Ashes

By Paul R Green

Orland Clay hawked and spat out a blackened gob of saliva. Bent double with hands on knees he watched wearily as the spitball hit the street, and slowly oozed down the soot-stained cobblestone leaving a slick silvery trail like a deformed slug.
The crack of splintering timber brought the young guard’s head up in time to see the final death throes of the burning building. The main roof beam rent in two, each part crashing through what was left of the first floor and stirring a cloud of glowing embers to dance and swirl like fireflies in the night sky. The searing wave of heat and debris roiling out from the conflagration forced the young guard to turn away and cough up another soot-blackened gob.
“You alright there, lad?” A meaty hand slapped him on the back, startling Clay for a second. The deep, mellifluous voice belonged to Clay’s sergeant and mentor, Churt DePard. Clay pulled in a deep breath, the hot air tasting of burnt wood and, rather disturbingly, roast pork as he inhaled and straightened to answer his superior.
“Just getting my breath, Sarge.”
“We’ve stopped it spreading at least. Get some water in you then come find me, lad. I want your knowledge on this one.” The big man put a fatherly hand on Clay’s shoulder before striding away to bellow orders at the townsfolk who had stopped passing buckets to gawk at the building’s final collapse.
Clay watched for a moment, wondering what knowledge he could possibly possess that the veteran sergeant didn’t.

***

The fire had burnt out, reducing the warehouse to a smouldering ruin of smoking ash and charred, stunted beams that to Clay’s mind looked like a giant, twisted hand clawing at the grey winter sky. Scattered amidst the wreckage, though the bulk of them were near what should have been the exits, lay a number of burnt bodies; most seared to the bone, and none of them promising any means of identification. A disturbing number of the them were too small to be adults. Clay looked at his ash-caked boots and tried not to think too hard as to just what that ash consisted of. He’d been stood for a while now, waiting for his mentor to speak; knowing better than to interrupt him while thinking. At least his feet were warm, he thought, thanking the gods the cobbles had retained some heat from the blaze.
“I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.” Clay was startled from his thoughts and forced to jog after his
sergeant as he strode away from the smoking remains.
“Where are we going? What did you see?”
“You’ve seen what I have. Tell me.”
Clay had half expected this, the gruff sergeant had for some reason taken the young guard under his wing; occasionally drawing him into investigations where other watch members would either not see the bigger picture or took the easy option and ignored it. Along the way DePard would challenge Clay, forcing him to think about his reasoning as well as his actions; teaching him how to be more than just a fight-breaker and a turn-key. For his part, Clay, quite liked the special attention and insight that his mentor was providing, though he could do without the occasional jokes made at his expense by his other more traditional colleagues.
“The fire was obviously deliberate.”
“Obviously?”
Clay smiled. This was all part of the game; he had to explain his reasoning.
“Yes; the warehouse was clearly being used as a doss house; with all the refugees arriving since Kerrigan started his crusade, they’re springing up all over town. And although it’s possible someone could have knocked over a lantern or candle or some such, that wouldn’t explain how the fire spread so quickly, nor why so many people were unable to escape. I spotted what looked like chains where the doors would have been, so it’s a reasonable assumption that the doors were fastened on the outside. You could argue that it was an accident and that the doors were regularly sealed this way to prevent either discovery of the unsanctioned dosshouse or theft of the warehouse contents proper,” he paused.
“But” DePard hadn’t slowed, another one of his quirks; he was of the opinion that it was always better to be going somewhere, even if he then had to change direction should new evidence present itself.
“I’m inclined to think that the killer either knew they’d be trapped inside or brought the chains himself and made sure of it. Either way, it’s murder.” He looked to DePard.
“Not bad, Clay, but without an explanation for the rapid spread of the fire you’re still relying upon conjecture as to it being a premeditated act of murder.”
“I’m no expert but looking at what’s left of the place, most of the damage is to the external walls. Agreed?”
DePard nodded.
“And, yes, the inside is badly burned, but the fire was fought from the outside in, which begs the question if the fire had started inside the property then why isn’t that where the worst of the damage is.”
DePard grunted.”Well then, lad, where do we go to act upon this deduction?”
“Seeing as the fire was on the edge of the Warrens; King B.”
The sergeant actually stopped. King B was a notorious criminal, running a city wide gang of
prostitutes, thieves, and assassins. He was also the de facto mayor of the Warrens. The watch, those of them not on his payroll at least, had been after him for years, but King B was a cautious man with a keen mind and had so far kept out of gaol. He was also very difficult to get close to, relying upon a chain of henchmen and go-betweens to act as buffers.
“You know where to find him?”
“He’s not hard to find. Hard to get to yes, but not hard to find.”
Clay turned back the way they had come, allowing himself the hint of a smug grin as his sergeant was forced to follow.

