Murder in Tarsis (22 page)

“Aye,” Ironwood said. “There is no rush. We know from experience that one thing people in jail have plenty of is time. Give us the story.”

“It was just at sunup. Stunbog was still at that book, and Myrsa and her brother were still talking, and I’d just nodded off, when there was a pounding at the door below. Myrsa went to answer the door the way she usually does, and we heard a lot of shouting. Then Badar was down the steps with his sword out, and the next thing I knew the place was full of watchmen and mercenaries, with Constable Weite strutting around and ordering them to put irons on everybody. He would’ve arrested me, but this seal is still good for something, at least.” She gasped, having related all this in a single breath.

Ironwood bit off a curse. “It’s the lord’s sweep! I should’ve expected it!”

“What was the charge?” Nistur asked.

“Trafficking with the enemy, Weite said, because Stunbog’s a foreigner and Myrsa’s a barbarian and they were meeting with a man from Kyaga’s army. I tried to explain, but they didn’t want to listen!”

“That was predictable,” Nistur sighed. “Oh, very well, let’s go see if we can straighten things out.”

A few minutes of walking brought them to the little plaza before the Hall of Justice, where a great many watchmen were gathered and a temporary holding pen had been set up to contain the crowd of wretches swept up in the lord’s dragnet. Most of them were bewildered foreigners, some were citizens of a villainous cast, and others looked insane but harmless. Clearly, the arresting officers were showing little discrimination. Flashing their seals in all directions, the three pushed their way toward the entrance.

“No, I can’t let you in!” cried the guard in charge of the door. “The lord’s orders are most specific. While we are processing the prisoners, there are to be no intrusions or visits.”

Ironwood held his seal before the man’s eyes. “Here is the lord’s own seal, which permits us entry everywhere!”

The man shook his head, scattering snow from his hat. “Not this time! For this operation, all lesser judicial powers are suspended by order of the Lord of Tarsis and enforced by Councilor Rukh, who has been placed in charge of the Hall of Justice for the duration.”

“There is nothing so grand as the power of a petty official,” Nistur muttered as they turned away.

“And we’ll do no good by applying to Councilor Rukh,” Ironwood added. “He resents our authority as it is. He’d be just as happy to clap us in irons.”

“I’ve been scanning this crowd,” Shellring said, “and our friends aren’t there. They must already be in the cells.”

“Well, nothing to be done about it now,” Nistur said. “In a few days we may be in a position to get them out.”

“Or else Kyaga will have destroyed the city,” Ironwood said. “In which case it won’t matter.”

“You two give up too easily,” Shellring said with disgust. “Here, give me some money.”

Mystified, Nistur handed over a few coins. Shellring went to one of the watchmen who supervised the crowd of arrestees and whispered in his ear as she slipped some of the money into his belt purse. Moments later, the man left his place in the cordon and passed into the Hall of Justice. After a brief wait, he reemerged from the building and said something to Shellring. She nodded and returned to the other two. Her expression was unwontedly serious.

“What have you learned?” Nistur asked her.

“They’re on the lowest level, but that’s just because they were some of the first brought in. The sweep started in the old harbor. The cells down there are small, and they’re shaped sort of like beehives: round, with ceilings that slope in like a cone and a circular door in the top. The prisoners are sent down a ladder, and the ladder’s drawn up. No need for a door and a lock that way.”

“It sounds grim,” Nistur said, shaking his head.

“It’s that, all right,” she affirmed. “It’s cold and cramped and dark. But I think it may give us an opportunity to get them out.”

“It sounds just the opposite to me,” Nistur said.

“Aye,” said Ironwood. “If they’re that far down, nothing short of the lord’s pardon or Kyaga taking the city will get them out.”

“I never would’ve thought you two would give up so easily,” she said.

“Perhaps we lack your resources,” Nistur said. “What is your plan?”

“Can the two of you follow my lead for a change?” she asked.

“I’d like to see the old man out of there,” Ironwood said, “but we’ve precious little time to find our killer.” “And you were getting close?” she said sarcastically.

“I admit we were not,” Nistur said.

“Well, when they were dragging Stunbog off, he told me to find you and tell you that he’d figured out what that sigil was.”

