Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Could you get me inside to check her body?”
“Vitalian checked already; looks like liver failure, acerbated by severe food poisoning.”
“What kind?”
“That remains uncertain.”
I take out the cleaning cloth and hand it to him. “There’s something here . . . I want to see if it’s on her too.”
He sniffs, and his lips flatten gravely. He doesn’t recognise the scent, but like me finds something off about it. He ushers me secretly through the precinct to a basement room, where the nannan rests on a white-clothed table. “Quick, you only have a few minutes before lunch is over. They’ve sent constables to find all those who handled food yesterday.”
“I never properly introduced myself to the aklos and aklas, or any of the refugees.”
“That gives you time but it also makes you more suspicious. By tomorrow, they’ll have your likeness plastered throughout the city.” Wanted for questioning.
“What about Commander Thalassios?” I ask. “He donated some of yesterday’s oats.”
Quin squares his jaw. “I’ll see to it I get the chance to question him.” At the sound of a distant door squealing, we share a sharp look and scan the room for a space to hide.
Only one option. I gesture Quin towards the examination table and he holds up a corner of the long cloth for me to sneak through. When I’m crouched in the whiteish glow, he drops the cloth—but not before I notice my soldad swaying from his belt. What—
I force the query away for another time. Through the gap at the floor, I see Quin’s boots and the end of his cane.
A second pair of boots, more rugged, comes into the room. “Gah. You gave me a fright.”
“Apologies.”
“No harm, no harm. Constables usually avoid coming down here, is all. Think they’ll be affected by restless spirits.” A pause. “But you transfers are less superstitious. Better heads on shoulders, I say. Why are you here?”
“I need help identifying this scent.”
Rugged boots stop close to Quin.
“Have you discovered this anywhere on or in the victim’s body?” Quin asks.
A hum. “Peculiar. Can’t quite make it out. Let’s take a look at her.”
Rugged boots move around the table across from Quin’s. Magic glows, illuminating the white cloth, and stops after a few minutes. “Don’t detect anything.”
“Thank you for your time,” Quin says, and his boot stretches under the table to nudge me. “Could I bother you to take a look at my leg?”
“Of course, of course.”
“May I sit somewhere?”
“Come with me through here . . .” Their boots move into an adjacent room, and I silently scurry out from under the table. I should dash out the door, but . . . one cursory look.
Gently, I angle her head and check her mouth with a silk handkerchief around my finger. The spell the vitalian used didn’t detect anything, and yet . . . I check the silk. It’s ever-so-slightly filmy.
I sniff. Faint, but I’m sure it’s the same scent I collected from the pot at the sanctuary. I check her neck. More traces, as if she’s sweated out some of this mystery concoction.
At Quin clearing his throat in the next room, I hurriedly tuck the handkerchief away and slip out.
Once I’ve made my escape from the constabulary, I head to the nearest apothecary and ask if they can identify the scent. Magic slips over the oil, unrecognised.
“Resistant to spells,” I murmur. Could it be purposefully crafted this way?
The vitalian, a wizened older man with a curved nose, lifts the handkerchief and inhales. “Very faint. Tricky. Tree oil? Mushroom?” He hands it back to me. “You want someone specialised in poisons and antidotes.”
“You believe it’s a poison, too?”
“Isn’t that why you’re so worried?”
I nod. It’s not the first time I’ve scented this. This same scent had seeped into the grass where the redcloak bodies were discovered. Also . . . I recall the snake that bit Quin in the abandoned apothecary, the bitter taste of it on my tongue. I sniff again, concentrating on the bitterness. I recognise it. There must be traces of snake venom in this concoction.
Could it be Vitalian Dimos made the poison himself? But what would his motivation be for poisoning refugees? Unless he has history we are unaware of yet, or his concoction got into the wrong hands.
My frown deepens. “Do you know any vitalians who might identify all elements of this poison?”
“Dimos, of course.”
I visit all the vitalians in the city, carrying the handkerchief alongside mounting frustration. None can firmly identify the scent. Swiftleaf, earthbloom, thundergrass—these are all familiar, but the other components elude them all. By nightfall, my search ends on a final shrug and closed door.
I meander as I think through an encyclopaedia of possible herbs and their possible combinations with the known elements . . . I’ll look through my books—
“Oof. Sorry.” I lift my head to the man I’ve ploughed into. “Eparch Valerius!”