Free The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign by Tom Lloyd

amusement and public embarrassment that our records were always in a bad state. Food, drink, sweat, blood; we had presented to
the court evidence with a whole range of trappings and clearly things had not changed much since my dismissal.
    ‘That one is the murder report,’ said Brandt, indicating the ink-spattered page I had taken. ‘The others are in order underneath so you might want to read it last.’
    As directed, I slipped the sheet to the back of the pile and peered at the one revealed. Noticing the effort this required, Brandt took the reports from my unresisting hand and declared he would
read them aloud. I was happy to accede since Danc was standing at the door with razor and towel in hand and a maid had appeared with some breakfast for Brandt. I relaxed while the world progressed
about me.
    ‘Firstly some background information about the marshal,’ Brandt began after a reviving swallow of wine, ‘furnished by your good friend the count. Marshal Calath was well
thought of by those who knew him; a man of intellect and scholarship, whose leg was malformed and twisted from a difficult birth. It is said that he was a shy child who became bookish because he
could not join in with the other children, but quickly he came to love the pursuits when he realised he could excel and leave others his age in his wake.
    ‘Calath became prominent as a historian before turning his hand to theology and the . . . ah, unnatural aspects of the Land most particularly. The stranger worlds of necromancy,
daemonology, cults, local Aspects, these things appear to have been particularly fascinating to a crippled youth. When Calath’s father realised just how intelligent his son was he employed
the best tutors in the city, but the younger Calath outstripped their teachings by his twentieth winter.
    ‘This, ah, episode, took place some three months ago, a minor matter perhaps but telling to what happened more recently perhaps. It seems the marshal had been taken ill after working late,
some sort of fit the doctor believed. Ah, here it is . . .
    ‘“I was summoned to the house of Marshal Calath in the early hours of the morning by a stablehand. Upon reaching the house I perceived a gloom upon the place.
The servants spoke in low anxious voices and glanced nervously about themselves. When I questioned one I was informed several had heard distant, whispering laughter echo through the house; so evil
and portentous in tone that they feared to investigate. A terrible cry had followed not long after a second instance of laughter – they believed that to be the marshal’s voice crying
out with such horror that they were spurred to action.
    “Outside his chamber they found the lady of the house desperately attempting to open the door, but unable to turn the handle. The housekeeper had her set of keys so these they tried,
but discovered it was not locked – rather secured from within.
    “The stablehand and coachman were fetched and together they put their shoulders to the door. The task was not easily accomplished, but with the urgings of Lady Calath they succeeded,
doing considerable damage to the door and frame in the process. Once admitted they discovered a scene of complete disorder. Papers were scattered over the floor and the long mirror that stood in
the centre of the room had shattered. The marshal himself was slumped unconscious on the floor. He appeared unharmed, but they could not rouse him and I was called.
    “What they could not explain when I arrived was how the door was secured. There was no sort of bar or bolt to fasten it – only the lock that the housekeeper swears was open and
inspection of the damage bore the assessment out – and nothing had been dragged to block the passage of the door inwards.
    “The presumption was that the marshal fell at the door and prevented its opening. When I made a cursory examination however I could find no bruising or other injury one would have
expected, considering the