As he neared his hotel he heard a man call and slowed to a halt as Arken ran to join him.
'I'm glad you're early.' Arken gasped, beating his hands as he fought for breath. 'This damned cold tears at the lungs. I tried to wait for you in the hotel but they wouldn't let me in.'
'News?'
He gave it in a small cafe sitting at a table over a mug of steaming tisane. A place catering to those who had finished their term of duty or were about to start work.
'I didn't find the man you want but I met someone who sold me something he owned. A book. I paid fifty for it.'
The price Dumarest had paid to dispose of two bodies but, if it was what he hoped, the book was worth a hundred times as much. He took it from Arken's hand. A small, stained volume the covers a dull, mottled green. The pages were brown with age, thick with faded writing. Beneath the cover, printed on an attached insert, he saw the lines and curves of a neat calligraphy.
'Celto Loffredo,' said Arken. 'That's a bookplate. He put it in to prove the book was his.'
Or someone had done it to make that exact point. Arken? It was possible, his time had run out and it was his last hope of earning a reward. Or it could be genuine. Coincidences happened and it would be wrong to be over- suspicious.
Dumarest said, 'Is this all? Was there anything else? Clothing,' he explained. 'Jewelry; rings, bracelets, medallions.' Personal items on which figures could have been stamped. Garments which could hold secrets within their seams. 'No?'
'Clothing doesn't hang around. It's used, worn, ripped up to make patches. As for the rest-' Arken shrugged and sipped his tisane. 'Anything that can buy food or shelter gets sold.'
As books got burned but this one had survived. Luck, perhaps. It happened.
Dumarest fingered the volume, wanting to open it, read and examine it, but this was the wrong place and the wrong time. Fatigue would dull the sharpness of his mind and he could miss essential information; a scrap of data which could lead to the answer. He needed to rest, to get rid of the stench of the shelter, the sweat of recent action. The cloak he wore was slimed with dirt and he remembered the lice he had seen.
Arken said, 'I'll keep looking if you want. There could be other things, papers, maps, old stuff like the book.' He lingered on the word. 'Was I right to buy it?'
'Yes.'
'Should I buy more if I find them?'
'Not until I've seen what it is. Fifty, you said?'
An inflated price; Arken would be a fool not to have made a profit. His eyes widened as Dumarest thrust coins across the table.
'A hundred! But-'
'This closes our deal. If you find anything new let me know. Here.' He dumped the cloak on the table. 'A bonus.'
'Thanks. It'll pay for some steam. Why don't you join me?'
'No need. I've got my own.'
The bath and shower in his room which he yearned to use. The hotel admitted him without hesitation and he climbed the stairs too impatient to wait for the elevator. The corridor was empty aside from a woman busy with a broom who smiled then returned to her duties as he headed for his room. The door swung open to reveal the compartment with its window, furnishings, carpeted floor. The bathroom lay to one side and Dumarest headed toward it, jerking to a halt as he saw the bed.
The bed and the woman sprawled across it. Claire Hashein, naked, lying on her back, arms lifted, legs asprawl, a glint of metal in one hand.
Behind him the cleaner screamed as she saw the blood.
A ruby tide stained the sheets and painted the torso with carmine smears from the gash which marred the throat.
Chapter Three
Prisons held a universal sameness but the one on Erkalt was better than others Dumarest had known. His cell was a box containing a bunk, toilet facilities and nothing else. One wall was made of bars. But there was warmth and light and he was alone. They had taken his clothes and possessions, giving him a pajama-like garb of soft yellow fabric, but had allowed him to retain the book. A selfish act of charity; prisoners who were engrossed did not scream, yell their innocence, shout abuse. Noises Dumarest ignored as, lying on the bunk, he studied what Arken had found.
The book looked old, but age could be simulated. Acids could have browned the pages and faded the ink. Mechanical friction could have fretted the covers. Dyes could have added the stains. Celto Loffredo had dealt in antiquities and he would have wanted to maintain a supply of saleable items. If not found they could have been made.
Would it have been worth his while?
Collectors were willing to pay high for items they wanted and desire of possession would blind them to the possibility of forgery. Even on Erkalt such collectors could be found. Would a man, cold, hungry, living on the brink, have hung on to something of worth?
Or had the book meant more to its owner than the comfort its sale could have provided?
The pages made small whisperings as Dumarest turned them, frowning as he tried to decipher the crabbed, faded script. A journal, he guessed. A diary relating the important events of a man's life. A trader; many pages bore figures which could have been a record of profits and losses.
On one page, soiled by a stain which could have been caused by water or wine, he read barely discernible words.
* * *
'… loaded three bales of ossum… will try and get… passage on the
* * *
The light was too poor, the writing too faded for Dumarest to make out more. He turned the pages, tried to read another, his eyes moving over a column of figures, the last heavily underlined. As he frowned at it the bars rattled, the door sliding open beneath the hand of a guard.
'A visitor,' he said. 'Your advocate.'
Shanti Vellani was small, neat, his face sharp, his eyes like those of a bird. Clear, brown, always on the move. He remained silent until the guard had locked him within the cell and had moved away.
'You're looking well, Earl. I'm pleased to see it. There's no sense in anyone beating their head against a wall.'
'You've news?'
'Of course, but first a small matter of business.' Vellani took a slip of paper from an inside pocket. 'Your account to date. It includes expenses. If you'd like to authorize payment?'
Dumarest took it and studied the amount. It was high but the best did not come cheap and he needed the best. He rolled the ball of his thumb over the sensitized portion.
Handing it back he said, dryly, 'I take it the news is bad.'
'It could be better.' Vellani tucked the slip into his pocket then sat down beside Dumarest on the bunk. 'I'll be frank with you. On the basis of available evidence you haven't a chance. The prosecution has a watertight case.'
'I didn't kill her.'
'So you say.' Vellani lifted a hand as if to still any protest. 'But look at it from the other side. You and the victim
