Kaavl Conspiracy (6 page)

Rolban

Methusal hadn’t slep
t
well after her parents’ argument.
The penalty for murder is death.
The words wouldn’t quit circling through her mind. She didn’t want to die.

Fear twisted her gut into tight knots as the slow, dark hours of the night passed. At least Petr hadn’t thrown her in jail yet. He’d admitted he didn’t have enough evidence. It had also surprised her to learn he was treating her with a bit of leniency because she was his niece. But what did that really mean? If “evidence” was found against her, would he order her imprisonment? Her death?

In the early morning hours, she finally fell asleep.

“Methusal.” Her mother’s soft voice came through the painted leather curtain. “It’s dawn, and it’s Firstday. Time to get up.”

Methusal pried open her eyelids. The first day of the week. Breakfast duty. A groan escaped.

Doggedly rolling herself from her warm bed, Methusal rubbed her sleepy eyes and pulled on cold stiffened breeches and a leather tunic. Last night’s fears swirled in again like a dark, suffocating cloak.

After class, she’d talk to Kitran, and then she’d investigate the ore mine. It seemed her best chance to find a clue. She needed to find out who could have left her necklace there. In order to narrow down the suspects, she’d first need to discover how easy it was to break into the mine. If that was impossible, then the murderer had to be one of the few people authorized to access the mine.

It also might be a good idea to investigate the cliff from which Renn had fallen, in order to see if Petr had overlooked any clues.

As Methusal slipped from her room, she noticed that her
mother sat alone on the outside ledge with a cup of hot water,
steeped with tagma leaves, warming her hands. Her face looked troubled, and her eyes blank as she stared out at the pink streaked dawn.

“Are you okay, Mama?”

Blinking, Hanuh Maahr faced her daughter. A small smile touched her lips. “I’m fine, Thusa, thank you. Better hurry, or you’ll be late.”

“See you later.” Softly, Methusal closed the door behind her. Was her mother upset because of last night’s argument with her father? Or was something else wrong?

Quick footsteps carried her down the silent hallways, through the empty dining hall and into the large kitchen. Dawn’s gray light streamed down through the narrow rectangular skylights. Matron Olgith and Deccia were working in the large cavern.

“There you are!” Matron Olgith’s strident voice echoed in the chamber. Apparently, she was none the worse for her “attack” last night. Her heavy arm motioned Methusal toward the enormous wood burning stove. Three large metal pots, filled with boiling water, rested on them. A triangular pattern was stamped under the top lip of each pot. Centuries ago, the triangular symbol had been adopted by Rolbanis to remind them of the three most important things in life—The One, family, and their mountain home. Two of these pots had been stolen within the last two months. Many more, and they wouldn’t be able to prepare meals.

“You’ll make the cereal this morning,” Matron ordered. “Deccia will prepare the drinks and set up the dining room. I,” she abruptly sat on a stool beside the counter, “will supervise.” This small amount of exertion had caused beads of sweat to break out beneath her white hairline, and her breath came in sharp gasps. The widowed Matron was past the age of productivity—but only just. She enjoyed the new role life had thrust upon her: supervision.

Methusal shot Deccia an amused glance. Both of them were used to Matron Olgith’s work patterns. She kept her job only because she was Petr’s aunt.

Deccia restrained a fleeting smile, and measured red tagma powder into metal pitchers of water. Most of the kitchenware was made of precious ore, fashioned two centuries ago from the weapons of the Great War—as ordered by the Peace Plan. Metal working was banned now. The rare metal was highly prized, for Rolban was the only place on Koblan’s continent where it was not layered too deep for retrieval.

A new thought hit Methusal. Why would a thief go to the trouble to steal bulky kitchenware, if he just wanted ore? Pots would be harder to conceal than compact lumps of ore. Then again, why steal leather from the garment room?

The weight of the heavy tablet necklace around her neck drew Methusal’s attention again, and she touched the cool ore with her fingertips. Had she truly lost it? Or had the thief stolen it? Had he left it in the ore deposits by accident…or to implicate her in his crimes?

The endless questions made her tired head hurt.

