1.8 A Murder Most Obvious

Beyond the unguarded gate, the desert path opened out into a hexagonal common, with fenced plots of peat anchoring weird feathery ferns dotted all around its edge. The octagonal mud buildings which Silven took to be houses craned and jostled to be centre of attention on all sides, yet no-one was to be seen in the narrow alleys between them. It appeared to Silven that the whole town had, in fact, gathered to welcome him on the far side of the common. As soon as he appeared, man, woman and child surged forward with a cheer to envelope him in their loose robes and pat his head like a dog. Silven tried to smile, but he could only stare in wonder. It was truly a hero’s welcome.

At last, the crowds quietened enough for a dark-haired young woman in a striking flowing orange dress to come forward and wave her hand in an exotic salute. “Praise be to the stranger! The fools of the false idol Izrin are no more. Trade shall come again. Our children shall fear starvation no longer. The rivers of rationality shall flow once more. Praise!”

“Praise!” cried the people as one, and then they turned to the alleys and dispersed as if nothing had happened. It was at least as startling as the gathering itself.

Silven shook himself free of his trance and approached the woman, who remained at the centre of the meeting place. Already, a cart which must have been concealed from the thugs at the gate was rolling into the settlement, laden with baskets of turnips. Somewhere up ahead, a group of children laughed loudly at their friend’s joke. Silven relaxed. Was this really all his doing?

“Hello,” he began awkwardly. “I just wanted to-”

“Begone, foul stranger!” she snapped.

Silven almost took a step back at the sudden scowl clouding the woman’s face. “Excuse me?”

“I’m keeping my eye on you. Don’t be thinking your false idols will go unnoticed!”

Silven decided it was best to take that step back after all. “Okay, okay. I’ve got no idols of any sort. And if you remember, I’ve just got rid of-”

“I’m watching!” shrieked the woman, pointing a shaking finger at the pale figure before her. And with that, she swirled her dress and scurried off towards the larger buildings beyond the common.

Silven wandered off to the right in a daze. In his peripheral vision he detected dozens of eyes watching him anxiously from openings in the mud walls. A burly man leading a twelve-legged pack animal spat at the newcomer’s feet as he passed. Gates to branching alleys slammed in his face as he drew close. The laughter and joy had turned to a dark, oppressing silence in the still air. Silven walked on and waited for inspiration.

He reached another public square amidst the clutter of houses. And it was square this time. A tangled garden of carnivorous plants covered most of it, their fanged lidded heads straining against their stalks as men and women tiptoed up to throw away scraps of meat and unnameable vegetables. Silven blinked. It seemed as though this ‘famine’ had never happened.

He became aware of grinning men swaying out of the ground at the corners of the square. There were sandstone steps leading down beneath the garden. He endured the curses of the residents and forced his way below. It was as he suspected – a dark and dingy bar crowded with rickety tables and stools. He saw heads turning and quickly made for the stone counter at the far end. The barkeep looked unsure but quickly put on a smile for his newcomer. “Welcome to Desert Marsh, friend! Rumour has it you’ve seen off those bluecloaks. Nasty lot, spreading their filth about gods and creators. Good riddance.”

Silven sat down and massaged his aching legs. “Well, it’s nice to see a friendly face, mister...?”

The man quickly lost his smile. “Ho ho! That was just an expression, you know. We’re not friends. Not even close! But I take it you do support the new spoon takeover bid in the Table Treaty?”

Silven was growing impatient. “I’m not answering that, and I don’t care if we’re friends. But what I do expect is a little appreciation for, you know, stopping a blockade of your whole town! What is your problem?”

The barkeep turned and served a vile yellow liquid to a wordless man. “Look ‘ere, stranger. We’ve not got a problem, it’s just we’re a respectable faction, you see. We’ve got semi-autonomous authority over our town. And we take reputation seriously. After all the rebellions hereabouts, the council decided to set all strangers as hostile targets.”

“Meaning you’d have tried to kill me yourselves if those thugs weren’t out there?” sighed Silven.

“Exactly!” The barkeep beamed at the hero’s intelligence. “Anyway, Scroll Seven of the Faction Reputation Reaction Regulation states that any act benefiting more than ten citizens of Desert Marsh elevates our response to Unfriendly. Congratulations!”

Silven chuckled bitterly. “Yay! Do tell me, what are my amazing benefits?”

The barkeep counted on one meaty hand. “Well, let’s see. We don’t murder you, we let you in, you can get your weapons and armour repaired, you can buy basic goods, and we can demand you do things for us. Oh, and I’ll let you rent a room for a few nights. Impress us more and you’ll soon learn the true extent of the generosity of-”

An agonised scream rang down the staircase. The rolling mumbles of another gathering crowd soon followed. Silven reached deep into his pockets and pulled out a surprise sword as the patrons shuffled to the exits. He had the feeling he’d be finding leftover delights like this from his armoury quest for a long time to come. He threw it down on the bar and ran for the nearest stairs. “I’ll take that room thanks. Hope that covers it.”

