“Who’s up there?”
“Hey, you clean the square every day, don’t you?” A big phony smile. “I remember you!”
Tristo regarded the eager group. Not one had ever glanced his way before, let alone bid him a polite good morning. He drew a steadying breath as his sons reached his side. Gil whispered in his ear, and Tristo nodded. It was a terrible thing, but such opportunities came once in a lifetime.
“How much will you pay for my story?” he asked.
A spirited negotiation ensued. The winning offer, from Kota Confidential, was more than six months’ wages. Tristo tucked the dragha bank notes into a pocket of his apron and followed the scribbler to the edge of the crowd. She had shiny black hair and a stain on her cream-colored blouse.
“Spilled my kopi,” she said when she noticed Tristo looking. “First off, do you know who it is?”
Tristo nodded. “The dead man is Consul Barsal Casolaba. I saw the chain of office around his neck.”
The notepad dropped to her side. Her eyes widened, drawn past his shoulder to the spire. “Murder or suicide?”
“He was naked and impaled upon the Red House spire, so I would say murder.” Tristo wondered if he should have asked for more money. The other scribblers were casually drifting closer, pretending not to listen.
She made a shooing motion at them. “Get lost, I paid for an exclusive.” She waited for her rivals to slink away, then turned back to Tristo. “What else? I need details. My readers want to know everything.”
He swallowed, voice sinking to a whisper. “The worst part . . . Well, his eyes were burned from the sockets as if he’d seen the Great Serpent herself!”
Chapter 3
Gavriel
“Well, Morningstar?” Consul Cyranthe Dagan regarded him through her half-moon glasses. “Will you agree to look into the matter? You are Sion’s chief magistrate, after all.”
A short woman with curling white hair and quiet resolve, she was the highest-ranking human in Kirith. Fifteen minutes ago, she had turned up unannounced at his residence to inform him that Barsal Casolaba was dead and this was somehow Gavriel’s problem.
“The answer is no,” he said firmly. “I’m far too busy with other matters to travel at the moment.” He glanced at his desk, where a stack of papers awaited signature. “Besides which, violent crimes are investigated by the cyphers.”
Cyranthe was unruffled. “I expected you to refuse,” she replied, “but as you well know, this is a politically sensitive case. Casolaba had enemies in high places, and one of them impaled him upon the spire of the Red House! All of Kota Gelangi woke up to the gruesome sight. The murder must be solved quickly or it will erode confidence in the Assembly, and perhaps the empire as a whole.”
Gavriel wandered to a shelf of legal texts bound in black and gold, selected a volume at random, and pretended to immerse himself. “So, who is on this long list of enemies?”
“The opposition party in Kota’s Assembly, for one,” she answered. “The witches, for another. Neither trust the other side to conduct an impartial investigation.”
“I’m sure they can reach a compromise.”
From the edge of his eye, Gavriel saw a crooked smile cross her face. “They already did. You, Morningstar.”
He closed the volume and ruffled his wings. “That is unfortunate as I must decline.”
Cyranthe leaned forward, a small silver orrery swinging from her neck. Before she was elected consul, she chaired the astronomy department at Grunewold College.
“Gavriel,” she said with uncommon urgency. “You are known throughout the empire to be impartial, showing neither fear nor favor in your judgments. You care nothing for influence and less for money. Only a just result. There is no better man for the job.”
“I am not well liked in many quarters,” he pointed out dryly.
“Which only proves my point,” Cyranthe countered. “Whether or not people like you, your name is unimpeachable.”
He moved to the window, his reflection ghosting against the glass. “Why then,” he asked, “do you think that flattery will sway me?”
Cyranthe rose from her chair. Her reflection joined his in the window. “Just listen,” she said. “Already the whispers have begun that agents from Kievad Rus had a hand in Casolaba’s death. There are interests that would fan these flames into civil war. Is that what you want?”
“Obviously not.” He moved to the hearth. The flames had dwindled, much like his enthusiasm for this conversation. “Are you certain the witches would not perceive my presence as impinging upon their authority?”
Cyranthe’s eyes gleamed with triumph—she believed she was winning. “The witches asked for you specifically. So did the deputy consul, the ambassador from Kievad Rus, and the leaders of both the Freedom Party and the Miners’ Union.” She sounded bemused. “In fact, you are the only thing they seem to agree on.”
