Bannerless, Page 3

  In the meantime, a loud cry of grief came from inside the barn.

  The rest of the household emerged soon after and came to see their dead and to gather whatever they could from the wreck. They’d move on to Haven, rejoin Bret, and decide what to do from there. Rebuild or find another household to join.

  Picking through the cottage’s rubble, one of the survivors picked something up: a foot-long square of cloth, woven in a red-and-green pattern, still recognizable even soaked in mud. A banner—very likely the banner authorizing the child who clung to the woman’s cloak now, unwilling to let go and maybe still get washed away. She held the banner to her face and cried, her whole face puckered. The kid hugged her tighter, and they held on to each other for a moment. The woman never let go of the banner, as if it were an anchor that would keep her from drifting into a void.

  When the investigators and Enid arrived at Ant Farm, the household folk were trying to herd together a handful of goats and a pair of horses who’d fled the half-fallen barn. They’d also found shelter in a ravine, but the tornado hadn’t struck here directly as it had at Potter. They did have a couple of hurt folk—one with a concussion, another with a broken arm.

  They hitched one of the horses to a wagon for the trip back, to carry the injured to the clinic at Haven. Enid found blankets, passed around water, carried tools. She looked around with a sense of growing disbelief and wondered how any of them were going to get through this.

  Toward nightfall, the group started back to Haven. The storm clouds were breaking up—they even caught a hint of deep blue twilight sky, blazing against the gray they’d lived with for the last couple of days. Still, night was close, and they decided it would be better to travel at night than wait to get back to Haven. Enid and Tomas walked ahead of the wagon, carrying lanterns to light the way. The medic walked behind, to keep watch on the injured. They stopped on the way to pick up the survivors from Potter.

  They traveled slowly, checking the road for hazards, avoiding flooded spots. The horse’s hooves sucked in the mud. The night was damp, turning colder by the moment, and Enid’s wet cloak didn’t do much to warm her. She shivered.

  “You all right?” Tomas asked her.

  She didn’t know. But if she kept walking, she’d get back home, and then she’d be all right. “I probably shouldn’t have come. Wasn’t much help.”

  “You did fine.” His smile was kind, but she was still unhappy. She’d never forget the way that body looked, twisted and fragile.

  This was not the last body she and Tomas would examine together, but she didn’t know that then, either.

  CHAPTER THREE • PASADAN

  ///////////////////////////////////////

  The Body

  Enid and Tomas walked partway to Pasadan that afternoon and spent the night at a way station outside the village of Tigerlily. Along the way they passed a couple of solar cars, as well as horses and wagons. In a month or so, when the harvest trade fairs started up, the Coast Road would fill with cars, horses, wagons, and travelers, carrying with them a party air.

  They waved and offered greetings to folk, who returned the hails cautiously, eyeing their uniforms, unsuccessfully hiding their trepidation—no doubt wondering where the pair was headed and what poor household had drawn the attention of investigators. Enid was used to the anxious look-overs by now, and even found them amusing. Most folk would never come under the scrutiny of her or any other investigator. But everyone worried they might, and what did that say about people in general?

  Tigerlily had a solar car for communal use, usually reserved for the old, the young, and the injured. Enid and Tomas requisitioned it, to save time but also for the sense of authority. The people of Pasadan would hear the hum coming down the lane and look up. Their arrival would be an event. We are here now, would be the message, delivered by the investigator and her enforcer, and those in the village would pause, daunted by the authority without consciously realizing it. An investigator’s power wasn’t something Enid wielded so much as donned like a coat. They wouldn’t really see her and Tomas at all.

  Tomas drove the rest of the morning until the early mist had burned off and the sun was high and warm. Bouncing, swaying on its low tires, the car came over the crest of a hill to a valley that looked imaginary, constructed to be beautiful. Green meadows covered shallow hills, and the road curved around to a wide vista cut through by a river, lined with copses of cottonwoods and perfect squares of cultivated fields, grains nodding and rippling in a breeze, all of it lush and welcoming. Far on the western horizon, a hazy gray line marked a distant ocean. The Coast Road continued west and south around a set of hills to a series of fishing villages along the ocean, another two weeks’ walk at least.

  A friendly sign marked the turnoff, a whitewashed plank nailed to a couple of sturdy posts. PASADAN, written in artistic black with little flourishes at the beginning and end, with a couple of painted strands of ivy for a border. It was charming.

  The town came into view; they got a look at it from above, before the road descended. Pasadan was set on a grid—it might have been built on the bones of a small town from before the Fall, the old concrete and steel knocked in and cleared away for salvage, the asphalt rotted, a new town built on the old. Square paddocks of fenced-in green pastured sheep, goats, a few horses. There were chickens and geese. Houses and communal buildings clustered along dirt paths, and a group of windmills stood on the side of a hill. Noise drifted from workshops; smoke rose up from a forge and another shop that looked like a glassblower’s. Color fluttered from clotheslines, stretched along the edges of the pastures. It was all clean, well organized, pleasant. Enid couldn’t find fault with the place, not from this far out. Finding any cracks would take time. Speaking to people, looking at the body, poking around for anomalies. Discovering what had caused enough suspicion to call for an investigation in the first place.

