Page 7 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

“Nevertheless, it is not my place to overstep.” She adopted a prim expression that irritated him no end.

“My role is an administrative one. And even if I cared to get involved, who should I have replaced him with? They are all the same. Grasping for wealth, pleasure, power—whatever eases the pain of their brief and pointless lives.”

“Some, yes. But I disagree that they are all the same,” Gavriel said quietly.

“You are entitled to your opinion. But I do not envy you this task.” Haniel set her cup aside untouched, her voice honeyed again. “Should you require anything, brother, anything at all, you need only ask.”

* * *

Gavriel fell through the hollow core of the tower, its levels passing in a blur. At the twelfth floor, he snapped his wings open and arrested the descent. The guards at the east gate touched their breastplates in a salute as he passed through.

Kota Gelangi was three hours earlier than Kirith, but it was the southern winter and dark had fallen by the time he reached the Red House.

Liberty Square was mostly empty, but a young man waited with Yarl at the top of the steps.

He wore a maroon coat with diagonal brass buttons and clutched a leather valise.

“Lord Morningstar,” he said with a nervous bow. “I am Levi Bottas, aide to the late Consul Casolaba. I’ve been assigned to assist in your investigation.”

Bottas was in his early twenties, with side-parted black hair and a clean-shaven, artless face.

“You can begin by showing me the consul’s office,” Gavriel said.

“Of course. It’s on the second floor.”

The entered the Assembly and started up a marble staircase.

“How long did you work for Casolaba?” Gavriel asked.

“About a year and a half, sir. I came from Niss last spring.”

He’d heard of it. A small resort town on Satu Jos’s southern coast. “What brought you to the capital, Bottas?”

He cleared his throat. “My uncle runs the Sapphire Bay Hotel. He’s, er, a generous donor to the Freedom League. When I expressed interest in politics, he arranged an introduction to the consul.”

Nepotism, Gavriel thought with disgust. Like every other appointment in this city.

Other than a pair of watchmen, who stood straighter and looked alert when they saw Morningstar, the halls of the assembly were quiet.

They made their way down a corridor. Bottas produced a ring of keys.

“The consul’s office has been sealed since the discovery of the body, by order of the witches,” he said. “Shall I . . .?”

The door had been taped with the symbol of the Morag, head of the witches’ High Council. Gavriel examined the seal closely. Satisfied that it was intact, he nodded and Bottas removed the tape.

“Give me the keys,” Gavriel said.

Bottas handed them over, and Gavriel unlocked the door. “This will serve as my base of operations. I require interviews with anyone who had contact with Casolaba in the week before his death.”

“I’ll prepare a list,” Bottas said.

The consul’s office occupied a corner overlooking Liberty Plaza. It was cluttered with items ranging from a gold-enameled humidor for Casolaba’s imported cigars to ochre Lagashi pottery and rare artwork. All gifts from his benefactors, no doubt.

Above the desk hung a portrait of the dead man. Middle-aged, jowly, with a white beard and receding hairline. The swell of his coat suggested a prodigious appetite.

“Who discovered the body?” Gavriel asked.

“A man named Tristo Arpin. He sweeps the square every morning and spotted it from below. Arpin alerted the watchman and they climbed the stairs to the dome. Kota Confidential printed an exclusive. I hear they paid a handsome sum for it.” Bottas opened his valise and unfolded a broadsheet with the screaming headline, His Eyes Were Burned Out!

Gavriel quickly devoured the article. He had not known that particular grisly detail.

“Shall I add Arpin to the witness list?” Bottas asked.

“Since he has given such a detailed account to the scribblers,” Gavriel said dryly, “that won’t be necessary for the moment. Where is the body now?”

“Er, I’m not sure. The morgue?”

“Is that a question or an answer?” Gavriel snapped.

Bottas swallowed. “I shall find out straightaway, sir.”

“What about this watchman? The one who was on duty. Did he hear or see anything?”

“I’m afraid not. He made a statement, it’s in the file. But he’s rather hard of hearing, sir. And his eyesight isn’t very good.”

“You have a deaf and blind watchman?”

