Crow was just about ready to travel in the morning — nonetheless, he was in the library of Mot Mekess again, trying to decide on the last of seven books Agatha had granted him to take with him as borrows. These weren’t coded books, just curiosities for easier reading when his eyes ached from decoding. It was a toss-up between Mysteries of the Frozen North and Legends of the Forgotten Isles.

  He held the large tomes, one in each hand, and frowned.

  She’ll relent for eight. Hmm. Better make it nine. She likes the aesthetic numbers.

  His ears suddenly tweaked. Commotion, running in the halls, yelling. He bristled.

  Setting the books down, Crow made his way to the door out of the library and popped halfway into the hallway. A liveried servant was running, his back to him. “Hey!” Crow called.

  The man whirled around, face white as a ghost. “S-sir! Sorry, I must go! Sorry! A-Agatha!” He said nothing more, just made a panicked sound and hurried out of sight.

  Crow frowned, exited fully, and closed the library door, making his way to Agatha’s chambers down the hall. He’d just seen her. Well, technically he’d somewhat woke her up early, pre-dawn, before making preparations, so it was some hours hence.

  The door was open. A multitude of voices came from somewhere within. He slinked through the vestibule into the tea room, both rooms built for receiving and being impressive — yet personal — to all manner of high guests. It was a lovely den of culture saturated with ornate furnishings, rugs of intricate design, and quaint paintings.

  He was unsure if he might be intruding but was suddenly rather curious about what was happening. His ears picked up raised voices…

  A red-faced young servant burst from an inner hallway, carrying Marchioness Agatha in his arms, with a teary-eyed maid coming right after and hurrying Crow’s direction.

  Agatha was a ruin, her morning gown drenched and dripping with blood. Her skin was almost nothing but blood, too, from what might have been grievous neck wounds. Her face was clear, at least. Drained, mouth agape, eyes staring blankly.

  In short, the Marchioness was dead.

  Both servants jumped at suddenly seeing him there in the central room. The maid cut off a scream with her hands going to her mouth.

  I’m illusion-cloaked as human, but my feline stealth is impossible to shed, it seems.

  It was then Crow noted a couple of Resemblants passing through walls swiftly, heads swiveling every which way. Searching.

  Jeeves popped into his head. “Crow! I thought you were down the road already. Agatha appears to have been assassinated.”

  Inwardly, Crow felt a growing sting from it which somewhat surprised him. Perhaps he hadn’t known her long, but she was a friend. She was certainly worthy of mourning. Not ‘was’ completely, though. Right? “So I gather. I take it she’s being consulted in Heaven?”

  “Yes. She did have some shock and disbelief at first, but she’s a tough lady, as it were. She’s recovering quickly. Information is coming.”

  Meanwhile, the hesitating servant with Agatha in his arms seemed to replace the fear in his eyes with hope as he regarded Crow. “Sir! Can you help her?! We sent for- but you-...?” He stammered and trailed off, gazing at Crow questioningly.

  Crow took a breath and shook his head soberly. “No. No one can. I’m afraid she’s gone. What you are carrying are her remains.”

  The young man’s face contorted miserably, and he wobbled. Crow rushed to support him, soon taking the body himself. The maid began to wail and flopped onto the floor, grieving as if her own mother died.

  Like that to so many she knew. How she survived as long as she did in this murderous political climate. Too many friends, on top of many family loyalists. Now, they’re all going to be quite angry.

  To show respect for their sake, Crow took the body where the young man might’ve been taking it in the first place — her bedroom, to lay her on the bed. Her eyes seemed stuck open, so he weaved a cantrip to close her eyelids and keep them closed.

  He took the opportunity to inspect the body, too, also using some rudimentary spellcraft to assist. Dozens of small, cutting wounds that went for very anatomically-logical arteries and veins, including the principal target in the neck that supplied blood. She died exceptionally quickly from catastrophic blood loss.

  Agatha had on an enchanted amulet. In addition to poison immunity, it was one of the expensive, persistent wound negators. It had apparently been easily cut through from the multiple simultaneous wounds.

  Someone did their homework.

  “What are you doing?” A masculine voice demanded from the doorway. “Why are you here?”

  Crow turned his head around to see the First Guardian of Oldaster, Lord Doran, a middle-aged brick of a man with a permanent scowl on his face. Behind him were two armored guards, who were looking at their dead monarch with grim expressions. All had swords out.

  Oh, great. He’s not one of ours. I hope I don’t have to deal with false accusations again. We don’t have time for that nonsense.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Crow sighed. “I was picking out loaners to take with me from the library when I heard a commotion and came to investigate. It’s news to me.”

  Lord Doran narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He jerked his head at the guards, who sheathed their swords and moved toward the bed. “You obtained permission, I assume. When?”

  Crow sighed again, even harder, as he moved away from the corpse. “Some hours ago.”

  The guards peered at Agatha but didn’t touch her. They shook their heads, winced, and knelt on one knee to bow. They spoke some prayer about reincarnation.

  No need, but whatever, gents.