Outside, troubled faces looked down at something in the entrance to one of the alleys. He pushed his way to the front, and closed his eyes. A body lay spread-eagled on its back, covered in blood. It was a young, slender man, and his piercing blue eyes stared upwards in fear. A single stab wound still gurgled in his chest. “No, it’s Corril!” screamed a pretty woman, falling to her knees to caress the victim’s pale cheek.

Silven looked on, puzzled. An old bearded man in a smart jacket strode forward and shook a fist angrily in the air. “Death to the idol-worshippers! When will the curse end?” He regarded Silven and stroked his hairy chin. “Maybe now, perhaps....”

Silven folded his arms resolutely. “I don’t think so. You people spit at me one moment, and want my help the next?”

The man nodded. “That’s how it works at Unfriendly level. And besides, have you got anything better to do?”

Silven thought, and suddenly pressed fingers to his painful temples. There was a hazy cloud of vague memories, a jumble of recollections from his adventures... but nothing was clear. All at once, everything seemed wrong. His life, his hopes, his dreams were nothing. He felt like a blank slate. What was he even doing? Since he woke up in that prison, he had been so focused on moving on that he hadn’t considered what he was actually moving on from.

He looked up into the hysterical eyes of the old man. He had to keep going, he knew that much. He sighed and engaged in the situation at hand. “Okay. Let’s start with the basics. Who are you? What’s going on? Who is that?” He pointed an unauthoratitive finger at the body and the growing pool of blood. It was clear he hadn’t been lying there long. If he hadn’t been so concerned with himself, he could have been straight on the killer’s trail. But now, he might as well learn all he could.

The man bowed pompously and cleared his throat. “Lord Eleganto, Desert Marsh council member, chief correspondent to the king, former editor of the Solmond Schooler, proprietor of Elegant Perfumes and Powders, foremost collector of antique quality stuffed bears in all Oldeburgh. At your service, I suppose, if I must, for the time being.”

Silven waved a hand encouragingly. “And the fallen gentleman?”

Eleganto looked startled. “Oh yes, I’d quite forgotten that grisly business. And now I am filled with deep sadness once again. He is, I am afraid, Corril the Seeker, Desert Marsh council member, chief combatant against rising religions in the area, former scoundrel of the Eastern Territories, proprietor of the Common Sense Cafe, foremost collector of casual romantic encounters in all Oldeburgh. He will, unfortunately, not be at your service this afternoon.”

Silven frowned. “What is all this about religion?”

Eleganto was not amused. “It’s what we stand against! The uncapitalised desert marsh was long a sacred site of all sorts of mystic hippies. They said its bizarre geography could only be evidence for an engineer, a conscious creator. But Desert Marsh was founded on the principles of science and rationality. The Silicarco Academy just up the street is the oldest institute of true learning in the kingdom. But I digress. Recently, the dregs of society have comforted themselves with a little bit of character creation. We’ve had dozens of new cults creeping out of the woodwork. Young Corril here was tasked with rooting out insurgents in town. He must have gotten a little too close to the truth today. And he was the only detective around. Can you avenge him?”

Silven didn’t answer. He did not feel at all comfortable taking sides right now, in this strange place all alone. The Izrin fanatics had attacked him, but was there more to this case than met the eye?

He took a step back and examined the scene. There must be some lead, here in this narrow alley. A hair, a fingerprint, a weapon. He waved the wailing mourners aside and looked straight at a much larger red puddle beyond the savaged corpse. It was spilling from a large smashed pot of paint at the foot of a pile of crates balanced against the nearest house. “Errr, was that like that when you got here?” he asked the weeping woman by Corril’s side. She nodded dumbly. His eyes followed the trail of bright red footprints as they zigzagged up the street. He blinked slowly. No other indents marked the convergence of the crowd on the edge of the square. It was as if everyone was floating above the path. All except the clumsy oaf who knocked the paint over. Surely not the killer?

Silven stared in disbelief. “Did you see anyone suspicious going that way? You know, through the conveniently placed shiny mess that could only lead straight to the suspect?” The woman looked up the street as if nothing was there. She shook her head. “You’re the investigator, stranger.” And then she rounded on the old man. “And what was this you say about casual encounters?”

Silven followed the footsteps as the argument ignited. He leaned closer. Yes, it wasn’t just red... it was glowing. He shielded his eyes and shuffled off in pursuit of the attacker.

The cramped houses soon gave way to neatly terraced reed beds and the larger stone buildings he had seen from the road. There were windows of fine brass instruments, a courtyard with a huge telescope pointed at the sky, and little groups of scholars talking quietly on wooden benches. Silven pressed on towards the largest building close to the rear wall of the town. The trail never faltered, the paint never ran out, and the glow only grew brighter.

