Murder in Tarsis (13 page)

“I see,” Nistur said.

“And,” Karst went on, warming to his subject, “when you are fighting a battle in the open field, you must have trained soldiers, disciplined and responsive to orders. They must be strong, brave, and fit. You can’t give some ham-handed farm boy a sword and expect him to use it effectively. It takes a powerful man to pull a longbow, and he must have years of practice to strike a distant target accurately.

“But when you are defending a city like this, townsmen can be of aid. Any weakling can crank up a crossbow and, by shooting into a massed enemy, the bolt is likely to do some damage.” Karst stooped and picked up a stone from a pile below the nearest crenel. Every crenel was so provided. He tossed the stone to Nistur, who caught it adroitly. It was a smooth, rounded cobble, a bit larger than a man’s fist, such as were employed to pave the city streets.

“It would take a strong arm and a good eye to bring down a warrior with such a stone, would it not?”

Nistur tossed it up and caught it again in his palm. “I would not care to try it.”

“But from a wall like the one that surrounds Tarsis, fifty or sixty feet high at most spots, a doddering old merchant can toss one over the parapet, and by the time it reaches the ground, it will be traveling with enough force to kill a man.” He leaned out over the parapet and looked down. “Take a look down there.”

Nistur imitated him and peered down the face of the wall. It was vertical for most of its height, but it flared sharply outward near the base.

“That slope gives the base of the wall extra strength,” Karst explained. “It makes it harder to use a ram or a mole against it. But it also makes for a fine glancing-surface. Drop one of these rocks like this—” He dropped one, and it fell precipitately, gaining speed with each foot it dropped. Then it struck the slanted surface and bounced outward almost horizontally. “You see? Pick your spot right, and the stone will catch a man right in the face, if his helmet doesn’t have a strong visor, and few of these nomads wear any armor to speak of.”

“You know your profession well, Captain,” Nistur commended. “What about assault ladders? I can see that the walls are high at this spot, but there are many low, ruinous places where the enemy might try to scale them.”

“No one has seen them building any. I doubt the nomads have the stomach for such work anyway. It is a desperate gamble, trying to take a wall with ladders. The attackers always take terrible losses before they can seize control.”

“Aye,” said Ironwood. “Great lords usually employ their peasant levies to carry the ladders and make the first assault, for they think such men useless and expendable.”

“And so they are,” Karst said. “No sense letting trained soldiers be killed before they even have a chance to fight.

You send in the serfs with the ladders while the warriors man the siege towers. In the towers, they’re safe until the enemy gets atop the wall. And those nomads aren’t building any towers or rounding up peasants from the countryside.”

“So,” Nistur asked, “just what is going on here? Is a real war in the offing, or is this all just a great deal of posturing before the Lord of Tarsis and Kyaga Strongbow settle their differences diplomatically?”

“There I cannot help you,” Karst admitted. “I have never worked for a place like Tarsis before, and there hasn’t been a high chief of the nomads in my lifetime.”

“Might it mean,” Nistur hazarded, “that they intend war, but neither side knows how to wage war properly?”

“You had better hope not,” said Karst, now sounding as grim as Ironwood.

“How so?” Nistur asked, suspecting already what the answer must be.

“Because,” Karst said, “when utter fools make war on one another, the slaughter on both sides is unbelievable.”

“Who is in charge of this gate?” Ironwood asked.

“I am,” Karst said.

“I mean, which noble of Tarsis? Surely, each of them has a section of wall where they may preen and strut in their military finery, pretending to be soldiers.”

“Oh, them. This is the city’s main gate, and the lord himself is the colonel-in-chief.”

“That’s a title of honor,” Ironwood explained for Nistur’s benefit. “In most armies, every regiment has a colonel-in-chief, usually some lord who reviews the troops once or twice a year and is never seen otherwise.”

“The North Gate is the second most important, and if s commanded, supposedly, by lord Rukh, the greatest of the Inner Councilors. The South Gate is under Councilor Blasim, a fat, useless fellow. There’s an old harbor gate

also. It’s walled up now, but it’s under a Councilor Mede. He’s a banker, so that should tell you how much good he is. Councilor Melkar is the only one who has any soldierly qualities. He’s in command of the fort at the southwest corner of the walls. There’s also a Councilor Alban, but he’s too old even to pretend to do any soldiering.”

