Under her shady oak high above the sea, a young gryphon peered down to the jubilance unfolding in her beautiful seaside town. Gryphons and zebras were laughing and playing, enjoying the beautiful day. The smells of sizzling meat wafted up the hill. Booths and stalls lined the sandstone streets, all adorned a striking blue-and-white design.
There was so much she could see from here: The dry docks, full of the skeletons of ships. The steel mill, with it’s mighty smokestacks reaching for the sky. All the way down, the red tile roofs glowed warm, meeting up with the pristine emerald-blue south sea. Interspersed between these roofs floated an army of blue balloons, which bounced gently in the sea breeze. It, like many of the other fluttering flags in town, had a distinct silhouette of a mighty looking mace.
No one stayed home today — how could they? The sky was beautiful and the sun was warm. It was a perfect day for a holiday. Baldric's Day.
The eagless was pulled from her gazing by a talon placed on her shoulder. With a cute little eep! her tail curled around a leg. She relaxed quickly after realizing it was the gentle touch of her new boss.
“Madam mayor,” the eagless quickly apologized, hastily forcing herself onto four limbs. She fumbled with her new copper-hilt longsword. It's length was a little different from her old dirk.
She continued: “Forgive me, missus Whitetalon — I was staring a little more than I should have!”
Whitetalon chuckled, the light of the sun bringing a twinkle to her scarlet pupils. “It’s quite alright, Alya,” she replied, her raspy voice steeped in wisdom. “Talon’s Reach this time of year is a beautiful sight.”
Alya smiled back, her ears perking back up. “Of course, madam mayor! It's... ah!" She ran a talon through her black head feathers, befuddled. She flipped through a few pages of her clipboard. "I can't get distracted again — We have to get ready for your speech!”
“Aye, you're right." Whitetalon gave a beckoning gesture with a wing. "Come, we’d best not keep our friends waiting.” The mayor gripped her longsword by its golden hilt, and performed a swift about-face. She took a few steps out from the cooling shade and into the bright sunlight bearing down around them. Alya padded along, pressing the clipboard to her breast.
The terrace atop the hill was bustling with many of the well-to-do citizens of Talon’s Reach. The common colors of blue hung from capes and coats of all kinds, fluttering in the breeze. As the mayor approached, many fell to all fours, bowing their heads in reverence. Whitetalon returned a bow each time.
She made frequent stops to the silent annoyance of Alya. It felt like hundreds of gryphs approached the elderly mayor, barraging her with mountains of praise. She was honored to be in the mayor's presence — But, ugh! This sun is so hot! The color of her feathers didn't help her much, either. Respectfully, she prodded Whitetalon along, constantly reminding her of the speech.
They descended the hill to Alya's relief, falling under the shade of the overlapping overhangs of the stucco buildings. More blue balloons and buntings were down here, burying the town. Again, they were constantly barraged by the praise of the citizenry to the mighty mayor of Talon’s Reach.
It's astonishing that so many love mayor Whitetalon so much. She mused.
“Madam mayor,” Alya started. “We must get down to the town plaza! There's only so much time! I don't want to be the assistant known for your tardiness!”
Whitetalon laughed, which was echoed by the group Alya interrupted. "Oh, miss Turig! I'm sorry that I'm taking so long, I just have so much to say to our constituents!"
Alya tried to keep her frustration in check, tightening her jaw momentarily. "I'm sorry, madam mayor, I just —"
Whitetalon raised a gentle talon. "Don't worry, Alya. You're right, you're right — How about you give me... oh, fifteen minutes? Not a minute more. Then you'll see me."
Alya smiled wide, grateful for the compromise. “Of course, fifteen minutes! I can’t wait for your speech, madam mayor.” She scuttled away, her tail wagging with anticipation. She was enamored by the swath of color as she walked down, her eyes beginning to ignore the soft tans that laid beneath the bright blue decorations.
But her adoration was quickly broken as she bumped into a gruff looking zebra, accompanied by more of his brothers. Her eyes grew wide, these zebs were huge, hulking lads, and though were much shorter than she, could break her with a sneeze.
“Oy, lass! Ye better watch yourself!" He called with a smile. Alya slowly eased herself as his soft demeanor. But his eyes widened as he looked to her weapon. "Oh, miss! I apologize — Ye're the mayor's newest assistant, yeah?" He gave her a quick bow, and all of the beads woven into his mane chattered together.
“I am,” she replied happily.
Smiling, the zebra continued, “Excellent. We’d normally bring this to her on any other day, but because of such an... auspicious occasion, us lads at the mill wanted to give her this gift.” A rather scrawny looking zebra approached her with a beautifully crafted spear. A gold-trimmed blue bow hugged the joint connecting the shaft and the head. It was intricately engraved with many symbols of a blending of zebra and gryphon iconography; the most prominent being a sword, an egg, a scroll, an eagle’s head, an owl and a shield. Symbols of the Six, she recognized. They were the patron gods and virtues of the gryphon people.
“A thank you from the Metal Shaper's Union for her support in rebuilding the mill yard after the fire.” Alya took the spear gingerly, feeling an energy surge through her. She felt immense pride knowing the mayor was the recipient of this immaculate piece of art.
“I am honored to represent you in relaying this gift, gentletiercels — Er, I mean, gentlecolts.” She nervously smiled after her correction. The zebra payed no mind, sharing a round of laughter. “However, I’m sure the mayor thanks you even more for your community service. Instead of giving it to me, why not give it to her yourselves?” The zebra looked at each other — The thought hadn't crossed their minds.
“We thought she'd be busy, miss,” the leader replied.
Alya held up a talon as if to calm their minds. “Nonsense! A small deviation to honor you wouldn't phase her in the slightest."
The entire group beamed widely, looking to each other as if they were about to receive sweet morsels from their mothers. “Ye bet yer head feathers, miss,” the leader said as the group started to chatter with excitement. “I think I speak for the lads 'ere when I say we accept yer offer.”
“Perfect,” the assistant said. She flipped through her clipboard and drew few a notes with the charcoal pen hanging from it. “I can slip you in right before her speech, is that fine?”
“Yer a saint, miss.”
Alya smiled. “No, just a simple organizer.”
“Just as humble as the mayor, ain’t she, boys?” The head zebra asked his colleagues, causing their bodies to rear back in laughter. Alya laughed along with them, still warm in the cheeks. “Ye have a happy Baldric’s Day, miss. Don’t go pokin' anyone’s eyes out with that, ya hear?”
The group left with the spear with a pep in their step, with mutterings about celebratory drinks later. Alya, however, continued down, halfway to her destination. By this point, her mouth started to water. Her sense of smell grew hypersensitive as the succulent scents of spiced chicken and pepper vegetables enveloped her in a sultry embrace. Looking about, she could see steam rising from under booths surrounded by ravenous patrons, squabbling their demands and waving shining coins. She squeezed out a satisfied moan while she passed a chokkho stand.
Alya took a closer look at the stand. The cook had his back to her, tending to one of the many pots and pans that went into the chokkho creation. A display case next to the kitchen showed more than what was cooking, Squid, fruits, vegetables, all skewered by sticks. She smirked while looking around the stall, realizing that everything was punctured by them. The tips of these makeshift spears were topped with what looked like a small mace head.
“You like it, eyas?” The boisterous looking cook asked, his talons calmly resting on his bulbous potbelly.
