2012-08-In the Event of My Untimely Demise by Unknown Page A

up his own to match.
    Luma sipped. The wine was subtle and deep, with a caky finish. “Juicy, you say?”
    “Well…” Randred eased into his favorite chair. “No doubt I exaggerate. But you’ll be working for a dead man. That’s a novelty, at least.”
    Luma perched on the arm of his chair. “Who’s the dead man, and what am I to do for him?”
    Randred reached over to a side table for a contract inscribed on a sheet of vellum. “The client’s name is—or was—Aruhal. A retired explorer of some kind. One with enemies, apparently. Several years ago, he placed a standing order for us to perform an investigation for him, to be triggered in, quote, “the event of my untimely demise,” unquote. We are to ascertain if his death was natural or not. Further instructions apply if we find he was in fact murdered.”
    “Which are?”
    “An agent of House Derexhi is to secure the funerary urn containing his ashes and place it in front of his killer.”
    ∗∗∗
    As Luma stepped out onto the Derexhi House portico, the citysong came to her, its manifold voices rushing to fill her mystic awareness. Its harmonies manifested not only sounds, transmitted through magical connection to her mind’s ear, but accompanying sensations as well. The dominant notes were those of her own neighborhood and present location, the Marble District. Among them she sensed the whispering tread of servants’ slippers, steam rising from laundry kettles, the barbed laughter of wits and gossips, and the old-fashioned spiced perfumes of its wealthy matrons.
    Underneath these rang distant melodies from other quarters of her beloved city. Clanking counting-house coins in Naos percussed against the scratching quills of Capital District scribes. Waves lapped against Dockway piers, dueting with the tapping chisels of the Golemworks. Soldiers drilled in Arvensoar Plaza, their grunts and footfalls joining the wafting strains of cornets and tambourines from raucous Lowcleft. The hunger of Rag’s End wretches crashed against the excess of Alabaster’s gourmands. Priests doubted, thieves shared their takes with beggars, and whores fell in love. Below all of these thrummed the ancient bass drone of the Irespan, the great and ruined stone bridge said to house a legion of monsters within its hollow depths.
    Together the contradictions somehow made a whole—the city Luma loved, and which loved her in turn. Periodically, it proved its affections with a gift, a new trick it would teach her. A polyglot town of foreign traders, it showed her the key to understanding any language. It had taught her to borrow the jumpings of its spiders, to mantle herself in morning fog, and to always find her way.
    Luma needed no such magic to reach her destination. She strode the Boulevard of Messengers, passing gilded carriages and brocaded bravos atop high-strung white steeds. On the Way of Arches, an honor guard of bleached statues loomed, dwarfing her and the city functionaries in their ink-stained tunics. Buyers and sellers choked the Avenue of Honors, and then she was turning down smaller streets, weaving through alleys with no markers to proclaim their names, led only by her flawless recollection of the city. At last the map in her head told her that she’d reached Barrel Way—Aruhal’s address as of five years ago, when he’d paid for the services she would now render.
    It was a common enough scene. Here huddled residences of Magnimar’s striving class—the merchants, burghers, and brokers who fattened the city treasury and sought approval from old families like the Vetilluses, the Scarnettis, and indeed, the Derexhi. Built tall and thin, the buildings adjoined, as if uniting for support. Small plots of land in front of each served as battlegrounds for a competition of decoration. Tiny gardens overflowing with tangled, exotic flowers encroached on sparer arrangements of rocks and statues.
    Luma was about to stop a hustling fat-purse in an ermine-trimmed cloak to ask