Fred stood silently by the rail of the little boat as the riverbanks slid past. They had made good time, the captain of the craft told him, since hitting the Dirion River. Now, six days into their journey from Ceristen, he, Mordred and Jared should be docking at Cobren by evening.

He did not know quite how he felt about the journey so far. It was odd to be idle all the time, after so many weeks spent day after day in hard labour, dawn to dusk. It did not sit quite right in his mind to think that left behind in Ceristen, his family continued to earn their bread with the same difficulty as before.

They were not the only passengers on the boat; there was a old man traveling to his son's house in Mattadon, south of Delgrass, and two young men who said they were sailing as far as the south borders of Mattadon, the extremity of the boat's journey, whence they would find passage on another down to the coast of the sea. Other than that, they spoke very little about their travels or indeed anything at all. The older man was eager to talk, but only about the politics of Mattadon and Delgrass.

So the three from Ceristen had kept mostly to themselves. But Fred, who longed ever for exercise of mind if not body, had found the others poor companions as well. Jared answered his remarks obediently but briefly, without interest, and as for Mordred, something seemed to be disturbing him. Fred often saw him lost in thought, his brows drawn in a look of pensive worry which hardened into impassivity if he knew anyone was watching.

The noon sun soaked the deck in warm rays, heating the back of his neck. Fred turned and walked to Mordred, who stood nearby.

"Mordred," he said softly, "what is troubling you?"

Mordred's eyes jerked away from the white shoreline, fastening sharply on Fred. He seemed about to deny it, but simply stood, his lips tight. At last he spoke, so quietly that it was all Fred could do to hear him.

"Memories," he said. "That is all."

Maybe it was the truth, Fred thought, looking at him searchingly. Mordred sighed a little and wheeled to walk down the deck.

But something rang awry in the words. It was not the whole truth.

≡

"No, we don't want a carriage, thank you." Mordred snapped the words out coldly, clearly losing patience with the wiry, unwashed man who had been pestering them for the past ten minutes, ever since they had disembarked onto the quiet docks.

"But masters, I can take you wherever you desire to go. Not many a hired carriage you'll find as good as mine, and my horse can get you as far as the border of Rehirne by midnight."

"We are not going to Rehirne," Mordred said angrily; a warning flashed in his eyes. Fred could see that his temper was dangerously near cracking. "We are going to the nearest inn."

"And I can take you there too, good masters."

"No." Fred stepped forward. "Thank you, but we do not want any carriage. We are well accustomed to walking, and that we shall do."

There was no leeway for argument in his direct, level tone. The man moved off huffily to seek out less thrifty prey.

"You will be wanting to stay with your aunt?" Fred asked Jared. But the young man shook his head.

"They live outside the village three miles, and it is late already. I will share your inn-room if you do not object."

"No, indeed," Fred answered, and went aside to inquire of a passerby directions to the inn.

≡

Mordred woke before the sun had risen, and could not get to sleep again. Dark thoughts were crowding his mind. At last he rose, crossing the room as noiselessly as he could and opening the door.

"Mordred?" Fred's voice sounded drowsily on his ear.

"Shh. 'Tis nothing. Can't sleep; I'm going out to clear my head." Mordred stepped out and shut the door.

≡

Bulca was three days into the dratted thaw. It was all very well to have the pleasant sunshine and warmth in the unexpected time of early February, but all the man bent over the muddy flower beds could think about was how the crocuses were coming up too soon.

Wilhelm Dickson, Inspector of the Peace for Delgrass' northern riverside precinct, leaned back on his heels and rubbed a hand across his sweating forehead. "Don't come up, you silly bulbs," he muttered. "This isn't spring."

"Fretting about your flower plants, Dickson?" came a lazy voice behind him.

"No concern of yours," returned Inspector Dickson shortly, rising and turning to face his fellow inspector James Harris. "I like to see them bloom, that's all."

"For an Inspector, you are one softie." James Harris chuckled and walked back into the small house.

Inspector Dickson swiped an annoyed hand across his brow again, wiping away the smear of dirt that he suspected was there. Some days Harris was bearable, and other days Inspector Dickson wished they had been assigned fifty miles apart.

"I am not a 'softie'," he muttered, following his partner into the house. "My life is not bound up in flowers, either."

He sighed. Harris thought it was funny, that was all. He had no idea he was being annoying. And for that reason, Inspector Dickson endeavoured to put up with it.