With the unreassuring words of Captain Karst in their ears, Nistur and Ironwood began walking south along the encircling wall of the city. The engines were being put back in repair, and the walls were well provided with missiles such as stones, javelins, and darts, but at intervals the two came to gaps in the walk that were bridged by wood, sizable sections of wall that had collapsed outward, and patches of heavy brush that had grown right up to the base of the wall, where enemies could find cover.

“The captain has little confidence in the great nobles of Tarsis,” Nistur observed, “but he seems to think the defenses sufficient to keep out the nomad rabble.”

“Which is true as far as it goes,” Ironwood said, “but there is much he isn’t saying.”

“What do you mean?” The defenders they passed on the wall were mostly shopkeepers, apprentices, workmen, even a priest or two, with only a leavening of the hardbitten mercenaries whose discipline and skills would be so crucial once battle was joined.

“I mean, why is Kyaga making no preparations for a storming of the walls? Is he really a fool? I think not. Everything I have heard about him says he is shrewd and foresightful. No bungling oaf could unite all those squabbling tribes, no matter how many holy men proclaimed his coming.”

“Then perhaps he does not intend to make a fight of it. Perhaps it is all mtimidation.”

“Or perhaps he has other plans to take the city,” Ironwood said.

“Such as?”

“Such as, some treacherous councilor who has already agreed to open a gate for him, so he doesn’t have to storm the walls.”

“Oh. That is a daunting prospect.”

By the time the sun was at the horizon, they had made a full circuit of the walls and were back at the East Gate. They descended to street level and began to walk back toward the harbor.

“What do you think?” Nistur asked.

“I think we had better find that killer,” Ironwood answered him.

“Tell me your thoughts, then.”

“Escape from this place is hardly possible now. I watched the nomad patrols while we toured the walls, and they are as efficient as any I’ve ever seen. We’d be nothing but target practice for them. They have this city closed up tight.”

“But you think the demand for the killers is a ruse, do you not?”

“I think so, but even a savage chief like Kyaga must hew to certain appearances. If he says he won’t attack if the killers are turned over to him in time, then he must hold off, at least until he has an excuse. He’d lose face among his subchiefs if he went back on his word.”

“That would buy us some more time,” Nistur said.

“And possibly put us in his debt. There is something else to consider.”

“If it is hopeful, please tell me.”

“These nomads,” Ironwood pointed out, “are expert at their own type of warfare, which is mainly raiding. They can assemble for a big attack like this as long as they don’t have to wait too long. They are not disciplined soldiers, who know that real warfare means a great deal of waiting. To nomads, the sheer excitement of war is important.

Lacking that excitement, they will lose interest.”

“Their patrolling will become lackadaisical and inefficient?”

“Right. And by small groups, and then by whole tribes, they will begin to drift away from the army in search of excitement. When that happens, the others will start to worry about the families they left behind on the plains.”

“Prey to hereditary enemies?”

“Exactly. Every day we buy makes us a little safer and escape a little more likely.”

“Then,” Nistur said, “whether we like it or not, we must act like detectives. And we must be good ones.”

This time when they knocked at the door in Stunbog’s hulk, the barbarian woman admitted them readily. “The old man’s been expecting you,” she said. Her rough-edged sibilants and abrupt vowels made her words difficult to understand, but her gestures were easy enough to interpret.

“We had thought he would be surprised,” Nistur said, doffing his hat and brushing the light dusting of snow from it.

“Pleased, but not surprised,” said the healer from the rear of the vessel. “Come on up and warm yourselves.”

They climbed the stair to the great cabin and accepted cups of mulled wine. Ironwood set a large bag on the table.

“Here,” said the mercenary. “There’re a couple of roast ducks in here, and some fruit and fresh-baked bread, little enough to begin repaying your kindness. The council

hasn’t thought to clamp rationing on the city yet. It must have been ages since they’ve withstood a siege.”

“Not since long before living memory serves,” Stunbog affirmed.

“You were expecting us?” Nistur asked, taking a warm, bracing draught of the wine.

