The Pale Locksmith

CHAPTER 32: THE BODY OF EVIDENCE

Rance was hurrying, and his throat did not like it. Already it was burning, and he was barely halfway to The Old White. His legs were beginning to ache as well, forcing him to slow. He had to accept it, he would be late to work. And he hated to be late to work, even if there were nobody who cared.

Of all the mornings to oversleep. It was his fault though, he had to admit. He had been with some friends at an inn the previous night, celebrating the birthday. There had been a lot of revelry and alcohol – and Rance had enjoyed every minute. Being the centre of attention, joking the night away, it had been the perfect opportunity to distract himself from the Bloodbane hunt – and from Mullia. It had been too long since they had all been together, but for an evening they had all been free to not be husbands or fathers or workers.

As Rance had tried to go above walking pace, he wondered if anyone else from the previous evening was feeling as worn out as he did. He kept bustling down the streets, dodging anyone inconsiderate enough to be going more slowly than he was. After what seemed like forever, he arrived at the Department of Necropsy. He was only there for a few moments, but that was all he needed

Then it was on to The Old White, straight into the Lawkeepers meeting. He entered with a crash, then made his way to his usual chair and sat down heavily. Breathing hard, it was a moment before he realised two things. One, he had forgotten to get a news-sheet. Two, and perhaps more significantly, the meeting still had not started and the other men were looking at him in bemusement at his dishevelled demeanour. He wondered where Hemir could possibly be; he had never been this late. Rance wondering about this for a minute. He began by wondering if something had held him up. From there, his thoughts spiralled into more unlikely, more pleasant possibilities. Perhaps he had been robbed, or knocked down by a coach. Maybe he had been eaten by stray dogs.

"Good morning. Everyone settle down."

As Hemir spoke the other men in the room sat down around Rance, who now felt a bit foolish for his rather macabre speculation – even if he had enjoyed it. Why did his imagination always run away from him? He realised that sweat was making his forehead sting. As casually as he could, he dabbed at it with the sleeve of his coat.

The scar was now more than twenty years ago; a memento of a rare brush with danger. One night, he had been on his way back home when he had been robbed, or at least there was an attempt at robbery. The attacker was just some drunkard, smelling of alcohol and grasping a rusted handaxe, of all things. Anyway, he had not believed Rance when he said that he was carrying no coins, and had threatened to chop him to pieces. When Rance was still unwilling or unable to produce anything of value, the man had swung at him. Fortunately, he was too squeamish or too drunk to actually kill Rance, instead just flailing wildly. One of the swings had caught Rance above the eyes, slicing some of the skin away and causing him to bleed profusely. This had been enough to make the assailant flee, leaving Rance standing there in shock, blood dripping down his face. The wound would have been fine, but then infection set in, leaving Rance to suffer under the care of herbalists. Eventually, he had returned to health with only the ugly scar as a reminder of that fateful event. Over time, he had almost forgotten about it - almost.

"Loh, did you have any luck finding that Tailor's girl?"

"I spoke to everyone who lives on the market to see if they had seen anything. And the Tailor said that Barghild.had also spoken to them but nobody else in the square recalls being visited by him."

"Well, his disappearance should now take priority now. Stronglund, can you go to his neighbours and see if they remember seeing him recently, you know the usual thing. And Loh... just ask more people about the girl, knock on more doors, try to look useful."

Rance nodded, unbothered by Hemir's dismissive tone. As gently dabbed again at the old wound, he began to relax. Actually, he had been thinking of the Tailor's daughter a lot. Things were coming together in his mind. He had gotten a flash of inspiration the previous evening, as he had been making his dinner. Many of his best ideas had come to him when he was hungry. Since learning of the incident with the White-Eyed Man, his mind had pretty much stayed on that one narrow road. He had worked out that the sighting was the night of the full moon, meaning the Bloodbane had been out trying to get what he needed. It showed, surely, that Rance had been right all along.

The obvious question, then, was who had been the eventual victim? No body had been brought to Jarud, and none of the death notes from the other mortuaries had said anything promising. In Rance's mind, this just meant that the person probably was still missing. Missing, like Trypha was. It had all made perfect sense, as he had gazed at the bread turning to charcoal by the fire.

Of course, if he were right, there would have been another death by now. The full moon had been two nights ago. Yesterday, when he had visited the Department, none of the guests had met their end through any peculiar means. Rance had tried to be patient, remembering what had happened the last time. But he simply could not help himself, hence his quick visit to Jarud before going on to the pleasure of Hemir's company. The visit had been most worthwhile, for he had seen what he wanted laid out on the stone block. The man was old, but that was not what had killed him. Rance could see the wounds, the paleness of the skin. Though he had not waited for Jarud to write out the death note, he already knew what would be written in that neat, clear handwriting.

BLOOD DISAPPEARED OUT OF WOUND IN NECK