***

Churt DePard had seen a lot of things in his lifetime; been in some tough places, but there was something about the Warrens that he always found disconcerting. He tried to put it down to his watchman’s instinct reminding him that he was in an area of the city with a much higher than average crime rate, and a virtually nonexistent watch presence, but he knew deep down that it was something else; something much older and primal. It was in the way everyone moved; slow and deliberate, never turning their backs. It was the way everyone watched you, whether that be the bold stares of the bravos and street toughs, or the surreptitious glances of those lurking in the shadows. Even those that could be described as regular citizens, the merchants, smiths, butchers and beggars all seemed to stop what they were doing and stare balefully as the watchmen passed by.
For his part, DePard projected an air of calm authority, back straight, hand on sword hilt, though his eyes constantly swept his surroundings for any sign of trouble.
“In here.” Clay indicated a bakers and stepped inside. DePard followed.
The smell of fresh bread, a favourite of DePard’s at the best of times, was like an exotic perfume after the pungent smells of the city streets, and the heat from the ovens provided a welcome respite from the winter chill.
The bakery was busy as loaves were loaded into baskets to be delivered in time for breakfast to those as could afford it, the work overseen by a short fat man with arms that could shame a blacksmith. Seeing the two men enter he turned to face them as he continued wrapping bread. The broad, yet handsome face was marred by a scar running up from his chin through his lips and along one side of his nose; the light scar tissue vivid against his dark skin.
“Orland. How good to see you. If you’re here about my guild fees, though, you should know that I have strong views when it comes to extortion.” The deep baritone only slightly effected by the scar.
“Don’t worry, uncle, I’m not after your money.”
The baker mimed a relieved sigh. Then moved round to smother Clay with a powerful embrace; the young guard thinking it a good job his cloak was white as his uncle’s flour covered arms wrapped around him. The baker stepped back, affectionately patting Clay’s cheek.
“Well I know it’s not a social call. You rarely visit, and when you do you’re always considerate enough to come out of uniform.” He smiled and turned to DePard. “It’s not that we have anything against you Doves but the neighbours are apt to get nervous when a couple of white cloaks come visiting. Especially when one of them’s Churt DePard.” He held out a flour covered hand.
DePard was surprised at being identified but managed to keep his expression neutral as he
accepted the strong handshake.
The baker gave the sergeant an apologetic look.
“There’s a lot of folk round here still bitter about Goven Chandler.”
DePard sniffed. “Goven Chandler was a rapist with a taste for young flesh. I’d kill the bastard again in a heartbeat.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, sergeant. Don’t get me wrong. Folks round here wanted him dead. They just wanted to do it their way; make sure he suffered.”
“He suffered.” DePard’s eyes were ice.
The baker still gripped DePard’s hand.
“Of that I do not doubt. However, his victims’ families don’t think it was enough. I think they were hoping for a more protracted experience for mister Chandler. That, and for him to go to his death with fewer testicles of course.”
“You don’t get fewer than none.” DePard’s expression hadn’t changed.
The baker grinned, slapped a floury hand on the sergeant’s shoulder and released his grip on the other hand.
“Are you sure you’re not from the Warrens, Sergeant?” He rocked back on his heels before moving back behind his counter. “Now what can I do for you?”
Clay stepped forward.
“I’ll get straight to the point and not insult you by asking if you heard about the fire on Wagonway Road.” Clay said as the baker returned to wrapping loaves.
“Terrible news. I hear there were folk caught inside?”
“At least twenty; some of them children. And not caught, trapped. The doors were chained so they couldn’t escape.”
The baker’s chestnut eyes, the irises rimmed with a speckle of lighter brown, flicked up to meet Clay’s. For a split second fire seemed to flash from the hazel specks.
“We need to know who did it, Uncle, they need to be stopped.”
The fire was gone, tamped down to a less noticeable, but much hotter slow burn.
“There’s plenty talk on the streets and in the inns, especially those around the docks about how the refugees are becoming a problem. How the city should be housing them elsewhere. Not our problem, sort of thing. That’s just human nature, though; no one likes to share too much and some people have a different concept of what constitutes too much. This though, if it’s true,”
“It is.” Said DePard.
“Then this is something else.” He stared at DePard, judging him. “My business is fortunate enough to get a lot of customers, Sergeant; it gives me an understanding of this community. I’ll keep my ears open.” He shifted his attention back to his nephew. “Now, do you want a couple of stotties to take away?” He was already wrapping a couple of the flat breads.
“Thank you, Uncle. You don’t get them up our way.”
The baker handed Clay the warm parcel as he saw the guards to the door.
“All the more reason to visit us more often, Lando; out of uniform though, eh?” He said giving Clay a hearty slap on the back as he ushered them onto them outside and closed the door.

The wind whipping down the narrow street stripped away all warmth and the comforting aroma of fresh bread, replacing them with the rotten smells of decaying street waste and the biting cold of winter. Clay tucked the parcel into his tunic, enjoying the warmth it provided, before pulling his cloak tight and looking to his sergeant.
“So your uncle knows King B. Should I be concerned?”
“No. I’ve chosen my side.”
DePard nodded his approval.

***

Bokeem Clay watched his nephew and DePard as they walked away. He was angry, and the anger was building. He was angry that the boy had come here in uniform. He was angry that he’d brought the sergeant. He was also angry that someone had committed such an atrocity on his patch. But that was nothing compared to how furious he was that someone had committed such an atrocity on his patch without his say so.

