Murder in Halruaa (19 page)

Pryce quickly surveyed the small area behind the eating and drinking establishment, making sure it was empty and no kitchen staff member was watching before he hastily returned to the small tunnel opening. “I’ll be back,” he quietly assured Devolawk and the mongrelman. “Don’t lose hope. Now, quickly,

hide yourselves and let me speak to the Jackal.”

The misshapen creatures moved back, and—eventually, reluctantly—Cunningham appeared at the portal and gazed out at the moonlight of Lallor. Cunningham reacted like an animal seeing the sky for the very first time. “Are—are you mad?” he gasped. “I cannot accept this! The longing!” There was wonder in his expression and tone, but also agony, since he now finally saw the comfort and serenity he had been missing in all his years of wandering and slaughter.

Pryce pushed his head halfway into the opening to block the torturing view. “Be strong, my dangerous aide,” he contended. “And above all, don’t unleash you magical gaze.”

“It… would … serve … you … right,” the jackalwere grunted angrily, only just managing to avoid adding “sir.”

“Listen, Cunningham, what I’m about to say is important to us both,” Pryce said urgently. He waited until the jackalwere stopped hugging himself and averting his gaze. The half-man, half-beast blinked rapidly, then looked soulfully at Covington. “You may be a monster,” Pryce continued evenly, “but what you are doing for those other two is not monstrous.”

The jackalwere reacted with surprise and backed away. But he did not run. Instead, he stood in the shadows, halfway between the bowels of the earth and the clear Lallor sky, for quite some time before Covington heard his next quiet words.

“It is my curse to be given human consciousness, sir, a curse my children are blessed with not having. My animal nature needs to feed, and through it I only know the hunger of my body. But my human nature can feel pity and even empathy. Through it, I know the hunger of my mind… and perhaps my soul.”

“I have been told that jackalweres have no soul,” Pryce said softly.

“Who told you that?”

‘Wizards,” Pryce said diffidently.

Cunningham’s sarcasm had the lightness of morning dew.

“Well, then,” he said, “if the wizards say so, it must be true.” He was quiet for several moments more. Then: “In the misshapen ones, I see myself. But unlike me, one was not born this way. He was created by human monsters who could pervade this planet … and that makes me feel rage.”

Suddenly his face was back into the moonlight, no more than an inch from Covington’s own. But it was not Cunningham’s face. It was the face of the orange and black jackal, its eyes burning like the sun. It took everything Pryce was not to hurl himself back from those blazing, but purposefully nonhypnotic, eyes.

“I can do nothing for these creatures,” growled the beast, “who are so wretched that even a monster such as I can care for them. But perhaps you can. And for that, and that alone, I will not kill you. I will not feast on your blood. I will not tear you limb from limb and feed you to my cherished children.” He suddenly turned away. “Now I, too, must go. My nostrils begin to fill with the stench of Lallor wizards. And if I can smell them…”

The words were already diminishing in the distance, but there were three more to come, which Pryce heard distinctly on the wind: “Remember your promise!”

Pryce slowly closed the rock opening of the tunnel wall. He stood between the wall and the back door of the restaurant, his profile toward both. The throbbing in his head reminded him that, by rights, his attacker should have killed him. Why else would he take the trouble to so crudely strike Pryce on the head? Covington touched the healing lump on his head lightly, and the only real explanation occurred to him.

“By thunder,” he whispered in the Lallor night. “I’ve got it!”

Pryce Covington was awestruck. Later he couldn’t recall how long he had stood there thinking. He may have even mumbled. “But it can’t be. Not that. No.” But every piece he mentally placed into the puzzle fit. The only problem was that there were still several pieces he didn’t have yet.

Pryce moved quickly toward the narrow alley opening that led

to the street beyond. He now knew he had to move very quickly, or all might be lost. With a rustle of Darlington Blade’s cloak, he was gone into the night.

*****

Gheevy Wotfirr leaned contentedly back in his soft, comfortable chair, his hands warm around a steaming cup of aromatic Toussaintie brew. It had been sweetened by a few drops of Mar-riss insect secretions and was delightfully soothing after a long day of testing and storing liquor in the grotto.

