Tomb-yard Follies

Jim Webster

Description

Mapping an old family graveyard was a technically complicated job Benor expected would take him some time. But then he hadn't allowed for getting caught up in a world of intrigue, vengeance, and arbitrary justice...

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 16 février 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785383885
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
Tomb-yard Follies
Jim Webster



Publisher Information
Tomb-yard Follies
Published in 2016
by AUK Authors
an imprint of
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2016 Jim Webster
The right of Jim Webster to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.



Chapter 1
There are undoubtedly those who think that a Toelar ‘Roof-runner’ is merely a rather athletically inclined lothario, too stupid to comprehend the workings of the latch mechanism on his mistress’s door, thus forced to gain access to her bedroom via a window.
This is not true. Most roof-runners love the sport as much as the conquest, and make every effort to both to keep in shape and to master the roofs. The lady who welcomes a roof-runner to her bed is at least guaranteed someone who is physically fit. Indeed, once a roof-runner, always a roof-runner. Jarnis Wean, a Toelar man to the core, a proud son of that proud city, ran the roofs in his eighty third year. Admittedly at the end he was being carried in a sedan chair by four burly colleagues and the window through which he was lowered was that of his wife, but still; in all these things, it is the thought that counts.
So it was hardly surprising that a fine cloudless night would find Benor out on the moon-kissed tiles of Port Naain.
He had no destination, no assignation or rendezvous. This night was merely a run, for exercise and pure enjoyment. He had travelled far and was now on the far side of the city in the Dilbrook area. Here old mansions, often somewhat decayed, are surrounded by large gardens. Many are rented out, the original families no longer able to maintain them. New money is moving in. Seen from the viewpoint of the roof-runner the houses are interesting, and some of the gardens are so overgrown that you can travel through them without setting foot on the ground.
Benor had heard music to the north of him and he’d headed in that direction, natural curiosity driving him on. He crossed the boundary between two gardens and used a tree to gain access to a stable roof. From the stable it was an easy job to get onto the main house roof and from there he could look down into the garden. This one had what was doubtless described by the letting agent as a lake, but might be best thought of as a long, narrow, curved pond. It surrounded an island with nicely trimmed lawns, the lawns embracing a selection of grottos. The island was connected to the rest of the garden via a bridge and it was by this bridge that a small orchestra were playing.
The garden itself was brilliantly illuminated by the full moon, and there, cavorting naked on the grass, copulating with total abandon, must have been three or four score people. Benor couldn’t be more precise about how many participants there were in the various groups. His usual rule under these circumstances, which was to count legs and divide by two, broke down under the cavalcade of odd numbers.
Benor shrugged, unimpressed. People get the wrong idea about roof-runners. Whilst not necessarily hoping to marry any of his paramours, Benor always had an affection for them which he felt to be shared. This impersonal fornication was something that had never attracted him. He watched briefly and was about to turn and make his way back down the roof when he noticed six robed figures in column, moving across the bridge toward the island. They seemed to be walking in step, slowly and sedately. Other people stepped or rolled out of their path, enabling them to walk in a straight line across the island to a grotto. They entered and disappeared from his sight. Benor shrugged mentally. Port Naain was not short of bizarre religious and quasi-religious orders. There again, they might just be a specialist form of whacker-nanny, hired in for the occasion. With this thought Benor dismissed the orgy and moved down the roof, onto the ground and out across the gardens. There was that interesting gable-end turret he’d spotted on his way out; he might just tackle the challenge of that on his way home.
***
It was a month or so later when Benor was in Dilbrook again; this time in daylight. It was Tallis who had found him the job.