Time to focus on the job at hand. After breakfast she’d get to work on clearing her name.

A squat sack of grain hunkered next to the pots.
Grain.
Not again! Every day, for the past six months, they’d suffered through the same breakfast. Surely yesterday the gatherers had found eggs, or a few fresh berries…

“Water’s boiling, Methusal,” Matron Olgith said sharply.

Gritting her teeth, she grasped the measuring bowl and dipped out the appropriate portions of grain, crushed nuts and dried wildberries, and stirred them into the roiling cauldrons.

“Make sure you stir that.”

Methusal managed not to roll her eyes. “I know, Matron
.” She was careful to keep her tone neutral.

“See you do, then. I need to check on Deccia.” Matron Olgith heaved herself from the stool, and lumbered through the arched doorway and into the dining room. In that large cavern, Deccia busily stacked towers of dishware on the serving counter and filled the utensils tray.

The next half hour passed slowly. Methusal stirred the beige glop in the huge pots, and counted her blessings that she wasn’t her twin. A glance through the oval serving window revealed a lecturing Matron dogging poor Deccia’s footsteps as her sister moved from table to table, wiping down the spotless stone surfaces.

Although identical twins, Methusal and Deccia had not been raised in the same home, and Methusal often wished things had been different. Their mothers, Hanuh Maahr and Juni Storst, were sisters, too, but when years passed by and neither bore any children, both became deeply discouraged. Methusal had learned in school that difficulty conceiving children was not only a common problem in Rolban, but also in all other communities on the Koblan continent. Finally, Hanuh became pregnant, and when she gave birth to twins, it seemed only natural to give the extra child—in Rolbani culture seen as a double blessing—to her sister and her husband, who were sure to remain childless.

However, six years later Juni gave birth to Aalicaa. By then the Storsts were too attached to Deccia to give her up, and the Maahrs did not ask them to—even though Juni died a few years later, leaving harsh, autocratic Petr to raise the two girls alone.

The mixture was becoming hard to stir. Mouth curled in distaste, Methusal watched the way the goop, speckled with black berries, plopped in clumps from the wooden spoon. It was done.

Wheezing mightily, Matron Olgith waddled back to the kitchen and collapsed onto the stool. Fanning herself, she puffed, “Get ready to serve, girls. The early risers have arrived.”

Methusal grasped several thick, layered leather squares and carried the cauldrons, one by one, to the serving window. They were heavy, but her arms had long ago grown accustomed to the weight.

A few breakfast diners stood in line now. Timaeus Rolnnt was first, as usual. Deccia poured his drink, her eyes bright beneath her lowered lashes. Timaeus smiled as he accepted the cup from her hand and hesitated, as if about to say something. But he didn’t. After a moment, he moved to Methusal’s station.

Methusal glanced at the dark haired, brown-eyed young man as she ladled a sticky ball of cereal into his bowl. No doubt about it. The tall, well-built messenger was handsome, and nice, too, and she understood why her sister liked him so much. The trouble was, the two didn’t speak much to each other. A situation Deccia would like to change, Methusal knew, but shyness often caught her sister’s tongue.

With a smile, Methusal handed him the steaming bowl. “Have a good breakfast.”

Timaeus grinned. “I would, if we were having something different.”

Behran’s irritating grin met her next in line. “Good morning.” His blue eyes zeroed in on the necklace draped about her neck. “So, you’re wearing it.”

“No reason not to.”

His gaze sharpened. “Isn’t it evidence?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Methusal felt irked by his question, “but Petr
has
no evidence.”

“Didn’t he find it in Renn’s pocket yesterday?”

Methusal didn’t recall telling him that information. “Why are you so interested?”

“Thefts keep happening. Renn was murdered. Any intelligent citizen would want to know more.”

“Great! I’m pleased you’re so curious. Maybe you can help me find the real murderer. Then Petr will let me play in the Tri-Level Game. Or…maybe you don’t want real competition.”

“Ouch.” Behran pretended to wince. “Not good at encouraging support, Thusa.”

Methusal realized her attitude bordered on the obnoxious. “I’m sorry. But I don’t know how Renn found my necklace in the ore mine.”