Earlier Matthaunin Witterstaet had stopped by the halfling’s burrow in the hill between Azzo’s restaurant and the Ambersong residence for what had become their custom: a cup of Toussaintie and a friendly game of Eckhearts. The stooped, sagging old man followed the same routine each night before he retired to his cottage in the northeast shadow of the Lallor Wall.

Yes, Gheevy thought, all in all, a delightful evening of charming companionship and homespun stories.

Gheevy let his eyes roam contentedly about his burrow as he sipped the brew. The burrow’s furniture was designed not for fashion but for comfort. Although Wotfirr’s hairy bare feet now rested easily on a plush ottoman, his toes tingled with the expectation of eventually placing them on the plush multicolored carpets that covered the floor.

His eyes traveled over the rainbow of colors and shapes that made up his precious collection of liquids from all over Toril. They covered most of the wall space in the burrow and gave it the look of a shimmering glass museum. He had carefully designed the illumination so the soft light refracted comforting colors from the bottles across the entire space.

Yes, the halfling thought, looking down at his soft lounging pants, brocaded vest, mock turtleneck sweater, and plush slippers, it was a wonderful life he had made for himself here in Lai—

lor. One in which comfort was everything and nothing could possibly go wrong…

There was an ominous knock on the door. Gheevy looked up in surprise, wondering who it could be at this time of night. Well, there were only two ways to find out. “Who is it?” he called, eliminating one of the ways.

There was no answer.

Just when he thought he might have imagined the knock, it was repeated, catching the halfling in the middle of turning away. Gheevy whirled around to face the door once more, nearly spilling his brew. “Yes?” he said shakily. There was still no reply.

Wotfirr considered not answering the summons, but his curiosity got the better of him. Besides, Matthaunin might have fallen and hurt himself and was too breathless to reply. The halfling screwed up his courage and crept forward. He gripped the door latch tightly and put his ear against the wood. “Hello?” he inquired.

The third knock made him jerk his head back, causing his hand to spasm and make the latch click up. Holding his breath, he opened the door an inch and carefully moved his head to the opening to peer out cautiously.

A blade shot between the door and the wall, narrowly missing his eye.

Before he could cry out, the door was forced open, a muscular hand was clamped across his lips, and Gheevy was catapulted back into his easy chair.

He landed with a thud, clawing and screeching. But a heavy weight on his legs kept him from escaping, and the hand remained firmly on his jaw, muffling his cries. To his horror, Gheevy heard the front door of his burrow click shut, cutting off any chance of escape.

The halfling’s bulging eyes peered over the silencing hand at the face of his attacker… only to see Pryce Covington sitting on

his legs, with the forefinger of his other hand against his lips “Shhhhh,” he whispered.

“You—” he started to exclaim, only to have Covington grimace, press his hand more tightly on Gheevy’s lips, and jerk his head toward the door.

The halfling’s eyes rolled in that direction in time to see Dearlyn Ambersong—dressed in a tight dark sweater, leggings, and boots beneath her Ambersong cloak—turn toward them, clutching her dangerous garden tool in her hands.

“Door secured,” she whispered. “All clear.”

The halfling finally realized that it had been her stick that shot at his face, keeping him from slamming the door. But as for the rest, he still couldn’t make hide nor horsehair of it. He wrenched his eyes back toward Pryce, who leaned down until his face was no more than an inch from the halfling’s.

“Take it easy, my friend,” Covington whispered. “I couldn’t afford to alert Matthaunin Witterstaet as to our presence. He might ask questions I don’t want to even try answering at this juncture. Besides,” he said with a shrug, “at this point we really can’t trust anyone, so…. ” He leaned back, cocked his head, and waited until the halfling nodded. Only then did Pryce remove his hand from Gheevy’s mouth.

“So you thought you’d give me a heart attack?” Wotfirr sputtered.

Pryce stood up quickly and stepped over the halfling’s previously pinioned legs. “I apologize profusely, my dear Gheevy, I truly do,” Pryce said, “but time is of the essence.”

Wotfirr watched in wonder as Pryce moved to the side of the mage’s daughter. The sight of the two working together and the urgency of Covington’s words effectively eliminated any anger the halfling still felt. It did not, however, eradicate the remainder of his fear. In fact, a new concern was beginning to grow in him, a concern that made him wonder if there would be more murder to be found in the night. ‘What are you doing here?” he asked urgentiy.