Harris was puttering in the kitchen area, banging pots in a pile as he tried to find a clean one. "Fried eggs, Dickson?"

"Where on earth did you get eggs?"

"Picked 'em up off a lass in the market yesterday."

Inspector Dickson slapped his forehead. "Throw them out, Harris. They're bound to be rotten. Nobody goes selling eggs in the slowest part of laying season."

"She said they were laying extra because of the thaw..." Harris mumbled grumpily.

"For an Inspector, you are one gull," Dickson muttered, unable to resist. He snatched up the eggs and set them in a cloth, to bury outside later.

The door shuddered under the impact of a knock, and Inspector Dickson looked up. "Harris, that thing is about to burst off its hinges. Have you – never mind." He stalked over to the door and yanked it open.

"What is it, sir?" he asked, seeing the short man waiting outside, a grimy apron over his tunic and pudgy arms folded over his paunch.

The man chewed his lip a moment. "I'm from Cobren. Just some miles south of 'ere."

"Yes," Inspector Dickson assented. "I know where Cobren is."

The visitor nodded again. "I'm the innkeeper. We need the Inspector there," he said with an almost ghoulish grimness. "It's murder."

"Murder?" Inspector Dickson stared past him at the sunshine which suddenly seemed less bright.

He looked down at the other man. "Are you sure?"

He wouldn't be pulled out all the way down to Cobren for a tavern brawl gone bad, or someone taken ill in bed.

"Fellow stabbed through the heart," answered the innkeeper. "Nasty scratches all over his face too. Don't know who done it, but nobody's left the inn since night before."

Inspector Dickson turned back into the house and swept up his long knife, buckling it around his waist. He picked up a satchel and slung it on his shoulder. "You are sure?"

"No-one passed the door anyhows," said the man. "The dog barks like a mad thing if they do, and it wakes me up. An' if they climbed out a window, they sure didn't leave no footprints in the snow."

Inspector Dickson walked into the kitchen. "I've no idea how long I'll be gone," he said to Harris. "It might be the morning, it might be three days. You handle things."

"Right," said Harris casually, giving his porridge a flailing stir.

Inspector Dickson followed the innkeeper out the door.

≡

The first thing he smelled when he walked into the inn was blood.

"Stinks, don't it?" grunted the innkeeper. He stumped over to the far wall and threw open a pair of shutters. Light streamed in, and Inspector Dickson saw the body on the floor.

He was no stranger to sickening sights, not after eleven years in the law enforcement. But he had never seen one quite like this.

"Scratches, you said," he muttered, striding across the room.

"Aye, quite the scratches ain't they?" agreed the innkeeper.

"It looks like someone ripped his face open!" Inspector Dickson studied the bloody tears, three of them, ripping sideways across the dead face. "Who was he?"

"Don' know." The man shrugged. "He took a room last night, didn't give me his name though."

Not good. With the man's face disfigured like that, there had better be someone who recognized him here or there was no way he'd be finding out.

"Look here." The innkeeper had left the room and was coming in now, prodding someone in front of him. "I caught this lad and his friend prowling round earlier. Thought you might want to–"

"I'll talk to all the guests, later," said Inspector Dickson, giving barely a glance up as he walked around the common-room. "Just see that no-one leaves." It shouldn't be difficult to determine the culprit here. Most likely a fight. Someone will have heard the noise going on.

He hoped.

≡

"All ready, sir?"

Inspector Dickson looked around at the large, well-lit room, and arranged his pen and parchment on the small table in front of him. "Aye, and thank you for providing such a pleasant place to handle the questioning in. Much easier than going to their individual chambers."

The innkeeper chuckled. "An' a touch more private than the common-room."

Inspector Dickson nodded dryly. "That as well. Now, do send some people on in."

When the innkeeper reentered, he was leading a man who seemed slightly familiar.

"This here's the one who was slinking round," said the innkeeper truculently, pushing him forward. The young man, tall and cold-faced, jerked away at the touch.

"Thank you," said Inspector Dickson tiredly. It was apparent that the innkeeper had found his suspicion, and was not going to let Inspector Dickson ignore it.

"But see here," persisted the man, edging forward and pointing down. "See that?"

Inspector Dickson saw it. There was a dark stain imprinted on the young man's boots, traveling up to the knees of his braccae. "I will attend to it," he said with barely concealed annoyance.

"He had him a friend too," said the innkeeper.

