Murder in Halruaa (22 page)

“Are you dead, Father?” The sudden realization made her start. She began to cry. “Did someone kill you?”

Fullmer’s face was turned away, his arms jerking at his side, his fingers shaking like willow branches in the wind. “Yessssss …” came the answer.

“Who, Father, who?” Dearlyn asked urgently through her tears. “Who killed you?”

Pryce was beside her now, leaning toward the haunt. So when it suddenly spun around, its arm stiffly out, its accusing finger was pointing almost directly in Pryce’s face.

“Darlington Blade…” it cried.

****

Pryce was fast, but Dearlyn’s staff was almost faster. He spun his head toward her, but his vision filled with her look of hatred and revenge before it was replaced by spinning red horsehair and sharpened gardening tools.

Pryce dived backward, just missing the side of the stone seat where Gheevy sat. He executed a quick backflip, but Dearlyn was there, stomping on the hem of his cloak. He wrenched his head back, popping the clasp. The cloak snapped off, and he landed on his knees before her, his arms outstretched.

“I’m not Darlington Bladel” he screamed just as the pole touched his sternum.

The tip of the staff froze a centimeter into his chest. “What did you say?”

“I’m not Darlington Blade!” he repeated, his hands wide, his knees at the edge of the accursed cloak, which she ground under her foot. “Kill me if you must—I won’t blame you—but I swear on the memory of my own father, I am not Darlington Blade!”

That stopped her for a moment, but a moment only. Then her expression changed back into one of pure loathing, and her fingers tightened on her staff. ‘Why, you—”

“No, mistress!” Gheevy cried, sliding in front of Pryce, his own hands clasped in supplication. “He didn’t mean it. I swear, it was an accident!”

“Out of my way, halfling!”

“Miss Ambersong,” Wotfirr pleaded, “he is a poor specimen, to be sure, but to his credit, he never told anyone he was Darlington Blade. They simply assumed it!”

“I just borrowed the cloak. I didn’t know whose it was—”

“And by the time he found out, it was too late!”

The two babbled quicker and quicker in front of the enraged woman, but they would never know what she would have done, because at that moment the man who had been Teddington Fullmer loomed up behind her.

Gheevy screamed as the haunt slammed down across her shoulders. Dearlyn was dragged down by its weight. They both landed on top of Pryce Covington as Wotfirr scampered away in horror.

Dearlyn struggled to get out from under the flailing body of Teddington Fullmer as Pryce struggled to get out from under them both. But then the haunt’s rubbery lips finally spoke directly into the woman’s ear.

“… didn’t kill me!” the working mouth frothed as Fullmer’s mind had to force each word out. “Darlington Blade did not kill me!”

Gheevy cowered in the corner as the haunt continued to hiss directly into Dearlyn’s ear. “It wasn’t Darlington Blade. It was the one behind him… behind him!”

Then they all heard it—a death rattle, starting high in his throat and dropping into his esophagus. Teddington Fullmer had run out of life. Geerling Ambersong had run out of time.

All they heard now was Dearlyn’s angry sobbing as she kicked and punched her way out from beneath the dead weight of the man who had been Pryce’s betrayer and the last evidence of her father. Pryce just lay there, exhausted, his arms out, not making a single move to help her.

Finally she clawed her way free to sit beside the corpse, sweating and panting, her purple face swollen with shock, grief, wrath, and confusion. “What,” she choked, “was that?”

Pryce raised his head to stare at the finally dead figure with wonder and a strange, sickening feeling of recognition. “A dying clue,” he whispered blankly.

He only reacted when Dearlyn suddenly turned to yell directly at him. “You… you… nothing! You are nothing! You know nothing! Nothing!” Then she collapsed on the floor, her face in her hands, sobbing.

All Pryce could do was stare at her, his face twisted with regret and helplessness. Finally the full realization of his responsibility lay across his shoulders with all the weight of the Inquistrix Castle. “I know what I have to do,” he finally said, to himself more than anyone. Dearlyn looked up, but tearfully choked back her response. Instead, she hung her head and whimpered in disgust and loss.

Gheevy Wotfirr ran forward, struggling to help Pryce out from beneath the corpse of Teddington Fullmer. “Hush, my friend,” the halfling advised. “You are in shock.”

