At the inquest's closing session, before the tribunal and high advocate, he reported that no evidence of a crime could be found. Not truly a lie, but then he'd said nothing about the "curse."
Unsubstantiated or not, withholding this was the second time Rodian broke the law. And the very act forced him to remember the day of his acceptance into the Shyldfälches, as well as his promotion to captain, when he'd stood before the high advocate with his sword hand upon an old wooden box.
Within that vessel was the
When Rodian left the inquest that final day, his sword hand ached.
Moral reasoning had told him no good could come from repeating rumors at the inquest. But truth meant everything to him, by both his faith and his duty. He went to temple that same night and prayed—not for forgiveness of the omission, but for relief from doubt in his reasoned decision.
"If he comes back, I wasn't hereig I wasne."
The old woman scoffed, but pocketed the coin as she shuffled on.
Rodian mounted and headed northwest. Strangely, Selwyn Midton's home was a good distance from his shop and the Graylands Empire. And he hadn't been to work in two days.
Eventually Rodian entered a residential sector where the main businesses consisted of food carts, eateries, or bread and vegetable stalls—all the things sought on a daily basis near homes. He was surrounded by small, modest houses, but all well kept, as if the inhabitants took pride in their neighborhood. The farther west he traveled, the larger the domiciles became, until he pulled up Snowbird before a two-story stone house crafted in the cottage style, with a wrought-iron fence across its front. He double-checked the address as he dismounted.
How could a Graylands Empire moneylender afford a home like this? Such parasites fared better than those they fed upon—but not this much better.
A young woman in a slightly stained apron came around the house's side carrying two large ceramic milk bottles. As she tried to shift both to one arm, Rodian pulled the gate open for her.
"Thank you, sir."
He waited until she placed the empties in her cart and moved on before he stepped through the gate.
"Snowbird, come," he called.
She followed him in, pressing her nose into his face. He steered her aside off the front walkway.
"Stay."
He closed the gate and approached the house.
A fine brass knocker hung upon a stout mahogany door. He grew more uncertain that this was the correct home—Selwyn Midton might have given the court a false address. He clacked the knocker, and moments later the door opened. He found himself facing the least attractive proper lady he'd ever seen.
Tall as himself, she was neither plump nor thin, but rather blockish from her neck to her hips. A two-finger-width nose hung over a mouth no more than a slash above her chin. Her skin was sallow, and her hair, once dark, was prematurely harsh gray. Even worse, some unfortunate lady's maid had tried to dress those tresses upon her head. The result was a mass of braids like coils of weather-bleached rope.
However, she wore a well-tailored velvet dress of chocolate brown. Small rubies dangled from her thumblike earlobes. And she peered at him through small, hard eyes.
Rodian realized that his revulsion had less to do with her appearance than the cold dispassion she emanated.
"Yes?" she said, and her hollow voice left him chilled.
"Matron Midton?"
"Yes."
He had the right house.
"Captain Rodian of the Shyldfälchiv he Shyles. I've come to speak with your husband."
"Why?"
He thought the mention of his division might melt her ice with a little concern, but she remained unimpressed.
"It's a matter of city business," he returned. "Is he at home?"
The simple annoyance on her face told him this woman knew nothing of her husband's court summons. She stepped back and grudgingly let him in.
The foyer was tastefully arranged with a thick, dark rug and a mahogany cloak stand. Squeals of laughter rolled down the hall as four children raced out of what appeared to be a sitting room—three girls and a small boy, all well dressed. They stopped, struck dumb at the sight of him.
Rodian remembered his cloak was open when one of the girls stared at his sword.
"Go back and finish your game," their mother said, shooing them down the hall, but she stopped at a closed door and knocked loudly. "Selwyn… a captain from the city guard to see you."
Barely a blink later the door jerked inward.
A handsome man holding a brandy snifter leaned out with wild eyes—not at all what Rodian expected. He'd met moneylenders before, and the ones at the bottom of society all tended to be small, spectacled, shifty, and wheezy.
