The bodies were charred into anonymity and still smoldering. Eight, Amaranthe counted as she walked around the pile, sodden floorboards creaking ominously beneath her feet. It was a dangerous spot, since the fire had also charred the support posts and beams in the basement. Several boards had already given way and plunged below. A great hole in the floor marked the spot where a worktable had stood. Yet she stayed, breathing air thick with the stench of fire and death, seeking answers from the carnage.
The corpses had been there, piled just like this, when the first firemen walked in. They had left the bodies untouched for the enforcers. The flames had seared facial features, clothing, skin and hair color into indistinguishable black lumps. Amaranthe could not even tell gender for certain.
“Definitely arson, sir,” a rookie enforcer reported to Wholt, who stood near a window. The flooring was more stable next to the walls. “We found empty kerosene tins downstairs.”
“Thank you, ah…”
“Quets,” Amaranthe supplied the name, looking up from the bodies to focus on the younger enforcer. He and his partner had been nearby and had also responded early to the fire. “What else is down there?”
“Just some tools, a bunch of pots stored on shelves, and the biggest kiln I’ve ever seen,” Quets said.
“One wonders why they didn’t just cremate the bodies in the kiln,” Amaranthe mused. “Why torch the whole building?”
“They?” Wholt asked.
She could only shrug, having no idea yet who ‘they’ were nor why anyone would choose a pottery studio for a mass murder. Of course, the corpses could have come from anywhere and been brought here and arranged like this for…what? She shook her head.
“Quets,” Amaranthe said, “take the trolley back to HQ, tell the chief what we’ve found and that we need a steam wagon. The Sawbones will want to take a look at these corpses.”
The smell of singed flesh was turning her stomach. Amaranthe picked a path around puddles and over to the window where Wholt stood. Soot stained the panes that were not broken. Snowflakes flitted in through burned holes in the ceiling, mingling with water dripping from the rafters.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“It’s a mess.”
“Very perceptive, thank you.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Wholt asked. “Someone killed a bunch of people and wanted to cover it up by rendering the bodies unidentifiable. They probably meant for them and the floor to burn completely. The Fire Brigade was just too good.”
“Hm,” Amaranthe said. “I want to look in the basement. Then we’ll have to interview the artists who work here, see if anybody-eight anybodies-are known to be missing and if anything odd has been going on around here. We should find out who owns the building too.”
“We?” Wholt raised his eyebrows. “We’re patrollers, not detectives. The chief will send a lieutenant down to oversee the investigation.”
Amaranthe grimaced. He was right, of course. This case would make the papers, though, probably the front page. Working on it might be just the opportunity she needed to stand out and earn her promotion. Maybe she could get herself put on the investigation team.
“I bet it’s Sicarius,” Wholt said.
Amaranthe blinked. “What?”
Wholt was staring at the charred corpses. “You know, Sicarius, the assassin, the only criminal with a million- ranmya bounty on his head. The only criminal with a bounty signed by Emperor Sespian himself.”
“I know who Sicarius is,” Amaranthe said. Thanks to that bounty, everyone in the empire knew who he was. “But why would you think he’s responsible for this?”
“He’s back in town. I just heard last night. One of the gymnasium pickpockets we’ve been after all winter turned himself in. Seems he was in the baths, doing his looting circuit, and he touched Sicarius’s towel before realizing whose stuff he was trolling through. The thief spent half the day looking over his shoulder and then showed up at HQ wanting to be arrested so he could hide out in a cell.”
“Did the chief send some men to the gym?” Amaranthe asked, annoyed at the idea of a criminal daring to exercise and bathe in public facilities.
“He claims he doesn’t believe the pickpocket,” Wholt said. “I don’t blame him. The last time Sicarius was in Stumps, we lost thirty men trying to get him.”
“I remember.” A couple of men from her class at the Academy had been among the slain. Still, the idea of looking the other way for a criminal did not sit well with her. Throwing men at someone so dangerous might not be the answer, but surely there were alternatives. If she were chief, there was much she would do differently. Amaranthe sighed. “I’m checking the basement.”
Several of the blackened wooden stair treads were broken where the big rookie’s foot had gone through. For once, being smaller than all the men was helpful, for she made it to the bottom unscathed.
Fallen boards, broken tables, and other detritus from above littered the cement floor. When she spotted a soot-covered broom in the corner, she almost went over to grab it. Alas, whoever came to investigate officially would not appreciate her cleaning the crime scene.
Her foot crunched on ceramic as she walked toward the kiln entrance. None of the pots on the back shelves were broken. Why were there shards all over the floor?
She knelt for a closer look.
The first piece she picked up didn’t look like part of a pot at all. Cone-shaped, it reminded her of a cup, but since it couldn’t be set flat, it seemed fairly useless in that capacity. She turned it sideways and then upside down. In the last position it looked a bit like a perked dog or cat ear, though it was far too large to be either.
Other shards she picked up were even less identifiable. It would take someone with a lot of time and devotion to piece together the puzzle.
“There are fresh ashes in here,” Amaranthe called when she reached the firebox.
Wholt dared a few steps down the precarious staircase. “You may not have noticed, but there are fresh ashes everywhere.”
“These are from the kiln, not the building fire.” Amaranthe held her hand above the embers. “They’re still warm.”
“Again, you may not have noticed, but everything is still warm here.”
“You’re not being very helpful, Wholt. I’m saying the kiln was used recently.”
“I imagine people fire pots here every day.”
She grabbed a poker and overturned gray coal to find still-red embers. “How about in the middle of the night?”
Wholt had no sarcastic answer for that question.
“What if…” Amaranthe chomped on her lip and eyed the broken pieces of ceramic on the floor. “What if the fire wasn’t about covering up the bodies at all? Or maybe that was a secondary reason. What if someone was down here, trying to destroy something in the kiln, but there wasn’t enough room?” That seemed unlikely given its massive two-story size. “Or maybe they were making something in the kiln, something they didn’t want anyone to see. Or what if-”
“Emperor’s balls, Amaranthe. What nefarious thing could you possibly make in a kiln?”
“I, well, you’re probably right. I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Well, quit it. The steam wagon is here, and, yup, there’s a lieutenant from the NoDoc District. Better get up here before he yells at you for disturbing things.”
Sighing, Amaranthe climbed the stairs. She eyed the pile of corpses again as she headed for the knot of enforcers gathering inside the front door. Who were those people? Victims? Cohorts? Innocents? Colluders?
As soon as she spotted the lieutenant, Amaranthe jogged over and came to attention before him. “Sir, I’m Corporal Lokdon, and I’ve been looking around here. I’ve got some ideas. Are you choosing people for your investigation team?”
“I’ve heard of you, corporal,” the tall, slender graying man said.
He had? She raised her eyebrows. In a good way?
“You have a reputation for fastidiousness,” he said.
Blighted ancestors. That was what enforcers in other districts knew about her?