***

The glow of the lantern threw light into the open warehouse space as Hero pulled the door open and stepped inside. He winced at the overpowering smell of fish, wishing his boss had chosen any of the many other buildings he owned as he pulled his kerchief up over his nose in a futile attempt to suppress the stench. His boss followed him inside, his face only flickering slight acknowledgement of the offensive odour. The five other men, King B’s employees all, were also employed as dock hands and therefore seemed immune to the smell.
One of the men, a tall, heavy set bruiser, pulled the door shut against the winter night and took his place by The King. He somehow seemed even larger when stood by his boss. The others split up to light more lanterns.
Suspended upside down from an overhead beam at the rooms centre, three naked men – none of them over eighteen – their hands bound behind their backs, slowly twisted at the end of the ropes lashed around their feet.
Bokeem Clay approached his prisoners until he stood just in front of them. Three of his men moved behind the captives and held them so they faced their boss.
“It has come to my attention that one, two, or maybe even all three of you, can assist me in my enquiries.” The King’s voice echoed around the large room.
The captives said nothing.
“Let me make this simple for you. I know that your group was responsible for the fire and
subsequent deaths at the warehouse on Wagonway Road. I know that you three boys were in the Tack spouting your vitriol just before the aforementioned conflagration. What I would like you to tell me is who started the fire, and who gave the orders. That’s all. Two names and this all ends for two of you.”
The King studied the three men as his words sunk in. Their faces a curious purple, a combination of the cold and the blood settling in their heads. None of them had the look of real killers about them, though he knew they were responsible for the fire. They were cowards; hiding behind the mask of their cause, bravado swelled by the group they belonged to, committing their despicable acts through fear of losing face in front of their so called mates. Never realising those very same mates were as like to be feeling the same peer pressure and fear of rejection. Bokeem Clay despised men like this, but he knew just how to use them.
“Hero.”
His man stepped forward.
“That one.” He pointed to the largest of the three prisoners, and walked off to the manager’s office in the corner of the building where one of his men was brewing a pot of coffee. There was no need for him to watch as Hero lowered the selected captive to the ground and manhandled him through a side door.

***

As Bokeem was pouring his third coffee Hero entered and nodded. King B joined his man and they returned to stand before the two remaining captives. He took a sip of his coffee before speaking.
“I know you’re curious as to the fate of your friend. Right now your limited imaginations
are conjuring up all sorts of unpleasant scenarios involving red hot tongs, bread knives and
toasting forks. All you need to know, however, is that your friend told us what we wanted.”
He took another sip of coffee, savouring the warmth as much as the taste as the hanging men’s eyes darted from him to each other and back. King B smiled; they were his.
“Now what many people fail to recognise about using torture to extract information is that the subject, in this case your absent colleague mister Reeves, is just as likely to tell his questioner what he thinks he wants to hear as he is to tell him the truth.”
Again, he gave the men time to digest what he’d said as he took another mouthful.
“So, what that means is, and I’m sure you bright young lads have already figured this out, is that we require some form of corroboration; a verification of your colleague’s claims so that we don’t act upon inconclusive information. I’m sure you understand.”
“It was Solomon Pitt made us do it.” Both men spluttering out the name almost instantaneously. “He said it would send a message.”
The King nodded.
“Pitt planned the deed no doubt. And he did send a message; just not to the people you boys
think.”
A look of understanding appeared on the face of one of the prisoners.
“It wasn’t about the Northerners. It was about the warehouse. The message was for you.”
“Clever lad. And he chose you boys to deliver it. Obedient young pups, blinded by hatred and fear.”
He said waving his mug in their direction.
“And you two,” he said, “went through with it. You two, and your friend back there, carried out his plan and burnt those women and children to death over geography. And that, that’s on you. Pitt might have sent you but no one made you do it. That’s just how lickspittles like you justify your cowardly actions to yourselves.”
He handed his coffee to Hero, trading the tin mug for a bread knife.
“A man is responsible for his own actions. Always.”

***

DePard pulled the last of the potatoes from the patch he kept behind the barracks, checked it for rot, and satisfied there was none, added it to the sack by his side. The crop was small, he’d been busy and hadn’t been able to tend his garden as well as he’d have liked; he was also late in harvesting. Still, he’d have some good compost next season, he thought, looking at the pile of rotting waste he’d fenced off in one corner. He stood, brushed dirt from his knees and turned to see Clay waiting by the door.
“We’ve been left a gift.”
“Oh?” Said DePard.
“A man named Reeves was bound and left outside the Tack. Roper and DeMarc found him this morning when they went back to help with seeing to the remains.”
“He hurt?”
“Broken nose, a few bruises. More scared than anything. Claims some upright citizens overheard him bragging about his deeds and took the law into their own hands.”
DePard chuckled. “In the Warrens?”
“Don’t be so dismissive of the Warrens, Sarge. The watch might not be welcome but the folk there do have a code.”
“Don’t fuck with King B?” De Pard chuckled again. “Don’t pout lad, I get it. Places like that, they breed closeness. A sense of community you don’t find in the likes of Park Square and Temple Grove. But whether they think so or not, they still come under our watch, and as much as I’d like to believe that some good citizens handed over this Reeves out of a sense of community and public duty, I think we both know that your uncle wouldn’t have delivered him to us unless there was something to be gained. I think we need to have a word with this Reeves.”

