Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

'Not much left of the poor bugger, though, and look — people are already making the sign of the horns.'

Orbilio had never really understood this business about 'evil eyes', but he knew enough about superstition in Histria, and everywhere else for that matter, to know that the gesture they were making was no automatic response to folklore. These people genuinely believed they were in peril.

'You can practically read their minds,' Kazan said. 'That it was Nosferatu himself the girl saw, and when he'd finished gorging on his victim's warm flesh, he tossed the bones in the channel like rubbish.'

'Someone certainly did,' Orbilio murmured, but his words were cut short by the arrival of another slimy corpse being slapped down on the cobbles. Bloated and mutilated as one would expect after a week in the water, the halo of dark curls surrounding the little plump face remained unmistakable.

'Sweet Svarog!'

The gasp of the high priest took Orbilio by surprise.

'It's true, then! Raspor is dead!'

His shock appeared genuine, Marcus thought. Except he'd seen too many grieving husbands/fathers/wives who'd turned out to be cold-blooded killers, that one could never take these things for granted.

'I'm really sorry, Drilo,' Kazan said, laying his hand on the taller man's shoulder. 'He was a conscientious little feller, too.'

'One of the best,' Drilo nodded, then stopped short. 'But good grief, man, what am I doing? It's me who should be comforting you!'

'Me?' Kazan frowned. 'Why me?'

'Heavens, has nobody told you?'

Orbilio's blood suddenly ran cold.

'Told him what?' he asked gently.

'Rosmerta,' Drilo said. 'She took an extra dose of her sleeping draught by mistake, and now, of all times, would you believe, that young physician's disappeared into thin air, we can't find the idle hound anywhere, so the King's had to call in the same mule doctor as tended the Lady Claudia after her fall the first night she arrived here and-'

'And what?' Kazan prompted quietly.

'I'm so sorry, my boy.'

Drilo's shoulders slumped.

'The mule doctor is adamant that your wife will — well, that Rosmerta will not last the day.'

Nosferatu was feeling a whole lot better, now, thank you.

Orbilio wasn't the only person whose blood turned to ice in their veins. The flurry of panic that swept round the house told Claudia that something was seriously wrong, and that it wasn't purely the gruesome haul in the fishermen's nets. This apparently was not an uncommon occurrence, something to do with storms down in Greece creating currents that could, in extreme conditions, carry ships off their course, but which either way flushed out any remains lodged in Vinja's den. It was how families knew whom to honour with red ribbons in the shrine to the fire-breathing monster. As always, the sea gives up its dead.

And, in a way, it was a relief to discover Raspor's corpse among the grisly finds. Not because Claudia's story would be vindicated. She'd never had doubts on that score, and whether anyone else believed her or not was irrelevant. No, she was glad, because at last the little priest got what he deserved. She might not have been able to save his life, but she could take comfort in knowing he'd receive a fitting burial in accordance with his beliefs and that his bones would rest with his ancestors, protected by gargoyles in empty black robes and safe in the knowledge that his sacrifice had not been in vain.

But right now, Raspor was low on the list of priorities. The dead were dead, it was time to protect the living and, as her footsteps reverberated along the marble corridor, there was only one thought in her brain.

Pavan.

I'll give you gruzi vol, you callous, unfeeling bastard. And as for that bullshit about how serving Histria was to serve the King, did he really think she'd swallow that? Who laid his massive paw on the doctor's trusting shoulder and led him away? Who insisted Rosmerta be left alone — for her own good, too! And who, my friend, had been so angry that the King's proposal had been refused? Small wonder. It scuppered Nosferatu's plans for whatever little accident he'd been planning for the King and his bride, the one that he had so insidiously persuaded Mazares to invite his good friend Marcus over here to act as an official witness for.

I'll gruzi bloody vol you with my own bare hands, you devious bloody bastard. No wonder you were so concerned the other night when those rapists clawed at me. Can't afford to have the bait damaged, can you?

Mazares was still in his office when she burst through the doorway, and it looked as though he'd spent the whole night there, since the cushions on the chair were flattened and his clothes were creased and in disarray.

'Claudia!'

He jumped up and reached for where he'd kicked his boots.

'An unexpected honour, I must say.'

There was no time for preambles. 'You've heard about Rosmerta?'

'I have.' His dark curls nodded miserably. 'Poor Kazan, can you imagine what the poor sod's feeling?'

'Are you referring to Vani expecting his child or him not having to pretend that he isn't ashamed of his wife any more?'

Mazares paused from lacing his boot and stared at her thoughtfully.

'I think I'll get that sour-cherry tree axed,' he said slowly. 'The blossoms are beautiful, but the fruit can be awfully acid.'

'If you think this is sharp, I suggest you saddle up now, because you're in for a rough ride, Mazares. There are things that need airing and they won't wait.'

He stooped to finish his lacing. 'So, Kazan's the child's father and grandfather at the same time? His sons resemble him so closely that no one's likely to suspect, and anyway he turned his attentions to the other boot — 'who's going to care? Half the children in Gora are miniature versions of my brother.'

'Sod Kazan! It's your other brother I'm interested in. Brac'

Mazares straightened up, tucked his shirt into his pants and clipped on his gold torque.

'Do you sleep in a normal bed, like everybody else,' he asked, 'or do you hang upside down in a cave overnight?'

'Mazares, I'm serious. Surely even you can see it now? Rosmerta's death isn't an accident-'

'Well, I'll agree with you there. My sister-in-law is very much alive. Admittedly, she's in what the Greeks call a koma, but, unlike certain people in this room, I would at least hesitate before burying her.'

Claudia heard a gnashing sound and thought it might be her teeth. At this rate, she'd be down to the gums, but she had to accept his point, and, goddammit, he looked even worse in broad daylight. The grey pallor to his face had turned waxy from lack of sleep, the lines round his eyes looked like chasms. Exactly what a grieving man would look like, she supposed, when faced with the prospect of no heir for another year at least, while being confronted by the very woman who'd consigned him to that fate.

She shivered, as much out of contrition as guilt. She'd failed Raspor by not taking his claims seriously. She would not fail Mazares by inducing him to do the same.

Drawing a deep breath, she set to ticking off the deaths on her fingers and made no mention of Pavan's betrayal. The King was a good man, who trusted those around him, but, given a choice, he would trust his general above a shrew — especially a Roman shrew. No. Let him find out for himself that, when it came to rodents, there was a rat in his household that was infinitely more dangerous, for while Mazares might be noble, he was anything but stupid. The facts could speak for themselves.

Like strapping young Brac, dead of a fever three days before his twentieth birthday, and Dol, whose weakness of lungs came on surprisingly late in life, yet had him in his grave aged just fifty-two.