If Annwn had ever been a pleasant place, that time had been prior to Mab's rule. Beyond the city center of Kollws Kapytlyn, the streets of Blood of Arawn were filthy, strewn with rotting garbage and horse dung. Beggars lined the streets. Some played tiny harps and sang, in a distinctively nasal, plaintive wail. Others simply sat on street corners rattling cups. Most nonofficial buildings were desperately in need of repair.
'I've been in some foul-smelling places,' Silverdun told Ironfoot as they stepped warily down the main road in the district of Kollws Vymynal. 'But there's something truly awful about the stench here. It's like despair mixed with ... rotting fish.'
'Villages on the Gnomic borders smell worse,' Ironfoot said. 'Like feet. Nobody knows why.'
'Never been,' said Silverdun. 'Never seen a Gnomic. Though I was told by a young lady at university that they're really quite noble and deeply misunderstood.'
'Put her alone in a room with one for ten minutes and she'll be telling a different story.'
The street they were on climbed steadily upward toward the summit of the hill upon which the district was built. As they climbed, a slight breeze blew, taking some of the smell with it, and the sun peeked out from behind a cloud. Silverdun looked back; from here he could see most of the city. The Unseelie flag flew limply here and there; outside the walls was a tent city blown by the dust of the plains.
They found the address they were looking for at the end of a cul-de-sac, a claptrap four-story building that had seen much, much better days. They looked around, saw nothing suspicious, and went inside. As they climbed the stairs, Silverdun took a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket.
The door of the third-floor apartment was opened by a tiny woman in a faded linen dress who didn't look them in the eye. 'What is it?' she asked in a small voice.
'We'd like to talk to Prae Benesile, please,' said Silverdun, mimicking an Unseelie accent and trying to sound as pompous and official as possible. He and Ironfoot had agreed to pose as bureaucrats from the Unseelie Revenue Office. It wouldn't endear them to anyone, but the Annwni would be afraid not to speak to them.
'Prae Benesile? He's been dead for years,' said the woman.
'Ah,' said Silverdun. 'Well, there's a tax matter we need to discuss with his next-of-kin then. Do you happen to know where we can find them?'
A man came to the door. He was small but muscular, wearing only breeches. His beard was clipped short but ragged. 'What's this about?' he asked.
'They're here for your father,' said the woman. 'Something about the taxes.'
'Dead men can't pay taxes,' spat the man. 'Or do you Unseelie bastards intend to dig him up and go through his pockets?'
'Tye!' hissed the woman, her eyes wide. 'Please.'
Tye Benesile examined Ironfoot and Silverdun. 'Come in then,' he said. He waved them in. As Silverdun passed him he could smell the brandywine on the man's breath.
The apartment was small, the air stifling. Tye Benesile's wife stood looking at them, suspicion worn into her features. Benesile himself sat on a pasteboard chair and indicated a stained sofa for Ironfoot and Silverdun. 'If it's revenue you've come for,' he said, 'you came to the wrong place. I'm out of work. You should have that written in your book.' He pointed at Silverdun's notebook.
'It's information we're here for, not money,' said Silverdun. He took a fountain pen from his pocket and unscrewed the top. 'We'd like to know what your father was doing when he died.'
'My father?' said Tye. 'My father was a scholar. He studied at a famous university. You should have that written in your book as well.'
Silverdun and Ironfoot shared a brief glance. Silverdun tried again. 'Do you happen to know if your father was working on anything of note at the time of his death?'
Tye Benesile's eyes widened. 'They said that he was killed in the riots on the night you lot showed up, by the looters. But I always knew it was a murder. I told them when they came; I said there was nothing here anyone would want to loot. This was his place then, you know. All he had was his books, and they aren't worth a copper slug.'
'Do you have any idea why someone would have wanted to murder your father?' asked Ironfoot.
'I'm going out,' said Tye's wife. She had a basket over her shoulder. 'They said there might be eggs at the market today.'
'Go then,' said Tye, resenting the intrusion. She stamped her foot and slammed the door behind her.
Tye Benesile pointed at his chest. 'My father always said I should go to university. He said if I worked hard I could do it, but I never wanted to. I