  “They must have someone who’s good at building fences,” Tomas said. The place did seem to have a lot of them, from pens for goats to pretty whitewashed planks surrounding garden squares, more decorative than functional. Tomas was probably right—someone here was building fences for fun.

  The car trundled down a gently sloping road. Tomas steered it around a pair of switchbacks before leveling off and heading toward the first of the buildings, a sprawling whitewashed structure built half into the hillside. He asked, “Strategy?”

  “We present ourselves to the village committee and ask to see the body,” she said.

  “And if they refuse? If they’ve gotten rid of it since the request for an investigation went in?”

  “One of them requested the investigation,” Enid said. “If they got rid of evidence since then, that’ll be on them.” If there was dissension within the town’s committee, set the factions against each other until the truth, or something close to it, came out. There’d be a lot of interpretation. “If it’s an accidental death, the evidence should be clear enough. The committee here should welcome an investigation.”

  “No one likes an investigation, Enid.”

  That was true enough. Especially a place like Pasadan, which seemed to have never had one. How much of a shock were they in for?

  They had seen people moving around from the first: someone in skirts at a laundry line, a teenager herding geese toward a pond, a blacksmith stepping into the street to stretch his back or to look into the clear sky to gauge the weather. No one had a reason to glance up the winding lane that led out of the valley until they heard the car’s motor. The kid with the geese first, then the blacksmith. The kid ran to the large whitewashed building, probably the community hall and committee rooms, a way station for travelers. This was where Enid and Tomas would be living while they conducted their investigation. She hoped this didn’t last much longer than a day or two.

  By the time Tomas guided the car up to the communal building, a crowd was there waiting for them. The three in front were likely the committee members, gray sashes hurriedly put over their sho
ulders, standing rigid as walls. The rest stood a little ways behind them, leaning in to hear—but not too close. Spectators. A chorus, to report on gossip. A general mood of anxiety made everyone frown, but no one held anything that might be used as a weapon, no pitchforks or knives in view. Tomas had weapons—a staff and a packet of tranquilizers. Mostly for show. She’d only seen the tranqs used when somebody lost their temper. Sometimes, people lashed out. And if they did, Tomas would be ready. But right now, everyone just seemed cautious.

  The committee trio waited: a white-haired old man, tall, arthritis twisting his hands; a second man, bald, short, and round, with narrow eyes and skin like amber; a woman, younger than the others, with her hair in a dark braid, her gaze lowered. Biting her lip as if thinking hard about something. This would be Ariana, then. She’d requested the investigation. Enid wanted to get her alone to talk as soon as possible.

  The white-haired man, however, glared daggers. Very likely, he was the committee chair, Philos. The other must have been Lee.

  Enid and Tomas left the car and came forward. Tomas stayed a little behind, leaving no doubt who was in charge. Ah, yes, that would be her. She wasn’t a big woman, but she wasn’t small either. Average height, with some weight and muscle on her. Tomas and his wood staff would be the one the folk of Pasadan glanced at nervously. The threatening one.

  She donned a placid smile, as if nothing at all could ever be wrong. “Hello. I’m Enid. This is Tomas. The regional committee called for an investigation after a request was submitted. We’ll make it as quick as possible. Would you three like to step inside so we can talk?” She didn’t look at the crowd that had gathered, the folk she didn’t want listening in.

  The old man and committee chair, Philos, didn’t move. He looked her up and down, clearly sizing her up.

  “You seem young,” he said. He glanced at Tomas. Wondering maybe if he was really in charge, if he was supervising some sort of training assignment. She wanted to snarl at him—would regional send a trainee on a possible murder investigation? Truly? Maybe he thought so. Such stories were told about investigators, after all. That they had too much authority, wielded too blithely. Trouble was, no one had found a better way to do the job.

  “I’ve worn my uniform for three years, sir,” Enid said. “Tomas is my enforcer. I hope we can take care of this unpleasantness quickly.”

  “It was an accident,” Philos said.

  The woman, Ariana, rolled her eyes. Commentary on a long-running argument? Enid was able to catch her gaze then and raise a questioning brow.

  Jaw set, she stepped forward with sudden resolve. “Investigators, welcome to Pasadan. I’m Ariana. This is Philos and Lee. We’ll help in any way we can.”

  “Thank you. Let’s go inside, shall we?” Enid gestured at the door that she hoped led to some sort of conference room.

  “Come, Philos,” Ariana murmured through gritted teeth.

  The man’s posture flinched just enough to let him turn and lead the others to the door and inside. Enid and Tomas followed. Enid lingered long enough to look over the gathered crowd and offer a friendly smile.

  No one smiled back, and no one seemed put at ease. Investigators didn’t make a lot of friends and weren’t often welcome. Not while they were wearing their uniforms.

  She’d guessed right, and the front room of the community building was a group meeting space: committee meetings, public hearings, petitions. During some periods it might have been used for harvest, food or wool processing, or town-wide activities during bad weather. The place had a cement floor, windows and skylights letting in plenty of natural light, and a faint agricultural air of hay and soil. A long wood table and chairs sat on one side of the room, along with a blank chalkboard. An all-purpose room, clean and worn with use. Enid approved.