Tallis had been attending an evening reception for the wealthy and well connected. He was lurking quietly near the drinks table, aware that his lack of invitation made it difficult for him to boldly venture into the main current, as socialites nodded and bowed to each other in a graceful stream, like paper boats in a child’s bath. He’d come with the intention of meeting potential patrons, quite by chance, but until enough guests arrived to make the venue busier he was constrained to remain unobtrusive.
The suite slowly grew more crowded and just as Tallis thought it was time he started to mingle, a slender man with a thin, weathered face moved briskly to the table and surveyed the contents. Unlike the rest of the guests this one was dressed for the road and was still wearing his riding boots. Tallis tried to place the face. Lord Cartin? He’d seen him, obviously he knew the name, but he’d never been introduced. It struck Tallis that the man seemed somewhat careworn.
Tallis stepped forward. “If you’ve been travelling Sir, may I recommend the cider? The wine is nice enough, the beer is frankly average, but the cider has an edge to it.”
The stranger brightened a little. “Excellent idea.” He took a tall glass and offered it to the servant who stood silently behind the line of tables. “Cider, please.” The servant filled the glass and handed it back with a slight bow.
“Your drink, Lord Cartin.”
Tallis quietly congratulated himself on his memory for names. He turned to the servant, “Oh yes, and a cider for me as well please.” He waited as the servant filled the glass and said conversationally to Lord Cartin, “At least the weather is decent for riding.”
Lord Cartin passed his empty glass back to the servant. “Another of the same.” Filled glass in hand he took up the thread of the conversation.
“Fine enough. But the roads north of here are never good.” He turned to look at Tallis. “I’m sorry, should I know you? Without my nomenclator I struggle to keep up with the sheer number of people who appear to know me.”
Tallis extended a hand. “I’m Tallis, Tallis Steelyard, poet and man of letters.”
Lord Cartin took his hand firmly, “Ah, a poet. I assume that explains your presence next to the drink?”
Tallis waved to Calina Salin, performance poetess with his free hand. She had just arrived and was prone to be sensitive if she felt she was being overlooked. He turned once more to Lord Cartin. “You are obviously a man of letters yourself, Sir.” He noticed that Lord Cartin was looking at him with the expression of a man who is certain he’s heard a name before. Tallis fell silent.
“Are you the husband of Shena the mud-jobber?”
“I do indeed have the honour to be married to a lady as beautiful as she is wise.”
Tallis saw a shadow pass briefly across Lord Cartin’s face. Then the older man said, “I’ve just been to see her. She delivered a body to the ‘Ice House’ and claimed the reward.”
Tallis waited, unsure where the conversation was going.
“It was a girl; she was from one of my estates in the north. She’d been murdered and her heart had been cut out.”
This time there really wasn’t much Tallis could say, so he stayed silent. “There have been five girls disappear from my estates over the last year. This is the first body we’ve found. I had hoped she’d have some clues for me.”
“Could Shena help?”
Lancet Foredeck was standing behind Lord Cartin, clutching a glass of wine and trying to attract Tallis’ attention. Tallis ignored him; the man was an average poet at best, and prone to borrowing money.
Lord Cartin took a mouthful of cider. “Unfortunately no, but I’ve asked her to keep her eyes open for me.”
Tallis smiled, as much with relief. Lord Cartin had a reputation for being swift to action, a man it was best to be on good terms with. “If she or I can help, rest assured we will.”
He noted the slight smile at the corner of Lord Cartin’s mouth and added, “I am here in search of patrons desperate to support the higher arts and failing that good company and good cheer. But obviously I can keep my ears open if anybody mentions other matters.”
Lord Cartin took another drink. “If I needed a poet I’m sure Dobson my factotum would have mentioned it. The last time I saw him he was going on about needing a surveyor or similar. If things continue as they are he might recommend I hire a necromancer as well, but I’m afraid poets weren’t mentioned.”
Tallis allowed his smile to broaden. “Necromancers I cannot help you with but a surveyor or similar? I might just be in a position to help you.”
***
Thus it was that Benor, wearing the astrolabe medallion showing his membership of the Cartographers’ guild, approached the servants’ entrance of a long rambling house on the north side of Dilbrook.
He knocked on the door and it was opened by an elderly woman with a mop cap. “Yes?”
Benor touched his forelock, “I was asked to visit to meet the factotum. I have an appointment, the name is Benor Dorfinngil.”
She glared at him, “Never heard of you.” She looked hi