Murder in Tarsis (19 page)

“This is the Hand of Truth, and one who tells a falsehood under its spell suffers terrible harm.”

“I believe I may have heard of the spell,” Nistur said.

“Then behold.” The shaman sprinkled the yellow crystals into the brazier, and the flames died down to a sullen red glow. Carefully, he laid the dried root on the coals. They expected to see the root consumed, but

instead it remained whole while flames of dazzling white shot up from the fingerlike appendages.

His eyes closed, Shadespeaker muttered something in a strange language. Then, his eyes open once again, he thrust his left hand into the white flames and held it there. While they held their breath, the flames above his hand writhed, slowly coalescing into a fiendish face. It had three eyes and stubby horns, and its mouth was lined with long fangs. The mouth moved, and the voice that came to their ears was chillingly inhuman.

“Speak,” hissed the voice, “and if thou liest, thy hand is mine.” The mouth gaped until it engulfed the shaman’s hand, the fangs lengthening so that they seemed to touch the flesh. The shaman did not change expression, nor did he look at the apparition. He was silent while the others sat in quiet dread; then he began to speak.

“These are the words of Shadespeaker, shaman of the nomads of the Plains of Dust. Shadespeaker did not slay the chieftain Yalmuk Bloodarrow. Shadespeaker did not cause another to slay Yalmuk. Shadespeaker does not know who slew Yalmuk, nor why If Shadespeaker lies, may the truth-fiend devour his hand.”

They held their breath, teeth clenched, waiting for the fiend to decide. Slowly, the hideous head backed away, and the yawning mouth closed. “Thou speakest the truth, and I hunger.” It began to fade, like dissipating smoke. As it did the voice came to them again, faintly. “Bring me a liar.”

The flames died down, and the shaman reached into the brazier and withdrew the hand-shaped root. It showed no damage from its sojourn among the coals. “Are you satisfied now?” he demanded.

“I suppose we must be,” Nistur said, getting to his feet.

“For now,” said Ironwood.

“Forget about finding the slayer,” Shadespeaker told him. “You are a doomed man anyway.”

Ironwood’s hand went to his sword hilt. “There is no real need for you to outlive me, shaman!” he snarled.

“Your threats are idle, mercenary,” Shadespeaker sneered. “And yet,” he went on more reasonably, “my chief has need of brave fighting men. If you were to swear fealty to Kyaga Strongbow, he would wish me to help you. As his loyal shaman, I would have to obey.”

“What do you mean?” Ironwood hissed.

The shaman rose. “My chief needs me.” He walked to the back of the tent; then he turned. “You had better find your killer. Time grows short.” He pushed the curtain aside and was gone.

“What could he have meant?” Ironwood said as they went outside.

“He was just trying to distract you,” Nistur assured him. “He wants us to be confused, and he knows how to work on one’s weaknesses. He saw the signs of your infirmity and went to work on you. Half of a mountebank’s art lies in sowing confusion so that one fails to notice the most blatant trickery.”

“Do you think that spell was false?” Ironwood asked.

“I think I know who can tell us,” Nistur answered.

As they passed through the postern of the East Gate, Captain Karst accosted them. “The lord sent a messenger,” he informed them. “You are to render your report to him this evening. Be at the palace at the sounding of the sunset gong. In case you are unfamiliar with the customs of the city, it is rung when the sun touches the western horizon, not after it is down.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said Nistur. “We shall not fail.”

Ironwood squinted at the angle of the sun. It was yet only late afternoon. “Two hours until the gong rings. Where do we go in the meantime?”

“To Stunbog’s vessel,” said Nistur. “I have certain questions to pose to our host.”

Stunbog looked up from his book as they entered, with the barbarian woman close behind them. The tome appeared to be a manuscript treatise on the properties of magical beasts.

“I rejoice to see that you suffered no further misadventures,” Stunbog said. “How went your mission?”

“I wish you could have accompanied us,” Nistur said, seating himself. “Your expertise would have been most welcome during our last interview.”

“It is still at your disposal, even at second hand. Tell me what happened.” The healer listened attentively as Nistur and Ironwood described their uncanny visit with Shadespeaker. Several times he interrupted and made each of them give a close description of some aspect of the experience.