She nodded. “Oh, yes. It’s an amazing selection you have here.”
The cook's laugh was as bouncy as his massive gut. “Of course it is! I have the finest morsels here, enough to feed five of Baldric’s armies!”
“Five? He only had one to fight the forces of Rocktalon Hold.”
The cook flashed an arrogant smile. “Were I with Baldric those years ago, my food would have attracted more than his twelve thousand. Maybe eighty!”
"Then, the great victory over the Hold would not have been so legendary!”
“True.” The cook rubbed the underside of his beak in thought. “And I wouldn’t have so much of a profit today.”
Alya took one of his offerings in her talon and scrutinized it. “Yes, it’s very well looking — though, what is it about the sticks? Why the sticks?”
“Everything’s better with a stick through 'em. Roasted daikon, pork, kahakho, broccoli. The future of food, I tell you!”
Alya giggled. “I don’t see much of a point with it, though.”
“Ah! The point — " He speared a vegetable with a nearby stick "— is it's easy to serve, you see.”
“Even Baldric’s favored meal of chokkho?” Alya challenged. The cook, as if on cue, looked to his left, and from behind the shelf unveiled a whole chicken, run through with a stake the circumference of a sword’s hilt. It was steaming heavily, just recently recovered from an unseen oven.
“Comes with a side of your choice,” he advertised, nonchalantly pulling up a cob of corn and a whole potato with the opposite talon, also skewered.
“Erm, no thank you,” she said, taking her leave.
Though the smells of the this area of the town had were heavenly, she needed to continue. Closer to the center of town laid a plethora of street performances and stage shows. As she passed, a certain street performer caught her eye. He was dressed as Baldric — A spitting image of the tiercel. His brigandine's external cloth was clean, and its copper rivets shined like the sun. The splinted armor on his extremities were just as beautiful, the leather and steel polished with no flaw. Alya was impressed — he even had the blue tabard and flanged mace faithfully recreated.
“...And thus, did I step away from the threats of Garron Rocktalon?” The Baldric impersonator asked his crowd, a heroic aura hugging his boisterous tone.
“No!” Was the squeaky reply, all from the gathered fledglings.
“No, I did not! And upon the mount above us, I looked to my soldiers, ragged from the days of fighting. I knew they wanted it: Freedom! To join our brothers in the west, and bring together a nation of democracy! It was he, Garron Rocktalon, who stood in the way of freedom!" On cue, a stage attendant worked the gears of a shade, darkening the stage.
The impersonator crouched low, as if ready to draw his weapon, and crept over the crowd. “The day was stormy. The day was windy!" Another attendant waved a giant, unfolded fan. "And yet, we took the fiend Rocktalon, and won against the sixty thousand horde. His head is what we wanted, and his head is what we got!” From a wicker basket at his paws, the faux Baldric lifted a droopy and melted wax head, colored blood red at its "neck." The children gasped with surprise. Behind, Alya saw the parents equally impressed.
“I gave this head to the Lords upon Mount Veron,” Baldric continued, unfurling his wings. “I helped bring peace and prosperity, culminating in the mighty Confederacy... but, I don’t need to tell you the rest!” Alya was impressed, and clapped along with the crowd — It was an amusing performance.
From there, the Veronian Documents were signed, and the nation was born, she recalled, returning back to her duties. I love that story!
The plaza revealed itself to her in grand splendor. Higher up the hill, it wasn't hard to notice how busy it was down here, but it was a lot more than she realized. Blues and whites hung from every and all places they could, from gutters to doorways, from window sills to banisters. The Confederate standard was replaced with Baldric's battle flag on every flagpole. Flags even fluttered from telegraph lines. One would be excused to think that's all the colors the town had.
Below these decorations sat a cacophony of creatures. Every restaurant was packed to the brim, and the wine flowed from a thousand glasses. Fledglings ran with streamers from their talons, and little zebra foals galloped along, their barding just as fantastic.
Hundreds of beings danced to an orchestra of recorders, drums and baglamas. She recognized the tune: The Leaping Lumberpony. It was originally a pony song but became a gryphon dance, and it was popular by all walks of life. The song was upbeat and incredibly infectious, making even the humble assistant hum along with the cadence of the lighthearted ditty. Alya found it fitting for the celebrated tiercel.
Once the leader of a lumber guild, turned general. Ah! The Resurgance! What an amazing time!
After squeezing through an uncountable number of people, she gathered her bearings by keeping the central clock tower in view. It was an obelisk of stone and oak, and the tallest structure in town. It was adorned with carvings that were the labor of true love. Baldric, his first command, his story of the twelve thousand, his great career in state, all of it was carved in painstaking detail across every surface. The pièce de résistance was the gold inlaid carving of Baldric over the door of the grand pendulum, standing in a beautiful, flowing robe, standing defiant against the world he once lived in.
Under it, on the base of the tower, had text on a silver plaque:
Baldric Logger:
Mighty as the stone
Grand as the ocean
Strong as the Confederacy
She had heard that back in the capital, Stoneanchor, there was a statue captured the strong and robust Baldric somewhere near the capitol building. She had hoped to see it one day, and see the physical presence instead of the prints of his official portraits. It was lifelike, apparently, and bigger than the ones in Talon's Reach. Oh well, she resigned. Another day, perhaps.
She looked up to the clock face, its golden hands signifying the approaching hour. She said fifteen minutes...
Wanting to stay punctual herself, she took the the sky, pushing herself from the ground with her mighty, black wings. She landed on an expertly crafted stage that situated itself in front of the town hall, a building that was just shorter than the clock tower. Its tall pillars loomed over her, creating an imposing facade. Its brickwork was sleek and terraced, regal stucco columns seemingly holding each floor above one another, placed between sets of bow windows. It was the pinnacle of modern design.
On the wooden platform was a simple podium and speaking trumpet near the edge, and a staircase leading down to the entrance of town hall. The whole area was positioned below the mayor’s office, that if she wanted to make a stylized appearance, she could open her window and descend to the platform. Alya was secretly hoping she'd do that this year.
She approached the podium and looked over the plaza. With her clipboard in hand, she marked off items with the charcoal pen. From what she’d seen so far, this Baldric’s Day celebration couldn’t have gone smoother. The decor was masterfully constructed, and the events were flawless. Were it up to her, the day would conclude on these notes, but she knew that the town came for more than celebration: They wanted to see their beloved mayor.
A perfect end to a perfect day.
Moments later, the clock struck 3 o'clock, its bells booming above the din. The dancing music stopped, and once the bells finished their ringing, began a new triumphant tune. The entirety of the festival slowly made its way into the plaza, filling it to the brim with people dressed in blue and white. It was as if a great river flowed down a wide-sloped mountain.
A shiver eased its way down the length of her spine as she realized how much of a crowd gathered. She had seen the census data many times before, but to see nearly the entire population in one place was incredibly jaw dropping. Clenching her clipboard tightly, she was thankful she was not the mayor.
Cheers erupted ahead, pulling her from her stupor. From the north, the spread wings of Whitetalon flapped gracefully, carrying her to Alya. She landed next to the assistant with a gentle thump, with more cheers clamoring from the crowd. If Alya didn’t feel small before, it was at this moment that she did.
“Alya, dear. I hope you've kept everything together?” Whitetalon's chipper attitude was infectious, causing Alya to grow a goofy grin.
