Page 4 of By Mistake

"First we're going to go examine a body. After that, there is someone I want to check in on, and after that we're going to ask some questions and, if necessary, rattle some bones."

Greivs laughed. "Sounds like fun. Who are we checking on?"

"Someone I met today who I think is being tormented," Oresti replied, and told him everything that had happened as they made their way down to the kitchens and the spare cold room usually only needed during holidays and important state events.

Inside, Oresti gave a silent questioning look at the little smirk on Greivs' face.

"I can't recall when last you took notice of any one person so acutely. The 'most perfect diamond in the world' practically threw herself at you last week, and you couldn't even recall her name later."

"She was annoying," Oresti grumbled, "and what's so strange about caring about a man being bullied and starved to death?"

Greivs smiled. "Nothing at all." As they reached the table where the body was laid, his brows shot up.

Greivs didn't help with his work often, having plenty of work of his own, but he'd helped often enough that dead bodies and other grisly facets of the job did not trouble him. "Why is the Duke of Bidding dead?"

"That's one of the things we're going to be figuring out."

Lord Dorland Willow-White, the eleventh Duke of Bidding, had been a broadly admired and respected figure.

Not as generous with his wealth as he could have been, but not wholly greedy either.

An expert politician, he'd spent years abroad as an ambassador in two different countries, returning home only about seven years ago, and since then he'd been an avid participant in politics at all levels, from minor local squabbles in his province all the way up to helping negotiate treaties and more with other countries.

Most recently, he'd been supportive of a new law that was set to go for voting in a few weeks when Session was called.

Current law dictated that persons convicted of third-level crimes received a minimum sentencing of what people called 'the dread thirty' or sometimes just 'the thirty'.

Thirty lashes, thirty sels, or thirty weeks.

The system was grossly unfair, as third-level crimes were almost entirely petty crimes, with the most serious being things like mugging—and reclassifying those was part of the changes being made.

The crucial change, though, was that the penalties for third-level crimes were being drastically reduced in the new bill.

The changes included: abolishing lashes entirely, setting the fine to be commensurate with the income of the person convicted, and the maximum jail time just one month.

Arguments over the changes had waged for months and grown increasingly contentious. Willow-White had been leading the side in support of the changes, had in fact been the one to propose the majority of them. Opposition insisted the changes were too soft, would make people commit more crimes.

Oresti hadn't thought the matter worth killing over, but he really should know better by now.

After the initial look over, he started a closer examination, pulling out the small magnifying glass he wore on a chain around his neck.

It had been a gift from Greivs several years ago for his birthday.

The glass itself was framed in gold, and a protective cover kept it safe from scratches.

The cover was of an ornate gold flower laid over mother-of-pearl.

It had proven useful more times than Oresti could count.

"Nothing on the neck," he murmured, moving on to examine the hands next. The left hand turned up nothing, but on the right he found exactly what he was looking for. "Here, middle finger, right under the nail. A professional hit." He handed the glass to Greivs.

"Larger gauge needle than I would have expected," Greivs said, returning the glass and gently setting the hand down. "I guess it's something he went peacefully. Wonder what they used. How long was he dead before the body was discovered?"

"A few hours, but I'll get a more precise answer from my sister later. All right, we've gotten all we can here. Onward."

Greivs led the way this time, and in short order they were in the city, leaving their horses at a public stable as they'd draw far less attention going by foot.

Cutting through alleyways and other shortcuts, they made it in good time to Andrus's house. Greivs regarded it pensively. "Hard to believe this family was once close to the throne, all but married into it. This poor house would need a fortune to be restored."

"I'm more concerned about the owner," Oresti replied. "Come on." He led the way through the gate and around to the back of the house, following the worn footpath he'd noticed earlier in the day when he'd gone to deliver the groceries.

Relief washed through him when he saw a light on in the kitchen, heart kicking up a notch as he rapped on the door.

