Murder in Halruaa

Forgotten Realms

The Mysteries: Murder in Halruaa

By Richard Meyer

Pryce Covington knew he was in real trouble when he saw the second corpse.

This is not to say that he was happy when he saw the first corpse. Far from it. Exactly the opposite, in fact. His heart sank like an egg in a mug of ale, and with it vanished his fondest wish. But of all the words he thought of at that moment—”no,” “it’s not fair,” and “just my luck,” among others—the word “trouble” did not come up.

The specter of personal danger arose only when he saw the second dead body. At first glance, it seemed far less distressful than the first corpse. The youthful man with an unlined face was sitting placidly on the grassy ground, leaning against a tree trunk, his expression almost bemused. Not like the first.

No, not anything like the first body. The face of the first corpse was disturbing, to say the least, even in the pleasant rays of sunrise: eyes protruding; tongue swollen and stiff and hanging as far out of its mouth as it could go; and the visible skin a puffy, horrid

shade of purple-green. Well, that’s what happens when you hang from a branch with a rope noose around your neck, no matter how handsome you were when your heart was beating and your brain was working.

Pryce Covington felt his legs wobble, and a mist drifted across his mind’s eye, a mourning mist that had nothing to do with the morning dew. “Stop it,” he told himself firmly. “You’re not a weakling.” The sight of two dead bodies wasn’t terribly unusual, but the reality of the scene was more potent than he could have anticipated.

“Stop it,” he repeated to himself. He lived in a rough-hewn world where confrontation was commonplace. How many fights had he seen? Too many. Hugely muscled men, solidly built dwarves, capable and cunning gnomes, all brandishing bladed weapons, smacking them into each other like snorting minotaurs in a gladiatorial ring.

But then he realized that “seen” was the key word. Pryce Covington had witnessed numerous fights, but he never got involved in them himself. Covington would sooner do just about anything than actually exchange blows.

Pryce noticed that he was having trouble swallowing, but at least—unlike his ex-colleague, Gamor Turkal—he could still do it. Poor Gamor, he thought, staring at his ex-associate’s toes, which swung slowly before his eyes. Then, totally against his will, the words metamorphosed in his brain into “poor Pryce.”

Defensive rationalization rushed forward to soothe his addled mind.

At least Gamor was free from any possible misery, he thought. Gamor was lucky; he was dead. Now only poor, pitiful Pryce Covington was left to stand there and try to figure out what had happened.

What’s the big deal? Pryce chastised himself, trying to get over the trauma of it all. It was only death… death, the one mystery everyone would eventually solve. Pryce had seen ghosts

before… well, at least he had talked to people who said they had seen them. And maybe that was a ghost he had seen drifting through the ruins that lined the east side of Lallor Strait, which he had passed on the way to this rendezvous outside the wall of Lallor, Halruaa’s most exclusive, least-explored city.

Pryce quickly dismissed any thought of Lallor or Halruaa from his mind. The important thing now was Gamor Turkal, plus whoever this other dead fellow was. He couldn’t do that if he let his emotions run away from him.

To counter his disturbed frame of mind, he became scrupulously logical. There were ghosts, he decided firmly, and ghosts were a clear sign there was at least some sort of life after death. So what was so terrible about finding his ex-associate and some stranger dead? Be fair, he insisted to himself.

Suddenly the words his father had spoken years earlier came back to him as clearly as when they were first spoken: “Farewell, my boy. I ask only three things of you, if you would honor the man who gave you life. Be strong, be smart, and be serene. This is all the advice I can give you, Pryce, but if you achieve all three, it will be all you will ever need____”

Pryce shook his head angrily, blinking furiously. Curse his father, curse his father’s desertion of his family, curse his father for infiltrating his thoughts, and curse this damp morning air. Beads of water had formed around his eyes. Pryce used the back of his arm to wipe his face dry. Then he tried once more to control himself.

Concentrate, he thought, closing his eyes. Concentrate on what you know. And, as so often happened whenever Pryce Covington concentrated, what he knew tumbled to the fore from his subconscious in the form of gambling odds.

