A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (snow like ashes series TXT) 📗

his body garbed in a shimmering robe of emerald green. He settled himself behind a marble desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You are holding my mistress for something she cannot have done.’

The eunuch gave a pained smile. ‘I understand this must be a difficult time for you. But my hands are tied.’

‘Are you not responsible for uncovering treason against the city?’

‘The emperor honoured me with that task. But that doesn’t mean I am not bound by facts. And those which weigh against your mistress are heavy.’

‘But others have already confessed to a plot against the city.’

‘Yes. But none yet to the murder of the lampros, Nikolaos.’

‘Nor has she confessed.’

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet.’

Gerutha tried not to imagine what methods his underlings had attempted for extracting Lilla’s confession. ‘That’s just it. She couldn’t have done it.’

‘She has no solid alibi.’

‘Erlan. Erlan was with her all night.’

‘Alas, where is he?’ The eunuch’s painted lips twitched in sympathy. ‘Besides, Nikolaos’s servant testified to a private meeting between your mistress and the fire-maker. That they parted on angry terms.’

‘She couldn’t have done it,’ Gerutha insisted, ‘because someone else did. I know.’

The eunuch leaned back in his seat and sighed. ‘I take it you wouldn’t come here and make such a claim without good reason. Without evidence.’

‘I would not.’

‘Very well –’ he smiled suddenly and leaned forward again – ‘then I am the soul of attentiveness.’

So Gerutha told him all she knew: of the beggar woman Alethea, of what she had seen, and last of all she produced from her robes the dagger, laying it on the table between them. ‘The real traitor, the real murderer, is still at large in the city.’

‘Hmm.’ Katāros peered disdainfully down at the dirty blade, as if it represented an unwelcome stain in these otherwise spotless surroundings. ‘I understand why you have come to me. And it is admirable that you should wish to help your mistress. But I fear that this beggar’s story and this –’ he prodded a jewelled finger at the fouled hilt of the knife – ‘changes nothing.’

‘But Alethea was so certain. And the timing, the place – it cannot be a coincidence. The man she saw must have been Nikolaos’s murderer.’

‘My dear woman, do you know how many murders take place in this city every month?’

Gerutha sighed and shook her head.

‘On average thirty-five. More than one for every day of the month. Nearly all are committed in the hours of darkness and over a quarter of those occur in the district you have named.’ He gave a light snort and spread his palms. ‘On the one hand I feel foolish stating the obvious – that you should hardly credit the testimony of a woman who, by your own description, is a drunk and a beggar and blind in one eye. On the other, let’s say she did see a man and that he discarded this –’ he glanced down at the dagger between them – ‘object. The chances that he was the man responsible for the murder of the fire-maker are very remote. Very remote, indeed.’

‘It must be worth your time to speak with the woman herself – to hear her testimony. She may provide you with some useful detail. The city may still be at risk—’

‘I think not. The matter is in hand.’

‘Please,’ she said quietly. ‘I know my mistress is innocent. What does it serve the city to hold the wrong person responsible, when those who might harm us all still go free?’

Katāros steepled his fingers, seeming to consider her words at least.

‘She was very clear,’ said Gerutha eagerly, pressing any slight advantage. ‘A beardless man. She saw his face. She said she would never forget it. Never.’

At length Katāros sighed and, plucking a stylus from the table, he started scratching away on a piece of parchment. ‘Alethea, you say?’

‘Oh, bless you! Yes. You’ll find her outside Cornelius’s wine shop on the Street of the Bakers in the coppersmiths’ quarter.’

The painted lips smiled at her. ‘I don’t suppose it will yield anything useful. . . but you may consider it done. Was there anything else?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

On a rise a few miles north-west of the Rhesios Gate, Erlan looked down on Maslama’s army, his right hand resting on Aska’s head beside him. Diseased, half-starved, and surely demoralized after the brutal winter, the Arab host still looked a formidable force.

Two leagues to the north-west, hidden from view in a valley lush with spring grasses, the Bulgar horde was marshalling. Tervel’s thousands would be foraging for their horses, filling their bellies around their morning campfires, sharpening their steel.

The ride south from Pliska had taken a lot longer than the ride there. It took time to muster the many clans and tribes that had started to spread out into the pasturelands with the advent of spring. But word travelled fast, and met with no shortage of enthusiasm, and their number grew and grew on their steady progress south towards the Great City. Now Kosmesy had close to a hundred thousand of his own horsemen at his back. Now Leo had his army. And the hammer was about to fall.

From his position, Erlan could see Arab troops and siege engines filtering out of the gates through the eastern rampart of their camp, fanning north and south to take up position before the land walls. The huge fortifications stood as impregnable as ever – three thick tiers of red and white stone. His blood felt the familiar simmer of battle coming. His body felt as though it had fought a dozen battles already. His chest was a web of scabs, itching like a nettle rash. But he was still standing, he could still hold his sword, and he was ready.

Next to him Einar Fat-Belly leaned against his horse’s rump, gleaning the last scraps off a mutton bone saved from breakfast. He waved it airily to the south. ‘Someone’s getting ready for a fight, hey?’

‘Aye. But I’ll lay they aren’t ready for two.’ So