Murder in Halruaa (6 page)

Pryce Covington was afraid he might be sick, and it wasn’t the drink that made him feel that way. Mystran Inquisitrix Berridge Lymwich might as well have hit him in the solar plexus with a bar stool. Calling him by that name had the same effect.

Darlington Blade. Of course! Covington remembered the strange way the cloak clasp had directed his finger. Down, then around and up. D. Then down twice to the right. B. The initials of Darlington Blade. Or maybe Dumb Bunny. Or Dead Beat. With a sudden realization as clear and powerful as a glass house falling on him, he knew that no one in Lallor thought of him as Pryce Covington. They all thought he was the great Darlington Blade!

Darlington Blade. Even lowly messengers in far-off Merrickarta had heard of Blade. The legendary adventurer-wizard who studied with an exalted but eccentric mage, who was the primary mage in the realm’s most exclusive community, which was the vacation spot for many of the nation’s most prominent wizards and other important citizens.

So that was who Geerling Ambersong was! Darlington Blade’s master! Was he the other dead body? Not bloody likely. Geerling Ambersong was supposed to be well over seventy. Then again, Blade’s teacher was thought to have been over seventy for more than a decade. No, Covington had taken this unique cloak—the cloak that everyone in Lallor recognized as that of Darlington Blade!—from a younger-looking corpse.

Pryce Covington drank the rest of his third tankard in one impressive pull. The brew seemed to seep through his body, calling out in a distant bittersweet song. Darlington Blade, dead in a tree’s shade… and Pryce wore his cloak. The possibilities were prodigious… and frightening.

“I hardly thought the great Darlington Blade would be so affected by a challenge from the likes of me,” Lymwich interrupted his thoughts. Covington kept thinking about his predicament while he put his wit to work on the inquisitrix.

“Not, really,” Pryce said distractedly. “Proving myself to you is of no concern to me. It is for you to decide whether I’ve proven myself or not. In the meantime, I will simply proceed about my business … hopefully with style.” He glanced down into the empty tankard. “Azzo, my good man! Another mead, if you don’t mind!”

Lymwich seemed satisfied with this retort. But she wasn’t about to join in the rest of the city’s hero worship. “Come now,” she said reasonably, still leaning forward. “Geerling Ambersong disappears, then you show up. What’s an inquisitrix to think?”

“Whatever she wants to, obviously,” Pryce said dryly as the comely blonde serving wench in the low-cut, lace-up dress put another foaming brew before him. He winked and she smiled back at him, then Lymwich’s scowl chased her away.

“Come, come, Blade,” she pressed. “You must know where Geerling Ambersong is… or what happened to him.”

“Of what possible concern is that to you?” Pryce wondered, looking to the mead for some way out of this particular series of queries.

“Don’t patronize me,” the inquisitrix retorted. “The Fall Festival is coming up, and Gamor brags about how hard Ambersong is training you. Then, after years of secrecy, you finally show up in the flesh just as the old man vanishes. You must acknowledge that the Mystran Inquisitorium should not turn a blind eye to these events.” Suddenly Lymwich seemed to change from a dedicated investigator to a crafty confederate. She leaned close and whispered, “So, come, you can tell me… what does the cunning old buzzard have planned?”

There was nothing Covington would like more than to tell her exactly what Geerling Ambersong had planned, but in order to do so, he’d first have to know it himself. But at least this latest twist in the conversation seemed to be leading out of Accusation Alley and up the more benign Curiosity Circle. Any road that didn’t stop in a dead end was all right with Pryce.

The answer came to him with the relief of a field mouse seeing an owl’s back. “I honestly can’t say,” he told Lymwich with complete sincerity, “but I assure you that when I find out, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

The inquisitrix leaned back, trying to hide her disappointment. News of Ambersong’s plans would have put her in good with her superiors, no doubt. ‘Your reputation aside, Darlington Blade,” she said gravely, “you are still a veritable stranger here in Lallor. And it is not wise for a stranger to forge a nonforthcoming relationship with the Mystran Inquisitorium.”

