The Malykant Mysteries

Chapter One

Chapter One

Konrad Savast’s habits might be considered odd even by the most open-minded of persons. Gentleman of the city of Ekamet he may be, and a wealthy one besides; nonetheless he found it necessary, from time to time, to shed the trappings of luxury and make his way out into the marshy Bone Forest, there to gently divest that dangerous woodland of its most virulently poisonous plants.

He also kept company with few living souls. His most regular companions were the shades of two long deceased serpents, Eetapi and Ootapi, and an apothecary as eccentric as he was.

And tonight, his other companion was a corpse.

Again.

Sitting alone in the dark in the house of a stranger, Konrad’s reflections were not of a pleasant cast. Fortunately for him, the more peculiar elements of his work were hidden from the majority of Ekamet; all, in fact, save for Irinanda believed him to be no more than Mr Savast of Bakar House, a man of good looks, obscene wealth and considerable address. But that comfort only extended so far. His was a lonely life.

No man should spend so much time in conversation with corpses, he thought, as he gazed upon the dead face of the middle-aged man he’d been summoned to visit. The serpents had brought him here. His task, as always, was to uncover the identity of the killer and deliver justice. Not the civilised justice of the police and the courts, but a more primal kind: the merciless justice of The Malykt, the great spirit who presided over the process of dying. Nothing was more abhorrent to The Malykt than the unnatural death of murder, inflicted by those without soul or conscience. As the Malykant, foremost of The Malykt’s servants, Konrad was obliged to be detective, judge and executioner in one.

Sometimes his task was relatively easy. And sometimes—like tonight, he suspected—his task was rather harder. The forty-something man lying before him bore no visible wounds, no signs of trauma, nor any clues as to the cause of his death. There was no tell-tale stain upon the ether to warn him of any interference in this man’s demise. And, most tellingly, there was no lingering soul.

Serpents, Konrad said in the silent way. One more attempt, please. Bind him for me.

The binding involved gathering the traumatised shreds of the victim’s soul and restoring them to the body, briefly reanimating the corpse. His serpents, given to him by his Master, were the agents in this unpleasant business, but tonight they had failed.

It is as we said before, Eetapi said after a few moments. Nothing lingers.

Konrad frowned, thinking. It was unheard of for the soul to depart entirely when a murder had taken place. The spirit, too agitated, indignant and distraught to pass peacefully on to the Deathlands as they should, remained—at least in part—near the site of the crime. That was one reason why the Malykant did as he did: those souls required justice before they could seek rest.

If this man had been murdered, as the serpents claimed, then some part of his soul must be here, lingering near the body he had worn in life. If there was no soul, that suggested that there had been no murder. The spirit had simply passed on.

Why did you bring me here? he queried his companions.

The Malykt sent us, Ootapi replied.

The Master Himself? Konrad was startled—and afraid. He had been woken in the middle of the night by the two shades, as was not uncommon, and brought to this house. Normally they uncovered these crimes themselves, through some means Konrad did not understand. It was unusual for The Malykt to interfere directly.

What was it about this particular death that had The Malykt and his shades disturbed? The man even wore the hint of a smile on his dead face, as though he had died peacefully in his sleep the way most hoped to do. How could there be foul play here?

But if The Malykt said so, then He must be correct. As a poison-master himself, Konrad could think of a number of poisons that would kill quietly and without trace—though none that offered any explanation for the absence of soul. If his Master required an investigation, then he would make one; but the lack of soul made his job much harder, for he could have no conversation with this dead man to elucidate the circumstances of his death.

He stood up from the chair he’d taken and began his usual investigations. The man appeared to be in his mid-forties, with a healthy countenance; no long, wasting illness this, then, but a short and apparently painless one. He was dressed in a working man’s clothes, his hands roughened by labour. The room now inhabited by corpse and detective was situated above a small baker’s shop, and Konrad felt sure that the man was the owner.

A search of the tiny house—three small rooms in all—revealed the man’s name: Pietr Orlov. He was indeed the baker, making a small but sufficient living from his little shop below. No signs of other inhabitants suggested the existence of a wife or children. Nor did Konrad’s search furnish any clues as to strife or difficulties in Orlov’s life that might explain his death. How could such a simple man have attracted the sort of hatred or calculation that might lead to murder?

