26th Trial, Vhalar, 718a
Bolstrum
11th Bell
Bolstrum
11th Bell
Continued from here
"Mister Francis? Mister Francis, can you hear me?"
It was a few moments before he realized he was being spoken to. It wasn't a physical frailty, more a mental one. He couldn't stop staring at... that spot. That place. The chair was gone, probably burned. The desk had been scrubbed, the floor even more so. He was certain the ladies had been so diligent that at least three or four layers of wood had been stripped out completely by their brushes. Everything that stank or hinted at death had been removed. It was just an empty office. The green leather couch, the drinks trolley, the polished oak furnishings, they were all the same. Beyond the glass, the warehouse was already running at full tilt, as if a recent pair of murders had not happened.
Everything was as it was. As it had to be. Yet every time Francis closed his eyes, he could... he could see him.
That morning. The red and the white. Of blood and bleached skin. Then they'd found Pelham and-
"Sir?!"
"What? Hmm? Oh, oh, sorry, Miss Kronti," he rubbed his forehead and realized he'd been standing next to the chair for quite longer than was normal. "I was... I was miles away. In my head, I mean."
The woman smiled sympathetically. Poor man wasn't quite ready for this. Him and Mister Yancy had been quite close, as far as she could tell. Always beavering away together, totting up numbers and doing business and such. He'd often wondered if there was more to it than just business, but it wasn't her place to say, oh no. She was an honest woman and gossip like that was beneath her.
Wouldn't surprise me, though.
"Mister Francis," she said gently, moving a little closer and patting him on the back. "It's just a chair. Yer gonna have t'sit in it some day."
"I know, it's just..." His mouth moved and the words didn't come. Another sympathetic smile and curl of the lips. Finally Francis just shook his head. "Give me a moment, please?"
"Of course, sir."
She was out the office and behind a closed door before Francis felt safe enough to let out a whooshing breath of relief. It wasn't the murder. It wasn't even the body, the sight of it, of them, when they'd found Pelham and what was left of his skull. It was the fact - not the suspicion, or the musing, the fact - that Francis knew he'd been behind this.
And Mary. Don't forget her.
He didn't. He couldn't The thought was enough for him to cast off his superstition and slump into the chair. The poor girl. Her only crime was to be attached in some way to that thieving... man (cursing did not come easily to Francis, even confined to his thoughts), and she'd died for it. Another suicide, apparently. That made two in the space of as many days, and one of them committing murder beforehand. Francis was no underworld operator, but even he smelled something distinctly fishy.
Which he preferred not to think about, because he had a pretty good idea who'd been behind it.
The little man hadn't been seen again. Kasoria, was his name. The one that had chatted so briefly and bluntly with him. He hadn't seen him after that, and he knew the last caravan to Etzos had a quiet, polite traveler among the passenger list. Not named Kasoria, though. But Francis guessed the man wouldn't travel under his own name. Nor highlight his business with brazen murder.
But a suicide, though...
"Fates help me."
He clasped his head in his hands and muttered the words to the dead wood of the desk, elbows braced on it. He hadn't killed Mary, or Pelham, or Mister Yancy. But he'd brought Kasoria to Bolstrum, through his letter to Mister Vorund. He'd made the argument, iron-clad and definite, and... and what had he expected to happen? The question made his head come up from its depressed slump. Yes. What had he expected? Was he a fool? No. Not stupid or naive, either. He did not lie to himself, nor shy away from his failings.
"You knew this would happen," he whispered, and noticed this was, in fact, quite a comfy chair. "They were thieves. Thieves die. And Mary..."
That one stumped him again, but not for as long. An assault unprepared for would knock a man on his arse, but after that first time he grew wiser. He knew the pain and the shape of it, before it sprung against him. So that guilt did not cut as deep, and he simply shook his head, without an answer and strangely without regret.
"He knew who he was stealing from... and you knew who you were working for."
Whispers vengeful and mocking buzzed around his mind at the words, but he batted them away with a suppressed snarl. This was the past. He would not be ruled by the mistakes of his master, transgressions that had got more than just him killed. Mary would be alive if not for him, and so would Pelham. All this blood and sadness and horror, it was down to Mister Yancy, and that man was gone, dead, deceased-
Replaced.
"Miss Kronti?"
The older woman smiled brightly when she came back in and saw Mister Francis behind his desk, and beginning to fill it with paperwork.
"Yes, sir?"
"Bills of travel for the midday expedition arriving today, please. Time to get back to work."
"Right y'are, sir!"
She bustled off and Francis managed his first smile of the day. He reclined back in his chair, that seemed to massage his thin shoulders as they touched them. Looked out the window and the double doors and the wagon-packed road beyond. Somewhere, far down that road, was a man with blood on his hands. That worked his evil will, and would get away with it.
But that wasn't Francis' problem. The running of a business was.
May you never damn return, Kasoria.
