Murder in Halruaa (23 page)

They stared at the man. “He doesn’t look well,” Karkober finally squeaked.

“Not a bit,” Schreders agreed vehemently. “This is terrible!”

“Very sound observation,” Pryce told them. “Unfortunately, it was the price he paid for finding his heart’s desire.”

“Is he—” Hartov choked—”dead?”

Pryce sighed and looked evenly at the distraught mine owner. “Be careful what you wish for, Asche. You, too, might get killed for it.”

“Killed!” Schreders boomed. ‘You mean this was no accident?” Pryce just stared at him.

“But—but—” the tavern owner stammered “—but this is Lallor! Things like this don’t happen here. They can’t!”

“Did,” Pryce said curtly. “Can.” He stepped back and pulled at the lip of the mechanical door. The unlocked gears now moved easily, and Pryce soon revealed the room dug out of the area beyond the cavern wall. “Lady and gentlemen, I give you Geerling Ambersong’s secret workshop.” He let them have a few seconds to take it all in. “Well, I’m not actually going to give it to you, but I will let you touch it. In fact, I’m going to let you carry it—piece

by piece—out of here.”

Schreders was the first to comprehend the words through the haze of his amazement. “Eh? Eh? What was that?”

Pryce snapped his fingers until he got the attention of all of them. “I found Teddington Fullmer’s dead body in the middle of my teacher’s secret workshop,” he almost didn’t lie. “So this is no longer my classroom; it is a crime scene. Furthermore, the authorities have discovered evidence of additional foul play. I won’t bore you with the details, but rest assured that it is absolutely imperative that the priceless legacy of Geerling Ambersong be moved to safekeeping.” He smiled and clasped his hands together like a solicitous concierge. “And we need you three to help.”

Schreders snapped to attention. “It would be an honor!” he announced. “Thank you, Mr. Blade, for even thinking of us!”

“Not at all,” Pryce replied humbly. “It is our duty and responsibility to protect these materials so vital to our nation’s security. We can’t safeguard them here any longer—even
do not have the energy to cast a protective spell powerful enough to shield my own master’s life’s work—so we must turn to you for help.” He then turned dismissively to Inquisitrix Lymwich. “And get that body out of here. It’s blocking the entrance.”p>

*****

Sheyrhen Karkober naturally took up the rear. Some things never change, Pryce thought as he carefully and quietly approached her. Whether in Merrickarta or Lallor, serving wenches usually deferred in the presence of their superiors or customers … but only in their presence. Left alone to her own devices, Pryce imagined Sheyrhen could juggle wine casks, but when in a mixed group such as this one, she played it safe by allowing the male egos to lift the big packages and lead the way.

Pryce carefully moved alongside her in the cavern, watching

her walk in her tightly laced waitress costume. “Ah,” he said casually, “I see you have the girdle of priestly might.”

“I beg your pardon!” Sheyrhen said with offense. “I work very hard to maintain my figure.”

Pryce slapped himself on the forehead, but kept pace with her. “No, no,” he quickly corrected. “Not yours … his! Geerling Ambersong’s.” She looked at him blankly. “It’s what you’re carrying,” he said, pointing at the magnificent jewel-and rune-covered vest in her arms.

She looked at it, then at him. Then she dissolved into giggles. “Oh! Oh, of course!”

“It’s not an actual girdle of priestly might, of course,” Pryce said casually, walking beside her. ‘That only appeared after the Time of Troubles. Priests of Mystra took it as a sign that the goddess had regained her power. This is my master’s… Geerling’s … version of it. It is said to give him greater strength and protection when worn.”

“Really?” she said blandly. “How endlessly interesting. Why don’t you wear it, then?”

“The power can’t be transferred,” he told her, taking interest in her disinterest. Was there something she was trying to hide? “In fact,” he continued, “it might have a calamitous effect if I were to try it on.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking at it now with a certain misgiving and holding it farther away from her. Pryce smiled, noticing how the eyes of each militiaman they passed followed them with only their eyes.

“I’m sure there’s no danger to you,” Pryce told her, trying to ignore the disconcerting way one militiaman’s eyes would stop at the right side of his sockets and the eyes of the one next to him would start. “I totally agree with you. No girdle should mar the perfection of your form.”

He watched her reaction carefully. Her eyes shifted toward him with a moment of suspicion, then mutated into a look of

pride and pleasure when she decided he wasn’t being vulgar. “Thank you, Mr. Blade.” He could see she was still waiting for him to poison the conversation with an ill-chosen, licentious reply.

