Murder in Tarsis (17 page)

“And yet,” Nistur said, “it may be that old rivalries are not so easily eradicated. During the time that the Lord of Tarsis and his great nobles entertained your embassy, prior to your arrival, there were detected certain, shall I

say, tensions among your followers of high rank.”

“Is this so?” said Kyaga, sounding neither surprised nor alarmed. “Might you be more specific?”

“The lord himself,” Nistur said, “heard exchanges of some acrimony between Yalmuk and your shaman, Shadespeaker.” He nodded toward the bizarre figure who sat just behind Kyaga. Through the obscuring strings of amulets, the brown eyes regarded him with no readable expression.

“And what do you conclude from this?” Kyaga asked him.

“That the two were jealous of one another. Each thought the other to be too influential, too high in your esteem. Among men of ambition who seek to rise in their lord’s favor, such rivalry is more than sufficient to warrant murder.”

“You think Shadespeaker slew Bloodarrow?” Now he sounded truly amused.

“I do not consider him to be above suspicion.”

“There is a flaw in your suspicion.”

“That flaw being?”

“Shadespeaker was with me the whole night of the murder.”

“Indeed?” Nistur said, nonplussed. “And yet, I thought you did not arrive in the camp until the next morning.”

“I had promised my chiefs that I would rejoin them no later than that time. As it occurred, I arrived in camp just after sundown the evening before. I spent the night in counsel with my shaman.”

“I see,” said Nistur, disappointed. “And yet, there were among the envoys certain subchiefs who indicated mutual resentments and even, I grieve to inform you, certain dissatisfactions with your overlordship.”

“Say you so? And you heard this from the Lord of Tarsis himself?”

“From his own lips,” Nistur agreed.

Now Kyaga Strongbow laughed richly. “Let me tell you what you really heard, my friend. You heard a conniving, treacherous lordling seeking to poison my mind against my loyal chiefs! He tries to sow dissension in my host, setting tribe against tribe by stirring up old feuds. He wants me to think that my chiefs plot against me, and he tries to convince them that I treat them shabbily, not rewarding them as they deserve.”

Now he raised a hand as if taking a vow. “But I tell you this, and you may take my words back to the scheming Lord of Tarsis: Kyaga Strongbow is no fool! And he has no fools for subchiefs, either. Yes, I heard from their own lips how the lord and his councilors entertained them, flattered them, tried to buy them off and set them against me, even as I had told them would happen. The loyalty of my followers remains unshaken!”

“I am sure that this is so,” Nistur said smoothly. “Nonetheless, we must follow every lead, in order that we may render a full and complete report to our lord. Surely you understand this.”

Kyaga spread his hands and appeared to smile again. “But of course.” The gaze of the green eyes settled on Ironwood. “Your friend speaks little.”

“He hears much,” Nistur said. “And he acts decisively.”

“Both are good qualities,” Kyaga commended, “in a counselor or in a warrior.”

“And I assure you he is both. Now, about your chiefs…”

Kyaga stood abruptly. “I do not wish to be rude, but I have much to do. My army prepares for war. You have the freedom of my camp. You may enter any tent and question anyone of whatever rank.”

They stood, and Nistur bowed. “We take our leave of you then. Never fear, we shall deliver the murderer to you within the stipulated time.”

“See that you do.” With these words, Kyaga stalked from the tent. A great roar went up from the host outside at sight of their adored, conquering chief.

The three lingered in the tent for a few minutes longer, saying nothing. Then they strolled outside. Kyaga had ridden off somewhere, taking most of his honor guard with him.

“What do you make of him?” Ironwood asked.

“He is nothing like my expectations. He is no crude barbarian; that is for certain. If the Lord of Tarsis thinks he can play easy political games with this one, he is much mistaken. Kyaga is subtle and possesses a certain wit.”

“Aye, I’ll warrant he’s no sort of barbarian at all. No wonder he wears that veil. I’d wager that, his features are unlike those of any tribe here but, because he is veiled, all can imagine his features as they would like them to be.”

“Another bit of subtlety. He spoke to me, but his eyes were on you most of the time. Do you think you have encountered him before?”

“Perhaps in some army years ago …” He paused, features twisted in thought. “But no, I surely would remember such a man.”

“Perhaps,” Nistur said noncommittally. “The way he insists on the loyalty of his followers causes me to suspect that he is deeply suspicious of that loyalty.”