“Oh! Well, uh, as best as I can, madam mayor...” Alya stammered, looking to the audience. She recalled being one of the crowd members many times before she was picked as the mayor’s assistant. The mayor was one of the finest gryphons to grace the world, in her opinion. With what she did for the town, it was worth a cheer. However, it’s one thing to be with the middle of the jubilation, but to be in front of it...
It’s like being in the middle of a typhoon, she thought.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Whitetalon assured, placing a soft talon on her shoulder again. “I know it’s much, but you get used to it.”
“I don’t think I ever will, madam mayor.”
"You're not the first one to say that." She winked and flashed a smile. Alya's tail started to wag, suddenly feeling strong. Whitetalon continued: "Could you give me a few more minutes? I forgot my notes.” Widening her eyes, Alya flipped through her clipboard frantically, hoping to find a copy.
Her shoulder was then patted by the mayor's talon. “Don’t worry about it — My office is just upstairs, remember?”
“Oh." Alya looked up. “Right.”
“Don’t have them storm the place, now!” Whitetalon walked down the side of the platform and down into the town hall. She waved back to Alya, who returned it.
Looking ahead, the great sea of people intensified, which grew another tributary from the west boulevard. Gryphons and — Oh my goodness, is that a pegasus? — started to crowd the red rooftops. As the sun shone above, a warm glow bathed the crowd, and with it, signaled the location of the union workers with the glistening of the polished spear. She could see the head zebra looking at her with a quizzical look, raising a brow as if asking for permission. She beckoned them with a free talon and a smile.
The group clamored up the wooden stairwell in a tidy line, forming a small cluster to the left of the young eagless. The lead zebra puffed his chest out, very proud of this moment, as no doubt everyone else was. The spear’s majesty was compounded by its shining spearhead.
Approaching the group, she asked, “Are you ready?”
The leader nodded, his beads bouncing. “Aye. All we need is the mayor, and we’re good to go!”
Alya couldn’t agree more. She knew the people would be wanting to see their wonderful leader, but if she was any later, Alya feared the crowd would become restless. She looked behind to the podium and gulped. I suppose I can calm them some way...
Alya took careful steps to the podium and placed her clipboard down where one’s papers would go. She clenched the sides of the stand tightly, feeling her nails dig into the wood. She adjusted the speaking trumpet to her height and placed it in front of her beak. She took a deep breath, and then spoke — but it came out as a barely audible squeak. She looked down, seeing a few gryphons raise a talon to their ears. She took another breath, and channeled the presence of Mayor Whitetalon.
“Good afternoon eaglesses and tiercels! Welcome to another beautiful Baldric’s Day, and the three hundredth anniversary of the founding of the great Gryphon Confederacy!” The crowd cheered as she was tempted to wipe away the sweat forming beneath her head feathers. This was probably the biggest crowd she'd ever seen — She couldn't count them directly, but it was bigger than the census data suggested. The town normally got a big influx of tourists during the celebration, but this was so much more than anticipated.
She puffed out her cheeks, taking it in. She tapped her fingers on the podium, focusing herself.
“I must apologize for the tardiness of the mayor, but she needed to grab a few things before we started.” A wave of laughter washed over the nervous assistant. She smiled nervously, her breathing starting to ease with the crowd's amiability.
“However,” she continued, gesturing to the zebra behind her, “before she begins her speech, we have a very special gift for our mayor. These are the hard workers of MSU 357, thanking her for her gracious donation to the repair of the steel mill!” The gathering applauded. “But, without further delay, we’ll be back very soon. Again, apologies for the delay!”
Alya turned upwards to the mayor’s office. Though it was a casual glance, she saw movement that was much more active than what she’d normally think would be for the mayor. She's looking for her notes with some vigor, she thought.
As soon as she finished that thought, it was if the entire world slowed down. Suddenly, the shadowy silhouette of the mayor burst through the unopened window, blasting glass in her wake. The window's multicolored stained glass glowed in an unholy sheen, glimmering its shades from the blood that followed in the mayor's fall. She couldn’t see how, nor could she see why, but the mayor was falling.
Alya couldn’t do a thing but watch as her beloved mayor, paragon of good, cascade downwards to the earth. With a sickening crunch, the mayor bounced off the back of the stage head first, gruesomely twisting in the air and landing square in front of Alya. Her breathing quickened and her gaze fogged as tears began to well around her eyes. Her heartbeat lurched and raced, matching the manic galloping that followed her. The crowd was up in arms, their collective wail amplified within the plaza, screeching through Alya's skull.
She approached Whitetalon, the union quickly circling her. The rest of the crowd stormed up the sides of the stage, their emotions pouring a flood. She kneeled, placing a shaking talon on the mangled body of the mayor. As she placed a finger on the poor eagless' neck, the world quieted. The crowd stayed still, and the music refused to play. Only the sound of the fleeting wind graced her ears as she came to an awful conclusion:
Whitetalon was dead.
The tiercel was awoken with a loud crash. He stumbled from his seat in alarm, reaching for the constable’s blade on his belt. Looking outside his window, he could see that the only thing happening was a gentle decrease in speed. The forest he once saw before napping was no longer whizzing by, but instead, gently passing rows of green hills filled the window.
With no alarm, he simply looked into his briefcase. Inside were a few black-and-white photographs and an olive green folder on top of his personal belongings. The photos slid out during the jolt.
He perked an ear to the cadenced squeaking of a wheel outside the cabin. He stuck his head out of the folding door. His eyes met with an elderly looking eagless pushing the squeaky trolley.
“Missus Greytail —” He took a moment to clear his throat “— good to see you.”
The attendant smiled as she approached. “Indeed, mister Eventide. I hope your nap was alright?”
“Aside from the jolt earlier, just fine. Oh, and please — It’s just ‘inspector.’”
“Of course, inspector,” she corrected herself. “Is there anything you might need from me or my wares?” Greytail led a talon over a plethora of foodstuffs and sanitary supplies.
“Nothing right now,” Eventide replied. “Though, I would like to know when we’ll be arriving in Talon’s Reach.”
The eagless pulled a ticking watch from her side of the trolley. She flipped open its golden top and took a glance. “We’ve another half hour.”
“That’s perfect. Thank you very much.” Greytail nodded, pushing away. Eventide pulled himself back, sliding the door with an solid snap. He snatched the folder up, and inspected the contents for another time. The scent of fresh ink still permeated from the documents, bringing a faint smile to his face. He pulled a set of glasses from inside of his coat and flipped the arms open with a practiced snap of the wrist, and slid them over his beak. His weary eyes focused clearly on his briefcase while he retrieved the folder.
He retrieved the photos and the rest of what was inside of the folder and organized it on top of the briefcase. First, a telegram, printed three days prior to his arrival on the train. His eyes traced the machined lettering as he faintly read aloud:
TsR 01 SA06
Received 14:19, 3E:902:06:15
Sudden death of Mayor Tala Whitetalon, Bareth Whitetalon apprehended and in custody. Alya Turig in temporary control. Requesting intervention from CIB, as per Edict SC2814-C1: Death of High Official. Please send ASAP.
Eventide shook his head, placing the telegram down. I knew the name was far too familiar, thinking somberly. He pulled up Whitetalon’s profile before he left Stoneanchor; The name had graced his ears periodically for years. He recalled her numerous achievements over her lifetime while browsing photos — She was known for generous philanthropy, and immense love for her people. Reelected countless times; By the time she was murdered, she was on her ninth tour of office.