So he didn’t even attempt a “Call me Darling.” Instead, he said, ‘That was quite a humorous misunderstanding back there.” “When?”

“When I approached.” “Oh?”

“Yes, and talked about the girdle.” “Oh! Oh, yes.”

“I actually haven’t had a chance to fraternize much. I’ve been too busy studying. I leave all the socializing to Gamor Turkal.”

He might as well have said “Call me Darling,” for the reaction he got. Sheyrhen did not show disappointment, but she grew distant without moving a millimeter away from him. “Gamor,” she repeated flatly.

‘Yes,” he said. ‘You knew him, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes … I knew him.”

Pryce kept walking beside her, but turned his head toward the ceiling. “Ah, yes, Gamor. He always had an eye for a beautiful wench, serving or otherwise. I always think of them as people first and waitresses second. He always thought of them as … as—

“As chattel?” Karkober said coldly. He looked at her in surprise. However, she did not avert her gaze or soften her retort. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blade, but I didn’t like your… friend … Gamor Turkal. He never once looked at me with anything approaching humanity. If I wasn’t a vessel for his fantasies, I was little more than a piece of furniture bringing him his ale.” Only then did she lower her head sadly. “Is that so terrible?”

“No,” Pryce assured her, looking calmly ahead. ‘That’s not nearly as terrible as the other thing we’ve been doing since I first introduced the subject.”

She looked at him with surprise and just a touch of misgiving. “What’s that?”

“Speaking of him in the past tense,” he revealed with a cheerless smile. “Excuse me, would you?” Pryce hastened his stride to move down the passageway until he approached Azzo Schreders.

Unlike his serving wench, Schreders seemed honestly glad to see him. “Blade! Let me say how honored I am to be chosen to even touch, let alone carry, such valuable magical items. I’ll be telling my grandchildren and great-grandchildren about this! Eh, eh?”

“And hopefully even your not-so-great grandchildren, unless they’ve been sent to bed early,” Pryce quipped feebly. Before the barkeep could summon up a forced laugh, Covington continued. “How could I have thought of anyone but the man who makes Lallor run? Everyone knows that if you need refreshment or information, Azzoparde Schreders is at your service.”

The man’s wordless acknowledgement was lacking a bit of his previous bonhomie. Pryce continued, unabashed. “How did you secure such a superlative establishment in the first place? Prices must have been prohibitive, especially a building with such an extensive liquor grotto. What’s your secret, Azzo?”

The man looked stunned by the questions and more than a bit concerned. “Come, come, Azzo,” Pryce said with genuine amusement. “You can tell me. After all, I’m the great Darlington Blade.”

“Sir,” the tavern master started slowly, losing all familiarity and licking his lips, “I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details of my education, training, and experience as a manager of eating and drinking establishments.”

“Of course not,” Pryce agreed. “But I would like to know, in all seriousness, how a man of your education, training, and… what was the third thing again?”

“Experience.”

‘Yes, thank you. Experience… What was I saying?”

“In all seriousness… a man of my experience…” “Ah, yes! Tell me, Azzo, how could you not know about these caverns?”

Azzo blinked, swallowed, and replied, “I did.” “Yes?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Blade, certainly!” Azzo practically burbled in his rush to confess. “I knew about them all along. This area is attached to my grotto by a small opening high on the rear wall. I knew they were here, but as you can see, I would have had to do extensive renovating to make them suitable for my liquor cellar. Besides, I had no idea where they led to and had no desire for all manner of creatures having access to my liquid refreshments. So I placed a large wine cask over the opening to seal it off.” His smile was tentative. “I even filled the cask with our least distinctive vintage.”

“Really?” Pryce replied with appreciation. “Not much chance of that particular cask being drunk dry, then, eh? Eh?”

Schreders chuckled nervously at Pryce’s imitation of his verbal habit. “You’d be surprised,” he said with forced friendliness. “Why, it was the favorite brew of many, shall we say, less discerning palates?”

Pryce chuckled back. “Like Gamor Turkal’s?”

Schreders stopped chuckling. He even went a little pale. “Why, yes… come to think of it… it’s the only thing Gamor ever drank.”