***

The forge was an old guard tower at the rear of the western barracks. It had been heavily damaged in the big siege over twenty years ago and was now mostly a hollow shell. About ten years ago the then head of the watch, a man named Thorn, had had the rubble cleared from the one ground floor room that still had four solid walls, if not a ceiling, and began using it for the questioning of prisoners. The room was an old store and therefore windowless; light, what little there was, came from torches in the wall sconces of the room above – or at least those that could be safely reached.
Reeves was strapped to a single chair in the centre of the room. The chair itself bolted to the floor, but the main feature of the forge wasn’t the walls, or the light, or even the chair; it was the smell. The room reeked of fear, as if every man who had sat in that chair had sweated a part of himself into the porous stone floor and over the years that essence, that physical manifestation of hopelessness and defeat had spread drop by oozing drop until it permeated the whole room and the very walls were now covered in a nervous sheen.
Reeves watched fearfully as DePard and Clay entered and took their positions. The younger guard moved behind him leading Reeves to naturally try and follow his movement. The thick leather restraints prevented him turning his head far enough leaving him to speculate on, or more likely worry about, where Clay was and what he was doing.
A noise brought his attention back to the big sergeant who set down a small table in front of the prisoner. Resting on the table was a cloth bag. DePard pulled a scroll from his belt, opened it up and read from it.
“Crispin Reeves. Of an above average height and stocky build with hair of a clean straw colour and eyes of blue. Tattoo depicting the sigil of Crispin the Defender on right forearm.”
“Nowt wrong with that. Crispin is a hero to this city. Me Mam named me for him.”
DePard ignored the interruption.
“Lives with parents and three brothers above the kilns off Artisan Square. A few overnight
detentions for drunken affray and common assault. All of them off the back of trips to the Warrens. Seems to me you’re the type of boy who likes trouble. There’s no other reason I can see for you to be straying so far from home.
“I’m a citizen of Stonelake; can walk where I please.”
“True enough, lad, and as a citizen you’ll know the punishment for murder.”
“I’m not of age as to be hanged without witnesses to the crime. I know that much.”
The boy tried to hold DePard’s gaze but couldn’t and squirmed in the chair as his eyes broke away.
“A lawyer now are you, boy? Well, just so you’re clear, how you’re tried is at the discretion of the magistrate, and the opinion of the watch weighs heavily upon her decision. Which, as far as you’re concerned, means I get to decide whether you’re tried as man or boy, and whether your future’s in chains or on rope. What say you, Clay? Is Crispin here merely a confused young boy lead astray by a wicked bigot, or is he a true grown man who knows his mind?”
Reeves jumped as two hands clamped onto his shoulders. He tried unsuccessfully to jerk his head away from the hot breath that suddenly spread across his neck.
“These are the shoulders of a man, sergeant. Broad and strong. I say he hangs.” The breath
disappeared along with the hands, as Clay slipped back into the shadows.
Before Reeves could gather himself DePard suddenly leant forward, bringing his face within inches of the boy’s.
“The way I see it you’ve spent your time playing at being a big man. Well congratulations, Crispin, you’re being treated like one now. And will be right up to the point of your execution. No doubt you’ve been to a hanging, lad; stood laughing with your mates as the
prisoner danced his last jig. Will they laugh at you I wonder? Point to your soiled britches and makecrude jokes as you gasp your last, and your mother pulls at her hair and wails.”
“It was Pitt. Solomon Pitt.” The words came through ragged, tearful breaths.
DePard smiled as he leaned back.
“And where would I find this Solomon Pitt?”

***

For the second time in as many days DePard and Clay found themselves standing in front of a burnt out building. This time it was the remains of an inn called The Phoenix. DeMarc joined them from where he’d been talking with an old man.
“Let me guess,” said DePard, “a tragic accident. No witnesses.”
“Actually plenty. The old man says there were about a dozen of them. They nailed the doors shut, doused the walls in oil and put torches to the place. Anyone who tried to leave caught a crossbow bolt for their efforts.” He indicated the charred remains of a figure draped through what was left of a window. “They were all masked though, of course.”
“Of course. Any survivors?”
“Not sure. The old geezer reckons he saw someone jump from an upstairs window into the canal, but he also says he caught at least a couple of quarrels. Roper’s leading a search along the banks to see if a body or trail turns up.”
“Good work. Let me know if he finds anything. And see if you can’t get a better description from the old man.
“Will do, Sarge.” DeMarc headed back toward the witness who was starting to slope away. “Oi, Grandad! I’m not finished with you yet.”
DePard turned back to Clay, “I’m hungry. Fancy a stottie?”

***

“I hear the good citizens hereabouts found you your arsonist.” Bokeem Clay said from behind his counter where he was pre-slicing a loaf – ‘For the widow Fens, you understand. She has trouble with her hands. Arthritis.’
“Seems we may have a copycat. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Phoenix.” Said DePard.
“A tragedy. One of the oldest inns in Stonelake. Well, the site is. If memory serves this is the third Phoenix to be built there. The original inn was called The Refuge, believe it or not; burnt down during the trout riots. Stood less than a year before taking a direct hit during the siege. The second incarnation lasted a whole decade before mysteriously burning down one night. Funny thing was the landlord’s wife just happened to be visiting her sick aunt that night, so only her notoriously unfaithful husband was killed.”
DePard actually laughed at that, surprising his protege.
“And now this. Maybe they should change the name.”
“Or find a new trade?” said DePard.
“Indeed. Something less prone to incident and accident.” Bokeem mused.
“Like baking?”
“Ah, but baking can be a hazardous profession,Sergeant; too many ways the unwary amateur can be burnt.” The baker juggled a hot loaf as if for emphasis.
“And quite a competitive business I would think.”
“Cut-throat.” He said with a smile as he drew the serrated blade of his bread knife through the loaf. “Was there a purpose to your visit, Sergeant? Or is this just a social call?”
“Oh, let’s call it a bit of both. I just thought that now we’ve become acquainted I’d keep you abreast of what’s going on. Think of it as a public service.”
“Well, as you now know, we’re a tight-knit community in the Warrens, Our Lando’ll tell you; so you needn’t have bothered.”
DePard smiled a grim smile. “It’s no bother. I’m quite happy to call in whenever I’m passing, which will be much more often from now on I think, due to all the recent trouble hereabouts.”
“Oh, I think that’s all blown over now, Sergeant. The arsonist is safely locked up in your very own cells, and his co-conspirators appear to have befallen a tragic, yet poetic fate at the hands of the very community they purported to have represented. I did try and tell you that the people round here prefer our own form of justice.”
“And I’m sure I don’t need tell you that I represent the law here. Me, your nephew here, and any other man wearing the White. Much as we appreciate the community’s assistance in the capture of Crispin Reeves, we’ll take a dim view of any vigilante actions. You break a law in my town, I take you down.”
The two men’s eyes were locked on each other.
“As a respected voice of the community you can spread the word at your next resident’s meeting.” DePard said.
Bokeem Clay held the sergeant’s gaze for a moment more before shifting his eyes to his nephew. The younger guard, didn’t flinch, causing his uncle to give a grudging shrug of respect.
“Until next time then.” He said indicating the door.
The two guards exited the bakery and slowly walked back to their barracks as a light snow began to fall from the grey sky.