The building was, of course, Silicarco Academy. It branched out from a golden entrance hall into two large elaborate wings covered in tall spires and ornate railings. The path leading up to the great iron door partitioned the grounds precisely into two halves: one of carefully swept sand, the other of jet black peat. Solemn women turned in shock as he followed the shining trail off into the sandy side and off round the corner of the left-hand wing.

All at once, the trail vanished. Silven turned round and looked back the way he had come. There was no sign of the paint now. As silly as it sounded, he couldn’t shake the feeling it had served its purpose and disappeared before he could be followed. But what was he to do now?

A sudden muffled wail warbled out from behind a nearby window. Silven approached and peered through the frosted glass. He could just make out the vague shape of a man pacing back and forth inside. He pressed an ear to the cool pane, and listened. “Oh, what am I to do? They’ll never find me. He was the only detective in town. But how do I carry on my research? I’ll bury it, but no....” Silven stood back and whistled. So this was Corril’s killer, that much was certain. But the question is, what was he to do now? He briefly considered alerting Eleganto. But then he was potentially handing over this man to instant death. No, better to talk first.

Silven examined the window, and couldn’t help but mutter in surprise. There was a large lock on the outside of the frame. To what end it was there was anyone’s guess. The key would have to be huge. In fact, it would have to be about the size of...

Silently, Silven drew his sword and compared it to the slit in the metal box. It would be a perfect fit. He looked around cautiously, but no-one was in sight. There had been a murder, after all; everyone had been making their way to the scene of the crime. It was now or never.

Silven slotted the tip of his sword into the lock with the faintest of squeaks. And then, he looked down, dumbfounded. What was he to do now? He’d never seriously considered he would be picking a lock on a window in a secure educational facility before, and cursed himself on his lack of knowledge in such an area. He jiggled his blade, and found he could rotate it slightly to the left and right. It didn’t seem to do any good. And then, he forced it a little more. A tingle shot up his arm from the lock. The metal of his blade jingled as it vibrated violently in his hand. “Arrgh!” he cried, and pulled his sword back to nurse his biceps. And that was when the window clicked open and rolled upwards to reveal the simple study within.

Silven peered in at the pale man. The pale man stopped in his tracks and peered out. A moment went by, and then the scholar tugged at his velvety green sleeves and wept. “Oh, not a detective! I never thought I would be incriminated in the death of Corril the Seeker, who I have just killed down in Maneater Square. To think that I, Professor Grennel of the Earth Sciences Wing, and resident of Number Two Spidery Way, were to be caught by an outsider! How ever did you find me?”

Silven tried to hide his amazement. “It was a hard mystery to crack. But after careful deduction, the glowing red paint leading straight to your office did help. So, why do it?”

“It was self-defence!” pleaded the intellectual. “My research, it’s, well, a little different from the general direction of my peers. But I’m not a religionationist, I promise! Anyway, you’ll never find out. That is, unless you help with my studies. If you give me a piece of unexpected evidence that the world works in an interesting way outside the realms of known biology, chemistry, physics or astromagicry, I’ll let you in.”

Silven burst out into hearty laughter. When he could control himself, he sheathed his sword and addressed the professor. “Good one! I don’t know how you have the nerve to ask for my help when I’ve caught you red-handed. I could turn you in right now. But I wanted to hear your side of the story first. So I think you do have a little bit of explaining to do. I’m coming in. Don’t try anything foolish.” He raised a foot through the frame. It bounced back against the opening with a faint hum that seemed to penetrate deep into his skull. He winced and tried again to no avail. “What’s....happening?” he growled through gritted teeth.

It was Grennel’s turn to laugh. “I haven’t let you in, remember?” His eyes focused beyond Silven’s shoulder. “Uh-oh. Trouble. Quick, show me the evidence.”

The confident grin on his face sent a shiver down Silven’s spine. He turned and beheld a squadron of soldiers approaching the window, swords drawn. Each man wore a tabard of yellow and black above his chainmail. They halted a foot from Silven and looked on silently. “And who may you be?” Silven ventured.

The front guard drew up to his full height. “Corporal Dilsen, of the Desert Marsh Militia. We serve as the fair and impartial justice system of our great faction.”

Silven looked puzzled. “So where were you when your ‘great faction’ was besieged by fanatics?”

Dilsen seemed genuinely confuddled. “The militia only exists when the council is in full control. Our primary directive is to provide an easy visual symbol of who’s in power. Now you’ve freed us, we can protect once more.”

Silven eyed the cheeky murderer behind him and made his decision. “Whatever. You’ve come to the right place. This gentleman and scholar behind me – Grennel, was it? – has confessed to killing a member of that council you serve. Time to take him down.”