“Not completely . Er, his cousin is a delegate’s aide.”

“Of course.” Gavriel sighed. “I’ll want a complete list of everyone who was in the Assembly building yesterday, their arrival and departure times, and any unusual visitors in the past month.” He set the broadsheet aside. “We will commence the interviews with senior staff and lawmakers now.”

Bottas looked embarrassed.

“Is there a problem?” Gavriel asked.

“No, sir, but—” He hesitated. “It’s past the sixth hour. Everyone is gone for the day.”

Gavriel stared at him. “Their consul has been murdered. They demanded my presence. And now they’ve left for supper?”

Bottas shifted uneasily. “It is how things are done here, Lord Morningstar.”

Gavriel drew a slow breath and tamped down his fury. “So it is. I had forgotten.” He fixed Bottas with an icy stare. “But you will go nowhere until I dismiss you.”

“Of course not, sir.” He handed over a book. “I retrieved Consul Casolaba’s appointment diary from his residence. And I can give you a preliminary list of his close associates.”

“Good.” Gavriel turned to Yarl. “I’ll want records of criminal cases with his name on them, both as complainant and accused. And you should go to his home and fetch his banking records, his will, and a summary of assets.”

“His wife may object, sir,” Bottas ventured.

“His wife has no choice.” Gavriel opened the first dossier and set to work.

For the next several hours, he sifted through Haniel’s haystack while Bottas and Yarl came and went, fetching more documents.

The picture that emerged was of a vindictive, petty, greedy man whose corruption was matched only by his success in evading punishment.

Bribery, witness tampering, and extortion were among the various charges, none of which resulted in conviction.

“What great fortune!” Gavriel muttered acidly. “Accusers who recant or disappear, evidence that goes missing, judges who suddenly reverse themselves and rule in his favor.”

“His patronage extended throughout the city,” Bottas admitted. “From the docks to the fire brigades.”

“And where were you the night he died?” Gavriel asked, looking up from the records.

“In my flat sleeping, sir. Like most people at that hour.” Levi Bottas looked frightened, but that didn’t mean he was guilty. Anyone in his position would be worried.

“Do you know whom he might have met with?”

“I don’t, sir, I’m sorry. His last appointment of the day was at four-thirty. I attended him and we left the Assembly together.”

“Who was it with?”

“Primo Roloa. The head of the Freedom League.”

“I know who he is. What was discussed?”

“Just the usual end-of-the-day meeting. They talked about some upcoming bills and went over the expected vote tallies.”

“You shall write a statement detailing every word that was said, to the best of your memory.”

Bottas stared at him like a cow over a fence.

“Now, please,” Gavriel barked.

Casolaba’s aide drew a breath and leapt up to fetch some blank paper. “Certainly, sir.”

The sixth hour became the ninth, then midnight.

Bottas brewed a strong pot of kopi. The wheels of the empire’s justice tended to turn slowly, but Gavriel could not afford to waste a moment.

His reputation depended on it. If someone in Kota Gelangi thought they could commit murder and escape the reckoning, they were badly mistaken.

* * *

Dawn was creeping over the rooftops when Gavriel closed the last ledger. Yarl, who had been dozing with his back straight as a board, stirred and blinked owlishly. Levi Bottas was still awake, but he looked bloodshot and rumpled, his maroon coat dangling from the back of a chair.

“You’re dismissed, Bottas,” Gavriel said. “Go home and return in four hours. We shall commence with the interviews at nine sharp.”

Bottas bowed, obviously relieved to be cut loose.

Gavriel and Yarl gathered a few essential documents and locked the consul’s office behind them.

It was a pleasantly cool morning. Gavriel wondered if Tristo Arpin might be sweeping the square, but no one was about.

Perhaps the man had taken his bounty and gone on a seaside holiday.

It was almost funny. Gavriel had expected to find a city in mourning, but Kota Gelangi seemed to greet Casolaba’s demise with a shrug. Which, he supposed, was entirely in keeping with a province where fortunes might be won and lost in a single day.