“What you have described,” the healer said when he was satisfied, “sounds like an authentic spell of truth. The properties of an artifact such as the Hand of Truth are all but impossible to falsify, and there are terrible penalties visited upon those who would even attempt to conjure a fraudulent representation of a truth-fiend. Believe me,” he added ruefully, “I know all about penalties of that sort.”

“Then he was telling the truth?” said Ironwood, disappointment heavy in his voice.

“Almost assuredly,” Stunbog answered.

“And he is a genuine shaman, not a fraud?” asked Nistur.

“That is not so certain,” Stunbog told him. “Like the simple love spells sold by witches, that particular spell of truth may be prepared by a wizard, then used by one who has had certain minimal training in this single art. Having used it, the uninitiated would not be able to prepare another such spell.”

“Just a minute,” Shellring interrupted, “I just remembered something.”

“Please tell us,” Stunbog urged.

“Well,” she began, a bit self-consciously, “I noticed something on the back of Shadespeaker’s hands. It was like, I don’t know, a sort of squiggly design, maybe a tattoo.”

“You mean a sigil?” Stunbog prodded.

“I guess that’s what you call it. Like some kind of magical mark, anyway. I was wondering whether maybe it was some sort of protective spell that kept the fiend from biting his hand off.”

“I remember the mark,” Nistur said, “but the thought did not occur to me.”

“Aye,” said Ironwood, “the same with me. Well done, Shellring.”

“Can you reproduce it for me?” Stunbog asked. He gave her a scrap of parchment and a charcoal stick. With the tip of her tongue protruding shghtly from the side of her mouth, Shellring began, inexpertly, to draw. When she was finished, she pushed the rendering across the table to the healer.

“There. That’s not it exactly, but I think it’s close.”

Nistur squinted at the cursive design, with its numerous cross-hatchings and hooked protrusions. “Yes, that is much as I remember it. I wish now I had paid closer attention.” Ironwood nodded agreement.

Stunbog pondered for a while. “I do not recognize it, but there are so many. It doesn’t look like a protective talisman, which is odd. Myrsa, please take down my gri-moire of sigils and talismans. It is the thick one on that upper shelf, between the retort and the crystal mortar.”

Myrsa took down the heavy tome and set it before Stunbog. He opened it to the first page. There were at least twenty-five arcane designs on the page, and below each were several lines of minuscule writing.

“Is each page like that?” Nistur asked, appalled.

“Yes,” said Stunbog. “On some pages there are even more. Garlak’s Catalogue ofSigils is one of the standard reference works, and much prized. There are more than fifteen thousand sigils listed here.”

“Then our task may be long over, one way or another, before you find this one,” Ironwood said bitterly.

“And yet I shall try,” Stunbog said. “I think Shellring may have found something important. The task is not as hopeless as it seems. The sigils here are grouped by certain distinctive traits of design. With an exact copy of the sigil you saw, I could locate it quickly. But, with a little time, this approximation may be enough.”

“Let us hope so,” said Nistur. “The crucial hour draws on apace.”

They hurried through the streets of Tarsis, whipped by a cold wind. The sky was still bright, the setting sun glaring red from the undersides of a few high-flying clouds, but the streets were in deep shadow.

“We stayed too long in that tavern,” Shellring fretted. “We’ll get to the palace late.”

Nistur belched softly. “I am not about to face the Lord of Tarsis on an empty stomach. A couple of pints of ale make his sour face more endurable.”

“We’ll probably cool our heels for a couple of hours in an anteroom before he deigns to see us, anyway,” Ironwood groused. “That’s how these lords usually behave.”

To their surprise, they were ushered into the lord’s presence the moment they set foot across the palace threshold.

“I should have remembered,” Nistur muttered under his breath as they were conducted down a long hallway, “the Lord of Tarsis is just another jumped-up merchant. Such people are sticklers for punctuality.”

“You are late,” the lord observed upon their arrival.

“Your service is arduous,” Nistur said. “Our efforts on your behalf have kept us uncommonly busy.”

“Then you must learn to make better use of your time,” the lord admonished them. “What have you to report?”

Patiently, Nistur related the gist of their interviews

with the barbarians. The lord attended to his report with considerably less patience.

“You have wasted an entire day!” he said when Nistur was finished.

