Murder in Halruaa (14 page)

Pryce frowned and nodded. “Of course.”

“In fact, we are perfect followers,” the young lady continued with undeniable pride. “Ever constant, never changing, with the purest possible love for our deity”—she turned her clear, bright blue eyes toward Pryce—”and for you.”

“Me?” By rights, he should have been concerned over the way this meeting was going, but her purity practically emanated a tangible aura.

“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “You are able to converse with me, so that means you have circumvented all the other obstacles designed to repulse you. It proves you are a man of pure heart and good intentions.”

Covington nodded with satisfaction. “That has been said,” he acknowledged. “So many times, in fact, that I’m beginning to believe it myself.”

“Oh, good!” she said effusively. ‘You know, this castle appears different to each person who visits it. If you come again, you will not find it thus.”

“Really?”

“Truly. The exterior remains relatively constant, but the interior is always changing. Its image is influenced by the eyes that perceive it, and it alters its appearance accordingly, depending upon the strength, will, ability, and mood of the individuals within at any given moment.”

“Fascinating,” Pryce said honestly. “Then these books, too, are illusions?”

“Oh, no. The books are real. That is why you cannot read

them. They are but a few of our books on the subject of illusion.”

Pryce glanced down the wall. There had to be, at a minimum, more than ten thousand volumes in this room alone. No wonder the inquisitrixes had enough power to constantly change every centimeter of the place. Setting aside that mind-bending reality for the nonce, Covington returned his attention to the vision beside him. “In that case, I will be all the more sorry to leave.”

“Because you will not be able to add to your fountain of knowledge?”

“No,” he said. “Because I will not be able to see you again.”

Her smile was bright enough to light up the Nath. “If you should ever return to our modest citadel,” she promised him, “I would like to talk with you again.”

“Thank you…” He groped for a fitting name.

“Call me Chimera.”

His smile grew as wide as hers. “Thank you, Chimera.” Then he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “I’ll tell you the truth. I am a bit tired of all these mirages, and anything I experience after meeting you will be an anticlimax, so I wonder…”

She turned her head to whisper back in his ear. “Would you like me to show you the way out?”

“Would you, please?”

Her answer sounded, to his ears, like the ardent acceptance of a marriage proposal. “Of course!” she cried. Then, to his surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

It was a kiss the likes of which Pryce Covington had never experienced. Firm, yet yielding. Soft, yet passionate. Physical, yet emotional. At first his eyes popped open, but then they slowly closed as the library around him began to shift and separate like a pile of dry leaves blown in the wind.

Alone in the darkness of his brain, he realized that he was experiencing the perfect kiss … perfect because it came from inside his own mind. The very moment of that realization came

with the disappearance of the kiss and the sound of water slapping against the soles of his boots.

He opened his eyes to find himself literally in a fog. Almost immediately, however, the fog began to dissipate, and he could see the tail end of the dragon turtle slipping into deeper water. He was back where he had been attacked: twenty yards from the simple, single door of the Mystran Inquisitrix Castle.

Pryce looked toward the quay, but it was still shrouded in mist. He took a step toward it, but he realized there was still one thing left undone. He quickly ran the last twenty yards to the door, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled.

It was locked.

“Figures,” Covington said, then started making his way back to the shore.

It was a beautiful autumn morning. Gheevy Wotfirr had waited as long as he could stand it, but when Covington hadn’t shown up for breakfast by late morning, Wotfirr could contain his curiosity no longer.

Dearlyn opened the door of the Ambersong residence when Gheevy knocked. “M-Miss Ambersong!” he sputtered, surprised to see her at all, let alone looking so happy. “Gamor Turkal said that your father was securing you your own dwelling for the length of the Fall Festival.” He looked worriedly around her, as if half expecting to see Pryce Covington’s body strewn on the floor.

“Oh, that,” she said pleasantly, turning back toward the living room area. “I never took that suggestion seriously.”

“B-But—but Darlington Blade!” the halfling babbled. “Isn’t he supposed to be staying here?”

“He is,” she said over her shoulder as she moved away from the door. “He has his own room… as I have mine.”