He sighed remorsefully, then reading along the autopsy report. Whitetalon was absolutely devastated — Lacerations from the window she crashed through, broken bones from the initial melee and the resulting crash — under his breath, he thanked the Six the snapped neck gave her a quick death. There were no recent photos of her in the file, only a twenty year old heliograph. She was a most beautiful eagless back then, even at 45 — a curvaceous figure, slender face and wide eyes. Six only knew what a photograph of her that age would show.
The train began to slow. Alerted by the sudden drop in speed, Eventide looked outside. A cute hamlet hugged the shores of the South Sea. Its distinctive red tile roofs and tan facades were familiar, but unfortunately he wasn’t here on holiday again. Though he couldn't see the station from behind his tinted window, he imagined it would be similar to the hundreds of homes that sat near the outskirts of Talon’s Reach. It was a comfortable aesthetic, a great contrast to the more stark and impenetrable-looking state buildings in the capital of Stoneanchor.
As the vehicle came to a crawl, Eventide quickly stashed the case material and his glasses. Before he snatched his luggage, he recoiled from his hasty standing, holding a talon to his head as he felt a sudden rush of blood. He blinked rapidly, adjusting as quick as his middle-aged body would allow.
“Talon’s Reach, our second to last stop on the Pleagian Trail,” a passing conductor announced. “Please exit near the back of the car!”
Obeying the command, Eventide followed a small line filing out from the sleeper cabin. He kept his grip on his briefcase tight, waiting for the group to disembark. As he reached the exit, a summer heat graced his body, combated by the gentle, salty breeze of the sea. Though he emerged under the train platform’s awning, the absurd brightness of the town blinded him from under the shade. He wished for the alchemical film of a tinted window.
He noticed a familiar uniform slowly approach him after he separated from the crowd. A waiting constable strolled up to him, his chestplate and gauntlets contrasting against the green gambeson he wore underneath it.
“Inspector Aurek Eventide, I assume?” He asked, stopping sharply in front of Eventide.
“Just ‘inspector’ is fine, officer,” Eventide responded.
“Yes, sir. I’m here on behalf of Miss Turig. She’s waiting for you at city hall.”
“Please, officer.” Eventide waved a talon in front of him. “Lead on.” The officer made an expert about-face to exit the awning.
The makeshift brim Eventide created with his free talon did no good against the overpowering brightness of the town. He silently cursed the officer as his jingasa helmet provided excellent protection from the heat.
As his eyes adjusted, the world began to take shape. The architecture and its colors were covered by dilapidated decorations. The blue seemed to have been left to rot in the weather, as if a great wound beat its azure juices from the tears in the skin. On his back paws, he did his best to avoid the streamers and banners that layered the streets.
A somber air was breathed by the citizens, their heads swinging low. Though the cool breeze from the sea was welcomed, their own attitudes were as rough as the salt they tasted. Where he was familiar with stalls and stores shouting their wares back in Stoneanchor, a low murmur instead took root.
The trek took a scant ten minutes of time, barring the occasional stop for breath for the old tiercel. It was more than enough for Eventide, compounded by the depressing atmosphere.
When they reached the plaza, the confetti and streamers were piled on in corners and crannies, with no attempt made to clean. Citizens ignored them by trudging through them, blank stared. It was almost as if the litter stemmed from here, a lake with the streets as its tributaries. It was just as quiet here as it was at the station, and was as if he had walked into a ghost town. No life coursed through this town’s veins anymore.
Eventide took a few moments to walk across the stage in front of the city hall, excusing himself from his escort. Opposed to the rest of the square, the stage was spotless. All except a section devoid of litter, cordoned off by pole dividers and linked together by velvet rope. Three constables kept guard around it. Flowers of all kinds seemed to grow infinite from the wood in makeshift memorial.
He saw the white chalk outline of the body was all that was left of the eagless. The shards of her office window — he looked up briefly to confirm she fell from it, the window was patched up by plain masking tape — glittered with a terrible melancholy.
A couple emerged on stage sporting a bouquet of flowers. He had barely noticed their approach, they were so quiet. With their heads down, they gingerly placed it down with prayers on their breath. One looked to Eventide briefly as tears dribbled off of his cheeks. Eventide nodded to him, sharing his remorse.
As they left, so did Eventide. He made his way to the city hall steps the stage connected to, his pawsteps echoing off the stonework of the square. His escort gave him passage, and left him to do as he pleased.
Gryph and zebra alike gave some notice to him; The Confederate Information Bureau was nothing to scoff at in these affairs. Its agents were seldom seen in places so peaceful, and Eventide’s presence stirred the brew of fear that boiled in the people’s hearts. They knew in their guts that, perhaps, the fires can finally be quenched and their little world can return to a sense of normalcy.
He approached the front desk, unphased at the people's gaze on him. After doing this job for almost thirty years, he’d seen plenty enough of dead-eyed and bewildered stares. The receptionist was no different. Dressed without the signature armor and gambeson, this constable was sporting a sharply pressed green coat. If he laid in a field of shamrocks, he would have blended in.
Always felt it was an ugly color, Eventide thought with a smirk. He was happy his coat was more civilian dress to blend in, but still retained a uniform-like quality with the standard color of slate grey.
“Merry met, young stallion,” Eventide began, loosening his top buttons. It was an older greeting, mostly reserved for older generations. He scowled for a moment to himself, now unsure if the zeb would be old enough to know how to return it.
But he stammered: "Y-yes! Merry met!” He stood and flashed a quick salute across his breast. “How can I help you today?” The constable was a zebra in his early twenties, maybe even fresh from the academy.
Eventide smirked again, pouring all his will to refrain from shaking his head. Better than I would've been at his age! He laughed at himself.
“I’m looking for the acting mayor’s office, lad — Care to point me the right way?”
“Aye, sir — Up the stairs —” he pointed a hoof at them “— and to the left. Can’t miss it, sir.”
Eventide nodded. “Thank you, constable. Merry meet again.”
“Uh, sir!” The constable shouted as Eventide turned. The inspector met the young constable’s eyes.
“Aye?”
“You wouldn’t happen to be here for…? You know.”
Eventide stared into the constable’s eyes like a kestrel eying its prey, tilting his head up to one side. But as quickly as he made eye contact, Eventide replied, “That I am is as much as I can tell you, constable. As for the rest of it" — he rotated his head to be even with the zebra's — "that’s none of your concern, I'm afraid.” It was a softened variant of a CIB response, with the head roll a way to say, Don't press your luck, friend.
“Merry meet again,” he said cheerfully as he turned heel, marching to the stairs. He nodded with some satisfaction as he grew as his left the young lad’s sight.
He didn’t stay long to see the young constable stare a hole into the back of his head, still flabbergasted at his presence. More of the same gazes followed him as he began his climb up the steps.
Eventide shrugged mentally as he marched — no, limped. Curse this old leg! — up the stairs and arrived at the office of the mayor. It too had a few memorial trinkets outside of the door, however it wasn’t the memorial that took his eye — A distraught eagless was seething at the secretary sitting outside of the office, who was doing her best to calm her.
“— for the Six’s sake, we can’t just let him rot in his cell! We know he’s guilty, now just give him to us!”
