Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12 Read Online Free Page B

actors improvised and spoiled his production."
    She congratulated him. "What are you going to do in London for the next
     month?"
    He had thought about that too. "I might as well take care of the Shakespeare
     authorship question while I'm here," he said. "Stay tuned."
    Copyright © 2012 by W. Edward Blain

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    FICTION
COVER THEM WITH FLOWERS
    by Marilyn Todd
      The central characters in this new story, Lysander, head of
     the Spartan secret police, and Iliona, high priestess of the Temple of Eurotas,
     also appear in three novels by Marilyn Todd set in the fifth century B.C.E. The
     most recent book, Still Waters (Severn House/April
     2011) was praised by Publishers Weekly for its "solid
     puzzle and . . . intriguing lead character." Booklist applauded "Todd's knack for painting antiquity with a spectacularly suspenseful
     brush . . . "  
     
     
Below the majestic peaks of Mount Parnon, Night sloughed off her
     dark veil and handed the baton of responsibility to her close friend, the Dawn.
     Daughter of Chaos, mother of Pain, Strife, Death, and Deception, Night continued
     her journey. Gliding on silent, star-studded feet towards her mansion beyond the
     Ocean that encircled the world. Here she would sleep, until Twilight nudged her
     awake and her labours would begin all over again.
    At the foot of the temple steps, Iliona rinsed her fingers in the lustral basin,
     carved from the finest Parian marble, and lifted her face to the sun. In the
     branches of the plane trees, the bronze wind chimes tinkled in the breeze. White
     doves pecked at the crumbs of caraway bread that was baked daily especially for
     them. Whether the seeds were addictive, or the pigeons were simply content with
     their lot, the High Priestess had no idea. But the doves rarely strayed from the
     precinct, and it wasn't because their wings had been clipped.
    Another few minutes and the first of the workers would start to arrive. Scribes,
     libation pourers, musicians, and heralds. Basket bearers, janitors, and the
     choirs. Every day was the same. They would barely have time to change into their
     robes before the sacred grounds were swamped with merchants, wanting to know if
     today was the day they'd grow rich. Wives, desperate to know if last night's
     efforts had left them with child. The poor, fearful of what lay ahead. Cripples
     would flock to the shrine, seeking miracles. The sick would come seeking cures.
     Wisely or not, Iliona had taken it upon herself to interpret their dreams,
     sometimes the behaviour of birds, even the shapes of the clouds, to give them
     the peace that they needed.
    But for now—for these precious few minutes—that peace was hers, and
     she basked in its solitude. The soft bleating of goats floated down from the
     hills. Close at hand came the repetitive call of a hoopoe. Letting the sun warm
     her face, she breathed in the scent of a thousand wildflowers carried down from
     the mountains and over the wide, fertile meadows. Narcissus, crown daisies,
     crocus, and muscari . . . along with, unless she missed her guess, a faint hint
     of leather and wood smoke.
    "I'm beginning to think the rumours are true," she said without turning round.
     "That the
Krypteia
never sleeps."
    "You should know better than to listen to gossip," chided the leather and wood
     smoke through a mouth full of gravel. "I sleep." He paused. "Upside down in a
     cave, admittedly. Cocooned in my soft velvet wings."
    The hair at the back of her scalp prickled. If the chief of Sparta's secret
     police was making jokes, it must be serious.
    "What can I do for you, Lysander?"
    Had he discovered that she was still aiding deserters? A crime punishable by
     being blinded by pitch and thrown, bound and gagged, in the Torrent of Torment.
     Or that she was rescuing deformed babies that were thrown over the cliff . . . ?
     Slipping food to prisoners in the dungeons . . . ?
    "Me? My lady, I wouldn't dare to presume."