With a sense of wonder, Gheevy followed her into the living

room. Light shone brightly from the many tiny windows set in the tree walls. There the halfling found Pryce in his personal conception of paradise, sitting crossed-legged on the floor of Mage Ambersong’s library, surrounded, and nearly covered by, open books.

Dearlyn continued on by Pryce, while Gheevy stared, with bulging eyes and jaw agape, as they smiled at each other. Til see you later, then, Mr. Blade?” she said.

“Indeed, Miss Ambersong,” he replied. Then Dearlyn went into the bedroom and quietly closed the door.

Pryce turned to find the halfling staring at him, his jaw still hanging wide open. “What is it?” Covington inquired. “Dearlyn? Oh, she still has a great deal to work out… in her mind and heart.”

Only then did Wotfirr find the strength to speak, barely able to contain his amazement. “Wha—what happened?” the halfling sputtered. “I thought she hated you!”

“She hated the thought of Darlington Blade,” Pryce corrected the halfling quietly. He gestured at his harmless-looking demeanor. “Not the reality.”

“But you’re not—” Gheevy started before Covington urgently raised a silencing hand.

“Yes… I… am!” he said intently. “I am now, and must remain so if we are to get out of this alive.” His declaration finished, Pryce leaned back and surveyed the pile of books around him with pleasure. “Besides, Miss Ambersong has been extremely helpful in directing me to the proper literature needed to study the art of detection.”

Gheevy blinked and shook his head. “De-tec-what?”

“Detection, being a detective,” Pryce stressed. “An ancient word, much more common centuries ago, before the wizards fleeing the Phaerimm settled here. The native shepherds had much more cause to use it when investigating a missing wild rothe or rustled auroch.”

“They were… detectives?”

‘They were indeed,” Pryce assured him with disconcerting cheeriness. “They couldn’t just conjure up a rustler with a handy magic spell. They detected, using detection.”

“Did you get any sleep at all?” the halfling asked skeptically.

“Pfui,” Covington said, dismissing the question. ‘Too much to do. Too much to think about Too much to learn.”

“About being a detective?” Gheevy asked cautiously. The man’s eyes were just a bit too bright for the halfling’s liking.

“Precisely. Detective. A person who obtains evidence.” He cocked an eye at the halfling, who swallowed some uncomfortable memories of the previous night. “A person who gathers information and investigates crimes. And what is the most important letter in the language to a detective?”

“I assure you I have absolutely no idea,” Wotfirr said with confusion and wonder.

“Y,” Pryce answered happily. “Pronounced Why. According to the great Netheril philosopher Sante, author of these texts, it is the letter, and question, that should lie at the heart of every decision—but especially on the lips of every future enforcer of that decision. For things may ever change, but the letter, and the question, should remain constant.”

“Goodness,” Gheevy said, taken aback. “You learned all that last night?”

“I should say so. Not only did I learn it, but I was also able to put it into practice and get it corroborated, all in the space of a few hours.” He told Wotfirr of his amazing adventure of the early morning in the Inquisitrix Castle. During his recital, the halfling’s eyes grew larger and his jaw dropped lower.

“Remarkable,” Wotfirr finally burbled. “What an adventure!”

“Nothing compared to the one we are about to embark on, my dear Gheevy,” Pryce assured him. “I made a promise to myself in the castle: to discover the truth, and I will do so, no matter whether it costs me my freedom or my life.”

“But—”

“It’s not as if I have a real choice,” Pryce admitted. “I can hardly just sit here and wait for the truth to catch up with me. More likely than not, when it arrives, it will take the form of a killing spell or an assassin’s knife. I don’t want to end up like Gamor or—” Pryce glanced in the direction of the bedroom— “well, you know, that other guy.”

Gheevy acknowledged Pryce’s desire not to mention the name, then nodded his head at the entrance to the sleeping quarters. “Does—does Miss Ambersong know about your decision?”

Pryce shook his head sadly. “No. I tried to tell her when I got back to shore, but she had to go and hug me.”

He said it blithely, but Wotfirr’s reaction was anything but composed. The halfling actually did a double take. “Dearlyn Ambersong? She embraced you?”

“She was concerned for my safety,” Pryce said. “As she would be for anyone attacked by a dragon turtle.”