Okay… the odds of trouble resulting from reporting Turkal’s death seemed relatively small. Pryce knew enough about his associate, and Pryce’sown relationship with him, to talk his way around any number of rude discoveries. But the odds of avoiding

trouble when reporting the stranger’s death were decidedly less favorable. There was simply too much Pryce didn’t know.

This much he did know: At this moment, he stood in the shadow of an impressive twenty-foot-high wall that surrounded the city of Lallor. The wall seemed to be made of shimmering boulders that appeared to be wet. Looking closely, Pryce noted that the boulders interlocked cleverly. Unless someone stood on the very top of the wall, Pryce and his grim companions were totally out of any city dweller’s sight. From where he stood, Pryce could barely see the esoteric tops of buildings, but he saw no telltale window from which he could be seen.

Not far from the wall stood a most extraordinary tree, a magnificent mass of barkless, smooth, almost shiny wood, rooted in a grassy incline that led up to the wall’s base. Somehow, perhaps with human assistance, the tree had grown into the bent form of a giant question mark. Against its base leaned one dead man. From the very end of its questioning curl hung another, with a rope noose tightened around his thin neck, which had now grown decidedly thinner.

Pryce Covington finally lost the battle with his weakening legs. His knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, his knuckles brushing against the grass. “Gamor, why?” he moaned miserably. “Why did you have to go and die before—” Mercifully, he left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but it echoed in his mind regardless: —before telling me about the cushy job for life you promised me!

*****

A cushy job was all Pryce Covington had ever wanted. From the moment he was born, in the tiny city of Merrickarta in the basin surrounded by the northern mountain ranges, to this very moment, he had made no secret of his heart’s desire. In fact, it was almost impossible to converse with him for more than two

mugs of ale without the subject arising. Serving wenches from one end of the Nath to the other could practically sing it in harmony: “All I want is a cushy job for life. Is that so much to ask?”

Nothing less could have lured him from his life of desperate certainty to this land of promised opportunity. It’s not my fault, he thought. What else could I do? He had been lying in his comfortable Merrickarta hovel, minding his own business, when Gamor Turkal’s handsome face had suddenly swum into view. His appearance reminded Pryce of dust motes suddenly taking form in a shaft of sunlight.

“Pryce,” the dusty face said.

“Gamor?”

“You must come to Lallor, Pryce.” “Lallor?”

“Yes, Lallor!” the face had exclaimed. “Are you an echo or something?”

Not one to look dust faces in the mouth, Covington’s interest had been piqued, despite the incongruity of his business associate appearing to him in such a bizarre fashion. But he wasn’t about to journey more than two hundred miles to the southwest without learning more. “Why should I come to Lallor, Gamor?”

“Make up your mind, Pryce. Do you think I can maintain this connection forever?”

“And do you think I’m going to accept the word of a handful of talking dust? If you’re really Gamor Turkal, you know me better than that!”

“And if you’re truly Pryce Covington, you will meet me at the Mark of the Question,” the face countered, and then it uttered the magic words, the oft-wished-for, never attained, always-sought-after “cushy job for life.” But before Pryce could grill the dusty apparition on the particulars, the face had suddenly disappeared and spread across the hovel floor like gritty glitter.

It wasn’t until he was about fifty miles southwest of Merrickarta that Pryce began to wonder how Gamor had achieved

that interesting effect. Turkal had always had a dramatic flair, but hitherto he had shown little interest in magic, although he wasn’t vehemently against it as Pryce was.

‘You know what magic is? Real magic?” he had often lectured Gamor. “I’ll tell you what magic is. It’s a way for powerless people to win arguments.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Certainly,” Pryce said, letting an electrum coin play across his knuckles. “People who feel powerless learn magic in order to lord it over the rest of us.”

“Not like you,” Gamor laughed, noting Pryce’s knack of keeping the coin moving without grasping it.

“My tricks are honest prestidigitation,” Pryce maintained. “Sleight of hand. People who use magic are cheats. They use sleight of mind….”

“What’s with you, Pryce?” his comrade whined. “Was your mother scared by a wizard when you were a baby?”

