Free The Folding Knife by K. J. Parker

be bothered to pick her up and put her away. She lay with her back to him, so he couldn't see the huge red gash, but there was no way he could've mistaken her stillness for sleep. I did that, he thought.
    The pain in his hand made him shiver. He looked at it again, and tried flexing it. Something was badly wrong, it wasn't working properly. Well, he told himself, it was that or be stabbed. I had no choice, with either of them.
    And it had started out to be such a nice day. He had to close his eyes before he could turn away, as though some kind of lock or latch held him in place as long as he could see her on the floor. Blood everywhere. Mess. He breathed out slowly, in again slowly. Now he was going to have to clear it all up.
    He went to the doorway, opened his mouth, and realised he couldn't remember the names of any of the maids; and without names, he couldn't call them. That was ridiculous, so he shouted, "Hello," as loudly as he could. It came out thin and squeaky, like a non-singer trying to sing a hymn in temple. "Here," he shouted, "quick as you can." Pathetic, he thought.
    Probably just as well that it was a footman who came first, rather than a maid. He didn't scream or anything like that. He stood in the doorway, mouth open, eyes bulging, throat moving. For crying out loud, Basso thought.
    "Run to the guardhouse and bring the duty officer," he said. "Now, come on. And get the house steward to round up the maids." He paused. Properly speaking, nothing should be touched till the Guard got here. "Tell them to stand by," he added, though he wasn't quite sure what he meant by it.
    The footman bolted and left him alone. He wanted to sit down, but he couldn't bring himself to sit on the bed, and the chairs were soaked in blood. He knew he should be thinking, calmly and methodically; figuring out what his position was, what he needed to do in order to secure it. Maybe; but he couldn't. How long was it since he'd come bounding up the stairs? It couldn't have been long; maybe about as much time as it takes to make an omelette. Surprising how much of a difference you can make in a few minutes.
    The guardhouse was on the corner of the Clockmakers' and the Ropewalk. The footman would run there; then there'd be a short exchange with the sergeant, who'd go and fetch the captain, who'd probably, in the circumstances, send out for the ranking officer of the department before setting out himself. He'd walk, but quickly, and he'd bring two, no, four troopers with him. He went into the dressing room, picked up a chair and carried it through into the bedroom.
    The Guard arrived sooner than he'd anticipated. There was a tall man with a short ginger beard, about eight years his senior, followed by six soldiers. The officer (no brigandine, just an arming shirt--hardly regulation) looked at him and said, "You."
    Basso wanted to laugh, but he knew it wouldn't be seemly. "I know you," he said. "What's your name?"
    The officer was looking past him, at the bodies and the blood. "Major Aelius, Seventeenth Auxiliary. You're..."
    Basso allowed himself to smile. "You'll have to speak up," he said, turning his head slightly. "I'm a bit deaf in this ear."
    Aelius looked straight at him. "Of course you are," he said. "All right," he added, turning to the soldiers, "one of you on each entrance to the house, nobody comes in or out. You, go to the Senate House, speak to Minister Honorius Severus and bring him here." He turned back and asked Basso, "He's the head of the family, right?"
    Basso nodded. "But I think you'll find the proper complainant would be this man's wife. My sister," he added. "Fausta Tranquillina Carausia. I imagine she'll be at the Carausius house on the Horn; if not, they'll know where to find her."
    Aelius nodded. "You know your law," he said. "What about her? Her father?"
    "Aulus Licinius," Basso replied. "But he has no standing, it was a strict form marriage. So I guess you're right, the proper person to file a complaint would be