Covington would normally had left well enough alone, but there was something about Lymwich, something about this city, something about the mead, and something about the knowledge that, at least for now, he was Darlington Blade that gave him uncustomary courage. “Nor, I imagine,” he replied quietly, “is it wise for an ambitious inquisitrix to forge an untrusting relationship with a truthful disciple of Geerling Ambersong.”

Lymwich made a dismissive noise, pushed back from the table, and planted her feet on the floor. “If s time to report back to

the MIC,” she said, buttoning her floor-length cape. She nodded curtly at Covington. “The Mystran Inquisitrix Castle, that is,” she translated. “We’ll… I’ll be watching.”

“I’ll be performing,” he promised, then turned away and took another drink from his tankard. When he looked back, Berridge Lymwich was gone. Well, he thought, taking another drink and ignoring the beads of sweat that appeared on his brow, that went well. He turned to see if Azzo Schreders was available for some subtle probing but saw only the comely form of the serving wench.

As soon as the inquisitrix left, the serving wench had reappeared, apparently awaiting this very chance. Like her employer, who was the very model of a tavernkeeper, she was the very image of a tavern-goer’s dream. Tall, with a thick mane of yellow hair. Shapely, with a wonderfully curved body contained in a flowing off-white dress, held amazingly close to her by a laced-up bodice of brown leather.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said with demure purpose, her voice carefully modulated in a husky, feminine tone. “Sheyrhen Karkober, at your service. Are you hungry?”

Pryce’s eyebrows raised. He tried to keep his dark eyes centered on her blue ones… and away from the riches thrust at him by her revealing bodice.

“Is there anything I can get you?” she continued willingly. “Anything at all?”

She had already gotten him something, of course: the knowledge that being Darlington Blade was far more attractive than being Pryce Covington. For a second, he thought of answering her truthfully, but he quickly realized the futility of trying to maintain this impersonation for more than a few minutes. Her type hadn’t given him a second look in Merrickarta, and without the name now pressed upon him, wouldn’t have given him a first look here.

Pryce fought the urge to leave the tavern as fast as he could,

realizing he had better get something in his stomach before trying to figure his way out of this predicament. He made a quick mental calculation of the money he had in his jacket’s hidden pockets, then decided to splurge on the titanium plate special— an ample, savory assortment of bite-sized meat, cheese, bread, vegetable, and fruit delights. Who knew when he might eat again? Escaping into the mountains was hard and dangerous work.

As Sheyrhen briskly went off to get his order, Pryce busied himself with weighing the pros and cons of his new understanding of his situation. Obviously no one knew what Darlington Blade looked like. That was good. Blade was famous for his wizardry. That was bad. Geerling Ambersong was missing. That was good and bad. He might come back at any second. That was all bad. He might have killed Gamor and the real Darlington Blade by the tree. That was very, very bad.

The odds were not particularly good in the long run, but for the moment, all was splendid. He had a beautiful place to live and commanded exceptional respect. After all the years Pryce had spent keeping his humor and ego buoyed in the face of blatant and constant disdain, it was an all-encompassing pleasure to be treated in the manner to which he always thought he should have been accustomed. He decided that if everyone thought he was Darlington Blade, then that’s who he would be … until he slipped away in the night, never to be seen in Lallor again.

The drink had definitely gotten to him. He tried to spot Karkober returning with his food, but all he saw was that the crowd had gotten bigger. People were obviously leaving work and gathering for some early evening drink and company. Covington surveyed them analytically and appreciated what he saw.

There were handsome men in richly ornamented costumes, but their faces did not betray the ignorant arrogance of fops. These were serious people who honestly believed that the in-depth study of magic could overcome any obstacle and solve any

problem. Covington suddenly felt a pang moving from his empty stomach to his heavy heart. How could he even have toyed with the idea of trying to maintain an impersonation of Darlington Blade, of all people?