Pryce’s eyes had narrowed and the smile had left his face suddenly. “Mark my words, Gamor,” he said evenly, suddenly snapping the coin out of the air. “I wouldn’t learn magic if every mage within a day’s ride went down on his knobby knees and begged me.” Then he slowly opened his hand, finger by finger, to reveal that the coin was no longer there.

Gamor had shrugged, unimpressed. “Not much chance of that.” It was true. Although they came into frequent contact with magicians, the young partners were regarded as nothing more than glorified messengers.

“Ah, but what messengers!” Pryce had always countered when a comely maid sneered at his current profession. Pryce had tried many occupations following his father’s departure for places unknown, but none had suited his peculiar temperament.

At the age of eight, he tried his hand at acting, and he was fairly good at it, but he hated having an audience. They were always analyzing his performance rather than accepting his character. They were passing judgment, not really listening. Pryce didn’t know why, but that galled him. At the age of twelve, he had considered trying for a mage apprenticeship, but the very idea gave him gooseflesh.

Finally, at the age of fifteen, he had sat down and tried to think of the perfect job—one that would make use of his youth, his relatively pleasant countenance, his wit, and his ego. Thus was born Pryce Covington, man of service. He set a sign out in the single window of the hovel he had shared with his mother until her recent death:

Nothing too serious, Nothing too fun; I will do

What must be done.

It had started slowly, of course. He had slopped out his share of pigpens—both human and animal—but soon all manner of creatures were calling upon him for all manner of tasks. Whenever anyone needed two extra hands to move a shipment, two extra feet to run an errand, or extra eyes to witness a transaction, an extra nose to sniff out information, and extra ears to objectively consider a problem that had become too subjective, Pryce Covington was there.

Soon he needed more arms, legs, eyes, ears, and an extra nose, which was where his tavern mate Gamor Turkal had come in. Gamor was lazy, but he had a spectacular memory. He was a bit too cagey for his own good, but always looking for an edge had its upside as well.

He was perfect for some jobs Pryce wished to avoid and dreadful for assignments Pryce specialized in—in other words, the very definition of a perfect partner: a person with mutually inclusive neuroses who would always make you look good and never threaten your position.

They had made a pretty Skie, not to mention a goodly number of other Halruan coins, but things started to get out of hand when they stumbled upon a new form of highly lucrative assignment. It consisted of running to see if magically transmitted messages sent by mages had arrived without interference from outside sorcerers.

Pryce had insisted on doing all of the initial runs himself and, out of sheer obstinacy, had bartered the fee to a new high. The idea that magic was so vulnerable that he had to “chaperon” it appealed to him immensely, and so he set the price accordingly. If the magicians were going to admit their magic was fallible to someone as common as he, then his silence on the same point was going to cost them!

Even though his services were discreet, word of his abilities as a messenger started to spread, and soon nearly every insecure magician and mage-in-training in the area was offering him sacks of electrum to discreetly make sure that his spells were working. So many assignments were coming in that before long Pryce had to entrust Gamor with some of them.

It had certainly kept Pryce and Gamor hopping, but when they weren’t too exhausted they had more than enough coins to make any evening a night they had a hard time remembering the next morning. Unfortunately Gamor had quickly tired of the shortage of loafing time. One morning he announced his imminent departure for less green pastures, and by that afternoon he was gone.

Pryce was just getting used to his former partner’s traumatic exit when the dust unsettled, in a manner of speaking, and he was summoned to Lallor by the ghostly image of Gamor Turkal.

*****

The first raindrop outside the city wall fell on Pryce’s jacket like a tap on the shoulder from the gods. It effectively brought

him out of his reverie of self-pity. He looked up to see storm clouds gathering.

Oh, great, he thought. That’s what I get for placing my faith in anything… or anyone. But even as the thought formed, Pryce chided himself. Gamor’s job offer had been too promising to ignore. So now, whatever it was he had gotten into, he had only himself to blame.

A second raindrop hit him right between the eyes. That did it. His brain immediately clicked into practical mode. The pure, clear rain started tapping him all over his body as he took stock of himself.