“At least,” Shellring said, “now that he’s fed us, we can believe we’re really safe. I’ve always heard these nomads are serious about hospitality, that when someone’s eaten your food in your tent, you can’t attack him without angering the gods.”

“That is the rule,” Ironwood agreed. “Even if it’s your enemy, you can’t chase him after he’s left your camp, until a day and a night have passed.”

“On the other hand,” Nistur said, “I doubt that Kyaga Strongbow worries much about the good opinion of the gods.”

Chapter Cight.

“Where do we start?” Shellring asked.

“With the one named Guklak,” said Nistur.

They walked through the vast, sprawling camp, asking directions occasionally and eventually arriving at the encampment of the Great Ice River nomads, of whom Guklak was chieftain. These people dwelled in low, dome-shaped tents of felt, and their horses were small, shaggy-haired, and sturdy. Somewhat shorter in stature than some of the other nomads, they wore their yellow or red hair in innumerable thin braids, heavily greased. There seemed to be as many women among them as men, and the women were all warriors. Both sexes were heavily tattooed with abstract designs.

Before the chief’s tent stood a standard twenty feet high. From the standard’s many crossbars hung human skulls. The three detectives studied this ominous device for some time, looking about for someone who could inform them if the chieftain was anywhere to be found.

“A fine standard, is it not?” They turned to see a man standing behind them, looking up at the skulls with deep satisfaction.

“Splendid, indeed,” said Nistur. “I take it that these were the heads of prominent warriors?”

The man nodded. “Every one of them a chief slain in battle by my ancestors. Now their courage and cunning belong to the tribe.”

“You are Guklak?” Ironwood asked.

“I am. Guklak Horsetamer, fifty-fourth chief of the Great Ice River people. My ancestors have held the northwest mountains for a hundred generations, since we took them from the snake-men when the gods were young.”

“Until Kyaga assumed overall leadership, that is?” Nistur said insinuatingly.

“Kyaga Strongbow is not an ordinary man,” Guklak maintained stoutly. “He is a great conqueror, touched by the gods, prophesied by a shaman. It is no disgrace to acknowledge him my master. In the past, my ancestors followed great war chiefs and incurred no dishonor thereby.” He glared at them as if challenging them to contradict him.

“I certainly did not mean to suggest such a thing,” Nistur assured him. “Kyaga Strongbow must rejoice to have so loyal a follower. In fact, he has told us that all of his chiefs are as keen and as true to him as you are.”

The blue eyes narrowed. “We are his to command. Some of us, though, are stronger in our loyalty than others.”

“How stood Yalmuk Bloodarrow?” Ironwood asked.

Guklak looked the mercenary over, evaluating. “You have the look of a hired warrior, not an official of Tarsis.”

“Whatever we were before,” said Nistur, “we are investigators now. We seek justice for the murder of Yalmuk Bloodarrow. Was his loyalty as great as yours?”

The chief thought a while before speaking, then replied, “Yalmuk was a brave man and a wise warrior, but he was proud and stiff-necked. He did not bow easily to the yoke of Kyaga Strongbow.”

“And yet Kyaga entrusted him to carry out negotiations with Tarsis,” Nistur prodded.

“Kyaga is generous. He often secures the loyalty of wavering men by showing them special honor and trust.

Many or his personal guards are warriors who swore to slay him during the wars. Besides,” he added, “Yalmuk was in charge only until Kyaga himself arrived to take over.”

“We heard there was bad blood between Yalmuk and the shaman, Shadespeaker,” Ironwood put in.

Guklak spat to leeward. “I have nothing to do with the shaman, if I can help it. I have little use for them as a whole. Shamans should utter prophecy and otherwise stay out of the affairs of men.”

“Kyaga seems to find him useful,” said Nistur.

The chief shrugged his brawny, leather-clad shoulders. “Shadespeaker foretold his corning and so must be honored. The spirit world is all around us; the spirits of our ancestors must be consulted and kept informed. For these things we need the holy men. But when one seeks to influence the deeds of chieftains, a warrior does well to keep his hand on his sword, and his bow ready-strung.”

“I see,” said Nistur. “Now, we were told of a subchief named Shatterspear.”

To their astonishment, Guklak broke into roaring laughter. “I am sure you heard no good of him! He is chief of the Foul Spring tribe. They are a contemptible people, and he exceeds them in all contemptible qualities.”

