David Wishart - White Murder

‘The bastard had already chewed up Crito and Laomedon,’ Hesper growled. ‘Chances is one thing, dangerous driving’s another. And Laomedon, for Consus’s sake! He’s a bloody Red! He was supposed to be on the same side!’

I looked at Hesper in surprise. His arms were still folded but he’d stopped sucking his tooth and his face was flushed. Yeah; here was someone else who hadn’t carried a torch for the Whites’ new lead. And it’d take a lot of dislike to make the equivalent of a legion’s NCO forget himself enough to break the rules imposed by self-discipline, especially in front of one of the Other Ranks. ‘I thought that was the idea of the circus, pal,’ I said mildly. ‘Put the opposition out of the race any way you can.’

‘Not any way you can. That’s what the stewards are for. Or it should be, rather. Pegasus drove dirty all the time, and the Greens’ve got these buggers in their pockets. Put on a show for the crowds, sure, but dirty tricks like swerving your wheel into another Colour’s horses’ legs don’t make you many friends in the racing business. Especially when the other Colour’s your own backstop.’

‘Act your age, Hesper!’ Typhon sneered. ‘The Blue, sure, I’ll give you the Blue. Crito’s a decent lad, but Laomedon’s no kiss-in-the-ring driver himself. And wrecking him didn’t have nothing to do with the colour of his tunic.’

Too many names, but I needed to hang in here because they might be important later. ‘Uh…Laomedon’s a Red, right?’ I said.

Both of the guys gave me the Look this time.

‘Yeah,’ Hesper said. ‘Their lead driver.’

‘Their First Spear, too.’ Typhon snickered. ‘Retired.’

There was something here I wasn’t getting. And that crack about First Spear – the senior NCO in a legion – didn’t make much sense either. Still, Hesper was grinning, so it had to be at least a passable joke. ‘So what you’re saying is there was some friction between Pegasus and this Laomedon? He put him out of the Plebbies because of a private grudge?’

‘Private.’ Typhon sniggered again. ‘Good word. I like private. Private’s good.’

I was patient. ‘You care to elaborate, maybe?’

He glanced down at the silver piece I was holding. Yeah, well, the guy was good value, I’d give him that. I took out a second coin.

‘All right, chief.’ Typhon was still grinning. ‘This piece of private friction was a redhead by the name of Felicula. Laomedon was squiring the pants off her until about five or six months ago when she dropped him and picked up with Pegasus.’

Felicula. Not a high-class name, more Aventine than Esquiline. Which was odd: like I say, these lead drivers have the pick of the fast-track aristocratic debs and spouses, and they tend to be choosy who they take up with. It’s a matter of kudos, too: once it gets around that you’re squiring (nice word!) the wife or daughter of one of the city’s top five hundred your reputation takes a hike. To be wrangled over by two lead drivers Felicula must be some lady.

‘You got any biographical details for this paragon?’ I said.

Typhon didn’t even blink at the polysyllables; smarter than he looked was right. ‘Sure. Her husband’s Gaius Rufrius Pudens.’ The name came out slow and careful. Probably out of respect for my intellectually-challenged-cockroach status. ‘He’s, uh, the boss of the Reds, in case you didn’t know.’

If Typhon hadn’t blinked, I certainly did. Jupiter alive! I didn’t know Pudens, but even allowing for the usual feelings of a cuckolded husband I doubted if a faction boss would take kindly to an opposition driver squiring his wife. Laomedon was bad enough, but at least he’d be family, in a way. ‘And you say the affair’s been going on for five or six months?’ I said.

‘Give or take. It’s common knowledge, inside the business anyway.’ I noticed that Hesper had lost his frown: whatever the guy’s personal feelings about the ex-first driver were, I supposed Pegasus’s amorous exploits came under the appropriate heading of shafting the opposition. Probably, in the eyes of the faction, it was one of the few things he had to his credit.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Point noted. Very much so. Now we’re on the subject, you any idea who else might’ve had a grudge against the dead guy?’

Typhon and Hesper exchanged glances; I’d noticed that Hesper was loosening up, maybe because we’d moved to things outwith the faction.

‘Tell him about the fixes,’ he said.

The back of my neck prickled. This time I was ahead of them. Fixes are an old racing tradition indulged in by most disgruntled punters at one time or another, usually when they’ve lost their shirt five race days in a row and don’t have a sixth to lose. Basically what the punter does is write something unpleasant re the driver of his choice – such as ‘May the demon Arourobracos rip the bastard’s innards out and piss on his grave’ – on a thin sheet of lead, tippy-toe along to the faction stable under cover of darkness and nail it to the gate, then run like hell and wait for the curse to strike. Some lazy buggers, of course, drop it down the nearest well instead, but making sure the driver in question reads it does wonders for your chances.

‘Pegasus had been getting fixes?’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ Typhon said. ‘Three of them, a month apart, nailed to the gatepost. All the same type. No words, just his name written backwards and a flying dagger.’

‘A what?’

‘A knife with wings.’ His tone was casual, too casual, and the cocky tone was gone. I noticed, too, that he’d crossed his fingers for luck. Probably wise: some things you didn’t talk about without taking precautions. ‘You know witches can send them?’

Yeah, I knew. From report, anyway. Despite the lurid language, most fixes are just expressions of spleen, and about as effective, but this was hardcore stuff. The idea was, you chose your victim and you paid a bona fide witch to send a knife after them. An imaginary knife. Or it started out imaginary anyway, and got real right at the end, where realness mattered. All the poor bugger heard before it hit was the whistle.

Pegasus had died from a knife in the back, and there was no sign of the murder weapon. Maybe coincidence, sure, but coincidences happen, and this particular one put ice in my gut. You want to laugh, you laugh; you’re in good company. Me, I don’t make unsubstantiated judgments.

‘You any idea who was responsible?’ I asked.

Typhon looked at Hesper. The stables master shrugged; too casual, like Typhon. ‘No,’ he said. His eyes shifted, and I could see his right hand moving in the sign. ‘We, uh, found the last one yesterday morning.’

The day Pegasus was killed, in other words. I shivered as the goosebumps went into overdrive. Shit; that was all I needed, a demon murderer. If that was what had got the guy then I might as well give up now. Still, I had plenty to go on here even without the supernatural element. More than plenty: in fact, my brain was beginning to go into overload. ‘You kept it?’

Hesper held my eyes. ‘What do you think?’

I shivered again. No, maybe not. ‘Fair enough,’ I said, and handed over the silver pieces to Typhon. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thanks a lot, pal.’

Typhon grinned and slipped them under his belt. ‘My pleasure. Any time. I’ll drink your health.’

‘You do that. Oh. One more thing. You have any idea what Pegasus could’ve been doing over on Iugarius?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, chief. That’s one I can’t answer. He wasn’t one for confidences, and me, I don’t pry.’

Well, it had only been an outside chance at best. I turned to Hesper. ‘I think I’ll call it a day there. You want to take me to the gate?’