“Did you really lose it?”

Her jaw dropped. “Do you
really
think I broke in and stole ore?”

The question seemed to surprise Behran. Her adversary hesitated, bowl still held out, as if for more gloppy cereal. Obligingly, Methusal flung in another sticky ball.

He scowled, but didn’t move on, as she had intended. “What I meant was—do you think someone stole your necklace? Like Renn, maybe.”

“How could Renn be the thief? The thief murdered him.”

“You don’t know that. You said yourself that Petr has no evidence—except, of course, the note Renn left in your room.”

Methusal glared. “The note was planted. Are you accusing me of something?”

“Touchy this morning, aren’t you?”

Methusal had no opportunity to respond, for Matron Olgith thwacked her shoulder with a spoon. “Stop jabwacking and move the line along!”

Tears smarted, and she scowled at Behran. He frowned
at Matron Olgith, and after a moment her supervisor lumbered
away. Behran leaned closer. “No. I’m saying you don’t have all the facts. Try to think outside the lines.” He moved on.

Methusal took several deep breaths to cool her temper, and ladled goop into the next person’s bowl. Behran’s advice wasn’t unreasonable, she admitted after a few minutes. No, what bothered her was his attitude. Mr. Kaavl. Mr. Know Everything. Clearly, he still labored under the illusion that his intelligence far surpassed her own. Her desire to beat him in the Kaavl Games intensified. To take him down even one notch would be pure bliss. But to win, first she had to be able to play.

After she finished ladling out one caldron of goop, she carried it to the washroom to soak. When she returned to the serving counter, the breakfast line had doubled.

A shout drew her attention. “There you are!” A silver-haired man charged toward the counter, glaring at Methusal. Red mottled his face, and he clenched a narrow, leather wrapped object in his fist. It was Liem, Renn’s father.

People parted to make room for the stocky man.

Methusal eyed him warily. “What’s wrong? Are you talking to me?”

“
Yes,
I’m talking to you!” He shoved the object across the counter. The leather flopped open, revealing a knife covered in congealed blood.

With a gasp, she stepped back. “What’s
that?
”

Liem leaned closer. “Is it yours?”

“
What?
No!”

Deccia slipped next to Methusal, and stood there as a silent
source of support.

“I found it on the cliff, under a bush.
Right where my son fell.
”

“So it
was
murder,” Methusal whispered.

“Of course it was murder,” Liem shouted. “And
you
killed him! With this.” He shoved the grisly weapon closer.

Methusal shuddered. “No! I didn’t. Petr’s wrong. I never…”

“What’s going on?” Petr’s burly figure pushed through the growing throng of onlookers.

Methusal’s face felt hot. She felt trapped and helpless. How could she make these people see that she was innocent? “It’s not my knife. I hate knives! I don’t even own one.”

“And that’s supposed to prove you’re innocent?” Liem sneered. “Arrest her, Petr. Now. We have proof she lured Renn to the cliff. Now I’ve found the knife she used to kill my son.”

“I
didn’t
kill your son,” Methusal cried out. “And I don’t own a knife. That looks like a kitchen knife. Anyone could have stolen it. And…and I never met Renn on the bluffs!”

His face an alarming purple shade, Liem glared at Petr. “Well? Are you going to stand there? Arrest my son’s murderer!”

“What’s happening?” Erl appeared.

With relief, Methusal turned to him. “Papa…”

“I found the murder weapon,” Liem interjected. “Your daughter is going to jail.”

“But I didn’t kill Renn.” Methusal was near tears. “I would never do such a thing.”

“Not by yourself,” Petr agreed grimly. “I believe that. You had help. Tell me who’s behind this whole plot, and I might go easier on you.”

Liem’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m innocent,” she protested.

“Let me see that knife.” Erl pushed forward and carefully inspected the weapon. “Matron Olgith, is this one of your kitchen knives?”

Matron Olgith shuffled forward. Her gaze shifted suspiciously between Methusal and the blade. She only got close enough to give it a quick peek, and then quickly backed away. “It is. Methusal had access to it.”