Shadowbred by Kemp Paul S Page A

had been dead almost a year.
    Minnen fiddled with the flare at the end of his shirt sleeve. “I have dispatched messengers, but contacting Miklos or Kavil is always difficult. As is their wont, they are away from Ordulin. No one seems to know their current location. That is why I hurried a messenger to your estate, Countess. You are the overmaster’s cousin, his only family in Ordulin. Despite your …” he cleared his throat and looked embarrassed, “… political differences, you must speak for the overmaster’s needs until his sons arrive.”
    Mirabeta and Elyril shared a glance and Elyril could read her aunt’s mind: If the overmaster’s sons arrive.
    No doubt it amused Mirabeta that Kendrick Selkirk’s body and estate were in her charge, if only temporarily. Most of Ordulin saw Mirabeta as a respectful rival of Kendrick. Elyril knew better. Mirabeta had thought her cousin little more than a weakling and dolt whose incompetence had led Sembia in the direction of disaster. Probably Mirabeta would have had him killed herself if she had thought she could have avoided suspicion.
    The countess ambled around the chamber, eyeing the rugs, the
    sideboard, the swords and shield over the large fireplace. “That was well conceived, Minnen. Kendrick and I disagreed on political matters, but he was ever my beloved cousin.” Minnen wisely held his tongue.
    “Should we examine the body, aunt?” Elyril suggested, an idea born of a desire to provide political cover for her aunt, and a desire to touch something dead.
    The old chamberlain looked appalled. “Why, Mistress?”
    Before Elyril could answer, Saken unfolded his arms and said to Mirabeta, “There is no sign of violence, Countess. The wards on the room were intact and my preliminary divinations have detected nothing untoward.” The mage looked pointedly at Elyril. “There is no reason to examine the overmaster’s body.”
    “A skilled assassin would leave no sign,” Elyril said to the room.
    Minnen frowned. “The mistress seems to know much of the quiet arts.”
    Elyril smiled politely to hide her hatred.
    Minnen looked to Mirabeta. “None passed his door last night, Countess. Of that I am certain.”
    Mirabeta looked from Elyril to Minnen. “And I am certain of no such thing. As my niece observed, a skilled assassin would leave no sign, magical or otherwise.”
    Elyril was pleased. Mirabeta’s political instincts, honed through years of maneuvering in Sembia’s capital, were as sharp as ever. The countess did not know that Selkirk had been murdered. But she did know that she had not been involved in the murder, if murder it was. She therefore realized that she would be best served politically by insisting on a zealous and thorough investigation. She could only gain from it, whether she found a murderer or determined that Overmaster Selkirk had died of natural causes.
    Elyril knew the truth, of course, and the secret she held made her smile.
    “My cousin was as healthy as a cart ox,” Mirabeta said. “I saw him just two days ago. He showed no signs of illness, yet we are to believe that he just died in his sleep?”
    “Men die,” said Saken with shrug.
    “And men are murdered,” Mirabeta said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I will determine which occurred here.”
    Without waiting for permission, Elyril bent over the overmaster’s corpse, pried open his mouth, and examined his gums. Finding nothing—as she knew she would not, for the Nightseer would not use poison—she peeled back his eyelids and studied the eyes. Then she lifted his arms and looked in his armpits.
    “Mistress!” the chamberlain said, appalled.
    Elyril let the overmaster’s arms drop to the bed and spoke a lie. “I have heard of poisons that discolor the skin for only a short time before all signs vanish. I do not want evidence to go unnoticed.”
    “Poison!” Minnen exclaimed.
    Saken nodded thoughtfully. “I, too, have heard of such poisons.” “As have I,” Mirabeta