"Send him in later," said Inspector Dickson between his teeth.

Reluctantly, the innkeeper trailed out.

"What do you want to know?"

The young man had spoken, his voice cold and arrogant as his face.

"Little enough," said Inspector Dickson equably. "Your name, if you will kindly give it."

"I am–" he hesitated. "Mordred Kenhelm."

"You are young – twenty?" Perhaps some simple conversation would put him more at ease.

"Eighteen." His chin tilted up in aloof withdrawal.

So be it, thought Inspector Dickson resignedly. "Now, considering that you appear to have a bloodstain on your clothing, perhaps you might explain to me what you've been doing this morning."

"I did not kill him," Mordred snapped.

"I said nothing of the kind," said Inspector Dickson, trying to remain patient. "However, if you don't want people to say you did, you had better tell me everything you did do."

"Very well." If possible, Mordred's chin lifted higher still. The disdain in his voice could have frozen molten metal.

Inspector Dickson felt more pessimistic by the second. He had talked to someone like this before, someone who thought that the law was out to lock everyone in dank cells. He had also once talked to someone who thought the way to talk to the police was as rudely polite as possible.

And what did he have here but the two combined.

The young man spoke, his voice clipped, his grey eyes hard. "I woke this morning; I could not sleep. So I left my room and wandered around. I came down to the common-room and tripped over – that–"

He broke off sharply, and Inspector Dickson scrutinized his expression in that moment of hesitation.

"How long were you roaming around?"

"I do not know." His scornful tone suggested that it was a stupid question. "Half an hour?"

"And how long has it been since you found this body?"

"That was near sunrise, and it must be noon now."

Inspector Dickson reviewed it in his head. The blood was still wet. "Did you hear anything like a scuffle? Weapons, crashes?"

"Naught like that," returned Mordred coolly.

"And that is all to your story?" He was waiting to see what the response would be. For he knew there was more; the innkeeper must have found Mordred at or near the body, and he had also spoken of a 'friend'.

The young man shrugged. "All that needs be told."

Inspector Dickson twitched one eyebrow up, and shook his head.

Mordred's jaw clenched. "As I was getting up, I saw a friend of mine entering behind me. He – he came to me and we spoke awhile, discussing what to do. Then the innkeeper came up behind us like a sneaking fox and pulled us apart, and ordered us out of 'his common-room'."

Inspector Dickson considered awhile. It could have been this young man. 'Twould be, in fact, convenient if it was. His story was full of gaps in all the right – or wrong – places, and had been told in a haughty way that almost suggested he was lying. Some Inspectors would probably arrest him now, particularly considering the telling bloodstain on his breeches.

Unfortunately, Inspector Dickson had too much respect for the law for that. So far he had nothing to contradict Mordred's story, and given it were true, it was nigh impossible to trip over a wounded body and not taint oneself with blood. And in such a case, it were no wonder if someone should grow defensive about it.

"What is your friend's name?" he asked, deciding it was time he got another perspective on the morning, if an equally biased one.

"Frederick Thorne," Mordred said, rather dangerously.

I cannot make him out, thought Inspector Dickson, rising. What was that look for? "Would you stay here a moment?" he said, and walked to the door where he called for the innkeeper, who appeared almost instantly.

"Bring Frederick Thorne here," he said.

A short while later the door opened to admit a second man, older and quieter in bearing than the first. His gaze was steady and direct, but a tenseness flitted through it as he glanced at Mordred. "You asked for me, sir?" he said.

"Aye; thank you. Please, sit down." He gestured to a slatted chair near Mordred's. "I am Wilhelm Dickson, Inspector of the Peace in this region. You are Frederick Thorne?"

"You may call me Fred," responded the other with a nod.

"Well then, Fred, I am inquiring about the murder this morning. You rose early yourself, I understand; did you hear any sounds of brawling?"

"No, sir. I did not rise as early as Mordred, in any case; I came down to the common-room but a moment after he found the man."

"Ah, yes. About that. What happened there?"

"I – sir, what is there to tell? I woke and left to see where Mordred might be, and when I came into the common-room he was getting up from the floor."

"You see," said Mordred. "I had nothing to do with it, but he certainly had even less than I did."

Inspector Dickson turned deliberately to face him. "Your desire to protect your friend is admirable," he said. "However, I would appreciate no interruptions while I am trying to talk to him."

A slight flush came to Mordred's high cheekbones. He shifted coolly away. "As you please."

