Free Shadow's Son by Jon Sprunk Page B

contractor working the same job? This was a good score
and there were plenty of knives looking for work. Throat-slitting had
been a time-honored tradition in Othir since the days of the emperors,
long before Caim had set foot within the city limits. The viciousness of
Nimean politics was legendary throughout the world, and it hadn't lost
any of its ferocity with the rise of the Church. But Mathias usually made
sure he had exclusive rights before farming out an assignment. In fact, he
was obsessive about such things. It was just good business.
    Caim leaned against the victim's desk. Curled sheets of parchment
were stacked on the cherry surface, held down by brass equestrian paperweights. The inside of a glass tumbler was smeared with a glazy film. He
smelled it. Ground fennel root, a tonic for headaches. A ceramic frame
rested on the shelf above the desktop with the portrait of a young girl
with striking green eyes. She sat in an elegant pose, black tresses curled
around her heart-shaped face, gloved hands folded upon her lap.
    Caim looked back at the old man. He didn't look much like a fabled
general. He more resembled a scholar with his long, somber features and
aquiline nose. The loose folds of his nightgown showed where his chest
had been hacked open. Hacked was the operative word. The cuts looked
like they had been made with a meat cleaver.
    He bent down closer. Some blood was pooled in the old man's lap, but
not nearly enough for such a traumatic injury. And the carpet beneath the
seat was dry except for a few coin-sized dots of blood. The victim's eyes
were open wide, the muscles in his face tensed. Both hands hung straight
down at his sides. No signs of rope burns, but rings glittered on both
hands, one gold band set with a large beryl. Caim frowned. A Gutter-bred
thug wouldn't have missed those pieces, which would bring a good price
at any fence in the city. There were no other signs of distress, so either the
old man had been taken unawares, or he had let his killer do the bloody
work without a struggle.
    Or he had been dead before he was cut open.
    Caim searched for other means of death. A quick inspection ruled out
strangulation, poison, and blunt force. He knew of a few poisons that left their victims paralyzed, but they were expensive and difficult to procure.
In any case, why use poison when you intended to carve up your victim
afterward? The only reason was to send a message. But to whom?

    "Caim?" Kit said.
    He walked around to peer over the victim's shoulder. The angle was
poor. The killer must have worked from the front, or he had an accomplice. Possible scenarios played through Calm's head as he came back
around to the front. He squatted beside the corpse and reached out with
a gloved finger. The flesh around the wound was discolored, turned almost
tar black, and the hole was deeper than he first thought. The victim's
breastbone had been shattered by the impact. Forget about a meat cleaver.
The killer must have used something heavier. Like what? An axe? It
seemed to Caim as if he had seen something like this before, but he
couldn't remember where. He slid his fingers deeper into the wound,
ignoring Kit's ewww of disgust, and made another discovery.
    The old man's heart was gone.
    Kit twirled a piece of silver hair in her fingers. "Okay. The job is done.
Let's just get out of here before someone finds us with this old relic."
    "No one's going to-"
    The door opened. Caim had a knife out before he was fully turned. He
checked his movement as a girl entered. No child, but a lady in the first
bloom of womanhood. Her delicate frame was wrapped in a high-necked
nightgown; its diaphanous panels glowed bright in the wan light of the
bedchamber. Wavy midnight hair curled about her ivory shoulders to
frame aristocratic features. Her eyes, twin gimlets of emerald, pierced the
darkness like jewels of green fire.
    "Father, I want you to reconsider-" She froze as she saw