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The Man in the Alley

By Paul R Green

Sergeant Churt DePard squatted down to examine the body at his feet, his white cloak parting enough to let in the early morning drizzle that threatened to become rain with the approaching dawn. He gave an audible groan as he settled; a combination of age, the old knife wound in his back and general aches and pains from his part in breaking up a brawl at the Tanner’s Arms at the start of the night’s shift.

He turned to look up at the young watchman standing over him with sword gripped firmly in his right hand and a lantern held high in his left.

“Shift that thing where it’ll be some use lad.” He growled. The young guard looked confused, then when DePard raised a questioning eyebrow and nodded toward the naked blade he quickly sheathed his weapon with an apologetic shrug.

“Give me your thoughts, Clay?” asked the older man. Orland Clay swung his lantern closer, causing shadows to dance and flit around the body sitting propped against the wall, staring into the afterlife with a bemused expression through cold dead eyes.

“Looks like natural causes to me, boss.” He replied, swinging the lamp to better highlight the knife jutting from the corpse’s bare chest where it poked out between the open folds of a stained linen shirt. “That is, given where we are and the time of night”

The big sergeant shook his head, “Give me that.” ordered DePard, taking the lantern. “How long?”

“I’ve been here about half an hour waiting on you, sir, and I was only a few streets away when the boy found me, so I would say that he’s been here at least forty-five minutes.” Clay quickly answered.

DePard snorted. No doubt the boy had known exactly where to find the young watchman at such a miserable hour of an even more miserable night because he’d have gone straight to The Gilded Lily, a brothel on Perfume Street, known to the locals as the Dove’s Nest, due to its popularity with watchmen looking for a moment or twos warmth on a cold, wet night just like tonight. Which put the forty-five minutes estimate closer to an hour, if not more.

Moving the lantern closer with his left hand, DePard, pulled the man’s shirt aside with his right and stared at the well-worn bone handle and the two or three inches of thin, grey steel still visible before leaning in close to take a sniff. Was that fish? It was hard to tell over the underlying rotten stench of the alley. He gave the knife a gentle tug, but it was caught between two ribs and stayed put. Probably why it was still there.

Pulling the shirt open further there were no other stab wounds that he could see so he turned his attention to the shirt; a common enough linen chemise, nothing fancy, yet clean enough despite the obviously fresh stains acquired over the previous day or two. So, DePard mused, the victim was either married or still living with his mother. In DePard’s experience, discerning age was easier with a man, and the lines on the victim’s face, coupled with the streaks of grey in his lank mane of mousy hair put him in his forties. Married then.

He reached for the man’s wrist, noticing the absence of dirt where his ring would have sat. There were a few specks of blood on the cuff too, though none on his hands. No cuts either. He’d hadn’t had time to defend himself.

The big man leaned in even closer, this time taking in a hearty whiff of the shirt.

“You’ve got five senses, lad. Remember that. They all have something to tell you, if you’ve the wit to pay attention.”

“Sir?” The youth leaned in to watch as the sergeant continued to run his hands over the body, checking for any hidden wounds and humming an old maritime shanty quietly to himself as he ran his fingers through the dead man’s rain soaked hair. He smiled at something.

He turned once again to the young guard. “You think this was a simple robbery? That the poor sod simply passed the wrong alleyway while staggering home pissed?”

“It’s not like it doesn’t happen at least three times a week.” Clay responded, “Especially around here.”

DePard sighed. He didn’t blame the youth; the bulk of the watch was made up of ex-soldiers, mercenaries and tavern toughs, employed by the city as fight-breakers and turnkeys. They tended to see only what was in front of their invariably broken noses, looking for the simplest solution to any problem and a safe end to their shift. Give them something complex, or heaven forbid a true mystery, and they were hopelessly inadequate.

“I hear they’ve got a necromancer over in Barderput.” the young guard blurted out just to say something and break the silence. The older man simply frowned. “We could do with one here. Don’t you think sir?” Clay missed DePard’s contemptuous stare and continued talking, “It must be a piece of piss for them. All they need do is ask the bloody victim who did for them and arrest the bugger responsible.”

DePard snorted his contempt. “Lazy, expensive and un-bloody-reliable.”

Clay looked confused, “Unreliable, sir?”

DePard smiled a knowing smile. “Everybody lies, Clay. Even the dead.” He gestured back to the body. “Look for the evidence, lad. That’s the only place you’ll find any truth. Don’t you forget that.”

The older watchman took a long hard look at the young man stood before him. Drizzle gathered on the youth’s forehead beneath an iron cap that was probably half a size too big; it made its escape down his broken nose, before falling as larger drops to be caught in the muss of what was obviously the lad’s first beard. Orland Clay shifted his feet under DePard’s scrutiny but met the man’s gaze with determined eyes. The older watchman sniffed and made a decision. “Why’d you join the watch, lad?”

