Page 53 of A Trade of Blood

“The fire will not spread, sir,” he said in a crackling, hoarse voice. “But the damage is done. The house is hardly more than a shell now.”

“Any witnesses?” I asked. “Or survivors?”

“There are folk who escaped, but…we’ve not yet managed them as if this was a crime, sir. Don’t know who’s from where or what they saw.”

“With your blessing, I’ll try and sort them,” I said.

I rounded up his custodi and issued orders, asking for them to locate the staff and family of the house. The officers leaned close to me, their ash-stained hands cupped about their ears to hear over the chatter of the crowd. “We must establish a count of who is found and who is not,” I said to them. “Who was seen within, and who we know is abroad. If we find anyone who escaped the house, we need to ask them if they saw the fire begin—and if so, where and when, and who was about it. Am I clear?”

The custodi then diligently did their work, making inquiries of the crowds surrounding the wreckage or working the bucket lines. Though it took some time, a group was slowly assembled of sooty, weeping survivors. The sight dismayed me, for nearly all wore servants’ livery. I saw not a single sign of gentry station among them: no augmentations, fine apparel, or a single tughra ring.

As we spoke to the survivors, a story emerged, but one both thin and confused. None of the servants had seen how the fire had started. There was also a great deal of disagreement about where it had started, though many insisted it must have started on the first or second floor, for those on the third and higher only saw the fire when they glanced out the windows and saw the flames shining on the lawns below. But the servants told me they were certain thatallthe Buravs had been present—for that night had been when Burilis Burav had held memorial rites for his daughter.

“And…and your officers gather the survivors now?” one footman asked me hesitantly as I questioned him.

“We attempt to do so, yes,” I told him.

“But I see none of the family here,” he murmured. “None! Were they all lost? Haveallthe Buravs truly perished, all in one night?”

—

Time passed,the hours obscured by smoke and ash. Every voice grew broken and hoarse, every eye tearful and red. The sun rose, its hue stained a queer, unsettling crimson. As it fought free of the smoggy horizon, I finished establishing the full breadth of the extensive Burav family present during the fire—just in time to mark nearly every one of them as missing, presumed dead.

Kyuli Burav, sister of Burilis: gone. Slakav Burav, cousin of Burilis: gone. Orman Burav, nephew to Burilis: gone. Orti Burav, wife of Orman: gone. Daqi Burav, aunt to Burilis: gone. Nearly the entire family had stayed in the house that night, it seemed, and not a one was found on this smoky morning. As the taste of ash suffused my throat, I tried not to wonder if any of the cinders I swallowed had once been the bones of a Burav.

Finally, Princeps Seriv emerged from the smog bearing the first bit of good news I’d heard all night: “We have one, sir. A Burav survivor, at last.”

“One of them made it out?” I asked. “Who?”

“Young Jalin, Burilis’s son. He leapt from a two-story window. Poor fellow crashed onto the lawns.”

My eyes fluttered as I recalled the boy: about eighteen, wispy and nervous, squirming as his father raged in the street before the Cat’s Eye Inn. His mustache had been hardly more than a patch of down, and his wrist had seemed too limp to support the large, ungainly tughra ring hanging on his hand.

“How is he?” I asked.

“Not well. His body is half-burned, and he broke his leg and a collarbone. The medikkers have taken him to be treated with the other survivors. They deem his chances decent. They shall have to sedate him to apply the proper healing grafts, however. The rest of the Buravs…” He shook his head. “Not a sign. All servants report that theyknowthe Buravs were in the house at the time of the fire. But none saw any sign of them after the blaze began. That is some fourteen gentryfolk lost, if all proves the worst. We’ve no idea how many servants are lost, as there were far more of them. I doubt we’ll knowthe true count until we’ve sifted through the remains…” He gazed back at the blackened ruin. “Which shall take time.”

I studied the house with him. I’d not seen the Burav estate when it’d been whole, yet from what remained it seemed to have been a grand thing—and a strong one, wrought of fretvine woven so tightly it should have taken three bombard shots to break through. A great deal of the actual structure remained standing; yet the chambers within, if not all the interior, were lost.

“I’ll not let my folk enter,” said Seriv. “Not until we get an Engineer here to tell us it is safe.”

“Then it’ll take days,” I said, “before we know exactly what happened.”

“But don’t we know?” said Seriv huskily. “I feared gentry war. Yet here we are, with one clan perhaps wiped out entirely.” He turned to look at me, the lines of his face black with collected soot. “And it happened so soon after their daughter was slain. Can’t be coincidence, sir—can it?”

I watched the smoke unscrolling from the windows for a great long while. “I’d like to establish a list of all servants who are missing,” I croaked.

“Anything you’re looking for, sir?”

“Witnesses. Surely one surviving set of eyes saw something of use.”

—

It took anothertwo hours, but eventually my theory proved correct: one of the kitchen girls was found recuperating in the stables, coughing madly and drinking draught after draught of water—though she mostly retched it up, likely from smoke poisoning.

My eyes fluttered as Seriv and I approached her, and I consulted my memories of experience with medikkers. “She needs to stop doing that,” I said to the older woman stooping over her.

“My niece is sick, sir,” said the older woman indignantly. “She has a thirst. I’d be cruel not to give water to her.”