Pryce nodded. “How endlessly interesting,” he commented, quoting the nervous serving wench. ‘Thank you, Azzo. You’ve told me what I needed to know. Excuse me, won’t you?” He quickly bounded over to where Asche Hartov was heading up the retinue. “Ah, Asche, leading the way, I see.” The mine owner didn’t reply. Pryce tried again. “Spellbooks,” he said, glancing at the volumes the man carried.

‘You have a solid grasp of the obvious,” Hartov said coldly.

“Still angry at me about the false name?”

“Angry? No, not angry. Offended.”

“Come now, Asche! You know very well that the nature of our business discussions would have changed had you known I was Darlington Blade!”

“Not at all!”

“Now who’s fooling whom?” Pryce exclaimed. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have dropped—or hiked, depending upon your mood—the price if you had known you were negotiating with the great Darlington Blade? That you wouldn’t have at least checked your sources and contacts to see what possible edge you could discover? If you even think of telling me that, then you’re not the businessman I respect or know.”

While he talked, Pryce could see that Hartov was trying to smother a growing smirk, but he managed to contain his acknowledgment of the truth long enough to say, “Respect?”

“Certainly!” Pryce said expansively, putting out his arms. “Everyone from the top of Mount Alue to the tip of Githim knows the name of Asche Hartov, purveyor of high-quality ore.” He put his arm around the mine owner’s shoulder and spoke directly and quietly into his ear. “In fact, when I saw you in Schreders’s tavern the other night, and again the night before that, I couldn’t help thinking, Now, what is Asche Hartov doing in Lallor? He doesn’t have a vacation home here. And who, in such an exclusive retreat, would be interested in buying ore even Teddington Fullmer wouldn’t touch?”

Hartov looked at Pryce’s smiling face in surprise, then with a trace of concern.

“Worried that I really am Darlington Blade?” Pryce wondered aloud. “Think I might be able to see right through that thin forehead of yours?” He removed his arm from Asche’s shoulder and stepped away. The retinue suddenly stopped, all eyes on the mine owner. The inquisitrixes and militiamen watched intently as Pryce pointed at Hartov.

“Speak now, Asche,” Covington demanded, “and speak the truth.”

“I—I thought Geerling Ambersong might be interested,” the mine owner sputtered, his eyes moving back and forth between Pryce and the inquisitrixes. “I heard he had plans for a skyship. And I knew he would appear for certain at this year’s Fall Festival to announce his choice for his successor as primary mage.” He stared at Pryce for a moment, then looked straight ahead. “I—I thought I might confer with him there.”

“Fascinating,” Pryce judged. “And where did you acquire this fountain of information?”

“What?”

“How did you know all this, Asche?”

“I—I told you, Cost… I mean, Darling… I mean, Blade! You know how it is. I heard a rumor…

Pryce smiled but kept him on the hook. “From whom?” “What?”

“Stop stalling for time and answer my questions. Whom did you hear the rumor from?” “From whom? I—I don’t—” ‘You do!” Pryce bellowed. “Who?”

“Gamor!” Hartov yelled, then stumbled. Pryce caught his arm and steadied him. When he was erect again, he couldn’t meet Pryce’s eyes. “Gamor Turkal,” he said miserably.

“Ah, Gamor Turkal,” Covington repeated with a tight smile, turning to the others. “Gamor once: a coincidence. Gamor twice: a pattern. Gamor three times: a connection. Gamor four times: a conspiracy!” He turned to the tavern owner, the serving wench, and the mine owner. “Follow me, you three… now.”

Pryce marched up to where Berridge Lymwich and Matthaunin Witterstaet stood on either side of the cavern opening just behind Schreders’s restaurant. The opening in the wall had been widened to make room for the small army of security people who secured the location.

Pryce stood beside the gatekeeper as the three suspects emerged, blinking, into the tiny courtyard outside the restaurant’s back door. Each gave Covington a different look as he or she passed. Sheyrhen: recrimination and concern. Schreders: confusion and apology. Hartov: nervousness and distress. But before any of them could speak, several militiamen and Inquisitrixes resolutely chaperoned them into the establishment.

That left Covington alone in the courtyard with Matthaunin and Berridge. “Anything?” Pryce asked Witterstaet out the corner of his mouth.

Matthaunin shook his head. “Not an ion of magical ability among the three of them.”

“Enough guilt and fear to fill a wine cask, however,” Lymwich groused. “Any one of them could have killed Fullmer.”

“Let thee without guilt take the first sip,” Pryce commented, then turned back to Witterstaet. “Do you have any idea what that means?”