  Lord Doran had not seemed to take his eyes off of Crow. He did sheath his sword. “Shortly before her death, then.”

  Crow shook his head. “She died not very long ago, honestly. The servants can probably attest to seeing her whole even ten minutes ago, perhaps.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Magic, of course. You can’t heal some things without diagnosis, for one thing. The same sort of delving can determine the nature of injury. Blood loss from artery strikes, here. A knowledgeable assassin’s work.”

  “Something you know about intimately as well? In addition to unsanctioned sorcery, that is.”

  Crow glared at him. Well, at least they do trials here. “Are you going to arrest me now or later? Because I’d prefer to continue investigating the crime to find the real culprit.”

  Lord Doran opened his mouth but was interrupted as another person pushed into the room, closely followed by what looked like a minor noblewoman — he believed one of Agatha’s Ladies-in-Waiting.

  The Steward, Sir Jon Quinian, saw the dead Agatha with wide eyes and gave a pained cry, running to her bedside. No less grief was evident from the lady as she called out a garbed prayer. They fell on their knees at the bed and cried. Jon took off the cap that Crow had never before seen him without, revealing a balding head.

  Jon was one of theirs. A Devout who was converted around the same time that Sir Oliver was, after the Knightings ceremony of himself, Estara, Dax, and so on.

  Yes. It’s very good that I still have allies here.

  The guards moved out of the way, as they and Lord Doran shifted to the side and whispered to each other. One of the guards soon hurried out the door.

  Jon lifted his head from the bed, tears in his eyes, holding one of Agatha’s hands. He saw Crow and swallowed, trying to collect himself. “Salkin.” Crow’s current alias. “It’s good that you’re here after this tragedy. You… you’ll try to uncover what happened, yes?”

  “Yes, Sir Jon,” Crow replied simply with a firm nod. “She was killed most expertly by multiple severed arteries.”

  Lord Doran cut in. “He should not be involved. He’s under suspicion.” He turned his cool eyes back to Crow. “To answer your prior query, bard, no — you are not being charged at this time, nor detained directly. You are not granted leave to depart from Mot Mekess, however. Go back to your quarters.”

  Crow shrugged at this.

  Jon’s face sobered as he rested his gaze on Lord Doran. “I believe proper law and custom in Oldaster makes a murder of the monarch the province of the Steward of Mot Mekess, not the First Guardian. Will you yield to the law, Lord Doran?”

  Doran looked like he’d been slapped in the face. “What?! Would you seriously trust some vagabond over a loyal, veteran marshal of the march? Jon. Be reasonable.”

  “You know why it’s an issue, Doran.”

  This made the old soldier scowl. “That I might technically stand to gain by her death? You’re insulting me in truth now. My very honor. And you know it wouldn’t be true — I’ve vowed to step aside. You’re no man of the blade, either. How could you possibly handle this?”

  “I am not insulting you, Doran. It’s the law. And the proper martial assistant is the Second Guardian.”

  “That pup will be of no use. For one thing, he’ll cry just like you and that woman at her demise. He still cries after his idiot brother’s death. Hardly how to get things done.”

  “We’re not getting things done arguing.” He took a deep breath and gazed flatly at Doran. “Will you yield to the law, First Guardian of Oldaster?”

  Lord Doran’s mouth opened angrily, and then he closed it. His face went red in a deep, embarrassed scowl. “Yes,” he snarled finally, then stormed out immediately, sparing no further glance for anything. His soldier followed behind. A loud, angry command from the tea room called his other soldier to come.

  The steward sighed wearily. “I will pay for that, one way or another. Salkin, you should investigate further. This is your province, isn’t it?”

  Crow cleared his throat. “The rumors do seem to suggest it. This wasn’t the place of death. I’m slightly unclear on it.”

  “Clear it up, then. Please keep someone with you. I hope you understand. Perhaps Jon Three, if he’s recovered enough. The bloodied one.”

  “Jon Three?”

  “We have many Jons, I’m afraid.”

  Now I understand why it's usually ‘Jon Quinian’ from everyone. I thought he was just proud of his family or something. “I see. I’ll assist as best I can. And yes, I understand a secondary witness being wise.”

  “Thank you. I will remain available by all desired means.” That was code for the psychic vector through Samantha’s realm.

  Crow simply nodded and made his way out. More people were coming in. He saw the young man standing in the middle of the tea room, wiping some blood off with a couple of rags. He otherwise looked around like he wanted to do something.

  Crow met his eyes. “Jon Three?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “By chance, are you up to being an observer while I investigate this death? Steward Jon Quinian has asked me to do so.”

  The servant looked relieved as he nodded. “Anything for the Grand Ma Ma.” He looked down. “I guess I shouldn’t say that, now. Now that she’s gone. Right? It’s disrespectful.”

  Crow shook his head. “Not at all, lad. She’d prefer to be called and remembered just as she was, I’m sure. Come on. Let’s try and find out who did this to steal away the advantages they hoped to gain from it. That’s what she’d want above all, I think.”

  ??????????

  Next Chapter...

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