“I beg your pardon? It was my own impression that we had learned much of value.” Nistur was more than a little put out at this dismissal of their efforts.

“Forget the barbarians! Even if one of them committed the murder, Kyaga would never admit it. I want you to concentrate on certain nobles of this city. Here is a list of their names, together with the locations of their mansions.”

“You mean, my lord,” said Nistur, “that you would rather the murderer were a Tarsian noble?”

“I must be fair and evenhanded, after all,” said the lord.

Ironwood looked at the list over his companion’s shoulder. “If I recall aright what Captain Karst said, these are all members of the Inner Council.”

“Alas, that I should have to suspect such distinguished men,” said the lord, “but these are the ones who had closest contact with the envoys while we treated with them. They had them as guests in their own houses and made, shall we say, certain proposals to them. Councilor Rukh, in particular, was most vigorous in his efforts.”

“I take it, then,” said Nistur, “that Councilor Rukh is one you would not be aggrieved to see enjoying the tender mercies of Kyaga Strongbow?”

“I said no such thing!”

“So you did not. Well, then, if there is nothing further to detain us, we shall go and sound out these councilors.”

“Bring me the killer quickly!” the lord insisted. “Time grows short!”

“As we are all too aware,” said Nistur, bowing.

Outside the palace, in the grand plaza, they consulted with Shellring. “They live in parts of town I’ve not visited

much,” she told them, “but I can find them all. But what are we to make of this? I’d have thought he’d be anxious to pin the blame on the barbarians.”

“I think I understand his motivation,” said Nistur.

“So do I,” said Ironwood. “He’d rather get rid of a rival than deal with a foreign enemy.”

“And if we give him a councilor,” Nistur added, “he shall have accomplished both goals at once. A rival will be done for and, perhaps, Kyaga will be satisfied and return to negotiation. Either way, he will have bought some time.”

“Maybe,” Shellring hazarded, “he won’t expect you to provide a lot of evidence.”

“That is likeliest of all,” said Nistur.

They found the residence of Councilor Rukh in an area of the city hard hit by the Cataclysm. His fine mansion was of relatively recent construction. His ancestors had taken advantage of the catastrophe, demolishing a whole block of damaged buildings to provide the house with fine, spacious lawns and gardens. These were currently sere and leafless, but even in winter’s desolation, their symmetry could be appreciated.

At the door Nistur raised a massive bronze ring gripped in the jaws of a hideous bronze monster and let it drop. Minutes later, a majordomo opened the massive door, and the three presented their royal seals.

“My master has been expecting you,” said the servant in a voice of utter boredom. “Follow me.” He led them

through a vast, echoing hall and into a much smaller but still spacious drawing room. The room was lined with formal portraits of noble ancestors. A few minutes later the councilor himself joined them.

“I am Councilor Rukh of the Inner Council,” he announced. “Please be brief. I must go and inspect my gate and my section of the wall.”

To their surprise, Rukh was dressed in armor: a half-suit consisting of a breastplate with dependent thigh pieces and knee cops, pauldrons, and rerebraces to the elbows. His mask, instead of the usual silk or velvet, was made of metal. All of the armor was lavishly embossed and gilded. To experienced eyes it was no more than costume armor, the metal so thin it would crumple at the first blow of a real weapon. Presumably, should a battle come, he would don a field harness.

“By your leave, my lord, we are under no time restrictions save those set by Kyaga,” Nistur reminded him.

“Do not speak nonsense. The defense of this city is more important than the peevish sulking of some filthy barbarian. Ask your questions.”

“My lord,” Nistur began, “did you have dealings with the nomad ambassador named Yalmuk Bloodarrow?”

“I did. Besides the formal audiences and banquets, I entertained him here in my home, along with two other prominent chieftains: Guklak and Shatterspear. My servants are still trying to get the smell out of the cushions.”

“Did you approach these chieftains in any way with offers of bribery, coercion, or any other subornation of treason?”

“Of course I did! What do you think diplomacy is all about?”

“Not my field of expertise, I’m afraid,” Nistur said. “But all of these things are frequent cause for murder. Had you any vociferous dispute with Yalmuk?”

“None beyond the usual disagreements over the merits of our respective nations.” With a gloved hand, the councilor brushed at a fancied smudge on a gleaming pauldron.