Gheevy looked around the room in disbelief. “I don’t know which is more amazing,” he finally decided. “Your exploration of the castle or Dearlyn Ambersong’s reaction to your safe return!”

Pryce raised a forefinger in triumph. “You see? I ask you, could anyone but Darlington Blade accomplish these things?”

The halfling couldn’t help but nod. “Very well. I’ll give you that. You are now, and forever will be, the great Darlington Blade.” He moved closer and looked Pryce in the eye. “So, Blade, what now?”

“Now?” he echoed, slowly rising from the pile of books. “Now we get some lunch!”

“But the workshop could be anywhere!” Wotfirr contended as they walked back to Schreders At Your Service, enjoying a picture-perfect autumn midday. Lallor Bay glittered like crests of diamonds, the green leaves in the trees swayed to a silent song, and children laughed while they followed bobbing, glowing clusters of multicolored lights down the street.

The splendidly dressed, excruciatingly polite adults treated Blade, ne Pryce, to the internationally famous “Lallor hello.” That is, they looked everywhere but directly at him, practically outlining his form with their gaze if they happened to turn their heads in his direction. It was a universally accepted courtesy for the incredibly famous.

“Couldn’t you ask Dearlyn if she knows anything about the workshop’s whereabouts?” Gheevy inquired. “You’re friendly enough now, apparently.”

“A small problem there,” Pryce explained. “I’m Darlington Blade, remember? I’m supposed to know.” Then he said something Wotfirr was completely unprepared for. “Besides, it’s not exactly polite to interrogate the daughter of your main suspect to discover his whereabouts.”

Gheevy’s exclamation of ‘What?” was loud enough to draw the attention of several adults and more than a few children.

Pryce smiled at the onlookers magnanimously and said, “You know, this isn’t going to work if you can’t control your interjections.”

“Sorry,” the halfling said, his voice quieter. “But what are you saying?”

“You know the language I’m speaking,” he chided. “I admit that the concept is difficult, but so is the concept of murder in Halruaa. As Priest Sante wrote, ‘Once you accept the concept of the unthinkable, the rest is easy….’” The halfling looked at him doubtfully. “Or something to that effect.”

“But Geerling?” Gheevy queried. “He’s been the most trusted person in Lallor for many years!”

“I know, I know,” Covington sympathized, “and I’ll admit it’s easier for me, since I never knew him, but consider the situation logically. You said it yourself: No one would ever believe Gamor

Turkal could kill Darlington Blade. So who, then? Who was the closest to him, and, more importantly, who had the power to slay such a famous wizard?”

“Well, when you put it like that… but, no, I can’t believe it.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t either if I were in your position, but I have to find out. And that means I have to find Geerling Ambersong’s secret workshop. It’s not in his home. He had the place cleared of spellbooks and magical items in deference to his plans for his daughter. So where could it be?”

“That was my initial question,” Gheevy reminded him. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“I do,” Pryce said, putting his hand on the halfling’s shoulder. They were outside Schreders’s now, and there was a good deal of foot traffic in the area. “You must know that trader in liquids, Teddington Fullmer. Your employer was about to introduce you when you nearly exposed me.”

“Certainly,” Gheevy answered dubiously. “I talked to him earlier today, when he came in for breakfast. He has a vacation cottage somewhere around here.”

“Really?” Pryce said with interest. “Do you happen to know whether he’s planning to come back for lunch?”

“As a matter of fact, he is. He said he would drop by. He wants to see my grotto, but I don’t think I should—”

“Perfect!” Pryce interrupted. “I think you should show him your grotto, Gheevy; you absolutely should.”

“Really? Why? He’ll only say it’s understocked and try to sell me something. And since he has a home in the area, he’ll keep pestering me until—”

“Don’t you see?” Pryce interjected. “Think back… remember what the jackalwere said.” He suddenly took note of the halfling’s puzzled expression. “Wait a minute,” he continued. “You were unconscious during my talk with the jackalwere, weren’t you?” Gheevy kept looking at him with patient disbelief. “Looked him in the eye, didn’t you, you silly boy? Well, anyway, remember my

telling you that he gave me the descriptions of two people who had also been around the Mark of the Question?”