The young man’s face took on a strange aspect in the flickering lamplight as he considered the question. Eventually he shrugged. “I thought the uniform might attract the girls.” He said with a nervous laugh. DePard’s head dropped as he let out a depressed sigh. “But,” he paused, dredging up something more personal, “but since I started, the more I see, the more I do, the more I want to be good at my job. Like you, sir.” His face flushed at that last and he shifted his feet as DePard turned his gaze back up to meet his.

“Well spoken, son. Now if you actually mean that, and aren’t just trying to flatter me, allow me to enlighten you.” DePard said with a smile.

With another loud groan the big sergeant stood, stretched his aching legs and handed the lantern back to its owner.

“Tell me what made you think this was a simple robbery.”

Clay looked from DePard to the body and back again. “Well the location of the body for one. The alley’s dark and away from prying eyes in a district not known for its curiosity regarding occasional cries in the night. Then there’s the bloody great knife sticking out of his chest, and we all know how the footpads love a knife.” He paused a second for a flicker of amusement from the gruff sergeant, quickly continuing when none was forthcoming, “Also his purse is gone and he appears to be missing a wedding ring. It all points to a robbery.” Clay reasoned.

Orland looked at his superior with expectant eyes and DePard could see by his face that the boy had actually thought it all through and was convinced of his reasoning. Oh well, he hadn’t really expected the lad to see it all straight off. DePard stood a little taller before he responded. “Firstly, I don’t think this was a robbery at all. Footpads are a cowardly lot who generally hunt in packs. This bloke’s been stabbed once. A straight thrust to the chest.” He said miming a jab. “Which puts his attacker in front of him, yes?” Clay opened his mouth, as if to question the sergeant, then decided better of it and closed it. “If you have an opinion, Clay, don’t be afraid to share it. Same goes for questions.” The young guard thought for a second before speaking. “How do you know that the attacker didn’t come from behind and reach around to stab him?”

DePard smiled. “See. Now you’re thinking. If our killer had reached around then the blade would be more horizontal. Like this.” Again he mimed the action, making sure the youth noted the position of his hand. “This blade in our unfortunate victim here is nigh on vertical.” Clay inspected the blade again and nodded his agreement.

“How many victims of back alley robberies you seen, lad?” asked the big sergeant.

“About a dozen or so, sir?” Clay quickly replied.

“And how many of them were killed with a single knife thrust to the heart? Not to mention a thrust the victim didn’t even try and stop.” DePard asked. He could almost see the thought process acted out as the youth pictured previous crime scenes in his head.

“None”, he exclaimed excitedly, “even the tamest had been stabbed at least half a dozen times, and most of the time you can’t get near the body without slipping in about a gallon of blood.” Clay was warming up now, “I even saw a man who lost most of his fingers trying to fend off his killers. This is the first one I’ve come across where I haven’t puked my ring!” he exclaimed, with just a hint of pride.

“Quite.” said DePard, stepping back. “You’re right though, Orland, your average victim wouldn’t look out of place in a charnel house.” He studied the corpse again. “Like I said, footpads generally hunt in packs, but once in a while you do get a lone wolf.”

“But you said you didn’t think it was a robbery.” Clay interjected. DePard smiled. The boy was learning.

“True. True. A lone wolf is a cautious beast and would attack from behind, usually slitting the victim’s throat or jamming a dagger into the brain through here.” He explained tapping a point on his neck at the base of the ear. “And as you pointed out, where’s the blood? Even his shirt is devoid, barring a few older specks on his sleeve.”

Clay crouched down by the body and leaned in for a closer look, tentatively taking a sniff as he did so.

“Is that fish?” he asked.

DePard smiled. There was hope yet. “And what does that tell us, lad?”

Clay remained quiet for a good few minutes, the only sound the percussive fall of rain on timber, cloth, metal and flesh as the sky gradually lightened, albeit to a still oppressive grey. Occasionally he reached down to examine some part of the corpse as his sergeant watched on.

“It’s the knife as smells of fish, not the man. There’s ink on his fingers so he’s more likely a clerk as a fisherman as he’s not wearing a friars robes. So I guess the knife is the killers and has been used for filleting fish recently.” The older man nodded his approval encouraging the boy to continue. “He’s still got his dagger and boots, which backs up, but doesn’t prove your theory about him not being robbed.” DePard raised an eyebrow. “They could have been disturbed.” he quickly explained.

“Go on.” DePard replied encouragingly.

Clay flushed once more and couldn’t help but grin at the praise. “He probably spent his last hours in the Witches Hole.” He added.

DePard was taken aback. Where had that come from? “What makes you say that?” he asked.

The young watchman paused, gathering his thoughts once more before carefully explaining. “His hair smells of weed and the straw stuck to his boots suggest a tavern around the Hay Market. The ale stains on his shirt have a slight smell of liquorice, which if memory serves me is the speciality of Brewer Bede at the Hole.”

“Very good, Orland. Very good.” And he meant it, he hadn’t picked up the liquorice, and he tended to avoid the Hole, as it was the haunt of callow youths by night and professional drunks by day. Still, a good watchman should know his beat and he made a mental note to reacquaint himself with the inns and taverns on his patch.

***

The rain had stopped and the clouds lightened to the colour of wet slate by the time DePard and Clay exited the Witches’ Hole.

“Well?” the sergeant asked as they crossed the square, weaving through vendors and hawkers setting up stalls in the wakening marketplace.

“They’re a bunch of unscrupulous, work-shy pissheads and the inn-keeper has all the warmth of a northern summer, but I doubt they know anything more than they said.” Clay surmised.