Whoever had killed him—if he had been killed—had gone to some trouble to ensure that his death appeared to be natural. There were always reasons for that. Perhaps Pietr had been in line to inherit something valuable; that would give a relative a reason to do away with him without wanting to attract suspicion. But given the extreme simplicity of his surroundings, that was hard to believe.

Konrad returned to the bedchamber and stood for a moment, looking down at Pietr Orlov’s dead face. He could not bring himself to take a rib. Such a tool would be necessary for the completion of his task, if he were to find a killer; it was required of him by his Master. But to so violate this peacefully sleeping soul would be intolerable.

And so he left the corpse alone, his cold torso untouched. The body would be discovered in the morning and taken to the cold morgue beneath The Malykt’s temple; he would have two or even three days before Pietr Orlov’s remains would be burned and his spirit formally committed to the overlord’s care. If he discovered any real evidence to hint at a crime, he would find the body there and carry out this unpleasant obligation.

For now, though, he simply called the serpents to his side and quietly left the house.

Puzzling though the case may be, there was one secret source of satisfaction to Konrad: the involvement of poison gave him an excuse to visit Irinanda.

He probably didn’t need an excuse: she was always welcoming, in her prickly way. But the circumstances of his double life meant that Nanda was his only real friend, and that damaged his pride. It always soothed to have a reason to visit.

He found her in her apothecary shop, as usual. She lived above the shop, and hardly left the premises except to scour the Bone Forest for some of the materials she sold.

‘Good morning, Nanda,’ he greeted, happy to find the shop empty. She was sitting on the little chair at the back of the room, reading a book—something about herbalism or poison-craft, he had no doubt. She looked up as he entered and gave him a distracted smile.

‘Just let me finish this page,’ she murmured and dropped her gaze back to the book. Konrad waited, content to watch her read. Just looking at her made him feel better. It wasn’t just her beauty, though she was beautiful to him: white-blonde hair, lily-fair skin and blue eyes looked so exotic compared to his own olive complexion and dark hair and eyes. But there was also a vitality to her that attracted him. She did nothing half-heartedly; she cared deeply about everything she did, and it showed. He found it inspiring.

A small monkey with gold fur ran along the counter towards him, tail raised in greeting. Weveroth was Nanda’s most loyal companion, her friend and her assistant; his intelligence was peculiarly well developed. Konrad hadn’t asked her why. She was almost as secretive as he was.

He was engaged in feeding bits of dried fruit to Weveroth when Nanda shut her book and put it away. She stood up and advanced, eyeing his clothing with displeasure. Most people fawned over him for his fine clothes and his apparent wealth, but to Nanda these things were meaningless. She liked his other identity better: the Konrad who spent hours or days out in the Bones as she did, collecting plants and poisons.

‘A visit from Konrad-of-thecity,’ she said, raising her brows. ‘More corpses today?’

He grimaced. Nanda’s manner of speech could be so… unceremonious. Blunt, even. ‘One corpse,’ he replied. ‘Looks like a natural death.’

‘But isn’t?’

‘Apparently not. I… have to investigate.’

To that she merely nodded. She’d learned of his life as the Malykant, or rather she had somehow guessed. On the plus side, that meant that his involvement with all the worst murder cases neither alarmed nor surprised her.

‘So, what does that have to do with me?’ She took over the feeding of Weveroth, taking the remaining fruit out of his hands. The monkey seemed happier with the new arrangement, so he didn’t protest.

‘I was hoping to consult you on the materials used.’

She shot him a narrow-eyed look. ‘You don’t need my help. You’re at least as knowledgeable as I am.’

‘Perhaps, but I’d still like your opinion. And I’d also like to employ your connections.’

‘I’m listening.’

And she listened without interruption as Konrad detailed the state of Pietr Orlov’s corpse.

‘No signs of poisoning, then? No discolourations, contortions?’

‘Nothing at all. To all appearances he died in his sleep.’

‘Hmm.’ Nanda considered this in silence for a moment. ‘I can think of a few ways in which such a thing could be accomplished. The poison may have been ingested or inhaled, or administered through the ear. As for the substance… I can think of only one likely candidate. But you know what I am going to say.’