Dearlyn moved forward anxiously. “He’s bringing me to my father!” she declared.

Gheevy looked up at Pryce in wonder. The man was standing beside a small half-moon-shaped window near the front door of the burrow, surveying the street outside to make sure Matthaunin—or anyone else—was not in the area. He flinched at the sound of Dearlyn’s contention. “I only hope it’s not too late,” he added. He turned to face them both. “I was attacked earlier tonight,” he informed the halfling.

“What?” Wotfirr burbled in outrage.

“He wanted to come here directly,” Dearlyn told Gheevy, looking at Pryce with concern. “But I insisted on treating his wound.”

Pryce touched his head gingerly. “For which, once again, I thank you, but the injury is not as important as why I was attacked.”

“And why was that?” Gheevy inquired.

“Whoever assaulted me wanted me to lead him, her, or it to Geerling’s workshop.”

The halfling sat up straight. The wonders inherent in that statement were almost too much for him to completely comprehend. To the halfling, the man standing before him was a magicless vagabond who had discovered two corpses and had no idea where Geerling Ambersong’s workshop was. But to Dearlyn, the mage’s daughter, he was a great wizard and hero who had been given the Ambersong legacy instead of her, and a man who knew all there was to know about the workshop.

Keeping all those characters straight in the space of one burrow was going to take concentration indeed—concentration the addled halfling just couldn’t quite muster at the moment.

“Geerling… you know… but who … why… ?”

Pryce waved his hands in front of his face, seemingly batting away all of Gheevy’s sputterings. “We have no time for this,” he said. “I think Teddington Fullmer set me up. I think he knocked me out, and I think that even now he’s trying to make off with Geerling Ambersong’s fortune!”

‘Trying… Geerling Ambersong’s…” Gheevy echoed. “Then what are you doing here?”

“We need your help, my friend.”

“My help?” the halfling marveled. “But—”

“Please!” Pryce pleaded to the low ceiling. “No more questions! Just get on your best grotto-crawling clothes and follow me!”

“So you think the secret workshop is somewhere down here?” the halfling whispered.

The three made their cautious way down the tunnel behind Schreders’s restaurant. The halfling held aloft a small illumination orb, which gave off just enough light to keep them from tripping or stumbling into anything. A standard torch would have filled the low, narrow cave with blinding, choking smoke within seconds. The rest of the navigation came from Pryce’s memory.

Dearlyn held on to the hem of Darlington’s cloak several feet behind them, using her horsehair-topped staff as a walking stick. She was so intent on making her way and so deep in her own thoughts that Gheevy and Pryce could talk quietly at length … about very uncomfortable things.

“I’m certain of it,” Pryce whispered back. “Where else could it be?”

“Is there another entrance on the other side of the workshop somewhere outside the caves?”

Pryce shook his head. “I doubt it. With all the anxious inquisitrixes and hopeful mages searching everywhere, I think the only way to protect it was to hide it here, literally under their very noses.”

“Incredible,” Gheevy whispered in wonder. Then his voice grew very quiet. “But with all due respect, why bring her along?”

he said, nodding back toward Dearlyn. “It was either that or steal her cloak.” “Steal her cloak?”

“Geerling Ambersong was a clever man. He wanted Darlington Blade and his daughter to work together as a team.”

The halfling looked up at Pryce skeptically. “Are you sure?”

Pryce fingered Darlington Blade’s cloak clasp, seemingly to relieve some of the tension now that Dearlyn was using it as a leash. “I’m sure of it.”

“How can you be?” Gheevy wondered aloud.

Pryce leaned close to whisper his explanation. ‘To prevent any other magician from entering his workshop, I believe he secured it with a mechanical lock.” He held up two fingers. “With two keys.”

‘Two? But…” The halfling got no further because Pryce was moving the cloak clasp so that it reflected light from the orb directiy into Gheevy’s eyes.

“Are you all right, Blade?” Dearlyn inquired quietly. “I’m not pulling too much, am I?”

Pryce smiled sagely and nodded his head toward the mage’s daughter. All the halfling could think of when he looked over at her was her cloak’s clasp. What Pryce was suggesting came to Wotfirr in a flash.

“No problem, Miss Ambersong,” Covington whispered back to her. “Watch your step.” He turned back to gaze into Gheevy’s perplexed, apprehensive face.