The secretary patted the air ahead of her, trying to tell her to remain calm. “My Lady, we have the situation under control, and —”
“Don’t you My Lady me, missy!” The distraught eagless pivoted her hips and pressed her talons onto to them. Eventide didn’t notice the lovely saber swinging on her waist at first, with a silver baskethilt twinkling from the light seeping through the window. Looking close, he could see she was a forumite. “I didn’t come all the way from Stoneanchor just so I could be accosted by some damn little —”
Eventide held up his own talon and spoke up. “My Lady Edrys, please — I implore your patience with this investigation.” By the way she looked at him, he was sure it was Delphina Edrys. Gold eyes, sleek frame, flamboyant cuffed coat — Not to mention the general snootiness of the forumite class.
He continued: “The CIB is doing what it can to answer all the questions posed. Surely you can let the law do its work, My Lady — We shouldn’t be too quick to the hanggryph’s noose.”
Edrys opened her mouth to rebute, but reconsidered it. She exhaled sharply and crossed her arms, dissatisfied. “I’m surprised it took so long for you to arrive, inspector.”
Aye, it’s Edrys.
“Bureaucracy, My Lady. It sometimes has a few hiccups.” He bowed to save face, and seamlessly fell to all fours. “But I am here.”
Just the mention of any bureaucracy made Lady Edrys jut her jaw out while she straightened like a pole. Through his fault in a prior investigation, he was able to delay the lady's orders to shoot a striking shipyard as he presented evidence of the shipyard owner's corruption — Her cousin. His evidence changed the local marine garrison's mission from a dispersal of rioters to the arrest of the owner.
“Bah,” she replied, clearly reeling back her initial reaction. She was thinking of it, but mercifuly, decided not to bring it up. “No doubt the senate’s fault for making it so slow. They always liked these insipid, drawn out affairs.”
"Yes," he blandly agreed. Eventide kept his thoughts to himself, knowing full well the CIB was created many, many years before this forumite was born. Probably to keep distraught Veronians like you from violating the sanctity of justice.
He said aloud: “Nonetheless, My Lady, we can finally begin. I would ask you to leave, as so we can begin the formal investigation. This is nothing personal, but tis only the law.” He gestured with a wing towards the descending stairwell, hoping the forumite would take the hint.
To his fortune, she did. She propped her head up, pointing her beak at the ceiling. “Very well, inspector,” she replied going down. “I expect to hear about your findings.”
“The Post will no doubt be informed, My Lady.” As she left and turned the corner of the stairwell, he sighed, standing on his back paws again. Not often a noble walked the halls of the people, but it always seemed like it was the prissy ones.
He looked to the secretary who was visually relieved at her departure. She nodded to him giving a silent thanks. “Welcome to Talon’s Reach, Mister Eventide. I have you scheduled for a later time, but she’s not occupied right now. If you’d like to see Mayor Turig, I’m sure she won’t mind.”
He nodded. “I would appreciate it, lass.”
“Go right in, sir. She’s a little stressed after all of this, so I hope you understand if she’s a little…” She hesitated, rubbing a talon under her beak. “Upset.”
He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. It worked, as she smiled. “Don’t worry, lass. I’ve dealt with many an unhappy soul. I’ll let myself in.”
“Very well, sir.” She stood to unlatch the door, but Eventide stopped her.
“Actually, would you mind if I inspect the mayor’s office? I’m sure the constables would have their own reports, but I’d prefer a look of my own.”
The secretary nodded and walked across the hall, to another pocket door that had a sign posted on it, asking for no entry, threatening legal action. Since he was apart of the investigation, he was willing to risk it.
Inside was a cozy office, timeless in its aesthetic. Light oak wainscoting lined the wall from one end to the other, and above it was muted green wallpaper, dotted with a white flower print. Countless photographs, paintings and awards hung from every wall. So many photos of the old mayor is with children and smiling constituents, alongside her shaking talons with at least three former consuls. Many bookshelves accompanied them, giving the whole office a home-away-from home feeling to the whole room, some sagging with the weight of the tomes.
The carpet was much the same way, red and timeless. But upon the floor, the evidence of the struggle became known. Numbered tags dotted the area, detailing bloodstains, scratches in the carpet, shattered glass. Eventide was careful to approach, as to not disturb the environs. A chair was overturned, and the beautiful, mahogany desk was in disarray, with documents and books strewn all about, some with blood staining the pages.
He noticed that the pages and books were thrown towards the door. Taking a position behind the desk, the refuse was minimal, and judging from the direction, was aimed directly at the overturned chair.
Curious, he mused. Considering this was Tala’s office, wouldn’t she generally be one to defend herself before attacking? And on Bareth’s end, no one would simply begin a melee sitting down. He also noted the two glasses that were strewn about, one broken, the other in tact, but both seemed to have had some residue in them.
Without touching the unbroken one, he took a quick whiff — Wine. It started formal.
From the reports he read, Tala was in the office for no more than a few minutes, upwards of fifteen at the most. The combat escalated, most likely, within the first five. Whatever the subject, it was enough to start a fight. He noticed the bloodstain on the window behind him. A fatal one.
He looked behind him, at the window, seeing the other side of the tape patching. He noticed no ripped wallpaper or scratched wainscoting. He came to the conclusion that the push might’ve been a surprise to Tala. Unfortunate she couldn’t catch herself in the air. Damned unfortunate. But to think a lad like Bareth had the capacity to kill?
He opened the briefcase and pulled out Bareth’s file. It was thin, which was a good thing. He was without any outstanding criminal record, and was a sharp student, getting a degree in civil planning. He was taking a gap year between his time at the University of the Glades, getting ready for an upcoming apprenticeship in Losagi.
And yet, here he is, rotting in a cell.
Eventide sighed, tracing a finger over the page. Why would a lad like this murder his own mother? He looked around the room, trying to find an answer. What would cause him to risk everything on this? His suspicions went in large extremes — Premeditated murder, or a total accident. But considering the evidence, he wanted to rule the latter. This was only a hunch.
But he left the office, not somber, but contemplative. He wanted to know so much more, and, while his thoughts were swimming, ignored the secretary as he walked across the hall. His suspicions would only be considered once he was able to have a more in-depth investigation. Namely, beginning with a session with Bareth Whitetalon.
He shook his head as he walked inside Alya Turig’s temporary office, across the hall. It was considerably smaller, probably a former clerk’s office. It was cramped, stuffy, and without a proper window. But, it was still the same sort of aesthetic of the mayor’s, with the same wainscoting and wallpaper.
On the far side of the room was Alya’s own mahogany desk, and piled high in books, some probably older than the eagless sitting between him. Eventide lightly chuckled to himself, surprised at how many folks he had met around here who were considerably younger than he was.
Her head was cradled in her talons, and she was quiet. Her head trailed left and right, looking over a plethora of folders under her elbows. She muttered quietly under her breath the closer he approached, sighing every few lines read. He at down at one of the chairs at the head of the desk, waiting for her to respond.
He cleared his throat, and the mayor shot up with a yell, the books collapsing over the side. He chuckled as she tried to tidy up. An old gryph playing his tricks.
“M-mister Eventide, I assume?” She chuckled nervously, patting the books in a nice little pile.
“Aye,” Eventide replied. “But I prefer ‘inspector,’ ma’am.”
“Of course, inspector.” She extended a talon to him and he shook it. “Alya Turig. Make yourself comfortable, sir. Can I get you anything? Our sirrahlah is good stock this year, if you’re interested.”
Eventide tapped a finger to his beak, considering the wine. “I would love a glass, but the Bureau tends to frown upon such imbibing, ma’am.”
