.
But the pressure of his uncle’s deadline was creeping up on them, tightening his windpipe. Over a week had passed and they had two bodies and zero concrete leads.
“Come on,” he said, clearing his throat, “the place we’re looking for is just ahead.”
As the main way on and off Lyra, the Eastern Port—much larger and more easily accessible than its western counterpart—was crowded at any time of the day, on any given day of the year.
Didn’t matter if it was a festival or even the Remembrance Revels.
Boats lined the docks and warriors flooded the harbor, all searching for work now that the drastic drop in trade had impacted so many jobs.
But Roremar wasn’t looking for a ship or ware.
No, today, he led Emmeline to the small stone hut at the heart of the maze of wooden walkways. Moss crept up one side and curved around the wide window overlooking the water, shelves lined with leather files on the back wall.
“Do you know him?” she whispered as they neared the window.
“My father did, sort of,” Roremar answered. “I only know of him.”
His father and the man behind the wooden counter weren’t friends by any means. But with Deacon picking up extra work fixing boats battered by rocky coves, they were familiar. Not well enough to use to his advantage, unfortunately.
Hardening his resolve and keeping his father in mind, Roremar strode up to the counter and asked, “Gideon?”
The man’s gaze lifted from his book, thick grey brows raising at Roremar. A dim mystlight hung overhead, splashing yellow light over his round cheeks. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Roremar, this is Emmeline.” He nodded at her, and the two exchanged hellos. “We have a few questions if you have a moment?” He was sure to keep his tone kind but layer in that interrogating command that made it clear there wasn’t truly an option.
Understanding, Gideon shut his book and tilted his head curiously at the pair. “What sort?”
“About some wom—” Emmeline began, but when Roremar caught her eye, she paused.
They had to be careful about exactly what they revealed and in what order.
He had tricks up his sleeve to make the questions flow as smoothly as possible, but giving up all your cards was rarely the best way to stave off the shock of the person you were questioning.
Ease them into it, earn their favor, let them trust you.
“Anyone who travels legally on these ships would be in your logbooks, correct? The first mate drops the crew manifest off with you to document those on board?” Roremar asked.
Emmeline’s impressed stare burned into his skin—how does he know so much about trade ship procedure? He knew she was wondering—but he ignored it.
“They do. Each person is in my records, lest they be a stowaway,” the man behind the window said proudly waving at the back wall. “Been doing this job for two-and-a half centuries, and my father before me. His father before him built this here hut.”
Roremar scanned the rafters, the chipping paint and the bust of Polyr carved into the point of the sloping roof. The Trade House would be a much more secure and organized means of record keeping, but Gideon and his establishment were a figurehead for those docking here.