"Now, Fred – Mordred says you spoke for some time after finding one another?"

"Aye."

Inspector Dickson had expected more elaboration. "About what...?"

"I – truly, it was naught. Naught to concern anyone."

He allowed his eyebrow to twitch up again. "No?"

Fred looked at Mordred. "Truly, sir."

"Nonetheless, I am afraid I can't know that myself. If you would please tell me what you discussed?"

Mordred stood up, knocking his chair over with the sharp movement. "He was calming me," he said, and strode across the room to stare out the window.

Fred met Inspector Dickson's eyes pleadingly.

I am getting nothing out of him while Mordred remains in here at least.

He looked over to the window. "Mordred Kenhelm, you may go. I have nothing else to ask you."

Mordred wheeled and stormed out.

"It was as he said," Fred explained quietly, looking at Inspector Dickson. "He was distraught, that was all, so I sought to comfort him. Yet his pride would not stand for me to say it in his hearing."

"No matter," Inspector Dickson muttered. "You may go as well, Fred Thorne. I suppose you did not recognize this dead man?"

"I do not think I ever saw him. Or at least, never well enough to recognize him under those slashes."

"Ask your friend the same for me, if you will. If this is not to prove an easy matter, someone must identify him or I'll have to abandon the business altogether. But it seems I may be able to deal with it quickly."

"Sir," Fred exclaimed, hesitating as he moved towards the door. "You cannot mean that you suspect him – us?"

Inspector Dickson shrugged. "I do not suspect you any more than the others so far. What I mean is that this man was killed by one of the people in this inn, and there are only a few of you to choose among. It cannot be hard to determine who."

≡

Inspector Dickson uncurled his aching fingers from around the pen, jammed them into his aching forehead, and leaned back in the chair where he had been sitting for the past hour.

He had assumed he would get more help in talking to the other inn-guests. He had not.

Not that there had been a great many to ask. One maid, poor terrified lass, a sea-captain's bride who was going down to join him in Pheth-Pirr on the coast of Arahad. A grave young lad who had accompanied Fred Thorne and Mordred Kenhelm, Jared Earle by name. They had both given him the same information: a sound night's sleep, and no recognition of the body.

The gruff man of about forty, on the other hand, told Inspector Dickson bluntly that he hadn't slept all night, and hadn't heard a single sound but the creaking house. So no-one had heard a brawl of any kind, not to mention that no-one bore any indication of injury – which meant that while simple manslaughter was not yet written off the list, it was far less likely.

Murder, he thought to himself, and shook his head. Not pleasant to think about, and much harder to pin down.

He turned back to the man in front of him, the last one in the inn. "Excuse me, I was lost in thought. You said you woke early, Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, sir," said the other. His brown hair and beard jiggled with his nod. "I always wake up early, at least a few hours before dawn this time of year. So I sat down to write a letter to my sister, and I was but half through when I heard footsteps and the servant lad poked in to say that someone had been killed and we weren't to leave."

"Nothing disturbed you?" Inspector Dickson asked tiredly. "No scuffling or clashes?"

"No, sir. I thought something might have woken me, for it was a bit sudden, the waking, but it couldn't have been a loud or long sound."

Inspector Dickson noted it down. Not helpful for now, but who knew?

"Do you sicken at the sight of blood, man?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Come down to the common-room. I would like you to see the man."

Gregory Wilson followed him down the musty staircase, out into the room that was now shot with long beams of afternoon sun.

"Do you recognize him?" he asked.

There was a moment of silence.

"N-no," Gregory Wilson stuttered. His face was pale, his hands shaking.

"Are you sure?" Inspector Dickson asked, jerking him away so that they faced.

Gregory looked everywhere but his eyes. "Y-yes, no, I mean yes. Yes! I am sure. I've never seen him, never."

Inspector Dickson let go of him, shaking his head slightly. "Mr. Wilson, you are lying."

"I'm not!" cried Gregory, his voice rising shrilly.

Inspector Dickson half-turned, and then spun on his heel to face him squarely. "Mr. Wilson, you are lying to me. You've obviously seen the man before. You are at present under more suspicion than anyone in this hostel. I give you one day to tell me everything you know, and then I will arrest you."

So saying, he left a stricken Gregory Wilson and strode up to his room.

_____________

Well, that was sudden, wasn't it? Who do you think is the culprit?

Good, bad, unspeakable? Let me know!