Jeff LaSala - The Darkwood Mask

“Elemental,” the bored magewright had answered her, offering nothing more.

Soneste arrived at the thirty-fourth floor, where she found five White Lions guarding the door. They stood like statues, positioned evenly to view every entrance to the level. One of the soldiers was a dark-haired woman Soneste’s own age. Only her eyes turned to Soneste when she stepped off the lift. The city watch in Sharn never displayed this level of discipline, and Soneste felt certain the White Lions would not be as easily swayed with bribes or honeyed words.

Soneste produced her identification papers, but the other woman waved the document away. “Either you’re the killer come again-in which case there’s obviously little we could do to stop you entering-or you’re the inquisitive they sent in.”

“I … Yes.”

“Three good men lost their lives defending your precious ambassador, so do me a favor, Brelander. Just name the killer so we can do our job.”

“I aim to,” Soneste answered with a nod, deciding this was not the time to correct the name for her countrymen: Brelish . Korth’s garrison seemed as dour as its citizenry, but after dealing with silver-tongued Aundairians and self-righteous Thranes back home, Karrns were refreshingly incisive. They seemed to say precisely what they were thinking.

“If you need us,” the Lion said with a dismissive gesture, “just shout.”

The key the concierge had given her unlocked the door with a metallic click without her needing to turn it at all. It suppressed the magic wards that locked and guarded the door. The killer no doubt had the means to subvert such wards.

When Soneste pushed open the door, an unnatural cold washed over her from the dimness within. Even if every window within had been left open, it should not have been this frigid. Clearly this was the preservative magic of which Hyran spoke.

The coppery stench of blood tainted the air, muted only sleightly by the cold. She’d inspected too many murder scenes to be fazed by such unpleasantness, but the lingering threat of the unknown killer kept her senses sharp, despite the presence of the guards. Killers often returned to the scene of the crime, either to remove evidence or kill again.

Soneste shut the door behind her then drew out her crysteel dagger and a silvery headband. The latter was a watch lamp, created for the Sharn Watch, but the many favors owed to Thuranne had secured several for her agency’s use. Soneste slipped the mithral circlet around her head and with a thought summoned a globe of white light into the air. It floated just over her shoulder, illuminating the space around her as brightly as a torch.

The dwelling was a study in luxurious amenities. Easily five times larger than her own apartment back in Sharn, it was carpeted and filled with a variety of elegant furniture and magewrought conveniences. Beyond the foyer, she could see two bedrooms, a privy, and a dining room all connected by a lavish-though blood-spattered-common room.

Bracing herself against the severe cold, she opened the leather folder Hyran had provided. According to the death report within, a total of ten had been slain.

The first three were the White Lions of which the guard had spoken, allegedly the first to respond to the massacre only to become victims themselves. They lay upon the hardwood of the foyer in dried pools of blood. The wounds were very precise, made in the grooves and joints of the half-plate armor by a slender, piercing blade. Such injuries were undoubtedly meant to slow them down until an opening presented itself, which it had-each man had a bloody stab wound in his neck, clear through to the other side.

“Khyber,” she whispered, breath clouding in the freezing air. The killer was a professional.

The death report stated that the soldiers’ bodies would soon be relocated to the Necropolis of the Valiant, the city’s morgue. An addendum stated that the seven remaining dead, the bodies of the Brelish ambassador and his party, were not subject to seizure by the state.

Soneste scowled. The fact that every Karrnathi citizen could be claimed by the royal corpse collectors upon death sickened her. Despite the war’s end two years ago, this decree had endured, allowing the remains of Karrnath’s citizens to be raised again to serve the state should the need ever arise. Was she really surprised? Karrnath was still under martial law. Here the draconian Code of Kaius prevailed over the more civilized Code of Galifar.

According to the Korranberg Chronicle , Karrnath’s undead troops had been recalled after the signing of the Treaty of Thronehold, but it was well known that they were hidden away in tactical reserve. From the chthonic air of this grim city, she wouldn’t be surprised if many of the skeletons and zombies waited somewhere beneath these very streets.

Just below the description and names of the three dead Lions was a transcript, an interview with the slain conducted by a Ministry cleric. She flipped through the report to ensure that no such spells were used upon the ambassador’s wife or their attendants. Soneste, despite her annoyance, would honor the family’s wishes.

The transcript was brief. Three questions had been posed to two of the dead Lions. Their cryptic replies described a “slim intruder in black garb who wielded two blades.” The intruder had turned away from the civilians the moment the White Lions entered the flat. Then it killed them.

Soneste stepped past the soldiers to examine the two menservants in the common room. The upended furniture and ruffled carpet suggested a nasty fight, and both men had dropped their weapons-ceremonial sabers-where they’d fallen. There wasn’t a single drop of blood on these weapons, although it was quite evident that the killer’s had found their mark. A rapier’s blade, Soneste decided, for she’d delivered such wounds herself, though not with such strength or precision.

She surveyed the rest of the room, rubbing her gloved hands together to stay warm. The cold fire lanterns perched upon the walls had been deliberately shattered, and only a single intact globe remained, affixed to the low table that had been kicked over. Two fingers, the pinky and ring finger from a man’s right hand, lay severed on the blood-stained carpet. They belonged to neither of the servants. One man had his throat slashed open in two places. The other had probably died from blood loss, likely from the arterial wound to his thigh.

Soneste found the third servant lying near the threshold of the master bedroom, his unarmored abdomen punctured twice. An easier kill, that one. The first man to die. A black leather mask, which would cover only the forehead, eyes, and nose of the wearer, lay discarded near him. Soneste pocketed the evidence and continued her examination.

There was a confusing jumble of imprints in the plush carpet, made from the boots of the White Lions, the victims, and the Ministry’s initial inspectors. And, of course, the killer. Soneste stared at the pattern, envisioning a fight that could account for it: three men moving to engage the killer as he entered the room. The killer’s prints, which led in from the master bedroom-his likely means of entrance-were placed just so. They were spaced apart, as if he’d run in, but the prints went in and out again. The soldiers, those who hadn’t been slain, had eventually pursued him out.

She glanced at the dead guards. From the precision of his handiwork, the killer hadn’t been afraid of them. Why run at all, then? Why not slay the next three to arrive, too, and leave uncontested and on his own terms?

This was quite a puzzle.

Moving on to the other bedroom, Soneste found the door still hanging at a skewed angle. The killer had forced his way into this room. The victims within probably had sought refuge here. The locking mechanism was battered. It had taken the killer a few attempts to bash his way through the reinforced door with a heavy, blunt object. She looked around. No such object presented itself. If it was a weapon, the killer took it with him. Once the lock was broken, a vicious kick-there was a sleight print made from the boot-had forced the door.