At one side of the stretch of barren ground that centered on the wall of exposure stood a small stone building, seventy or eighty meters from the wall and at least half that distance apart from any other structure. This, Almagro indicated, was the Watch-station. The building, Kasimir estimated, looking at it from a distance, could contain no more than two rooms at most. He supposed its chief claim to usefulness, if you could call it that, was its position that would allow the occupants to keep a close eye on the corpse-disposal operation.
They had ridden within fifty meters or so of the building when Almagro abruptly reined in his mount, then just as suddenly spurred forward. Wen Chang was riding at a gallop right beside him.
Kasimir dug his heels into the flanks of his riding-beast and stayed right behind them. He was actually the first off his mount as the three men reached the station. The stout front door of the little building was standing slightly ajar. In the shaded area just inside the entrance, where it would be invisible until you were almost upon it, lay the body of a man in Watch uniform. The man was sprawled on his back in the middle of a considerable pool of blood.
Kasimir took one look at the wound that had opened the man’s throat, almost from ear to ear, and forbore to look for signs of life. The blood was starting to dry on the stone floor, and the insects were already busy around the corpse.
Almagro, standing over the dead man now with his short sword drawn, said a name, which Kasimir took to be that of the murdered man; then the Captain and the Magistrate, both with weapons ready, moved farther into the building, toward a doorway leading to the rear.
Once more Kasimir was right behind them.
The second room of the small structure was dim and almost windowless. The heat of the sun upon the thin stone walls was turning the chamber oven like; and here was more blood, much more blood, this time spreading out in a fan-shaped, partially dried puddle that had its source inside the single barred cell with which the building was equipped. There was another dead man in there, lying on the floor of the still-locked cell, and in this victim’s distorted face Kasimir could recognize the valuable prisoner Umar.
For a few moments the drone of insects, and the cries of those distant, larger scavengers upon the paupers’ wall, made the only sounds in that dim room. Then Wen Chang asked his old friend to unlock the door of the cell.
The Captain fumbled at his belt, where there were several sets of keys. He seemed to be having trouble finding the proper one. “How was he killed, in there?” he asked in a querulous voice. “He can’t have done it himself, there’s no weapon.”
The Magistrate shook his head impatiently. “He was lured to the bars, by whoever killed the sentry. Lured by the promise of being set free, I suppose . . . how should I know the details?” Wen Chang was angry at the loss of his witness, perhaps at his own mistakes as well, and disposed to be uncharacteristically surly.
Once Almagro had found the proper key and opened the cell door, Wen Chang and Kasimir went into the cell, both trying to avoid stepping in the puddled blood. The Magistrate also drew up his trouser legs with a slight fastidious movement.
Soon after Wen Chang had begun his examination of the body, he turned to announce that the man had been attacked from behind, and that his killer was left-handed.
Almagro, his expression at once idle and thoughtful, had been looking into the cell from outside, hanging on to the bars of the door. But he reacted sharply to that.
“Left-handed?” His voice rose, in both pitch and volume, from each syllable to the next. The others turned to look at him.
“Left-handed? That tears it, then! About three years ago, right after I came to work for the Hetman, there was a fellow in the city they called the Juggler. Another name he went by was Valamo of the Left Hand. He was the smoothest assassin I’ve ever run into anywhere. The deadliest and smartest … it was only through a woman that we ever caught him. Even then we knew he’d done a lot of things we couldn’t prove. We could prove enough, though. The judge thought that execution was too good for him.”
Wen Chang’s eyes glittered. “And so he was sent to the quarries?”
“Yes, he was, by all the gods! ‘Course I’m not sure it was Kovil’s quarry where he ended up. But it might well have been. He was one of the few you don’t forget in this business. All this”-and with a savage gesture Almagro indicated the abattoir around them-“this is just the kind of thing he did. He knew, somehow, we had a good witness here, a man who could tell us a lot. And he came to shut him up for good.”
“This Valamo, or Juggler, worked alone then, as a rule?”
“In the important things he worked alone as much as possible. Though he could always recruit people in Eylau to work with him, when he thought he needed someone. Had a reputation, that one did. Still has, evidently. I do believe that most of the regular gang leaders were afraid of him … so now it looks like the Juggler’s back.”
“How did he happen to acquire that name?” asked Kasimir.
Almagro’s gaze turned toward him. “Nothing very strange about that. It’s what he did, they tell me, before he found his real profession. A street performer, doing a little acrobatics, a little sleight of hand, a little juggling. Those people are never very far within the edge of the law anyway.”
“True enough,” said Wen Chang. “Though there have been times in my own life when I have felt almost completely at home among them . . . but never mind that. What does this Valamo look like?”
Squinting into the air, the Captain took thought carefully. “By now I’d say he must be around forty years old; though by the look of things here he’s lost no skill or toughness. Anyone who could survive three years on a quarry gang . . . he’s just average height, no taller than the Doctor here. Something of a hooked nose. His hair was dark when he was young, but when I saw him it was going an early gray-so it’s likely just about completely white by now. His face would be lined and sun burnt from the quarries, so I’d say he’s likely to look a decade or two older than he really is-what’s wrong with you, Doctor Kasimir?”
“Tadasu Hazara,” said Kasimir, after a pause to swallow. “That was the name he gave when he came to the inn, and talked to me about wanting to buy antique weapons. He must have thought that I was a genuine dealer, and was just making sure. Then he proved to himself that I was a fake.” The physician paused and looked at his companions. “How could Kovil have hoped to control such a man?”
“Kovil did not lack in confidence,” said Wen Chang dryly. He stood back from the blood and waved a hand about. “Old friend Almagro, this slaughter must of course be reported.”
“And am I to report also that Valamo of the Left Hand did it?”
“Yes, I think so. All the pressure that we can put upon that gentleman will not be too much. As for you, Kasimir.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to go back to the inn and rest,” said the Magistrate, surprising his hearer. “Rest, but do not sleep too deeply, for this Juggler may even now decide to pay us a visit there. And soon there will be another job for you to do.”
CHAPTER 16
KASIMIR returned to the inn, where Lieutenant Komi was waiting to greet him with eager questions about the most recent developments. Kasimir, not having been told to keep any secrets, brought the officer up to date as best he could.
Komi shook his head gloomily when he had heard the story of the double murder. “It sounds like bad news; I must find out what the Prince wants me to do now.”
“It certainly doesn’t sound like good news to me either. But be sure to leave a few reliable men here if you go off to the palace seeking orders.”
“I will. Don’t worry, my men are all reliable.”
Climbing the stairs wearily to his third-floor room, Kasimir lay down on his couch to rest. For a time, the cries of peddlers in the street outside kept him awake.
The peddlers moved on eventually to the next street, but by now Kasimir’s thoughts were disturbing enough to prevent his sleeping. He kept seeing the murdered men in the small stone building. Somehow the worst horror was the look of peace upon their faces; even the man in the cell, whose expression was unnatural, seemed to have died calmly. It was as if each of the victims in turn had welcomed the figure in whose guise death came upon them.