The magistrates barely investigated the deaths because they involved the city’s lowlifes, violent criminals whose deaths were not widely mourned. But there were many. One night, eleven bodies were left by the river. Their faces were purple, their extremities gray. Poison. When Lord Hamel heard the news, he flew into a rage. But then Hamel disappeared too. His bodyguards were discovered a few days later, throats cleanly slit. Hamel’s body, when it finally turned up, showed signs of a more lingering death, as drawn out as his bodyguards’ had been quick. A silver hairpin was carefully wedged under each of the nobleman’s fingernails. Though Hamel was the only wallhugger to be harmed, other nobles also seemed out of sorts. More astute servants noted that these noblemen’s enemies were no longer terrorized by thugs. Whoever had been doing their dirty work was no longer in their employ. After a few weeks, the violence died down, and the city returned to normal. Better than normal, in fact.
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