The biggest mining operations were owned by a handful of old witch families and their human surrogates. They were the lions, but there were plenty of scavengers who fought over the leavings. Likely Casolaba had done someone dirty, expecting he’d be untouchable—but this time he was wrong.

Above the two men, dark ribbons of bats streamed through the sky, returning to their roosts after a night of hunting. Yarl peered up at the infamous spire atop the Red House. “If only they could speak,” he murmured.

“Indeed.” Gavriel’s lips curved in a rare smile. “I would subpoena them as witnesses and our crime would be solved by lunchtime.”

They headed down the broad avenue leading from the Red House to the district where visiting dignitaries, members of the assembly, and various special interests kept houses.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t secure your usual residence,” Yarl said. “It was occupied by a delegation from Iskatar.” He paused. “The broker suggested an alternative. It was all I could find at such short notice.”

“Our stay is brief,” Gavriel said. “I’m sure it will serve.”

The house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, four stories of pink stone faced by a fountain with frolicking stone nymphs. The inside was worse. Gilt mirrors, red velvet upholstery, and nude statuettes plated in gold.

“Did you rent a brothel?” Gavriel asked.

“It belongs to Councilor Adnan Virek,” Yarl explained, “who is currently serving a term of house arrest in his second residence. He was convicted of perjury in an unrelated matter.”

Gavriel shook his head. “If the scribblers discover I am staying here, they shall turn it into a scandal.”

“Which is why I dismissed the household staff. The broker promised discretion.”

“And I’m sure you paid well for it. No matter, this will suffice.” Gavriel softened his tone. “Get some rest. We have a long day ahead.”

Yarl nodded. “Sir.”

They parted ways, and Gavriel wandered through the house.

Virek apparently collected glass figurines of the Sinn, for they were everywhere.

It was a peculiar local custom, keeping idols of the monsters that laid waste to their mines on a regular basis.

He picked one up, studying the long tail and fierce teeth.

Some experts claimed the Sinn were a throwback to the primordial deity Valmitra, whose form was serpentine when she came to this world. Gavriel could not say if it was true. But something in the mingled blood of angel and witch had created an entirely new species, draconic and bent on destruction.

There were Sinn in Kirith, but they were the forest-dwelling kind, rarely seen.

Their desert cousins were much larger and more aggressive.

He had spotted a few from the air during his travels throughout the empire, but they never came near.

He was not certain he would have survived the encounter if they had.

Gavriel climbed the stairs to the rooftop terrace. Kota Gelangi was more spread out than Kirith, the buildings lower. All except for the Angel Tower, which stood white and gold against the lightening sky.

He sat on a stone bench, clearing his mind in preparation for the day. After a few minutes, a soft scuff made Gavriel turn. Yarl stood in the doorway leading to the stairs, his tall, rather gaunt figure silhouetted against the interior darkness.

“Up so soon?” Gavriel said. “I thought I told you to rest.”

Yarl’s silence was disconcerting. What if he was suffering a stroke? The thought of losing him provoked a rare moment of self-doubt.

I shouldn’t have made him work through the night. Shouldn’t have brought him through the archway without considering the strain.

Yarl was in his seventies now. How swiftly the years had flown by! Gavriel feared the inevitable day his secretary would retire. Edvin Yarl was loyal and efficient, certainly, but he was also Gavriel’s closest companion—his only companion, in truth.

The time would come when he was gone forever. Gavriel knew this. It was the curse of a long life to feel the pain of loss again and again. Now, he silently vowed to all three gods that he would better care of his friend until that day came.

“Edvin?” He rose and took a step forward. “Are you unwell?”

The sun crested the distant hills, washing across the terrace. Yarl’s features were rigid. A counterfeit mask of the man Gavriel knew. Too late, he grasped the truth.

Illusion.

The figure raised a hand and a hammering force struck Gavriel’s chest. He slammed into the waist-high wall enclosing the terrace. There was the snap of bone cracking. For a heartbeat, he teetered at the edge.

Then he was falling. His broken wing flared with agony as he tried to slow his descent. The left extended, beating uselessly against the air, as he plummeted toward the marble fountain below.