Murder in Tarsis (4 page)

“I must leave you for a while,” said the healer. “Please, help yourselves to the mulled wine. Myrsa, find them something to eat. People need to fortify themselves on a night like this.”

The healer left them, and the barbarian woman went forward into another chamber that was, presumably, the kitchen or galley, depending on whether nautical terminology still applied. While Shellring made herself at home, stretching out on a cushioned window seat, Nistur examined his new surroundings with lively interest. His wide travels had given him a great love of novelty, and seldom had he found himself in a more eccentric milieu.

The air in the cabin was rich with the scent of herbs, for bunches of them hung drying above the little hearth, and similarly fragrant bags dangled from the overhead beams. Books of magical lore lined the shelves, sharing

space with instruments of metal, crystal and glass, all of them wrought in arcane designs. There were racks of specimen jars labeled in a number of writing and hieroglyphic systems. The bones of many strange animals were scattered here and there, some of them mounted on armatures to form complete skeletons in lifelike poses. Mortars contained crushed minerals and powdered herbs.

“A humble healer indeed,” Nistur murmured. On a bulkhead he spied a circular looking glass, and in this he examined himself. Lifting his neatly trimmed beard, he craned his neck in order to view the exposed flesh at this awkward angle. Just beneath his jaw he could see that the skin had been marked as by a fresh brand, although there was no sensation of pain, and even the previous numbness was fading. A pattern of bright, interlacing red stripes clearly defined the Knot of Thanalus, about the size of a thumbprint. With a sigh he looked away from his reflection. How long was he to be bound by this spell?

The barbarian woman returned. “Here,” she said. “Don’t starve to death.” She set down a platter that held flat loaves, cheese, dried fruit, and finger-sized salted fish. It was humble fare, but at this time of year fresh food was to be found only in the houses of the wealthy.

Shellring transferred her spare frame from the window seat to the table bench and began, without preamble, to stuff her mouth. Nistur sat and began to eat with more decorum but just as heartily. His situation was, at the moment, precarious in the extreme, and he knew well that it behooved one caught in such circumstances to lay in a good store of fuel when the opportunity presented itself, for who knew when he would once again have a chance to eat?

“Will you not join us?” he said to the barbarian woman. “Not hungry,” she said, her tone indicating that no hunger, however urgent, would impel her to sit at the

same table with him. Nistur was certain he had given the woman no cause for offense, but he had met with unearned hostility before in his eventful life, and he was fully prepared to cope with rejection in a manner befitting a poet and philosopher. He helped himself to some more of the fish.

“Oh, unbend a little, Myrsa,” said Shellring. “He’s not such a bad sort. He caught me getting away with his purse and didn’t even give me a kick.” She laid a slice of cheese on a thick slab of bread and bit into it.

“If you say so, little one.” To Nistur’s astonishment, the big woman ruffled Shellring’s stubbly hair affectionately. There was no affection at all in the look she bent upon him.

“I do not believe I can quite place your people,” Nistur said to her. “Those designs embroidered on your tunic are similar to some mountain folks’ work I have seen, yet the cut of your leggings is that of the ice people. In either case, you seem to be far from home.”

“Who told you I have a home?” she said. She turned and stalked away, displaying a soaring eagle embroidered across her broad back.

“Not a friendly one, is she?” Nistur said when she had gone forward.

“Don’t mind her. She hates everybody except for Stunbog, and sometimes me. Even I have to watch out when she’s in a bad mood.”

“Barbarians have a reputation for ferocity,” he observed, “but seldom is it so freely bestowed. Usually they reserve their hostility for hereditary enemies, and show only varying degrees of contempt for the rest.”

“I don’t think she has a real tribe,” Shellring said. “Sort of a loner, like me.”

This seemed strange to Nistur, for he knew barbarians and all other primitive peoples were fiercely attached to

their tribes, clans, and other family groups. Outcasts usually pined away and died upon long separation from their people. Most barbarians thought awful wounds and death to be trifling matters, whereas outlawry and exile were punishments too terrible to contemplate. If this woman was an exile, he reflected, it could well account for her ill temper.

A few minutes later they were rejoined by the healer. The old man poured himself a cup of the mulled wine, then sat at the table, removing a pair of round-lensed spectacles.

“Your friend is in no danger at the moment. He will recover from this attack within a few days. But his affliction is mortal and will kill him within a year or two.” Having delivered this dismal news, he drank with some satisfaction.

“What is the nature of his ailment?” Nistur asked. “I have been acquainted with him only a brief while, and I have never seen quite such a seizure, either in him or in anyone else.”