  The three committee members clustered by the table; Enid guessed they’d usually sit on one side of it during hearings but that they didn’t know what to do now. They were so rarely the object of a hearing, and not the ones in charge.

  “You must be tired after traveling,” Ariana said, bustling as she defaulted to the role of a good host, eager and hopeful. “Would you like to rest first? We have a good way station here, a shower for washing up if you like.”

  As lovely as a shower sounded, they didn’t have time. “Later,” Enid said. “Why don’t we sit and discuss business first.”

  In a moment they were arranged at the table, the committee members on one side and Enid on the other, as if this were a normal meeting after all. Tomas ranged around the room, hands behind his back, studying the walls and window frames as if he were a carpenter running an inspection. Philos kept glancing over at him. Wondering what Tomas was up to, no doubt. While the enforcer was on his feet, the others would never relax, and that was all to the good as far as Enid was concerned.

  Enid waited a moment. Resisted asking if everyone was comfortable; they likely wouldn’t answer her.

  “We received the initial report. A man was killed. Sero,” she said.

  “It was an accident,” Philos repeated.

  “Why do you say that?” Enid asked him.

  “He fell and hit his head.” Very decisive.

  “Did anyone see it happen? Is there a witness?”

  No answer. The three glanced at one another, then quickly looked away. Afraid to reveal too much, even by looking. So no one saw, or no one would reveal anyone who did see.

  “What was he doing when he hit his head?” Enid asked.

  “Working. He was in his workshop,” Philos answered.

  “You’re sure no one saw him?”

  “I . . . we . . . we don’t know. We’re not sure.”

  “Do you know who saw him alive last?” Enid asked. She spread the question around. The second man, Lee, hadn’t spoken yet, merely nodded or shaken his head in agreement with the others. Ariana looked like she wanted to speak, but not if it meant interrupting Philos. She watched him closely, as if waiting for cues.

  “Ariana?” Enid prompted.

  Again, she set her expression. Steeling herself. “No. Sero . . . Sero was a bit of a loner. We don’t know who might have seen him.”

  They’d had almost four days to get their story in order. Enid would have to keep asking the same questions until something slipped out. Question them again, separately. She’d have to find out where he lived, who interacted with him regularly, if the dead man had been acting strangely.

  “I understand you submitted the investigation request, Ariana?”

  She started to speak, but Philos interrupted. “She did so against the recommendation of the rest of the committee.” Lee seemed to be biting his lips, not looking up, not willing to stand with Philos’s declaration. Ariana glared at them both, and Enid wondered if Lee had assured the committeewoman that he agreed with requesting an investigation, just as he agreed with Philos about not requesting one. Philos continued, “It was an accident and not worth the time or effort of an investigation.”

  “Always worth the effort, if the truth is under debate,” Enid said. “Pasadan won’t be penalized for the wasted time, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  His mouth pressed shut, his gaze shadowed. He was worried about something else. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tomas standing by, listening close.

  Enid said, “Ariana, how quickly after Sero died did you send the request?”

  “I . . . I’m not really sure, because we’re not really sure when he died. He might have been there some time. But once he was found . . . not long, a couple of hours. We were just all so shocked; it just seemed so odd.”

  “The committee could have handled it. Should have handled it,” Philos said. He and Ariana glared at each other, across Lee, who looked like he’d rather be somewhere else.

  This sounded like Ariana went behind the others’ backs.

  “There wasn’t much discussion about it between you, then?”

  “Oh, there was some,” Ariana said.

  “It was loud
,” Lee added. His voice was deep, which Enid hadn’t expected.

  Philos turned to Ariana, his jaw stiff and lips puckered. He either wanted to spit or swear. And how many secret conversations had been going on between these people over the last several days? Sending for investigators was an end run around the debate, then. Dissent within Pasadan’s committee. This was already more complicated than Enid had hoped.

  “I’d like to have a look at the workshop where he died. And I understand the body is still available?”

  “Is that really necessary?” Philos asked.

  “Philos, please, no trouble!” Lee hissed, reaching out then flinching back, as if he’d tried to touch fire. They were treating the man like he was cracked glass that might shatter.

  Philos turned on him in a silent reprimand, glaring. Enid had a memory of children fighting.

  At the moment, Enid didn’t like Philos. He seemed to be the kind of person who liked being in charge, who liked being the first to know things and didn’t like being left out, and who didn’t much like parties.

  “I don’t know if it’s necessary or not,” Enid said brightly. “But I’d rather look and find out it’s not needed than skip it when it is. We’ll go look at the body first, then look at where he died, and figure out what we need to do next, if anything. All right?”

  “How long do you think this will take? Until we get this all cleared up? I just—it’s my job to protect this village. I don’t want any unnecessary disruption.” Philos suddenly seemed aware of the bad impression he was making.

  “The disruption has already occurred, sir,” she replied. She caught Tomas twitching a smile at that.

  Ariana led them out to the street. Philos and Lee followed, the former tense with anger, the latter deferential. Tomas kept a respectful distance, looking them all over. The trio kept glancing at him over their shoulders.