But Pryce Covington was too distracted even to recognize the symptoms. As if in a trance, he let the halfling help him up. “A locked room mystery,” he whispered, leaning over to Wotfirr so

Dearlyn wouldn’t hear. “And a dying clue. It’s a triple mystery, with all the trappings of legend. Gheevy!” he gasped in amazement, “after all this time pussyfooting around behind the scenes, here’s a murder we can ooenly solve!”

With a thump, Pryce Covington closed the last book of philosophy written by Sante, the renowned priest, healer, and, from what he could read, even judge. A cloud of dust blown from the aged pages settled down on every side of the volume, as well as on Pryce’s crossed legs. He was tired but fascinated, saddened but informed, remorseful yet satisfied. With the help of these volumes of ancient instruction, brilliantly translated from archaic languages by Geerling Ambersong himself, Covington had successfully taken hold of the tiger’s tail.

Now all he had to do was ride the beast without being eaten alive.

Pryce sat alone in the secret workshop, creating new strategies. For some reason, his original motto repeatedly came back to mind, only this time in a slightly amended form: “Everything to lose; nowhere to run. I will do what must be done.”

The halfling grotto manager stuck his head between the stone door and the stationary cave wall. “Blade?” he inquired quietly.

“Yes, Gheevy?”

“Dearlyn is resting back at the Ambersong residence.” Pryce sighed. “Good. I’m glad. I hope she’ll be able to get some sleep.”

“I told her you wished to talk to her later,” the halfling reported, “if she’s willing to listen.”

“Thank you. Did she answer you?”

The halfling pursed his lips and looked down. “No.”

Pryce Covington shook his head ruefully. “That’s all right, my friend. I don’t blame her, really. Is everything else ready?”

The halfling looked up, his expression brightening. “Yes, sir. Everything is ready out here.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Pryce carefully placed the last book of the learned priest back on the hovering stone slab next to him, then grabbed the lip of the table and started to pull himself up. He groaned, his elbow and knee joints popping audibly.

The halfling shook his head in bemusement. He had tried to counsel Covington to use this time for rest, but his sage advice had fallen on deaf ears. “You really should get some sleep, you know,” he said for the sixth time.

Pryce stretched his arms as high as they could go over his head, letting out an expansive grunt. Then he relaxed. ‘Teddington Fullmer is sleeping,” he said lightly. “Geerling Ambersong is sleeping. Even Gamor Turkal is sleeping.” He walked to the door and started to cross in front of the halfling. “There’ll be plenty of time for sleep later,” he concluded quietly as he passed.

It was an entirely new world outside the no-longer-secret workshop. The caverns, from the hatchlike entryway behind Schreders At Your Service to the workshop door, had been illuminated by a string of floating light orbs. Lallor militia units in specially designed uniforms stood beside every glowing bulb, hands resting on the hilts of short swords specially designed for all their indoor hacking needs.

Inquisitrixes, in their own uniforms of black and gold, moved about, carefully examining every inch of the caverns. They

sometimes found evidence of magic, over which they tossed crystals or powders and muttered divining spells with accompanying gestures. If there were any other secrets hidden in these caves, these illusion scholars would find them.

Directly in front of Covington lay a naked Teddington Fullmer, floating above the cave floor on a magically enhanced morgue slab. Examining his feet was, surprisingly, Matthaunin Witterstaet, wearing his customary gatekeeper robe. Examining Fullmer’s head was Berridge Lymwich, dressed in her full inquisitrix regalia. Pryce approached the latter first.

“I imagine Dearlyn and Gheevy have told you everything they know by now,” he said. “Anything I can add?”

“I don’t know,” she said in her sandy voice without taking her eyes off Fullmer’s head wound. “Is there?” She seemed to be angry that he had given her something to do other than covet his status.

Pryce shrugged, refusing to be baited. “Possibly not… but I can tell you what you’re thinking.” She finally looked at him— first with surprise, then with disbelief, and finally with defiance. She said nothing, but Pryce took her behavior as permission. “You’re thinking someone at Schreders’s place did this.” Mentally he scored himself a point, not because she reacted in surprise, but because she didn’t Instead, Lymwich folded her arms and let her eyelids fall to half mast.

“What makes you think that?”

Pryce shrugged, frowning. “It only makes sense. The entrance was right behind the tavern’s back door; Azzo was in a position to know almost everything that went on in Lallor; and, besides, who but a non-mage would kill anyone as crudely as this?”