‘Nonetheless,’ Konrad smiled, ‘I’d like to hear it.’

‘Ceruleaf. It’s fast and painless, and it begins by putting the victim into a deep sleep.’

Konrad nodded. Ceruleaf was his own guess, but it was a difficult poison to trace. ‘Do you have any of that in here?’

Nanda was already out of her seat before he’d finished the sentence. She disappeared into the back room for a few seconds, then emerged carrying a small phial containing a fine, rich blue powder.

‘I never keep much of it around. I haven’t sold any lately, and no, this hasn’t been disturbed.’

‘You’re becoming quite a detective,’ Konrad grinned. ‘So it didn’t come from your shop. Would you be willing to ask around? Somebody must have sold some—or perhaps been robbed.’

‘Possibly,’ Nanda said. ‘My last task from you was rather more exciting than I’d hoped.’ But she said it with a twinkle in her marvellous eyes, despite the fact that her last adventure had been not only exciting but life-threatening.

‘This one should be simple. Anyway, what are the chances of keeping you away from the case?’

‘Minimal.’

‘Of course. Better to give you something to do, then. I’ve learned that lesson.’

She grinned up at him, a smile full of mischief. ‘I was useful, last time.’

‘And you’ll be so again, good Nanda, I’ve no doubt.’ He removed his hat and swept her an exaggerated bow. ‘You know where to find me if you learn anything interesting.’

‘You’re not leaving already?’ Her smile dissolved into an expression of surprised dismay.

He had been, but he paused, feeling pleased. Nanda wasn’t demonstrative; it was rare for her to express any direct desire for his company.

‘I can stay,’ he allowed, ‘but only if there’s tea. I am parched.’

‘I am sure,’ she said slowly, ‘that such a substance as tea can be found somewhere on the premises.’

Konrad’s next visit was to his old friend, Inspector Nuritov of the Ekamet Police. Nuritov was a mid-level officer who was frequently assigned to cases of homicide. He knew Konrad as an amateur detective; he thought him eccentric, perhaps, but he had no objection to sharing information provided he was compensated.

But there were times when Konrad’s requests puzzled the inspector exceedingly, and the matter of Pietr Orlov was certainly one of those.

‘The man’s dead, you say?’ Nuritov’s eyebrows, the same sandy colour as his hair, furrowed into a frown.

‘Quite dead.’

‘When did he die?’

‘Last night, or early this morning.’

Nuritov shook his head. ‘No homicides have been reported today, Savast. Are you sure you’ve got it right?’

‘I discovered it by accident,’ Konrad said. It was more or less the truth. ‘Looks like a natural death, that’s the thing, but something about it bothers me.’

Nuritov had just returned to his office. He spent a moment struggling out of his coat and tossed his hat onto a chair before he replied. ‘All right,’ he said, sitting down at his desk. ‘Tell me everything.’

Konrad told him almost everything, naturally excepting the part about his serpents. Nuritov raised his brows, but he didn’t ask how Konrad came to be in Orlov’s room; he’d learned not to enquire. Probably he put it down to the vast network of “contacts” he supposed Konrad to have.

‘No signs of forced entry, I take it?’

Konrad shook his head. ‘None, but the house is modest, to say the least. It wouldn’t take much to get in without leaving a trace.’ He knew; he’d done it himself.

‘And no clues as to the supposed intruder’s identity?’

‘Not a one. The house was practically bare. The man hardly seemed to own anything.’

Nuritov sat back in his chair and surveyed Konrad with scepticism. ‘And yet you’re convinced there’s a mystery here.’

‘There may be,’ Konrad sighed. ‘I’m not sure, no. But Orlov had the appearance of being a strong, healthy man. Why would he suddenly expire? It’s a rare thing.’

‘Rare, but not unheard of. Are you sure you aren’t manufacturing mysteries out of boredom?’

Konrad smiled faintly. It was true that he had enjoyed some weeks of liberty since his last case, but he had plenty to occupy him and rarely suffered from boredom. ‘I don’t wish for suspicious deaths purely for entertainment, no. Nor am I seeking a miracle from you. But if you could look into Pietr Orlov’s background for me, I’d be grateful. His family, too.’

The inspector agreed affably enough. ‘If anything turns up about this Orlov fellow, I’ll let you know.’