Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

There was only one thing to do.

Island funerals are lonely rituals for someone who isn't a native. For priests, in particular, they lack not only the grandeur of their urban counterparts — the professional musicians, hired mourners, orators, acolytes, sacrifice, augury — but also the warmth and companionship that accompanies the deceased on that final farewell as friends and relatives line the streets, rather than strangers merely nodding to pay their respects.

To be fair, the people of Rovin had done their best for Raspor, but even assuming his corpse had been in any fit state to travel to Gora — which, in this heat, it was not — there was no escort available to accompany him on that last, lonely journey.

The riots that had interrupted the auction intensified once news of Rosmerta's conspiracy filtered out, and the King's illness had done little to quell it. The Histrian people were in turmoil. They would not leave Rovin, they couldn't; never before was Mazares needed so much. Despite some protection by his leather cuirass, Pavan was too weak from blood loss to take charge, Orbilio far too Roman and Kazan too close to the source of their pain. Nor was Drilo up to the task, but they took their high priest's advice when he pointed out the urgency of burying the grisly haul that had been dredged up by the current. Sadly, this meant Raspor was but one of several hastily prepared burials, denied the dignity of even a personalized service.

And because order had broken down, or perhaps because he'd needed something to focus on, the ferryman hadn't closed up after dark. Naturally, he protested when he saw his passenger's injuries, but recognized in her the same need to be busy and unhooked the rope without speaking.

Around the archipelago, Perun's anger crackled and spat, and the Kingdom of Histria trembled under his boot. Claudia averted her eyes from the heavens, staring into the deep, silent waters, and her knuckles clenched white round her torch.

Another torch already flickered in the tree-lined graveyard.

She had watched it wind its way down the twisting, narrow street from the house to the ferry, and she'd followed its progress across to the mainland, watching the light getting smaller and smaller as it receded into the blackness. What she hadn't been able to work out was what glistened in the torch-bearer's free hand. But then, how could she possibly have guessed he'd be carrying a spade?

The shovelling stopped when he saw her approach, and he wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. It left behind streaks of red mud, like the battle paint worn by certain Teutonic warriors to frighten the enemy, but Claudia wasn't frightened. Not of Kazan.

'Raspor, I presume?' His liquid dark eyes indicated the chaplet of flowers brimming over her basket.

'I owe him this much.'

She had brought other things, too. Spelt, black beans and laurel leaves to strew on his grave, as well as a small bough of cypress. These might be Roman, but then so was she. Raspor would understand.

'You'll find him over there, second mound down on your right,' Kazan said, returning to his digging.

Claudia thanked him. It was too early for top stones to have been laid on the graves, and as she scattered her offerings, she thought how fitting it was that the thunder god whom Raspor had served was so active tonight. The little priest would appreciate that.

'Is it rude to enquire who you're digging up?' she asked, as another sheet of lightning ripped through the sky. 'Or is this another local custom I'm not aware of?'

Kazan grinned. 'I'm doing the bajuks' work for them,' he said. 'I'm keeping evil spirits out of the cemetery and, since you ask, it's the boat builder's body facing eviction. I won't have his dirty bones contaminating sacred soil, Claudia. He isn't fit to lie here.'

She glanced across to the hideous masks nailed to the tree trunk. It was impossible to make out the bajuks' expressions in the darkness, but the empty black robes that flapped in the wind like sinister pennants gave their position away.

'I didn't realize you felt so passionately about homosexuality.'

'I feel passionately about blackmailing bastards,' Kazan said bitterly. 'Rosmerta told me why she had killed him — oh, and before you ask, no. Murderers aren't allowed to lie in sacred ground, either. Their souls are thrown to the shroud-eaters. They will never find rest.'

Claudia looked across to where Dol the Just rested. In peace…?

'I'm not sure how much of the story will come out,' he continued, 'but I'm betting this bastard's role won't be aired. The court will want to protect Broda as much as they can.'

He paused to wipe the sweat off his face with the hem of his tunic and sighed deeply. 'I don't expect people will believe that I knew nothing of my wife's plans, but it's true.'

'On the contrary, Kazan. I think they'll understand very well.'

It was common knowledge that the couple rarely spent time together. Never talked, because he was never around. Hunting, fishing and women were his only interests, Pavan said, and he was bloody good at all three. Claudia watched while the earth piled up around him. Rosmerta might be a monster, but it was Kazan who had made her one. Charming, handsome, witty and fun, it was his neglect that turned her into what she was…

Claudia swallowed, and the wind hissed like snakes in the trees.

'You know she killed your father?'

Kazan pinched his lips together, but didn't stop digging.

'She poisoned Mazares,' she said, 'she poisoned Delmi, she murdered their children, the boat builder, the royal physician…'

The pain on his face was pitiful to watch.

'… Raspor, of course, and these crimes go back many years. But you know what troubles me, Kazan? Brac. Rosmerta wasn't even on the scene when your brother died.'

She laid her basket on the path.

'His death doesn't fit the picture.'

'Perhaps that's what gave her the idea,' he said, pausing. 'Fevers are unpredictable and death is indiscriminate.'

'Yes. I would accept that.' The heat twisted the night air like a coil. 'Except I saw Pavan hold a pillow over Rosmerta's face.'

'Fine fellow, our general. He saw a way to solve the problem and avoid public scandal at the same time, and he'd have succeeded, too, if you hadn't brained him with an armchair.'

'Yes, I would accept that, as well,' Claudia said. 'In fact, if we put it all together, we have the whole picture, don't you agree? That Brac was murdered for the noblest of reasons?'

'Brac?' The spade didn't falter. 'I told you — hell, everyone knows — it was a fever that carried him off.'

Brac be nimble, Brac be quick, Brac jump over the candlestick.

'Fit young man, newly married? It happens.' Far too often, unfortunately. 'But then, I got to thinking.'

Brac jump long, Brac jump high, Or Brac fall into a fever and die.

'Mazares said your brother was confident to the point of cocky, and he talked of how the elders hoped Brac would grow into the kind of king that your father was. Would grow into, you note. Hoped.'

'If you're implying what I think you're implying — ' Kazan flashed her his famous little-boy-lost smile — 'just remember who releases flocks of finches on the anniversary of his brother's death.'

'Like you release roof tiles, you mean?'

Like an inflated pig's bladder when it suddenly ruptures, Kazan shrank before her eyes. The spade fell from his hand but Claudia felt no satisfaction. No satisfaction at all in the knowledge that no tile was missing from any rooftop.

The islanders were proud of their burgeoning heritage. Rovin, if you don't mind, was the island beloved of the King, and they were fiercely proud of their king. Therefore, they were desperate to make him proud of them in return. Witness the perfect order this town was kept in. No litter. No graffiti. Everything spotless and tidy.