The trail took them in and out of tents that were clumped like spring mushrooms. They wandered this way and that, all around the skirts of the gentler downhill slopes. Of course, this meant they had to dodge several more of the knots of night-worshipers in the last throws of their revels. Caewen stopped and stared, surprised, when they passed the first gathering. It had been close to an hour since they last circled around a crowd of night-folk–and it seemed the festivities had moved along, both in tone and exuberance. Many of the worshippers were completely naked, and from the smell, at least the same number had soaked themselves in wine and beer, as well as more pungent things: unguents, spices, and stranger concoctions again. More than a few were doing things that Caewen quickly looked away from in embarrassment. She wasn’t shocked, not exactly–rather she was taken aback by the casualness of it. After all, she had grown up on a farm and knew what lead to babies, whether animal or person. She wasn’t naive about that sort of thing, but still… it made her blush to see whole groups of people, out in the open… just like that. Eventually, she couldn’t help herself and sneaked another, longer look at one mass of silhouettes in the moonlight–well, the preacher at the bonfires had lingered over how the night was the time of procreation, hadn’t he?
Quinnya cast a more jaundiced eye on the proceedings. She seemed unruffled as she said, “Better than being thrown on a bonfire, one supposes.”
“Huh,” laughed Dapplegrim. “True enough.”
The trail finally lead them out of the tents and down a wide open incline, and then to the edge of the market. The stalls were mostly shut, though a few of the make-do eateries were serving food and drink, lit by the uncertain glow of candles and lamps. Presumably they were servicing whatever night-folks happened to be about, though not involved in more earnest celebrations off in the darkness. There was a low, quiet noise of subdued talk and laughter. Dapplegrim lead them straight off in the direction of one well lit drinking establishment. Soon enough, the three of them were standing in the shadow of a shut market stall, peering over a sparse crowd of the night’s last, most dedicated drinkers. More than a few drunken shapes lay bonelessly about the ground. There was a faint, acrid hint of vomit. The air had that nose-wrinkling quality where you can’t quite tell how much of the smell is beer and how much is urine. Now and then a sharp laugh rose, then fell, or a few voices stepped up a song, only to dwindle away again.
“The killer’s very close,” said Dapplegrim. “The smell of the blood is strong.”
Caewen picked over the faces in the crowd. “Wait, look, there. It’s the assassin. The man Fafmuir spoke to.”
“Where?” said Dapplegrim.
“I see him.” Quinnya nodded. “Over there, drinking by himself right? I can’t be certain, but it does look like the man who Letha saw before she died. His face is a bit in shadow, but the cloak and hood look right.”
“Urm. Where?” said Dapplegrim.
“Right there.” Caewen pointed. “At that seat, the table next to the three men dressed in red and green.”
“What are you talking about?” He pawed a hoof along the soil and flicked his tail. There’s no one sitting anywhere near that. All the other tables on that side of the place are empty.”
Caewen took a moment to process this. “Are you saying that you can’t see him?”
“I’m saying there is no one there. Hur.”
“Oh,” said Caewen. “That makes sense then, doesn’t it.”
Both Dapplegrim and Quinnya looked at her, clearly confused.
“Well, think about it. Dapplegrim wasn’t with me the first time I saw him. I’d no reason to think there was anything off. And those two men, Harper and the Old Riddler.”
“Not men,” said Dapplegrim. “Not mortals either.”
“Exactly. They said that they just saw the tent opposite them go up in flames. As if by magic–only, they’re godlings, or half-spirits or demi-gods or something, you reckoned.”
“Or something,” agreed Dapplegrim.
“So, if our assassin is invisible to spirits, demons and gods, they couldn’t have seen him. The fires weren’t lighting themselves. He was lighting them. But…”
“Neither of those two could’ve see the assassin,” said Dapplegrim, his ears pricking up, seeming to come to an understanding. “He has some manner of veil on him that makes him invisible to spirits and demonical things, and yes, probably gods too.”
“And so the goddess of the tor can’t see him either.” Caewen frowned. “He can act with impunity, and has done.”
“Not with total impunity,” said Quinnya coldly. “By lightning and storm-vane, he will not be without the ill consequence of his actions for much longer.” She took a small, quiet step out of the steeped night-shadows where they were hiding.
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Dapplegrim, his voice hurried. “But I can’t see him. How can I help if I can’t see him?”
“We don’t need your help, horse-thing. You have lead us to the killer. That is appreciated, but it is enough.”
“Urmmm… hurm. Actually, the ways things tend to work–you see we have a system–is that Caewen charges into trouble, being all, Oh look at me, I’m saving random strangers with my magic sword and dressed like a farm bumpkin in a silly dress–“
“Hey!”
Dapplegrim ignored her. “And then she gets herself into serious trouble, and then I rescue her. Because eventually Caewen always needs rescuing herself. Hurm. That’s pretty much been our system all along.”
Caewen gave him an exasperated look. “That is not how we do things.” He looked at her. “Not always, I mean.”
“Both of you, be quiet.” Quinnya’s eyes were intent with a deepening anger. “I assure you, neither one of you is needed. Neither of you are required to be charging off anywhere. We have before us, a murderer. I am an officiator of the moot, and let me further assure you, I am a sorceress of no mere power. I and my storms will suffice for this.” Seemingly satisfied that she had made herself understood, Quinnya turned back to face the drinking establishment. None of the drunkards or revellers had noticed her yet. She squared her shoulders, brushed a hand over the nightgown as it stirred in the gently rising night wind, and walked out into the moonlight, muttering a hum of words as she did. The sounds in her throat had a sharpness to them, like light cracking across the horizon, like the ragged end of a broken tree, torn from its roots. As she walked, crackles of arcing whiteness played and leapt in her footsteps.
“You there,” she called out, her voice resonating with an undercurrent that was like a remote, barely discerned thunderclap. Somewhere nearby among the tents, dogs started barking, the way dogs sometimes do when a storm is rolling in upon the air. All the drinkers who were sufficiently sober looked up–more than one with a guilty jerk. But it was obvious who she was closing on, so that everyone immediately looked over at the man in the white-grey cloak. What was visible of his face eased into the lines of a serious, considering expression. Quinnya continued speaking, louder by increment. “Know me. I am Quinnya the Storm’s Grace. It is in my office to be officiator of this, seven year wizard’s moot. I place thee under the arrest, to be brought before the Broad-table for judgement, for crimes of murder and despoiling our ancient and sacred peace. I do this under the laws spoken at the dawn of the great peace, at the cessation of the great wars of old. And further,” she looked now at the clearly discomforted but attentive drinkers. “I place the obligation of hue and cry on all who witness me. Arrest this man!” She pointed at him.
The drinkers exchanged glances, and slowly shuffled to their feet. Only a few had anything like a weapon handy. Most of them simply looked uncomfortable, and not a little puzzled. A few balled up their fists or picked up a stool.
Meanwhile, Caewen was edging off to the right, circling around the lamp-light’s fringe, just into the shadows of the drinking yard. She pulled her sword from its sheath, and felt the edge of the bronze sing as it left its leather and copper casing. She was careful though to do nothing else that might draw attention; just silently, wordlessly moving to a place where she might block the pale man if he tried to flee. Dapplegrim was watching the whole thing with keen eyes, focused intently on the empty table. He was able to work out, it seemed where the assassin must be sitting, and when the man got to his feet, he snorted audibly and his tail twitched with an involuntary whisk.