“Let’s do as she says,” Ironwood advised. “We’re accomplishing nothing on our own.”

“Very well,” Nistur agreed, doffing his hat and dusting snow from its brim. “Where are we going?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m going to show you some of my part of the city, the places even the lord and all his spies don’t know about.”

The Lord of Tarsis was too preoccupied with unfolding events to think about what his investigators might be up to. The captain of the East Gate had sent word to the palace: Kyaga Strongbow was before the gate, demanding to see the lord at once.

Cursing and administering kicks and slaps as inducements to his servants, the lord was dressed in his finest ceremonial armor, a suit of cunningly jointed plate lavishly overlaid with gold and silver, with jewels set along the edges of the plates and rare feathers bepluming the helmet. An immense cloak of silk trimmed with ermine was fastened to the shoulder plates, and the lord was boosted into the saddle of his finest parade horse.

Runners both preceded and trooped alongside the mounted lord, keeping the common rabble well away from him and holding the long cloak clear of the filthy street. At the gate the lord dismounted and climbed the steps. Despite the precious metals, his parade armor was far lighter than his field harness, but ascending the stair

was still hard going. Behind him the grooms managed his cape, which he was beginning to regret having worn. It added to his majesty, yet under these circumstances, it was faintly ridiculous.

When he stood at last above the gate and saw Kyaga below, he decided he should have adopted a more warlike appearance. The leader of the nomads was this day dressed all in black, down to his gloved fingertips. Over his tunic he wore a shirt of black chain mail, and his horse wore a plain harness of black leather supporting its master’s weapons. Kyaga looked like a chieftain preparing to lead his army to war.

“I have come at your request, rude as it was,” the lord began. “What would you have of me?”

Kyaga pointed an accusing finger. “I have every cause to demand your head, Lord of Tarsis!”

“But you would have to take my city to get it,” the lord replied.

“And I shall, if you do not satisfy me immediately. Another of my chiefs has been murdered in Tarsis! I want his murderer surrendered to me!”

The lord sighed quietly. He’d had no real hope that word of Guklak’s death could be withheld from Kyaga. “And how did your chieftain happen to be within the walls of Tarsis, Kyaga Strongbow? Did I come out to your camp, through your sentries, and abduct him? Or did he perhaps enter Tarsis by stealth to treat with someone here, perhaps someone who has neither your interests, nor mine, at heart?”

“It is that question alone that restrains me from ordering an immediate attack on your city! But I will tell you this: my patience has worn thin. Deliver to me the killers of Yalmuk and Guklak by sunrise tomorrow! You, Lord of Tarsis, must bring them personally to my tent and surrender them to me, for I will accept no lackey of yours!”

“You must take me for an imbecile, Kyaga Strongbow,”

the lord answered. “This is clearly a ruse to trick me into your camp, where you may kill me or seize me for ransom. Many a general has been thus deceived, and I will not follow their example.”

“I come before you personally to make this demand, riding within easy shot of your walls, for this is the nomad way! I swear by the spirits of my ancestors that you will not be harmed or detained if you come before me to hand over the killers. No warrior of this host will ever follow me again should I break this oath.”

The Lord of Tarsis paused, suspecting a more subtle trap.

“It is true, my lord,” said Captain Karst, who stood nearby. “No nomad will tolerate the breaking of such an oath. If made by a chief, it would dishonor the whole people.”

“Very well,” said the lord. “Tomorrow, upon the rising of the sun, you will have the killers.”

“See to it,” said Kyaga. “I will have the killers, or I will have war!” He whirled his mount and galloped back toward his tent. His army raised a ferocious shout at his passing.

“I hope you can satisfy him, my lord,” said Captain Karst. “The preparations are far from complete. We need another ten days at least to get the walls in proper order. A month would be far better. Your amateur defenders are in dire need of drilling.”

“Oh, I think I can satisfy him at dawn,” said the lord. “After that, it will be back to negotiation. I can easily buy us another month that way. And perhaps it will not come to war at all.”

