Chapter 9: Smoke And Mirrors

Somebody, probably my accountant, once told me that the only sure things in life were death and taxes. Personally, I thought that was a load of crap. The taxman could be bought, and you could wake up one day in your sister’s pocket plane after a short stay in Hell, but only if you were a Bhaalspawn. Poor Farrahd had to play by the rules.

Imoen sat on a polished teak table and swung her feet back and forth, scuffing her boots on the rich carpets. I leaned against the doorframe and wished I’d brought my smokes. Farrahd’s den was crawling with the city guards. Some of them had their wands out to capture images of the scene, while others argued about how far the fire had burned down at the time of death. Everyone avoided looking at the body, and with good reason. Farrahd wasn’t all that good-looking in life, and things had gone downhill after death.

“Hey, Anchev!”

I looked up. Trade sauntered toward me, wearing a grin that threatened to swallow his face. I edged back a bit, making damn sure I had a clear shot at the exits. For all I knew, he was about to pin Farrahd’s death on either me or Imoen. “What’s the story, Trade?”

“No need for the long face. You’re off the hook. Deta’s spell fixed the time of death at half-past three, and my secretary tells me you were in the office just then. No, I found something else.” He rocked back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “Looks like our man overdosed on Bittersweet syrup.”

“Bittersweet? The hell’s that?”

“It’s used to treat bronchitis,” said Trade. “Small doses ease breathing and relieve pain, but more than a spoonful and you’re a goner.”

That explained why Farrahd had been so thin. I wondered just how long he’d been ill, not that it mattered now.

“Are you going to have Moore cast that stupid spell of his?” Imoen asked. “Or did you want me to do it?”

Trade shook his head. “Magistrate’s satisfied that it’s a suicide, so there’s no real need. Plus I don’t want to deal with the Cowled Wizard red tape tonight. Let’s save that for the cases that need it.”

“Inspector!” One of the guards came forward, brandishing a torn scrap of parchment. Trade skimmed through it, raising one bushy eyebrow, and passed it to me.

I smoothed it out, peering at the ornate script. The note was terribly blotted, letters straggling like wayward children, but I managed to get the gist. It read:

Unfortunate circumstances force my hand. One cannot struggle against Fate.
Please accept my apologies for what I have done. Murder is not the
sort of deed I can be proud of, but I did what I felt I must.
Tell your brother that I am sorry about the wine, but
a detective must always watch his intake.
I am feeling a bit strange now, so I shall end this charade. I hear the guards
rushing to the scene. They are most diligent. Forgive me, Father. And oh, my
Surayah, I feel so close to you now. Wait for me.

Yusef Farrahd

Yet another guy telling me to lay off the hooch. I'd have been pissed if I wasn't so puzzled. “Strange phrasing,” I said. “And his writing is really bad, even for him. Lots of blots.”

Trade didn’t seem bothered by that. “He must have written it after he took the Bittersweet. Disorienting effects, you know. Dizziness, nausea, that sort of thing.”

Imoen read the note with a little frown on her face, her blue eyes darting over the page. I could see her mind was doing a little overtime. She shoved the paper at me and headed over to the stairs.

I shrugged and handed the note back to Trade. “Looks like your case is solved. Congratulations.”

He nodded with satisfaction. “Pity we couldn’t track down the actual perpetrator, but at least the true villain is out of the way. Someone should inform Lady Mirielle of this development.”

“I’ll take care of that. She’ll be pleased.”

Imoen was nowhere to be found, so I said my goodbyes and left the Farrahd estate, trusting that she’d catch up. I tried to shake off the air of melancholy, but it clung closer than a dame’s perfume. Reading a dead guy’s last words will do that to you.

I massaged the bridge of my nose, feeling an ache like a dagger between my eyes. Trade and his men had put in their time. They’d figured out the case and wrapped it up with a neat little bow. Something still stank about Farrahd’s death, but then again, something always did. A cold wind raised goosepimples on my arms as the fat orange sun sank below the horizon. I settled my cloak more firmly against my neck. Just a little farther and I could go back to trailing stool pigeons and boozing it up in the Crooked Crane. All I had to do was tell Sis.

My amulet flashed. I held it up, keeping the other hand on my blade. “Anchev.”

“Heya, Sarry.” For once, Imoen didn’t sound too cheerful.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Upstairs in the Farrahd estate.”

“Practicing your lockpicking?”

“No, silly. Didn’t you read Yusef’s suicide note? I’m just looking where it told me to.” I could hear her grin clearly over the connection. “Don’t tell me you missed it.”

Huh? I tried to remember the letter’s exact wording for the clue I had missed. I couldn’t think of anything, but I knew Imoen had a good eye. “Of course I saw it. I was just testing you.”

She didn’t fall for it. “Yeah, okay.”

I quit acting like a jerk and got down to business. “Find anything?”

“Yeah. Lots of shady deals, lots of pretty jewels, and two very interesting notes. Seems somebody did write him about the Coltrane shipment, and all but spelled out that he could hurt their business by messing with it.”

I stood a little straighter. The case wasn’t closed yet. “And the other note?”

“Written by the same person. It warned that a certain brother and sister duo was coming for a visit.” Her voice hardened, a hint of steel evident beneath the chirp. “Said to take whatever steps he deemed necessary to shut our traps.”

“Farrahd was never one to listen to good advice. I’m guessing there wasn’t a signature.”

“That’s right.”

“Then that’s a whole fat lot of nothing.”

“Geez, calm down, Sarry. I’ll poke around a bit more.”

“Meet me at the Coltrane joint when you’re done.”

“You got it.”

I grimaced and dropped the amulet, letting it thud against my chest. Whoever had written those notes had known for sure we’d be coming. Given the state of Athkatla’s gossip network, it could’ve been a lot of people. But there were only a few who could’ve known about both my visit to Trade and the evidence against Farrahd.

The pain between my eyes turned into a full-fledged pounding. I needed a drink. Again. There were a few bars nearby, but Snick’s was the only joint in town that didn’t serve my whiskey with a paper umbrella.

I changed direction and didn’t stop until I reached the dim lights of the Crooked Crane. As I stepped inside, I noticed someone in my seat. The bastard! That was my thinking seat. In no mood to be civil, I marched up to him and tapped his plate-mailed shoulder. “That’s my chair. Move it or lose it.”

He stood and turned around. I had been looking for a fight, but instead I found a familiar face. The face of Sir Anomen Delryn.