The expression of confusion never left Dilsen’s face. “Oh, we don’t know nothing about that, sir.” He produced a hastily inscribed scroll and puffed out his chest. “We’re here to arrest Silven, unknown warrior, for the successful lock picking of a window on private property.” Two guards stepped forward and reached out for Silven. “You’re under arrest.”

“What?” shrieked the outsider. He pushed back the guards and rounded desperately on the window. “Okay, professor, you win. Do you know there are at least twelve species of flowering shrub in the witch’s lands?”

“Not interested,” smirked Grennel as gloved hands clamped down on Silven’s shoulders.

“Red sparrows use male song pitch as a means of sexual selection!” He elbowed a guard in the chest and struggled towards the window. He bumped his nose against the invisible boundary and felt blood trickling down his face.

Grennel looked delighted. “Oh, really! I must remember that!” he chirped sarcastically.

Silven wrestled his captors to the ground. As he writhed in the gritty sand, Dilsen swaggered up and crouched by his ear. “I see you’ve assaulted my associates. I’ll have to add twelve hours to your imprisonment now!”

Silven gave up. “For a total of?” he gasped.

“Two days,” replied Dilsen calmly.

Silven considered, relaxed, and brushed himself off. He stood and limped off with his angry rivals. “Cheerio!” called Grennel in the background.

Silven did his best to ignore the murderer. “So, how did you find me?” he panted to Dilsen.

“It’s our job,” was all the Corporal said.

* * *

There was a vicious sandstorm on the afternoon Silven walked out into Maneater Square. As soon as he had been bundled into his uncomfortable cell, he had pulled out his magic alarm clock and slept the sentence away. As he left, it seemed Dilsen and company could hardly remember his crime at all.

The bar under the gnashing plants was quiet, and the barkeep hailed him as soon as he descended the stairs. “That sword was worth three nights, you know. You’ve still got one left.”

“Oh, good,” mumbled Silven as he opened the indicated door. The room was not much better than the jail, but he needed somewhere to collect his thoughts. Something about Grennel had resonated with him, but he couldn’t quite get his head around everything just yet.

“Hellooooooo!” said a sing-song voice from somewhere within the room. Silven’s eyes rested on the pesky rodent on his straw pillow and drew his sword. “I’ve had enough of your kind!” he spat.

The mouse, who was sporting a top hat and cane, waved a paw carelessly. “Enough of that. I’m not going to dictate where you go and what you do. I’m just concerned you haven’t levelled up yet.”

Silven vaguely remembered the fanfare by the gorge and sighed. He sat down on the bed. “So, how can I get even more efficient at messing up my life?”

The mouse brightened. “First off, your magic point, remember?”

Silven looked at himself in the mirror-like blade. “I don’t like fighting, but I don’t want to die if I get involved in something else. I’ll hit things a bit harder for now.” He tapped his sword arm and closed his eyes as the wave of power rushed over him.

The mouse clapped excitedly. “Bravo! That means you qualify for your first strength ability. I’ll choose.” He scurried up and patted the warrior’s weapon. “Now you can do super-strong mega attacks! The longer you poise for a strike, the harder it becomes. Just don’t end up like Ashleigh. Cut a hole in the floor of Rockborough Cathedral and fell seven stories to her death.”

Silven stiffened. “Who’s Ashleigh?”

The mouse waved his paw again. “She’s not of this world. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, try it out!”

Silven tensed his arm and felt his sword straining to unleash its might. “Not too long!” squeaked the mouse, backing off.

Silven struck. His sword flew downwards with a thunderous crack, straight into his unfortunately placed bedside table. The wood parted like butter and the ink and quills set neatly upon it clattered to the floor. “Oh no! Sorry!” whined the mouse, and off he scampered for the hole in the far skirting board.

No more than a second later, the door crashed off its hinges and landed in a cloud of dust. Silven jumped up just in time to see Corporal Dilsen climb through the wreckage with a handful of militiamen. This time, his scroll was much longer, and his face was far more serious. He began to read before Silven could say a word. “Silven, mystery warrior, you have been found guilty of causing damage to private property within the limits of the town. Taking other misdemeanours into account, under the guidance of Scroll Nineteen of the Faction Reputation Reaction Regulation, we have set the town’s reaction to you as Hostile.”

Silven felt his stomach drop. “Meaning you’ll kill me on sight?”

“Absolutely!” beamed Dilsen. He drew his sword and advanced.

Silven fumbled out his Fast Travel Supreme. “Time to go!” he called and twirled his finger at Gigglewick.

“Cannot fast travel when enemies are nearby,” droned the parchment.

Silven looked up and grimaced. “Ah, what was that expression.... Great Gurzelwuck?” He raised his own sword and pounced towards the door.