DePard grinned. The boy had acquitted himself well; friendly, yet assertive. Give him a few years and he might even make a good watchman. “Still, lad, we’ve a name for the poor sod; and an address. Let’s go pay our respects to the widow Penn shall we?” he said, increasing the pace.

***

The Penn’s house was one of many crammed against the town’s west wall. Its lower stone floor was well scrubbed, but the upper timber floor was weather-beaten and in need of some repair. The neat shutters of the single window on the first floor were open, revealing a simple clay pot holding a primrose that craved warmth as much as the two guardsmen.

The burly watchmen nodded to his colleague as they stopped at the door. The young man straightened up and, resting one hand on the pommel of his sword, rapped the heavy iron knocker before taking half a step back. DePard noted the move and was impressed the youth knew enough to give himself room should he need to draw his weapon.

It was almost a full minute, and Clay had knocked twice more, before the door opened a crack to reveal a small, mousy woman. Downcast eyes flicked up from within a shadowed face framed with long dark hair hanging loose, contrary to the current fashion of braiding that had swept the town since the mayor had married that northern girl. Her eyes widened at the site of the watchmen, before dropping back to the floor, and then with her face still partly hidden behind her hair she seemed to gather herself up before speaking “It’s Geoffrey, isn’t it?” Her eyes darted toward Clay. “He didn’t come home last night,” Clay fumbled for the right words, but the woman continued. “I’m afraid if it’s a fine you’re after he’ll have to stay in your cells a while longer ‘cause any money he’s earned has probably been pissed up a wall by now.” The young watchman turned to DePard for guidance.

Before the senior man could speak a deep voice boomed from the street behind them. “Is everything alright, May?”

The watchmen turned as one, Clay automatically part drawing his sword until a touch from his superior stayed his hand. A short, stocky man dressed as they were in the white cloak of the watch, though the new man’s held a captain’s knot, was crossing the square toward them.

“Dicken. Do you know this woman?” enquired DePard, and then stopped as he looked again at the two. “Your sister?”

The captain smiled beneath a huge moustache, which swept up to join bushy sideburns, both of a colour with the woman’s hair, and strode toward the door. “Indeed. Mabel Penn, meet Churt DePard and” he paused for a second as he studied Clay. “I’m sorry, lad, I don’t know you.” he finally confessed.

“Orland Clay, sir.” The youth replied with a salute. The captain rolled his eyes with a smile toward DePard and gestured toward the door. “Then come inside and dry your arse, watchman Clay; you too, sergeant.”

The captain ushered them all through the door, his sister quickly disappearing into the back kitchen with a mumbled promise of mint tea as soon as they’d passed.

The warmth from the fire gave blessed relief to DePard’s aching back and he stood close, massaging his spine as an excuse to remain stood by the hearth as he examined the room. He inhaled audibly through the nose, filling his lungs and winking at Clay.

The room was small but well maintained, the furniture solid, but obviously second hand, as there were many signs of wear and repair. There were very few personal touches, just a hand woven rug by the fire and another potted plant by the window; a geranium in an old cracked pudding basin, too big for the bowl that would likely die if it wasn’t replanted soon, he thought. He didn’t have flowers himself, but tended a small patch behind the barracks where he grew a few tomatoes, carrots and spuds, along with some herbs. He found it helped him relax.

The window to the narrow back alley was open. There was little danger of much light getting in, let alone any rain, but the slight breeze stirred the wonderful aroma of freshly baked fish pie around the room. DePard smiled as he saw a glint of recognition in his young disciple’s eye.

“Now my old friend. What’s this all about?” asked the captain. No one had made a move to sit down so Clay hovered by the door, watching the two men like a hawk, but keeping an ear out for the woman, Depard was pleased to note.

“What’s that no good brother-in-law of mine done this time. I swear I seem to spend as much time keeping that drunkard out of gaol as I do putting others in.”

DePard glanced toward the kitchen where May had retreated to make the tea. He took one more good look around the room before speaking. “Your brother-in-law’s dead, old friend. Seems he had a run in with a gang of cut-throats on his way home last night. I’m sorry, Med.”

The two men stared at each other for a few moments before the squat captain turned and spat into the fire.

“He’ll not be missed. May’ll take it hard at first, but she’ll soon see she’s better off. I’ll break the news to her if you like.” He stated. It wasn’t a question. Clay looked to his sergeant, the question forming on his lips stalled at a subtle shake of DePard’s head.

The big sergeant turned to the captain and smiled, “Of course. I’ll have the brothers tend the body and contact you about seeing him buried, or whatever.”

Captain Dicken held out his hand. “Thank you, my friend. I appreciate it.” The two old warriors shared a look. “My sister appreciates it.”

DePard took the offered hand and solemnly shook it. “No problem, old friend.” He let go of the hand and nodded to Clay. “Let’s go, Clay. We’ll leave the family to their grief. ”

***

Outside the sun was struggling through the cloud as the two watchmen entered the now bustling street. Orland Clay strode through the mud, cursing as a cart splashed the bottom of his white cloak. He suddenly stopped in his tracks, hand gripped tightly on the hilt of his sword, and rounded on his mentor.

“What happened in there, sergeant?” His eyes were wide, his knuckles white. “I thought you said it wasn’t a robbery.” DePard simply stood looking at the boy, allowing him to vent the anger inside. “He did it. He stabbed his brother-in-law.” He continued. The older man said nothing. “Is that it? Is this the mayor’s justice? We just turn a blind eye when it’s one of our own?” The initial outrage was gone but still frustration dripped from every syllable. DePard sighed and started to walk away.

“I thought you were better than that.” Clay called after him, struggling to fight back the disappointment he felt swelling in his throat.