Wordlessly, Turig reached into the desk and retrieved a half-empty bottle of the stuff and poured herself a glass. Her tumbler clinked on the lip of the bottle as her talon rattled endlessly, shaking the stream of the pink, cloudy stuff. After a swig, her body relaxed. Eventide wondered how often it was she eased herself with the drink.
Real trouble, he mused.
“I’m sorry, inspector,” Turig continued, replacing the bottle. “It’s been… well, if you’ll excuse my Prench — It’s been shite.”
Eventide nodded idly while he clicked open the briefcase and slid on his glasses. “I can understand, madam mayor, with a situation like this—”
“Please!” Turig exclaimed. “Please, for the love of the Six, I can’t stand being called that.” She looked away, holding back a sob. “Just—”
Eventide held up an understanding talon. “Miss Turig, I’m sorry. I hope you understand, this is all due to my profession. We’re not monsters, just professionals.”
Turig nodded, still looking away. With one talon on her beak and the steel grip on her glass, Eventide wasn’t sure which was going to break first: it or her resolve. Luckily, she took the time to wipe the welling tears, and Eventide’s anxiety eased.
She took a while to compose herself. She frequently turned her head back to him, about to say something, but couldn’t keep from cracking — Eventide was a patient old gryph, and was accustomed to such grief. Why, were I in her place, I’m sure I’d be feeling the same thing.
“It’s been hard, you know,” Turig piped back up. “I mean, all of this. I’ve ordered clean up crews, and they are reluctant to start tidying up. Here we are, all worried and afraid, and here I am bossing people to get their lives back together. I’m usually so organized and here, I can barely keep this desk in order!”
“You’re simply doing your job, ma’am. Nothing wrong with trying to keep the peace. These are troublesome times, but you will steady the ship, so to speak.”
“I’ve barely done that, inspector. I’ve had to fend off my own people so they don’t climb into the constable’s office and rip that little murderer to shreds!”
Eventide nodded, noting her attitude. “I’m glad to hear that you have the perpetrator safe.”
“For now. The constabulary has been incredibly restrained, but I’m afraid that someone on the force is willing to use their power to get at Bareth.” Turig stood, walking towards an ancient looking bookshelf. “It’s been a tense couple of days.” She grabbed a trinket from a shelf and fondled it. Her features softened, and Eventide could feel her emotions easing.
Without missing a beat, he slid his glasses back off. “Then, we best make our way, miss Turig. We shouldn’t keep young Whitetalon waiting. I have read enough of the official reports. I need his story.”
Turig placed the bobble down with a sigh. “Follow me.”
Soon after, they arrived at the constabulary. The smell of oil permeated through the building. They had a hint of it as they entered, but the smell intensified the further they went in. Mixed with the smell of wet ink, it gave a distinctly militaristic feel to the air. It was augmented by the extensive armory they passed on the way to the interrogation area.
Perhaps to deal with the tourist population? Eventide asked himself, rolling his fingers over the briefcase’s handle. The unions aren’t too rowdy out here, are they?
Outside of their assigned room, a rough looking gryph approached them, sporting a small cigarette at the tip of his beak. He towered above both Eventide and Turig, probably a whole head higher. Were Eventide a younger gryph, he might’ve been a little intimidated.
“Madam mayor,” he nodded to Turig, then tipping ash into a nearby ashtray. She visibly seized for a moment at the title, but nodded all the same.
The officer then nodded to Eventide. “Inspector.”
Eventide didn’t miss a beat, quickly scanning the tiercel’s collar pips and his nametag. “What can you tell me about the perpetrator, commander Silver? Can you give me some details about his behavior?”
The officer nodded and beckoned them into an adjacent door with the gesture of his tail. It was a room on the opposite side of a one-way mirror, which impressed Eventide. It was a recent invention, and outside of CIB facilities, he’d never seen them in constabulary headquarters. The smell of cigarette smoke permeated the room, alongside the scent of stale kahve. It was a tight little space, no bigger than a small hotel bedroom, but was packed with chairs and desks with countless implements for written recording.
On the other side of the glass, they saw Bareth Whitetalon, a young tiercel, sitting on a simple chair, leaning on an equally simple table. He was disheveled and tired. His clothes were once nicely pressed, probably a set purchased by his mother. The brocade still shimmered under the gas light.
His eyes were darting every-so often. Eventide recognized this as a paranoid’s gaze, his eyes zipping in their sockets, looking for something that may not be there. Surely, a few days in jail wouldn’t be this bad on a lad, would it?
Whitetalon was rubbing his left arm, where hints of a stained bandage showed under his shirtsleeve. Eventide considered domestic abuse, but he just had a fight with his mother. Or, considering the state of the town, perhaps even a bit of roughhousing from within…?
“He’s been absolutely resistant to our questioning, and barely speaks,” Silver said. “We’ve come to believe that his quietness is just a ruse, perhaps to prolong his execution. We suspect that he’s just waiting for someone to be caught off guard and to strike at the right time.”
Eventide stroked his face in thought. “What makes you believe this?”
“Considering the lad barely made a peep in his life, and for him to suddenly be violent like this? He’s really just a bump away and the nitroglycerin has gone off. We have placed him in an isolated cell to keep that from happening.” He nodded. “Believe me, inspector, we’ve —”
Eventide interrupted. “Is that your professional opinion? He’s that volatile?”
Silver’s right talon moved, scratching the middle finger with his thumb. “Uh, yes, sir. We’ve had experience with violent perpetrators plenty.”
Turig was silent, brooding, and staring daggers into Whitetalon. Eventide was not convinced, and disappointed in Silver. He’s letting his feelings interfere. He slid his eyes to Turig. Both of them are.
“The lad looks scared, more than anything else,” Eventide observed, seeing Whitetalon begin to sink in his seat, downcast.
“I would be,” Turig piped up, “were I in his feathers.”
Eventide raised a soft talon. “With all due respect, Mayor, you are not.” That got her attention, and straightened her with surprise.
“I thought I said —”
“I’ll begin the interrogation immediately.” Don’t be hasty, Alya. A heart on your sleeve makes you bleed quicker. He didn’t allow any of them to respond by making a quick exit, sliding the thick spruce door of the observation room open. He opened an adjacent door that led into the airlock, momentarily isolating him from the rest of the constabulary and the interrogation room, allowing him to gather his thoughts.
This is concerning. If not even a simple commander can give me a solid answer about a murderer, nor can a mayor keep herself in check, then I had best finish this investigation forthwith. He monentarily hefted the briefcase around, calming himself with its weight.
Or perhaps there is more to this murder than I assume. They want him gone and dealt with. No one has suggested to me that he should be tried — To some, perhaps my visit is simply a formality.
The locks on the other side clicked open, and he slid it open. Inside, Whitetalon sat up stared at the door with fear. His eyes were wide. Any wider, and they would have popped out of their sockets. Involuntarily, he tried to cover his face with his talons, but the chains on the floor kept them at chest height. His body heaved with every breath, and his tail scurried between the legs of the stiff chair.
The room was just a little smaller than the observation room, with the mirror on his left as he entered. The table was oriented so that each speaker’s beaks were able to be seen from the side, allowing someone to read their words. He decided to deny them as much of that as necessary.
