There was so much rain that afternoon that the servants had to towel the floors in front of the balcony doors and upstairs windows. Despite it, or perhaps because of it, Yakalaka chose this day to return to Aralim’s mansion. He was doing some stretches—his worn frame often required some attention to get rid of sore muscles and skin kinks—when Ko let the foreign minister of Rema into the foyer along with two of her guards.
Aralim was upstairs, in his quarters, but he heard them enter. He reclaimed his lantern staff from the nook of the doorframe as he stepped out, at first holding it from the arched top of it before find his usual comfortable grip with his other hand. He didn’t bother descending the stairs. He just waved Yakalaka up.
By the time she entered their little discussion room, he had the knife out of the box he had hid it within. He unwrapped the loosely sewn linen that garbed the glass-like weapon and set it on the tabletop.
“Did he notice it?” Yakalaka asked, without touching the table or the knife.
Aralim shrugged. “Would we be talking if he did?” He wrapped the glass knife up and slid it toward her.
The woman nodded, and gently picked up the bundle. “Here,” she said, reaching into a fold of her green robe. “I’ve written down everything I know about the autopsy. Thank you for this, Aralim. If you ever need anything, please come to me to discuss it.”
“Thank you,” Aralim said. “And good fortune with your… debt.” She nodded, while holding the bundle, and then strode to the door.
Aralim waited until he heard Ko’nagar open the hefty front door to let Yakalaka and her guards out before he opened the page she had handed him. It was all identical to the documents that Rattar had given him too. Aralim didn’t doubt Rattar’s information, but he had no reason to refuse getting findings from both of them.
The man, described as the Subject in the report, exhibited strength beyond any known man. His skin was thick. His fingernails were claws, his teeth fangs. Judging from the gauntness of his face and the spells of the royal mortician, he likely hadn’t slept in months. All of the man’s organs were the same as any others, as far as could be determined despite the heavy wounds he sustained.
Very little was learned from his personal effects. The dark robe could have been made anywhere, the cadaver was clean of tattoos or piercings, though sported many scars—both surgical and physical damage. A small blue gemstone on a silver chain was his only jewelry.
Aralim leaned forward. Yakalaka had written something in the margin there, small enough to be missed when observing the whole page. He read it quietly to himself. “Varravar Sapphire.”
He folded up her report and put it with the one Rattar had given him. Soon enough, they would learn why Yakalaka had wanted a vanishing blade, but the mystery of the deceased deity would persist much longer it seemed. Aralim grabbed his lantern staff and strode downstairs.