Dr. Silas Corvain's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The back door opened again before the clock struck the next hour. Silas heard the Asterwing's boots on the boards, then the wet thump of a second body on the padded table. He locked the door behind them and set his hand to the altar cloth. The smell hit him before his fingers found the merchant's collar. Sharp. Oily. Wrong. "They embalmed him," Silas said. "The house sent for a preparer before I arrived," the Asterwing said. "I could not refuse the wrapping without a fight." Silas peeled the cloth from the merchant lord's face. The oils climbed into his mask. Clove. Camphor. Something resinous under both. He crushed a stem of the trained thyme and held it beneath the cold nose. He waited. He bent closer until the beak of his mask nearly touched the dead man's lip. He drew a slow breath through the herb. Nothing. No bitter almond. No sweetness of rot. Only the wall of oil the preparer had built between him and the truth. He tried the mouth next. He tipped the jaw open and passed the thyme along the tongue. The oils had gone in with a brush. He tasted them at the back of his own throat through the linen. He set the herb down and gripped the edge of the sink. Cold porcelain under his gloves. He turned the tap and rinsed the thyme away. "Well?" the Asterwing said. "I cannot smell the poison. The preparer knew what he was doing. Or he was told what to do." "Then we have one death confirmed. Not two." "One death and a warning." Silas turned from the sink. "Someone in that house knew a physician might come sniffing. Someone paid for oils before the body cooled." A soft knock came at the front of the shop. Three taps. A pause. Two more. Silas knew the pattern. He crossed the back room and unlatched the inner door. The scarecrow stood in the front room with straw at his cuffs and mud on his boots. Silas had treated the boy's cough two winters back and refused payment. Since then the scarecrow appeared when Silas needed eyes on a street. "You said to watch the merchant's gate," the scarecrow said. His stitched mouth did not move much when he spoke. "A man came out an hour before your friend went in. Small case. Brown coat. He walked to the Council hall and did not come back." Silas's grip tightened on the doorframe. "Describe the case." "Flat. Leather. Brass corners." "A preparer's kit." Silas turned back toward the table where the merchant lay useless to him. "The Council sent him. They are cleaning the bodies before we can read them." The Asterwing's beak clicked once. "Then the third body is already lost." "Not if we reach the hall before the oils do."