‘Drink had been taken,’ Goodwill said. ‘There was some kind of wager between the two participants, and I imagine that Joyous Hightower felt his honour was at stake. They set out shortly after sunset, and it was dark when they returned, with the bodies of Mercy and Clemency. There were no witnesses to the accident, and Joyous Hightower fled before I could talk to him, but I had servants retrieve the wreckage of the skiff. It was cut in two, suggesting that he struck it square amidships with considerable force.’

‘What about Trina Mersdaughter? Where was she when the accident happened?’

‘I don’t yet know. She is still on the island, but has refused my request for an interview.’

‘That’s her right, although it is usually waived,’ Ysbel said, her hope that this would be a straightforward case, a matter of taking a statement and promising to follow up on any developments, beginning to evaporate. ‘But she can’t refuse to talk to me. If you tell me what you need to ask, we can interview her straight away.’

‘I think you should see the victims first,’ Goodwill said.

2.

The bodies of the fisherfolk had been laid out on a pair of trestle tables in the boathouse, a human-scale concrete structure that might have been ripped from Mother’s archives. They were covered by white sheets, and offerings of fruit, chewleaves and sweetroot cakes were heaped on a smaller table at their feet: sustenance for the spirits of the dead in the period of limbo before their excarnated bodies were given sky burials and returned to the great cycles of life. The wreckage of their skiff was stacked beyond, and a speedboat hung in a cradle above a channel of black water. Its knife-sharp prow was buckled and there were gouges along one side of its narrow hull, exposing pale plastic under bright-red paint.

Ysbel thought that the hushed, dimly lit boathouse was like a chapel; the damaged boat and wreckage, the bodies and offerings, like the trappings of some arcane ritual.

The young deputy who was guarding the bodies stood up as Ysbel and the bailiff approached, and reported that several servants had come to pay their respects.

‘What about Solomon Firststar and his guests?’ Goodwill said.

‘Not yet,’ the deputy said.

‘Of course not,’ Goodwill said, and folded back the sheets to show Ysbel the bodies.

First Clemency, seemingly undamaged except for a bloodless gash in his forehead, his eyes closed with smooth black pebbles; then the elder brother, Mercy, his face a dish of bone and pulp, one eye gone, his chest crushed. Torn white flesh washed clean by the sea. Ysbel had the unwelcome thought that she could bear to look at the injuries because this was the corpse of a different species.