Eventide allowed the atmosphere to stay charged — It was an interrogation, after all. Whitetalon shouldn’t be comfortable. Eventide took a seat, which had a plush bottom to it, keeping him more comfortable. Again, he expertly opened the glasses frame with a flick of the wrist and slid them on.
“Good afternoon, Bareth,” he started, putting the briefcase down onto the floor. “I am inspector Aurek Eventide. Do you know why I’m here?”
Whitetalon took a moment to reply, taking in his presence. “Y-yes, sir,” he squeaked.
“And why is that?” Eventide stared square at the young tiercel’s eyes.
“B-because of the… of the, um…” He trailed off, sinking in his chair again.
“Speak up, lad!” Eventide slammed an open palm on the table. This shook Whitetalon. “I’m an old gryph.”
“Becauseofmymother’smurder!” He blurted.
Eventide nodded. “That’s right. And you’ve been accused for that murder.”
“I know,” Whitetalon replied. “But I didn’t really set out to do it…”
Eventide nodded, wanting to take his statement to heart, but it wasn’t that easy. “A lot of people don’t mean to do a lot of things, but unfortunately, we have laws, young tiercel. As much as I would like you to be innocent, it seems the Six guided you in other ways.” He looked to the lad, and then down to his arm. “Do you mind if I see that wound?”
Whitetalon looked to the one-way mirror briefly, and grew smaller again. He shook his head and looked to the ground. Eventide didn’t look to the mirror, but he began to think his theory might be right.
“I just need to see it for some documentation, lad. CIB didn’t know that you had an arm wound upon your check-up.” He gestured to the arm and mimed a grabbing motion. “Won’t take too long.” While Whitetalon reached his arm out, Eventide stood and placed himself in front of the mirror.
Whitetalon pulled back the sleeve slowly, gently. Eventide took the same care as he undid the bandage. Whitetalon’s face squeezed together, his whole body starting to tense as the bandage was peeled off. As it peeled back, he noticed that the left talon was bruised, whereas the right talon, resting on the table, was not.
To Eventide’s relief, the wound wasn’t infected and it was washed, despite how red and inflamed it was. But the wound was a talon slash. It was pulled outward, penetration beginning on the inverse side of the arm. He wasn’t completely sure about who struck him, but he was confident it wasn’t a eagless — The wide spacing of the streaks were analogous to a male’s talon. He placed a finger near it, taking a quick measurement, around 82 millimeters.
The average eagless’ width is about seventy-five. He didn’t like coming to hasty conclusions, though he wanted to make a note of it. But I don’t like my suspicions having evidence.
Whitetalon, for all his jitter, was a patient tiercel. He looked to Eventide with a wary stare. His beautiful emeraldine eyes had a sharp sheen, showing his effort to hold back tears. He took in every detail of Eventide, drawing his eyes across his grey coat and up to his tired, old eyes. His breathing began to ease a little more, but he was still on edge. The talon below the table repeatedly tightened and eased, creasing the fabric of his waistcoat.
“You are a brave lad to resist such pain, Bareth,” Eventide complimented. He nodded slightly, truly impressed with his resilience. If he allowed other movements, he’d betray a soft exterior to Whitetalon. “I imagine it was painful.”
“It was,” Whitetalon replied meekly, redressing the wound. “I’d never been in a fight before.”
“Never?”
“Not until… well, recently. Now I know better, I suppose.” Whitetalon shrugged, defeated. His eyes drifted down to the table. He then sighed. “Are you here to find out what happened, or are you to just here on the hunt?”
Eventide couldn’t restrain his innate head cocking, intrigued. “What do you mean by ‘the hunt?’”
Blocking his view, he was able to keep the lad from gazing at the window, only to stare at Eventide’s barrel. “I don’t… I mean… Well… Everyone is just so angry.”
“It’s justifiable, Bareth — A smart lad like you knows this,” Eventide replied. He resisted leaning over the table — to be a menacing shape would most likely destroy the investigation. He kept his arms down, opening himself to Whitetalon.
He continued: “But, that doesn’t answer my question.”
Whitetalon was silent for a while, at least a minute. But finally, he replied: “I’ve lost my friends, inspector. I lost my family. I lost my lass.” He sniffled, and as he tried to wipe his cheek, his arms were stopped. “I’m so afraid to talk to anyone, inspector — Especially you! My visitors do nothing but berate me and spit in my face! And the constables allow it!”
And so they do, Eventide mused, eying the wound again.
Eventide stayed silent as Whitetalon started to silently weep. He hung his head, the weight of the world sagging his shoulders. Eventide then pulled his chair over and sat, still keeping himself at the front of the window. While he sat, he pulled a handkerchief from an interior coat pocket and dabbed the lad’s cheeks.
“I’m here to find the truth, Bareth. Though what you have done is a crime, it is in good faith we do not act so blindly upon it.” Pulling back, he reached into the briefcase again, pulling out a document. He traced a finger over the text briefly. “What can you tell me about your encounter with Tala Whitetalon?”
“It was supposed to happen sooner, especially since I needed to leave to look at apartments in Losagi.” Bareth replied. “I’d been living at home, but I meant to see her days before the holiday, but the landlord I had been in contact with said —”
Eventide held up a talon. “I don’t need to know this. If you would just come closer to the date of the crime, please.”
Whitetalon nodded, clearing his throat. “Uh, well… I went to see mama that morning, but I knew she would be busy. So, I decided to steal her notes before she left — She always needs her notes for a speech, you see — and knew she’d be looking for them. Then I waited for her in her office.”
Eventide nodded. “And you knew she would return to the office?”
“Like clockwork. Mama has a pattern for public holidays — Arrive at city hall, mimes her stately duties for the public in front of the mirror in the dubya-see —” WC, or water closet, what southerners called the toilet “— all that stuff.” Whitetalon raised his eyebrows and shot Eventide a knowing look. “You know she’s been in office for most of my life, right? I practically grew up in city hall.”
Eventide nodded, agreeing. It was logical. “So you know her habits. But if she hadn’t had her notes, why didn’t she go home to grab them?”
“She always goes back up for fifteen minutes or so to practice a speech. She’s usually so absorbed in her outward persona for the day, that she prefers to practice right before. She always takes a small bit of wine before coming downstairs to calm herself. It’s one of her vices.” He caught himself and his ears dropped. “I mean… was one of her vices.”
Before he could return to melancholy, Eventide pressed. “So, you accosted her in her office.”
“Not really,” the lad replied, forcing himself to focus. “I mean, confronting her is important, but I didn’t do anything drastic. Not yet, anyway.” He sighed, taking a moment. “I poured some wine, hoping we could handle this like adults, you know? I’ve known her to be one of the most reasonable gryphs to live… but she didn’t seem too eager to talk about it.”
He hesitated. “She attacked me, inspector. She leapt over her desk like Sephhiid, the demon king.” He began to breathe faster, and shook his head. “My own mother, inspector. I just asked her about it, asking if it was true, and — Six above — Her whole body brustled and stood on end. She said that not ever her own child should know this secret.”
Eventide scowled, needing to know. “What did you accuse her of?”
Whitetalon took another breath, looking through Eventide. The window was there behind him, which caused Whitetalon to seize up. What’s he hesitating for? They can’t hear you, lad. A light grunt grumbled from his throat.
“Bareth.” He tapped the table, getting his attention. “I need you to tell me.”
Whitetalon looked up wide eyed. “How do I know you won’t kill me?”
