Chapter 54 #2
A swish of white hits the corner of my eye. I glance towards it, but only a pale yellow banner flaps in the breeze. Seeing things.
An akla from yesterday, scrubbing large pots, spots me. I raise a finger to my lips so she doesn’t call out, and shuffle to her. “Do you have any leftover oats from yesterday?”
She frowns, shakes her head, and gestures to three large sacks behind her. “All those were donated this morning.”
“By who?”
“Most come from the nobles you met yesterday.”
“What about the rest?”
“The entire kitchen—dishtowels, pots, food, fuel—comes from people’s goodwill.”
“Whose goodwill? Who else donated yesterday?”
Akla scrubs hard at a pot. “Oh, a really tall aklo dropped a sack of oats off on behalf of the prince. Another was from that redcloak. What’s his name . . . Commander Thalassios.”
The prince donating oats made sense. He and his brother worked together for the good of the people. The commander, though . . . “He came personally?”
She nods and throws her wet cloth over the rim of the pot. “Need more water.” When she’s gone, I pry open the sacks and sift handfuls of oats through my fingers. They look untampered with; smell right, too. I taste a few flakes from each sack. All decent quality.
There are four empty sacks rolled up beside them, and I inspect them too, then I run a finger around the inner surface of the pots.
Sand is being used to scrub them, the texture gritty under my fingertips.
I stare at my fingers and back at the pots.
The sand from one of the pots is slightly filmy, like it’s covered in a stubborn grease.
I sniff, and frown. I can’t quite place it. It’s a subtle scent . . .
Maybe I’m imagining it.
I take a cleaning cloth, wipe some sand into it and tuck it into my cloak. Approaching footsteps have me slipping out of sight; I peek back to see a constable similarly inspecting the cooking area for anything abnormal.
With the cloth damp against my chest, I sneak back through the city to the constabulary.
I head in with my hood pulled low, hide in corners and slink through shadows until I spy Quin coming out of the cells.
I catch his attention, and his posture tightens.
He moves to the back of the building, and I meet him there.
“I told you not to come here,” he says in hushed tones.
“Could you get me inside to check her body?”
“Vitalian checked already; looks like liver failure, acerbated by severe food poisoning.”
“What kind?”
“That remains uncertain.”
I take out the cleaning cloth and hand it to him. “There’s something here . . . I want to see if it’s on her too.”
He sniffs, and his lips flatten gravely.
He doesn’t recognise the scent, but like me finds something off about it.
He ushers me secretly through the precinct to a basement room, where the nannan rests on a white-clothed table.
“Quick, you only have a few minutes before lunch is over. They’ve sent constables to find all those who handled food yesterday. ”
“I never properly introduced myself to the aklos and aklas, or any of the refugees.”
“That gives you time but it also makes you more suspicious. By tomorrow, they’ll have your likeness plastered throughout the city.” Wanted for questioning.
“What about Commander Thalassios?” I ask. “He donated some of yesterday’s oats.”
Quin squares his jaw. “I’ll see to it I get the chance to question him.” At the sound of a distant door squealing, we share a sharp look and scan the room for a space to hide.
Only one option. I gesture Quin towards the examination table and he holds up a corner of the long cloth for me to sneak through. When I’m crouched in the whiteish glow, he drops the cloth—but not before I notice my soldad swaying from his belt. What—
I force the query away for another time. Through the gap at the floor, I see Quin’s boots and the end of his cane.
A second pair of boots, more rugged, comes into the room. “Gah. You gave me a fright.”
“Apologies.”
“No harm, no harm. Constables usually avoid coming down here, is all. Think they’ll be affected by restless spirits.” A pause. “But you transfers are less superstitious. Better heads on shoulders, I say. Why are you here?”
“I need help identifying this scent.”
Rugged boots stop close to Quin.
“Have you discovered this anywhere on or in the victim’s body?” Quin asks.
A hum. “Peculiar. Can’t quite make it out. Let’s take a look at her.”
Rugged boots move around the table across from Quin’s. Magic glows, illuminating the white cloth, and stops after a few minutes. “Don’t detect anything.”
“Thank you for your time,” Quin says, and his boot stretches under the table to nudge me. “Could I bother you to take a look at my leg?”
“Of course, of course.”
“May I sit somewhere?”
“Come with me through here . . .” Their boots move into an adjacent room, and I silently scurry out from under the table. I should dash out the door, but . . . one cursory look.
Gently, I angle her head and check her mouth with a silk handkerchief around my finger. The spell the vitalian used didn’t detect anything, and yet . . . I check the silk. It’s ever-so-slightly filmy.
I sniff. Faint, but I’m sure it’s the same scent I collected from the pot at the sanctuary. I check her neck. More traces, as if she’s sweated out some of this mystery concoction.
At Quin clearing his throat in the next room, I hurriedly tuck the handkerchief away and slip out.