He smiled when he heard the lock being turned, and then the door swung open.

"Hello, again, Lord Both—" His smile dropped as he took in Andrus's face, the bruise mottling his left eye and most of that cheek. "Who in the fuck hit you?"

"What do you care?" Andrus asked, trying so hard to sound waspish, but there was too much sadness and resignation in his eyes, too much fear in the set of his shoulders.

"Let me inside, please," Oresti said quietly.

Andrus looked at him, then at Greivs behind him, before sighing and stepping back to let them in. "What did you need, Investigator?" he asked as he closed the door. "Would you like some tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you," Greivs replied with a smile. "Let me attend it, please. Oresti won't let you be until he's permitted to treat that bruise, so you may as well give in." He winked and strode off, vanishing into the pantry.

Oresti gently took Andrus's wrist and tugged him over to the worktable where earlier that day he'd set the groceries.

Currently, it looked like Andrus had been hard at work dividing things up, likely planning out meals for the rest of the week.

Oresti had seen many others in the poorer districts do the same thing, to ensure not a single grain of rice or scrap of turnip went to waste.

Meanwhile his so-called peers would leave an entire meal uneaten if so much as the garnish wasn't exactly as they wanted.

He reached for the pouch where he kept healing items—and swore as he realized he wasn't wearing all his pouches because he wasn't on duty. "I'm not the best healer in the world, but I can definitely do something about that."

"It's just a bit of bruising. I still have the potion you gave me before for my hands. I was going to apply it before I went to bed."

"Where is it?"

"In my room."

Oresti strode off, slipping through the door Andrus had glanced at reflexively, and quickly finding the sad little room that was clearly Andrus's refuge from the world. An entire fucking manor, and he was reduced to living in a single room in the servant quarters.

Whoever was responsible for this, for those bruises, for the market this morning, Oresti was going to find them and make them suffer tenfold.

He snagged the bottle he was seeking from the table it rested on and returned to the kitchen, where despite Andrus's continued protests, he gently tended his face, not satisfied until he could see some of the swelling had gone down.

"I'll bring you more tomorrow, and other supplies. Now tell me who did this."

"There's no point," Andrus said, murmuring a thank you to Greivs when he gave him a mug of tea. "There's nothing you can do about it."

Oresti's mouth pinched. "I'm an investigator, it's my job—"

"To deal with most of the city, but everyone knows there are some people the law can't touch."

"A noble did this, then," Oresti said flatly. "That's a start." Andrus gave him a look that could only be described as pissy, the most life Oresti had seen in him yet, making him grin for no good reason. "You may as well give me a name. I'll figure it out."

"Why do you care?" Andrus demanded. "You don't know me. You never paid me the slightest bit of attention until one of his little goons pushed me over today. I don't know what your ulterior motive is, but it's not going to happen."

Oresti's stomach churned. Not because Andrus was taking him to task, no he deserved that. But because of the underlying fear in his voice. He was really, truly afraid that Oresti wanted something that he was willing to take .

He'd been an investigator long enough to know what that meant.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, then did it again, until he was certain his temper was under control.

Then he offered a hand, a quiet thrill running through him when Andrus warily placed his own in it.

Covering it with his other hand, Oresti said, "I vow on my badge and on my mother's ashes that I have no ill intentions toward you.

I am sworn to help and protect, and I take that vow seriously.

Whoever is harming you, their status will not stop me, and I ask for nothing in return. "

Andrus's face flushed red, and Oresti had a sharp, sudden urge to stroke those cheeks and pull him in close.

Instead he let go of Andrus's hands and stepped back, shaking himself before he said, "Tell me his name."

"I suppose it doesn't really matter, since whatever you insist, there's nothing you can do," Andrus said, the words barely above a mutter.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at Oresti and then down at the floor.

"Lord Grell Farthing. He wants this house, more than anything.

Being able to do whatever he wants to me would just be a bonus. "