Murder in Halruaa (5 page)

An all-seeing eye that must have seen Gamor Turkal leave the city… and should know that he didn’t come back!

The rest of their walk was mostly a blur to Covington. As much as he wanted to enjoy the glorious architecture and landscaping, it was becoming increasingly important for him to find out what everyone else seemed to know about him. So intent was he on figuring out some way to get this information from the tiny, tightly wound inquisitrix that he didn’t notice how full the vegetation had become around them and how dense the tall,

thick-barked trees were in this part of the city. “Here you are, sir.”

Covington looked up. “Excuse me?” They stood in a dark, cool cul-de-sac between the rest of Lallor and the inner wall of castles. They stood on rectangular stones of dark red. The dead-end road was shaped vaguely like a bulb, the walls of which circled Pryce on three sides and were totally covered by clinging, flowering vines. As he inspected the vines, he noticed that they grew wilder the higher they went, creating a partial ceiling of foliage above him.

Lymwich motioned to his left. “Here.” Pryce turned to stare at the huge trunk of an impressive stevlyman tree. The botanical wizard Usherwood Stevlyman had developed this particular species of tree many years ago, along with the much-beloved, multicolored flowering pollandry plant. The tree was cherished for its rich brown color and its elegant shape.

The inquisitrix again motioned Pryce toward the wide trunk of the stevlyman tree. On closer inspection, it appeared to have a gaping man-sized hole in it.

“Yes?” Pryce said slowly.

Berridge released another laugh. “You don’t understand. This is yours, sir. Your dwelling.” “My dwelling? A tree?”

She nodded and Pryce finally looked up. He noticed exquisite little round windows divided into even smaller square window panels, peeking out from the interwoven vines that covered everything. He then took a closer look at the tree trunk. The opening was cunningly concealed among the bumps and bends of the tree trunk itself, and it was so dark inside the opening that its very existence was difficult to detect from even a few feet away.

Pryce poked his head into the opening. Inside a small recessed area was a door, also designed to blend into the tree. Once again Pryce was reminded that everything about this city seemed to be designed like a living work of art.

Covington suddenly remembered his guide waiting outside. “Ha!” he said from inside the tree. “I am fully prepared to find suitable lodgings on my own. There’s no need to put anyone else out”

“Oh, no,” said Lymwich. “We wouldn’t hear of it. Gamor made Geerling’s wishes perfectly clear. You are to stay here.”

Pryce looked back over his shoulder from the entryway.

“Well,” he said with a shrug, “if I must, I must____”He backed

out of the entryway and motioned for the inquisitrix to precede him. “After you.”

Lymwich shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said. “You’re not tricking me so easily. I’d be mad to risk the protective magic of Geerling Ambersong!”

Aha, Pryce thought. One small step forward for Pryce Covington. Now, at least, he had a surname to go with the mysterious Geerling. He also had some sort of protective magic he had to figure out some way to get by. Instinctively he did what he had done before when he faced a thorny problem. “Inquisitrix Lymwich,” he said somberly, “do you know Gamor Turkal?”

“Humph,” she said, “that rake? Please, no more mention of him, if you don’t mind. It was disgusting the way he crowed about you, his friendship with you, and how important your arrival was to Grand Mage Ambersong.”

Pryce was distracted by a pleasant sensation of flattery. “Really? He talked about me?”

“Incessantly. He and you this, you and the Grand Mage that, he and Geerling Ambersong…”

Covington hoped she didn’t see him twitch. Geerling Ambersong—could he have been the other dead man at the tree? Pryce quickly turned around and faced the door again. Given the worsening odds, it was better to get this over with sooner rather than later. At least if Ambersong’s magic scrambled his body, his brains, or both, the suspense would be over, and he would be put out of his growing misery. He closed his eyes and took a final step toward the door.

He perceived a dim light from the other side of his eyelids and heard a click. Somehow the noise was welcoming rather than frightening. He opened his eyes just in time to catch the tail end of a glow coming from someplace below his chin, but before he could react to this turn of events, the door swung slowly inward.

The cloak clasp, Pryce thought. It must be a magic key…. Suddenly his eyes were filled with a vision of homecoming the likes of which he had never experienced. The inside of the tree stretched back and up farther than the outside gave any hint of. It tapered to a vaguely pyramidal shape, complete with branches hollowed out from the inside to be used as storage space.