“Word came to me this morning that you were out of jail, and a little later that Shellring was out as well. That must have taken some cleverness to pull off. Tell me about it while we eat.”

With the viands spread out on the table and each of them making inroads in them according to the dictates of appetite, Nistur and Ironwood regaled their hosts with their story. Myrsa looked doubtful, but Stunbog laughed heartily through most of it.

“For sheer, brazen effrontery, you two are a match for any ten rogues of my acquaintance,” said the old man when they were done. “To devise such a story took no small degree of imagination. But actually to go about making a reality of it, that is the stroke of pure genius!”

“It is not such a flight of fancy,” Nistur said, “when you consider that nobody in this city has any idea what a criminal investigator is supposed to look, act, or speak like, nor even what such a person is supposed to do at all. Who is to say that we are not the very pattern of such a team?”

“A good point,” Stunbog allowed judiciously. “I personally have never met such a person.”

“How long can you fool them?” Myrsa asked, half a duck gripped in her big-knuckled hands.

“No need to,” Nistur said. “We will catch the murderer, whoever it may be, and we shall do it within the time allotted.” Her answering snort carried equal parts skepticism and derision.

When Ironwood next raised his cup, his hand trembled slightly. Stunbog noticed the subtle movement instantly.

“You, my friend, must rest. As your healer, I order it.”

Ironwood seemed about to make a curt reply, then thought better of it. “Yes, you are probably right. We must be up early if we’re to catch our prey.”

“Good advice for any hunter,” said Myrsa.

“I shall turn in shortly myself,” Nistur said, “but I want to hear Shellring’s report when she returns.”

Ironwood went toward his cabin, and Myrsa rose and stretched her long arms. “I will sleep by the door. I’ll wake when the girl comes.” She disappeared below, leaving the healer and the ex-assassin alone.

“Is another seizure coming on?” Nistur asked quietly.

“No, it’s too soon. But our friend is far from fully recovered, whatever he may think.”

“And there is no cure?”

“None that I know of.” Stunbog glanced shrewdly at Nistur. “But when he dies, you will be free. Is that not what you wish?”

Involuntarily, Nistur’s hand went to the mark beneath his jaw. “You know about that, then?”

“The Knot of Thanalus is known even to those who are not terribly learned in the Arts.”

“To answer your question: at first I was distressed and resentful. But now… I cannot say that I enjoy being bound to another, but somehow I cannot help liking the surly rogue. Despite his manner, he is not a brainless lout like so many of the mercenaries. He has accepted his terrible fate with a certain grace, and he adheres to a personal code of honor, which many more fortunate persons do not.”

“True, true.” Stunbog took another drink, then spoke quietly. “And you, my friend. Were you not growing weary of your life? Had the assassin’s trade not come to sicken you even before you were hired to kill a man already doomed?”

“You miss little, old man,” said Nistur in a near-whisper.

Stunbog nodded. “Aye. In my long life I have met humans and dwarves and elves of all conditions, in every sort of distress and predicament. When one has come to the end of a life he has chosen in error, the signs are plain to see, for one who has the eye for it.”

“In truth, I have always thought of myself as a poet. Unfortunately, we live in an age wherein poets do not receive the esteem that once they did.”

“It is sad but true,” Stunbog agreed.

“And what of you?” Nistur asked. “These books and articles of magic”—he waved an arm, taking in the cluttered cabin—”are not the belongings of a humble healer. You are more than you seem.”

After a long pause, Stunbog nodded. “It is true. Once, when I was very young, I aspired to be a great mage. I traveled widely, seeking out wizards of power to learn their craft. In my youthful arrogance, I began to think myself the equal of the greatest mages, ones far older and wiser than 1.1 offended them with my pretensions and my greed to know their most powerful spells.

“One wizard after another to whom I had apprenticed myself expelled me. They protested that one such as I would never be worthy to take the Test at the Tower of High Sorcery, would never qualify for any of the Orders of Magic. Fool that I was, I thought I could attain the greatest magnitude without the Test, that I needed no Order, for I esteemed the limitations imposed by the Orders to be fit only for lesser wizards. I desired the freedom to act exactly as I wished, beyond the strictures of Good, Neutrality, and Evil.