Lymwich kept her arms crossed and exhaled through her nose, like a bull about to charge. Pryce took it as a sign of grudging acceptance. He glanced around at her sister inquisitrixes. “Any luck finding Geerling’s haunt?”

Lymwich looked at the other inquisitrixes’ progress in the cavern with a certain frustration. “Not a thing,” she admitted reluctantly. “Curse it, a haunt must remain within sixty yards of where its body lies! But no matter how we track it—up, down, right, left—nothing! If either the daughter or the halfling had come to me with this story minus your corroboration, I never would have believed it.”

“Ah, the joys of reputation,” Pryce said. He looked at her with calm self-assurance. “Have you done as I requested?”

She seemed ready to argue, but quickly controlled herself. “What you had your halfling … associate … request for you,” she corrected him reprovingly. “But,” she conceded, “your idea was an expedient one. It met with the approval of my superiors.”

Pryce resisted the temptation to rub salt into her wounded ego, so he kept his expression placid and his tongue still. He simply nodded and stepped over to the other side of the slab. He tried to attract the gatekeeper’s attention, but the old fellow was too intent on the body. “You’re a man of many talents,” Pryce finally said idly.

“Hmmmmm?” the gatekeeper said without looking up.

“Gate guard, immigration officer, and now magical examiner.”

“Cleric as well,” Lymwich elaborated. “Matthaunin is one of our little community’s most respected members.”

“Outside of your own master, of course,” Witterstaet hastily added.

“Really?” Pryce retorted.

“Geerling Ambersong basically gave Witterstaet his choice of responsibilities in our exclusive retreat,” Lymwich continued, walking the length of the morgue slab and back again, “and he chose his place at the gate.”

“Fresh air,” Witterstaet explained, looking at the ceiling of the cavern, “meeting new people, constant intellectual stimulation…”

“But you also double, or should I say triple, as an examiner?” Pryce marveled.

“Matthaunin is also one of the most respected seers of magical presence in the nation,” Lymwich said sourly, apparently not reserving her infinite pool of envy to Blade alone.

“Really?” Pryce drawled again, raising one eyebrow practically up into his hairline.

“It has been said, sir,” Witterstaet answered modestly, “but, of course, I wouldn’t dare test my paltry skills against your own, sir.”

“Wouldn’t you, now?” Pryce echoed, looking askance at Lymwich, who studiously avoided his gaze. Even so, Pryce quickly redirected their attention, just in case anyone considered pressing the point. “And have you uncovered anything around the body of Teddington Fullmer?”

Once that subject was again broached, Witterstaet seemed to forget all about Blade’s fame. “Well, there was a very indistinct shadow, or afterimage—an echo, if you will—of the haunt’s previous presence that even I was hard pressed to perceive.” He turned toward Pryce for a moment. “But that is just a testament to the skill and power of your master.” He turned back to Fullmer’s cadaver. “Other than that, there isn’t a single iota of magic anywhere in, around, or on the body. Whatever happened to him prior to the haunt’s possession, it was done by a person alien to any form of magic.”

Before Pryce could consider the ramifications of that statement, the people he had asked to be summoned arrived. Pryce stepped back as burly, bearded tavern owner Azzoparde Schreders, blonde and beautiful serving wench Sheyrhen Karkober, and gaunt mine owner Asche Hartov—in the company of several inquisitrixes and militiamen—made their way down the brightly lit cavern to the section of wall that hid the workshop.

“Cost, what is the meaning of this?” the gaunt mine owner demanded.

“You had to pay these people?” the serving wench asked Hartov incredulously.

Pryce rolled his eyes, then put his hands on his waist and leaned toward the three arrivals. “I told you before, Asche, Cost Privington is a pseudonym… a false identity. My real name is… Darlington Blade.” Pryce nodded to himself. He was getting the pause between “is” and “Darlington” down to mere seconds. Maybe if he said it often enough, he’d actually come to believe it

“Harrumph,” wheezed Hartov, bending his slight frame. “False identity indeed! Why did you feel the compunction to fool the likes of me?”

“Matters of national security,” Pryce said affably, “and that is precisely why I’ve asked you here today.”

“Really?” Karkober breathed, her eyes widening.

“Really.” He motioned toward the slab. “First, I believe you all knew Teddington Fullmer?”