The interior had been decorated with comfortable-looking wooden furniture, thick rugs, tasteful lamps, and the biggest stone fireplace Covington had ever seen. Accessories and household items were stored in the lowest branch holes.

Much to Pryce’s surprise, there wasn’t a single magical item he could recognize in the comfortable home. There was, however, stacked on natural shelves running from branch to branch along the inner tree wall, a large collection of the one thing Pryce Covington truly held dear.

“Books,” he breathed. “So many books.” He looked back at Lymwich, who remained purposefully, and stiffly, outside the door. “This is mine?”

“The Grand Mage made his wishes clear,” she replied, a trifle enviously. “It’s yours.”

He looked at the dwelling again, noticing large recessed areas that held the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. Silently he took back every bad thing he had ever said or thought about Gamor Turkal. This place had been created with Pryce Covington in mind.

It was all too much. Covington felt giddy, almost faint. He realized that the ever-changing series of events was finally getting the better of him. But he didn’t feel like resting. Sleep was the last thing he wanted.

“Very nice,” he finally understated. “This will do just fine. Tell me, my good inquisitrix, is there a local Gulp and Gasp about? Can I secure you a brew at the nearest Chew and Spew in the area?”

*****

“You think I didn’t notice?” Berridge Lymwich asked him, illustrating her point in the air with a tankard of ale. “I’m a first-ranked, top-class Instran Myquisitrix! I mean—well, you know what I mean. I notice everything!”

They were on their third tankard of mead. She had led him outside his new home, then turned to the left where the wall of the cul-de-sac nestled against the stevlyman tree trunk. There, behind some flowering vines, was an almost hidden circular stairway made of iron.

Pryce marveled at how the stairway was entirely concealed by the vines, so no one could see in and they couldn’t see out. He could hear the water of Lallor Bay lapping in the distance, however, and could see the light which bathed this stairway interior in a yellow-green glow. As they descended, Covington counted the steps. At the twenty-fifth step, they emerged from the vines onto a level between the inner wall of wizards’ castles and the bay. There Pryce looked out onto the most rustic area of the waterfront.

“It’s the oldest section of the city,” Lymwich told him curtly. “Made by our first residents as an unprepossessing retreat.” She sniffed at its ancient stone and wood dwellings. “The whole thing should be torn down, I say.”

Pryce disagreed. He admired the cunning way the original Lallor vacationers had made the dwellings seem simple, while still imbuing great character and charm to the houses. It reminded him of quaint rural villages back home, which practically exuded the sight, smell, and sound of family togetherness. Even

now he thought he could hear the welcome sound of families singing and laughing with one another.

“Come on,” Berridge grunted. “I didn’t bring you here for a picnic.” She motioned behind her with her thumb. Pryce looked where she was pointing and saw an establishment built directly into the rock wall. The window frames were wooden beams, the glass panes clear and thick. The big gray steel-enforced door bore a simple sign: Schreders. At Your Service.

Inside, it seemed to be a comfortable combination of the most luxurious sea captain’s quarters and an imperial wizard’s cave. The walls and ceiling were not a consistent width or height throughout. Instead, upright wooden beams and crossbeams vied willy-nilly with stone and rocks to create many heights and widths. Between them were some of the finest wood chairs and sculpted stone tables Pryce had ever laid eyes on.

Pryce was studying some lamps made to look like bottles, tankards, and casks of liquor when he was distracted by a booming voice. “You don’t have to tell me who this is!” Azzoparde Schreders, the proprietor of the establishment, had made himself known.

Who else could he be? Pryce wondered with amusement as a full-bearded, ruddy-faced man in a white shirt, black pants, and brown apron stood before him, arms spread wide. His head was as round as the moon, and his thick black hair came down from an equally round bald spot. His arms, torso, and legs were round, thick, and sturdy, and his expression, like his restaurant and bar, was open and inviting.

“It took you long enough to get here, eh? Eh?” he jibed in a voice that sounded like a sack of gravel dragged behind a cart. ‘You expected us to wait for you forever? Fall Festival time is almost upon us!”

Pryce smiled pleasantly. “I had far to come.”

“I’ll say,” his host said conspiratorially, moving his elbow like a bird’s flapping wing. “I should say you did! Eh? Eh?”

