Page 68 of Sword & Sacrifice

The wet, choking sounds of someone retching and the splatter of vomit on the tiled floor broke him out of his shocked state. Other sounds rushed in: the soldiers stomping forward; a prolonged, high-pitched scream; and above it all, Griselda shouting orders.

“Cordon off the area! No one in or out without my permission!”

Silas allowed Griselda to take control of the situation. He’d never conducted a death investigation before, and it sounded like she had some experience, either from her years as a soldier or as a mercenary. He tugged the sleeve of his shirt over his hand, then pressed the material against his nose to block out the stench flooding the office, filling every nook and cranny.

Not even sure Felicity and her team could get it out. Though it didn’t visibly stain the walls, Silas suspected death would linger longer than smoke.

He stepped closer to the Vault opening but an arm blocked his path.

“You should stay back,” Darian said, his voice low. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”

Too late, Silas thought. He’d already seen the hollow eyes, the loose skin changing the shape of the face, the sludge forming a dark pool. He was surprised it hadn’t spilled into the office yet, but it appeared to be thick and viscous, slow to move. Underneath it all, he saw flashes of gold coins, the tarnished gleam of jewels spilled across the steel floor.

“Silas,” Griselda barked.

He finally turned away from the corpse and saw Juniper and Quentin kneeling on the ground, their hands bound behind their backs.

“Is that really necessary?” he whispered to Griselda. He didn’t want to undercut her orders, but he also didn’t like the idea of tying up his treasury aides.

Her expression was grim as she said, “They’re the ones who worked closest with Jacoby and had the most opportunities to access the area. They stay right there until we clear them. Are there other keys to the Vault?” she asked, gesturing to Silas’ keyring.

“There are three copies,” Silas explained. “I gave Alistair’s copy to Mirinda, and Jacoby had a copy, but he took it with him when he ran.”

“So they say.” Griselda narrowed her eyes on the two treasury aides.

Bound and cowed, they certainly didn’t look like murderers. Vomit was speckled along Quentin’s chin from his bout of sickness in response to seeing the body—or the horrible smell.

“Jacoby accessed the Vault when he bribed Valerian,” Silas explained. After Silas’ mental trap had damaged Alistair’s mind, the traitorous advisers had turned to their captive mage to try to fix him. Thankfully, Valerian had only pretended to side with them, instead buying Archer’s army time to arrive in the city. “It makes sense for Jacoby to have the key with him when he ran.”

“Could someone make a copy of the key before it disappeared?”

Silas hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s illegal to copy any of the palace keys without a written order from me or the Head Adviser.”

She snorted. “As if that would stop a murderer.”

“General,” one of the soldiers called.

Griselda held up a finger to signal them to wait. “So, Jacoby still had his key, but he also has a bounty on his head. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him after he ran, which either means he’s a very sneaky little rat, or he had help, and those two”—she jerked her head toward Juniper and Quentin—“worked closest with him. Anyone who would help a traitor wouldn’t bat an eye at covering up a murder.”

“Shouldn’t we learn who the victim is before arresting people?” Even as Silas asked the question, he saw the disapproval and exasperation on her face, the same look she had whenever he was being ‘too soft’ on someone.

“And give them a chance to run off? Absolutely not. With all the chaos your kingdom has experienced recently, it could take weeks or months to identify the victim, especially since they’re half-melted.”

Silas grimaced at her description even though it was accurate. “At least take them to their rooms and guard them there. No reason to leave them tied up on the floor.”

Griselda’s mouth twisted, but she relented. “Fine, not like we have a bloody prison to throw them in anyway.” Once she’d given the guards new orders, she turned to the soldier who had called out to her. “What is it, Tilla?”

Unwilling to describe her findings out loud, Tilla again waved Griselda over.

Silas didn’t want to be in the way, but he needed to know what the soldier had found, so he slowly followed Griselda. The smell of decay thickened as he neared the corpse, and he once again raised his sleeve to cover his nose.

Tilla stood outside the Vault holding a sketch pad in one hand, with a half-finished depiction of the scene drawn in charcoal. With the other hand, she tapped her charcoal stick against the open Vault door, drawing Griselda and Silas’ attention to several long, dark smears.

Silas’ brow furrowed as he examined them. The lines followed an odd pattern, thicker at the top and thinning out at the bottom. He tried to count them, but they overlapped oddly, obscuring the image.

“Fuck,” Griselda growled, the sound weaker than usual as she pressed her hand to her stomach.

Silas frowned, wondering why this would make the hardened general sick. Then he saw something stuck in one of the smears and he leaned forward to examine it—a pale oval, dyed rust-red.