“And yet your chief esteems him,” said Ironwood.

“The Foul Spring folk are wealthy, for their lands lie athwart a caravan route, and they levy toll on every pound of goods that passes through. But Shatterspear is a fool, and his wealth flows through his hands like sand. Yes, go and talk to him. You look as if you are in need of a good laugh.” Chuckling and snorting, Guklak pushed aside the door curtain of his tent and ducked within.

“Yalmuk?” cried Shatterspear. “What do I care about that rogue?” Although the hour was still early, the chief was half drunk and was apparently working on a total stupor before sundown. He had long, drooping mustaches beside his mobile-lipped mouth, and his eyes were red with drink and the smoke that filled his lavish tent. His clothing was lavish as well, cut like the hides his people wore, but made of silk instead. His broad, flat hat was rimmed with ermine skin, and his braids were woven through golden beads and pierced pearls. The tips of his mustaches were tied to golden rings, and these were connected to the ruby studs in his ears by thin, golden chains. The grip of his long, curved sword was of ivory.

But all his trappings did not lend him majesty, nor could they hide the fact that Shatterspear, despite his rank and his vaunting name, was a weak, foolish man. No wonder Kyaga Strongbow kept him close, Nistur thought. A man like this could be used, and he would never present a serious threat.

“And yet,” Nistur said, “he was murdered, and we have been charged to find his killer.”

Ironwood leaned forward. “His killing dishonored your chief. Don’t you want to avenge this insult to Kyaga?”

“Kyaga Strongbow is a great leader,” the nomad sneered, “but he is one chief among many, merely the head of our council. Why, I myself—” A broad hand came from the dimness behind him and shook his shoulder. A high-ranking warrior, who clearly felt his chief had said too much, moved into view.

With annoyance, the chieftain shook off the hand. “I am Shatterspear, and I speak my mind!” He turned back to his guests. “Yalmuk Bloodarrow was a treacherous scoundrel who deserved to die, and whoever killed him can live a long, happy life for all I care. Kyaga is better off

without him. Maybe now he will give proper honor to those who have serv—have cooperated with him in making the tribes of the Plains of Dust into a great nation.”

“I am sure that so wise a chief as Kyaga withholds no honor from a chieftain as distinguished as yourself,” Nistur said.

“I speak foremost in the counsel tent,” Shatterspear asserted. “I am a leader in the host, with the place of honor upon the right wing.”

“I see, and most worthy of your distinctions, I am sure. A great chief must repose confidence in his finest warriors and his chieftains of high lineage.” He paused, as if a random thought had intruded on him. “But, it seems to me that Kyaga depends on the influence of his shaman as well. What is the fellow’s name? Ah, Shadespeaker, that is it.”

“Ha!” The laugh was a yelping bark. “Shadespeaker! That fraud hasn’t the courage to speak out among true warriors. He only whispers in Kyaga’s ear, filling it with poison against the chieftains, whose rightful authority he envies!” Again the hand went to his shoulder. Again, he shrugged it off.

“And yet, did he not prophesy the coming of Kyaga?”

“He did, and who knows but that Kyaga himself put him up to it? Oh, I do not fault the chief for employing a useful tool, but now it is as if he takes the green-faced jester seriously!”

“Did Yalmuk feel the same way about him?” Ironwood asked.

“All of us feel that way, although some pretend to honor him. After all, what has this Shadespeaker done save proclaim Kyaga’s ascendancy? I have never seen him call up the spirits of the dead at the midwinter rite. Ghostbrother, our own tribal shaman, does that every

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year. He interprets for us the will of the Foul Spring spirit. Our ancestors come to him in dreams, and he makes their wishes known. Shadespeaker does none of these things, yet Kyaga spends whole nights in counsel with him, with no one in attendance except for a tongueless slave.”

“I see,” Nistur said. “Did Yalmuk Bloodarrow feel as strongly about Shadespeaker? Did he perhaps insult him to his face?”

Shatterspear’s weak features assumed an expression meant to convey shrewdness. “You mean, did the shaman kill him?”

“Kyaga himself has assured us that the shaman was with him all that night, but it does not mean that Shadespeaker could not have had someone else do the killing for him.”

“It seems to me,” Shatterspear said, “that you are doing all you can to make it look as if Yalmuk was killed by one of us. I think the Lord of Tarsis killed him. Perhaps Yalmuk demanded too high a price to turn traitor.”