Rather than deal with this increasingly confusing conversation, Pryce continued to admire the rough-hewn beauty of the extensive place. An inviting series of alcoves featured both transparent and darkly colored window panes. To his added pleasure, magical illumination made everything clearly visible to the eye without unnecessary brightness.

“Welcome to the most exclusive epicurean drinkery in an already very exclusive city,” Schreders boasted. “Just smooth enough for the gastronome—” he elbowed Lymwich and gave a knowing wink—”and just rough enough for the earth-salters!”

“Nice place you have here,” Pryce told him, then leaned toward the inquisitrix. “Cliches for every occasion.” Lymwich barked out a polite bray.

“Perhaps you are as great as they say!” Schreders marveled. “Getting the great inquisi-witch to laugh is no mean feat! Eh? Eh?” Berridge hit Azzo on the arm as he rocked back and forth, clutching his solid belly.

Lymwich could only sigh with resignation. “Anyone who’s anyone will eventually show up here,” she reluctantly admitted. “The comfort and privacy are topnotch.”

“So’s the security.” Azzo winked at the inquisitrix again before rising to his full height to study Covington’s face. “What’ll you imbibe, my good sir? If we don’t have it, you can’t drink it.”

‘Truer words have I rarely heard,” Pryce said appreciatively, rising to the challenge. “I know a town by its brew. It rarely fails. As goes the local liquid, so goes the locality. Rough, coarse ale? A fight is no doubt brewing. Smooth, full-bodied grog? There’s love in the air.”

Schreders started to slap Pryce on the back, then thought better of it. Instead, he stepped back and pounded the bar. That sound, like almost all his other noises of bravado, was quickly swallowed up by the various nooks and crannies in the large, sprawling room. “And truer words have
rarely heard, sir,” Azzo replied. The bar was in the very back of the establishment. It wasp>

constructed in a horseshoe shape, so those seated there could either maintain their privacy by keeping their backs to the windows and the restaurant, or face toward the front door.

Azzo slipped between the back wall at the left end of the bar and took his position behind a row of taps. “I like you, sir,” he told Pryce. “I truly do. The first round, at the very least, is on me!”

Pryce Covington had seldom heard words any sweeter. And if the first brew he soon quaffed was any indication, Lallor was full of promise. It remained so for the second round, personally served by Azzo at a recessed table, where Pryce parried Berridge Lymwich’s questions with the always reliable “Please-Iet’s-not-talk-about-me-I’d-rather-hear-more-about-you” gambit.

He learned that the inquisitrix was pretty much what she appeared to be: fiercely loyal, dedicated, and ambitious, but with a streak of insecurity. Her slight inferiority complex manifested itself in expressions of sullen disapproval whenever Azzo’s beautiful blonde serving wench got too close. But then Lymwich suddenly changed the subject to inquiries about the books in his new dwelling.

“I told you,” she admonished with the careful enunciation of the slightly inebriated. “I notice everything. What is it with Geerling and you and all those books?”

Covington grew still. It was getting late, and apparently she couldn’t handle her drinks. One more, he was convinced, and her minking and words would become too mushy to be useful. If he was going to learn anything, it was time to draw her out. “I can’t speak for Geerling, but I’m fond of books because they don’t change.”

“What does that mean, Blade?”

Covington leaned back. What had she called him? He shook his head. He decided that it must have been the drink slurring her words. He shrugged casually and leaned forward again. “You know. People change, places change, but books don’t.”

“What are you talking about? Books get older… the pages yellow…”

“I’m not talking about age,” he said, surprised at how the words flowed from him. Maybe the deceptively powerful mead had gotten to him as well. “I’m talking about where it counts—for books and people. Inside. People who once told the truth can start to lie. Books don’t. If they start with the truth, they will always tell you the truth.”

Suddenly Berridge Lymwich leaned over the table, placing her face not more than two inches from his. To Pryce’s amazement, he could tell that she wasn’t intoxicated in the slightest It was she who had been testing him. “Oh, you and your flowery words,” she said evenly, her face a knowing mask. “Gamor Turkal and Geerling Ambersong may have impressed everyone else with the tales of your spectacular adventures, but I want you to know one thing. You’re going to have to prove yourself to me, Darlington Blade!”