The old sergeant stopped. “You’ve got potential with the watch, Clay, but you’re still a novice when it comes to murder, and as such you don’t see everything you should. You’ve spent a few hours with me and you think you know it all.” He replied. “You made some good observations back in that alleyway and led us to the man’s family. Well done. Seriously, that was good work.” He paused for a second, taking a deep breath. “But as soon as we got inside that house you fell back on all your old habits and took everything at face value. You saw a fragile woman and a strong brother, you got a whiff of that fish pie, connected it to the knife in our friend back there and found your killer.” DePard turned to face the young guard. “Am I right?”

Clay shifted under the sergeant’s steady gaze, searching for the right words. “You never even bothered to ask them any questions.” Clay mumbled, dejectedly; his anger spent. “One of them must have done it. Either she killed him for pissing away their savings, or he thought to rid his sister of a boorish husband. But now we’ll never know, because you didn’t ask.” He accused. As he talked the anger started to rise again, straining his voice. “You asked me why I joined the watch.” DePard’s head cocked. “I grew up in the Warrens. The Warrens, sergeant. And growing up in that shit-hole meant you joined a gang. You had no choice; not if you wanted to survive. The way I see it, the watch is simply another gang; they’ve just got more territory and better weapons. I like living so I simply made a choice and joined the biggest gang in the city. It made sense, and I fit in. Until last night.” He said, deflating.

DePard studied the young man intently. “And what happened last night?”

“Last night I saw what being a watchman could be. You opened my eyes and made me look at things in a new way. You showed me that there was more to it than breaking up brawls and rounding up drunks. But then, just as quick, you go and show me that I was right all along; the watch is no better than any other gang and the law is just another way for the strong to control the weak. We claim nobility and the pursuit of justice and then close ranks when one of our own’s at fault. That’s not justice.” He hissed, his body trembling slightly in his rage.

DePard stood for a moment longer, seemingly studying the bustling city around him, before answering in a calm measured voice. “I didn’t ask any questions because I didn’t need to ask any questions. The evidence told me what happened, as I said it would, and I acted upon that evidence.” His gaze returned to the young guard, his eyes fixing him with a piercing stare. “What do you think would have happened if I had questioned them? Do you really think they’d give up the truth just like that? Confess all in a moment of contrition? Of course they wouldn’t; they’d have lied like any bugger else in their situation. But the evidence doesn’t lie.”

“Isn’t the knife evidence?” Clay enquired.

“Oh, I’m sure that the knife can probably be traced back to the widow, yes.” DePard admitted.

“Then why not arrest her? Or her brother? Or both? Given a few days in the cells one of them will eventually confess.” Clay demanded.

DePard scratched his chin, enjoying the feel of the stubble just starting to come through. “You said you wanted justice? You said something about the weak needing a voice?” Clay nodded. “We are watchmen. It is our job to uphold the Mayor’s law without fear or favour. But you’re right; we also have an obligation to protect those in need and sometimes the lines blur. It is our duty to make sense of that blur, read between the lines and dispense justice as best we can.” He explained. “And the best way that I can think to do that is to collect as many facts as I can and base my decision upon the evidence. Not on gossip; not on speculation; not even on confessions, because even a confession can be paid for, or be a lie to protect a loved one.” He paused to let the last sink in. “When all else fails, go back to the beginning and look again at what you know to be true.”

Clay stood in silence, blocking out the sounds around him as his mind went back to the alley and the dead man in the rain. Before long he opened his eyes with a big grin. “No blood. He was already dead when the knife went in, so it couldn’t have been the murder weapon.” He explained. “But that doesn’t change anything. It’s still likely to be her fish knife, which means he was probably killed at home and then moved.” He said looking to his mentor for confirmation.

“You’re right about the body, but wrong about the knife not changing anything; it changes everything.” The older man stated. “You’ll soon find on this job that very few deaths are planned. Most are accidents of opportunity or quirks of fate; a drunken man walking past the wrong alleyway, that sort of thing.” DePard began.

“Or an abused wife finally standing up to a drunken husband?” Clay suggested quietly.

The old sergeant smiled.

Encouraged, Clay went on, speaking his thoughts as much for himself as his mentor. “Her hair covered the bruises. Hair! You smiled when you felt his scalp. You found a lump. She hit him with something heavy. An iron or some such?”

“More likely a skillet. Irons tend to leave a narrower contusion. And worse if they’re hot.”

“I suppose there’s some justice to it.” Clay conceded.

“It’s not exactly the Mayor’s idea of it, I’ll grant you, but there is justice there. And it’s not like she’s got off easy. She’s a widow in her forties with no man to provide for her, ‘cept her brother, and our good captain has four mouths of his own to feed.” DePard said as he turned and started to slowly walk back toward the barracks. It had been a long night and he was looking forward to the end his shift and putting his feet up by the fire in the barrack kitchen.

“The way I see it, you’ve three choices, lad. One, find a new trade; my brother Brayden’s always going on about taking an apprentice, I can write you an introduction of you like. Mind you, he’s off following that fool Kerrigan on his crusade down south, so you might want to avoid that. Two, continue as you are; breaking heads and turning keys; running with the biggest gang in the city. Or then there’s three; you follow me, listen to what I tell you and maybe learn a thing or two along the way.” he said, stopping and turning to face the novice watchman.

Orland Clay stood before him, tugging at the wispy fluff he called whiskers, his white cloak rippling in the breeze as he considered the options.

“Well? Are you coming?” DePard shouted back over his shoulder as he turned and strode off.