He looked down at his simple clothing. A cloak does not a hero make, he realized. What was he, really? A glorified messenger from the armpit of the Nath, that’s all. At least his mouth was securely fastened to his brain, and he felt certain he could outtalk anyone in this room, but Mystra help him if it went any further than that

Besides, if they had any sense, they could easily do what he had done with Lymwich—simply refuse to play along. They wouldn’t even bother rising to his challenge. They would refuse to get defensive, and he would be dismissed and forgotten before he could even utter his first “Oh, yeah?” This was not Merrickarta. This was Lallor, where only the finest and most favored resided. No place for the likes of Pryce Covington… only the great Darlington Blade.

Covington struck the table with his fist. “By thunder!” he said, then looked around quickly. No one had paid the least heed. Well, if he wasn’t going to be able to be Darlington Blade for long, then he at least was going to take advantage of it in the short term. He tore his eyes away from the gentlemen in favor of the opposite sex.

He smiled wistfully, expertly guessing at the professions of the ladies he saw by the way they dressed and carried themselves. There were grooms, dressed in form-fitting riding costumes. There were jewelers, with tasteful but extensive displays of their wares on earlobes, arms, fingers, necks, waists, ankles, and even noses. There were weavers, wearing the finest gowns they could design. And there were many more, but there was only one person Covington couldn’t assign a vocation to.

Not only was she the most impressive woman in the place, but there was a strength about her that the others couldn’t match.

Her neck was long and fine. Her hair was even longer and shone from across the tavern like the dark red and black embers of a deep fire. Her hair was bound by brown leather laces, as was her light brown bodice.

Much to his pleasure, although he could not say why, her shirt was the same color as his, although hers was open at the neck in a deep, narrow V. Her full, loosely gathered skirt was a deep maroon and appeared neither summer-light nor winter-heavy. Her boots were also brown, with a copper and silver flash at the heel and toes.

For reasons Covington couldn’t begin to fathom, she sat alone, even though her face had the classic beauty of a master artist’s painting: Large eyes of an unknowable depth and color; straight, long nose; and full lips, the lower being the most full and lush Covington could remember having seen. It made her look as if she were always ready to burst into song… or be kissed.

Now, this is a woman worthy of Darlington Blade! he thought And far be it for the lowly Pryce Covington to keep Blade from her. With his meal still nowhere in sight, he rose as steadily as possible, then began the long walk across the restaurant. His passing created a wave effect, as other diners noticed his cloak and became aware that the famous, though never seen, Darlington Blade was among them.

Soon he stood before her table, drinking in her exceptional profile, as she elegantly sipped rich wine from an impressive goblet. Neither seemed aware that every other eye in the place was on them.

Pryce reached up for a hat he finally remembered he wasn’t wearing. In midmotion, he tried to change the action into a sort of sophisticated, ornate salute and continued on into an elegant bow. But instead of any of the usual opening lines a person of her class and quality no doubt was accustomed to, he said, “We cannot see our own faces.”

It took her completely by surprise, but she said nothing, just

turned the light of her exquisite eyes on him. He continued, only slightly daunted.

“It explains why we exist,” he boldly said to those eyes, more beautiful than any eyes he had thus far seen in Lallor. “We exist for each other—to see each other’s faces. Therefore no person should remain alone when another can see his face.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. For a moment, he was afraid he would have to explain the concept further, but he knew it would lead to desperate embarrassment.

“Please,” he said, stepping closer. “Forgive my impertinence. I have just arrived in your—” he thought back to how the greeter at the gate had put it”—your humble community. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Blade… Darlington Blade.” He finished the statement with a baroque bow, half-expecting the people in the restaurant to break out in applause.

He looked up just in time to catch the full contents of her wine goblet directly in his face.

Pryce Covington was blinking when he heard the loud clink of the goblet on the table, and he opened his eyes to see the angry young woman looking hurriedly around the table, as if she were looking for something to hit him with. When she didn’t spot anything suitable, she jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over her chair. Then she stared at him, furious, with both fists clenched. Finally she spoke.

“You’re Darlington Blade?” she seethed. “You’re Darlington Blade?” Then she turned and stormed out of the tavern.

Pryce didn’t move until he saw some activity out the corner of his eye. A number of diners had risen from their tables, with expressions ranging from shocked to affronted, even vengeful. How dare she hurl chablis in the face of the great Darlington Blade! Several of them started for the door.