Karst bowed. “As my lord says.” He frowned after the silk-and ermine-clad back as his employer walked toward the stairs. Karst knew all too well what the lord meant: barring the appearance of a better suspect,

tomorrow he would turn over Councilor Melkar to Kyaga’s tender ministrations. And Melkar was the only member of the Inner Council who had both the authority and the experience to coordinate the defense of the city.

Karst found he had much to ponder. He had always served his paymaster loyally, but there was a limit to the folly that a sensible soldier should put up with. He decided to consult with his fellow officers. It might be a good time to contemplate a retreat from this ill-starred city.

*****

“I trust you are not taking us to meet another of Granny Toadflower’s ilk,” Nistur muttered.

The three were back in the Old City, in an area of tottering buildings that leaned alarmingly toward one another across narrow streets.

“Not exactly,” she said. At a crossroads, she halted. At its center was one of the storm drains with the customary grated cover. She knelt by it and examined the grate. Then she thrust a fine-boned hand through one of the square holes and felt around. There was a clank as she pulled on something, then withdrew her hand. “Grab it on this side,” she instructed, “and pull up on it. I can’t do it by myself.” |

Mystified, the other two crouched and laid their hands ^ to the cold metal. With a muscle-straining heave, they raised the grate on a pair of heavy internal hinges until it was in an upright position.

“How fascinating,” Nistur mused, peering into the j darkness below. “Another part of this city we have not yet ; explored, a part perhaps even more repellent than that with which we are already acquainted.”

“It doesn’t have to be pretty,” Ironwood retorted, “as long as it gets us someplace. Shellring, I take it you have some sort of plan.”

“I do. Just follow me.” Nimbly, she dropped into the hole, and they followed. “There’s a ladder here,” she said as she disappeared. “The last one down close the grate. Just give it a tug and let it fall. It’ll close slowly.”

Ironwood was next down, followed closely by Nistur. As instructed, he tugged at the grate, then ducked his head down lest the weighty thing fall precipitately. But, as Shellring had predicted, it dropped slowly and settled into place, making very little noise. He continued down the ladder, which seemed to be inordinately long. The darkness was profound.

“You should have mentioned that we would need torches or lanterns,” he chided, his voice echoing as if in a long tunnel.

“We won’t need them,” she said, her voice sounding as if it came from the bottom of a well. The descent continued until Nistur’s arms and legs ached; then he found himself hanging from the bottom rung.

“Just drop,” Shellring advised him.

“That calls for an act of faith,” Nistur said. Someone yanked his belt, and he yelped as he fell. The drop was no more than six inches.

“If you were a little taller you wouldn’t have had such a fright,” Ironwood said.

“I was not frightened,” he said with offended dignity. “It is just that altitude is not a thing I like to accept on faith in conditions of utter darkness.”

“It’s not quite dark,” Ironwood told him.

Nistur looked around and realized he could just make out the forms of his companions, although he could as yet make out little detail of his surroundings.

“Your eyes will get used to it in a little while. And there’s

more light where we’re going,” Shellring assured him.

“What is the source of the light?” Nistur asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Some of it’s from mushrooms that glow in the dark. I think there’s glowing rock, too.”

Carefully, Nistur stepped to a nearby wall and scrutinized it from a few inches away. Embedded in it were flecks that glowed a dull blue-green. He scratched at it, but his nails found only hard surface. “Yes, this is a luminous mineral. How intriguing.”

“Let’s go,” Shellring urged. “You can see well enough now not to stumble.”

She led them along a low, circular tunnel that angled slightly downward. The air was damp but not stale, and they could feel a constant, slight motion to it, as if the air were being circulated by some means. Though cool, it was noticeably warmer than at street level.

They came into a large room where the light was brighter. From the ceiling sprouted a profusion of mushrooms that glowed in various shades of blue and green. The light was still dim, but it seemed bright after what they had come through. A number of side tunnels met at the room, and above each tunnel mouth was a niche containing a statue. The light was not sufficient to reveal the appearance of the statues, save that they were squat and primitive-looking.

“Let’s see,” Shellring said, “which one was it?” \

“Surely you haven’t brought us all the way down here | without a clear notion of where we are going!” Nistur snapped, slightly unnerved by their spooky surroundings.