Now, this caused Eventide to recoil. “What?” He asked in a stern whisper.
“I don’t know how far this accusation goes,” Whitetalon whispered back. “But I know my mother is involved. She had a lot of pull in town — It could go far.”
“That doesn’t help me, lad.”
Whitetalon sighed, and took a deep breath. “Please come closer.” Eventide complied. He still keep Whitetalon obscured.
“I can’t tell you directly, but you have to believe me.” He was apprehensive, that much is obvious, but Eventide was sure the lad wasn’t trying to pull the wool over his eyes. A liar had become easier to spot over the years. From body language and how the eyes moved, how the ears twitch or how they blink. How someone has a tell, like Silver. But this lad didn’t show anything like that.
He has to be telling the truth, he thought.
Whitetalon continued: “Just the chance of telling you could put me in danger. But, I can tell you where to go next. However, I’ll only tell you if you can guarantee my safety.”
“I’m not going to leave this room until you tell me. I can guarantee your safety, for sure. I have powers at my disposal. But If I leave and come back, it would be a little suspicious.” I can’t believe I’m taking a risk on this.
Whitetalon nodded. “Okay. You need to go to my mother’s estate. In her den sits her desk. There’s a lever you need to pull on the backside left leg, but you need to plug a hook into it. When you pull the lever, you’ll hear a dull thunk in the wall next to you. In the bookshelf, you need to pull out a small book labelled ‘Dalitian Carols’ — Mama always liked the classics — and then you’ll find more answers.”
Eventide crossed his arms, skeptical. “How will I know you’re not leading me astray?”
“The thunk you’ll hear will be four blades hitting the wall of the passage you’ll uncover. If you pulled the book without undoing the trap, its timer would release right as you walked in. I don’t know how old this trap is, but I’ve seen old, dried blood on it before. You don’t want to be its next victim.”
Eventide moved his body as he nodded, playing it off as whole-body movement. “Alright,” he replied, still unsure. “You’ll have some protection. But let me be clear, Bareth: If you are deceiving me, there will be a caveat to allow your demise.”
Whitetalon’s eyes grew a little wider, but he got the point with a subtle nod. This lad wouldn’t be afraid for his life were it not an actual threat, Eventide thought, closing up his briefcase. Just what in Tartarus is happening?
“So she attacked you,” Eventide continued. “What caused her death?”
“It was an accident. I was able to hold her off, but mama was a ferocious fighter. She used to be a soldier, you know? She served on the frontier.” Whitetalon shook his head again, but his voice was shaky. “But I must have been very lucky, because she was not as strong as you’d think. I remember hurting her wing on the corner before the window’s alcove. But she pinned me against the desk. Without hesitation, I kicked her…” He paused. “Out the window.”
Whitetalon looked abysmal as he said it, like he was slowly taking an unpleasant medicine. His head hung, and his whole body relaxed as he took in what he said, reliving the afternoon. He latched his fingers together, unsure what to do with the silence.
“I should feel angry towards her for everything, but I can’t.” He looked back to Eventide. “She was my mother, inspector. I can’t find the heart.”
Eventide stood silent, but understood. He remembered fighting his father as a lad, full of piss and vinegar. How it was to slam a fist into his stomach, and a talon across his face. But even if he was victorious, he still remembered his emotions. The gut wrenching guilt of destroying his enemy as a display of dominance. Such worth was meaningless against my own flesh and blood.
“Thank you for your time, Bareth,” he said as he stood, grabbing the briefcase. “I will meet you again soon.”
He was about to turn, but not before Whitetalon grabbed the talon closest to him, holding tight. What in blazes are you doing, boy!
But, Whitetalon did nothing. What he did was stare square into Eventide’s eyes. His eyes were slowly reddening, and he was shaking all over. “Inspector, please,” he begged. “Please tell me you’ll promise my safety. I need you to tell me — no, promise me! — that you’ll help me. I need your help, inspector!”
Eventide was frozen, trying to find the right words. He could feel Whitetalon’s whole body shaking, desperate for a reply.
“I promise you, Bareth. You will be under my protection.”
Whitetalon let go of Eventide’s talon with a deep, long sigh, hanging his head. “Thank you, inspector.”
Eventide flashed a small grin to the lad while he looked down. Alright, Bareth. Let’s see where this goes.
He walked through the airlock, waiting for the doors to cycle again. He couldn’t come to a conclusion as to what would cause him such anxiety. Matricide was one thing, but she was willing to commit filicide. A terrible thought followed him: If that happened, would Bareth’s death be swept under the rug? He shook his head. There’s something more going on here.
The far door slid open to the crossed arms of Silver. Eventide couldn’t get a word in before he could. “Mister Eventide, you stood in front of the window. Are you not familiar with how these things work?”
Eventide shrugged. “I apologize, sir. However, I think you’d be happy to hear the lad has spoken to me.” He smirked slightly. “All he needed was a gentle touch. Being close and treating him as a friend allowed him to speak.”
Silver’s brows rose. “Oh? Then, please — Let’s discuss with some kahve, eh?” He gestured with his tail to follow.
“No, sir. Unfortunately, I’ve not the time for a break.” He did step outside to shut the outer airlock door, however. “I need access to the late mayor’s estate.”
"Is that so?" Silver’s eyes narrowed, but Eventide didn’t break. He’d met many constables in his time, and there were always few who thought their authority was greater than it truly was.
Now, I didn’t expect hostility from a supposed friend…
“Yes, sir,” Eventide continued. “I need a thorough check of the lad’s bedroom. He mentioned he was staying at her estate, and I felt that a look around for anything suspicious could be necessary.”
“We’ve already had a look around, inspector. You’ve seen the reports? We have his journal, if you —”
“Your reports were too sparse for me, commander.” He interrupted, walking away from the interrogation rooms. Silver barely restrained his growl as he followed. “I don’t doubt that your detectives have sharp eyes, but there is more from this investigation I’d like to pursue.”
“Yes, inspector,” Silver managed to grumble.
“But the journal is wanted. He had some insights I could refer to.” Once I find more about what he’s talking about in his mother’s study, I might be able to find references to it in the journal.
“And one more thing, commander,” he said, stopping before the evidence room. “I evoke Article Nineteen Section Seven of the CIB Charter.”
“The Frith Clause?” Silver cried. “You suspect foul play?”
“I don’t think you’re taking his safety seriously, commander.” He stepped closer to Silver, keeping his voice down to a stern rumble. “If you’ve allowed anyone, including a fellow constable, to lay a talon on that perpetrator because of your enraged passion for his mother, then you are at risk for something just as serious as her death.” He gestured to his arm. “Tala’s talons are not as wide as the average tiercel’s, Silver — And nor should a prisoner be subjected to fear when his life is already on the line.”
Silver could only stare at Eventide’s tired eyes, which looked at Silver with causal boredom. Eventide could tell that the tiercel was willing to do something, but because of the consequences, wouldn’t dare to try it.
What were you a long time ago, Silver? A bratty second-born noble? Eventide asked himself. A regular grunt constable, naturally, but before? You sound like an old soldier ready to pounce on the enemies of freedom. But who’s freedom, hmm?
Silver broke eye contact, scowling.
“As you wish, inspector,” Silver said, crossing his arms again. “Shall I prepare you a carriage?”
Eventide simply folded his glasses, pushing the arms against his lapel. He casually slid them into his coat pocket. “Yes. We will leave in ten minutes.”