“I think he is a bold, reckless, and extremely unlucky man,” said the healer.

“His boldness one may infer from his profession,” Nistur affirmed. “One seldom encounters mercenaries of a retiring disposition. Recklessness and ill luck are more difficult to discern, barring long observation of a man’s behavior.”

“I know he is bold and reckless because he once fought a black dragon,” said Stunbog. “He is unlucky because it bit him.”

“Bitten by a dragon?” Nistur marveled. “I would think, under the circumstances, that surviving such a mishap indicates a luck surpassing expectation.”

Stunbog shook his head. “No, despite their fearsome snouts and fangs, many dragons are inefficient biters,

more dependant on their terrible breath and snatching claws. It was an immature specimen, and its venom had not attained full potency or the man would have died instantly. Instead, he was smitten with a returning paralysis. It has progressed to the point that an attack renders his limbs completely useless. In time the paralysis will spread to his heart and lungs and he will die.”

“How do you know the dragon was black?” Nistur asked.

“This property of the venom of the young black dragon has been noted in the literature I’ve read about the creatures. Also, he is wearing its hide.”

“He might’ve stolen that suit,” Shellring suggested. She held a fish in one hand and a dried pear in the other and seemed to be having difficulty in deciding which to eat first.

“No, the armor was tailored for him and him alone,” Stunbog asserted. “It fits him as closely as Myfsa’s barbarian hides. Sometimes a soldier will have another man’s suit recut for himself, but the fit can never be made perfect. The dragon skin was harvested no more than five years ago. I can tell this by the condition of the scales. This is consistent with the progression of the illness. Hence, the man who sleeps below is the one who slew the dragon, took its skin, and had it made into armor for himself.”

“And yet he has not escaped the dragon’s revenge,” Nistur said. “Surely, this is matter fit for a poem. Heroic verse is a specialty of mine, as it happens.”

“Truly?” said Stunbog. “I would have thought you a man of a … shall we say, a more aggressive profession.”

“Indeed? A casual perusal of your home,” Nistur gestured around him, taking in the arcane paraphernalia, “and listening to your most learned disquisition on the nature and quality of dragons, would lead me to think you are more than a mere healer of modest means and abilities.”

Stunbog polished the smudged lenses of his spectacles. “I am but a student of magical lore, perhaps even a scholar of small repute. But I practice only the healing arts.”

“I see,” Nistur replied. “You must be a man of rare strength of character.”

“How might that be?” Stunbog asked innocently.

“Why, sir, it is well known that very few are the persons who, having mastered the lore and spells of the wizardry arts, are not tempted to put them into practice. It is averred by many that by the study of these arts the student’s mind and soul are seized by a compulsion to traffic with arcane powers and essay thaumaturgical feats.”

“I, too, have heard that rumor, but I place little trust in it. There is another tale I have heard, mamtaining that no one who has devoted many years to the exercise of arms can thereafter restrain himself from using weapons in earnest, and even earn his living with them. Yet we know this to be a fable, do we not?”

“Even so, learned healer,” Nistur agreed.

While this exchange passed between them, Shellring’s eyes rolled back and forth from one to the other, like those of a spectator at a duel. She had lived by her wits all her life, and she knew when two men were taking one another’s measure, each seeking to learn about the other without revealing too much of himself.

Their uneasy exchange was interrupted by a loud knocking from below. “What now?” Stunbog said.

“Sleepless nights are a well-known hazard to the healer’s profession,” Nistur commiserated.

The barbarian woman appeared, a far smaller figure hovering behind her. “Delver’s here,” she announced laconically. She stood aside to reveal a dwarf of a sort Nistur had never encountered before. His hair and flowing beard were pure white, although he did not appear to be especially old by dwarven standards. His skin was as

pink as that of a maid caught in midblush, except where dark blue veins showed on the backs of his hands. He squinted as if even the light of the lamps and fire were too bright for his eyes.

“What is it, my friend?” Stunbog asked.

“There’s a new colic among the young ones, Stunbog,” said the dwarf in a voice like millstones grinding. “We think some may die. Will you come?”

Stunbog sighed. “If you think it that serious, then I had better. Myrsa, will you fetch my bag?”

The woman left and returned moments later with a large satchel of sealskin. “Bad night to be out,” she announced. “Dangerous, too.”

“I’ll wait for you outside, Stunbog,” said the dwarf. He seemed anxious to get away from the light.

“You can accompany me if you feel concerned,” said Stunbog, amusement in his voice.

“And leave them here alone?” She jerked her thumb toward Nistur and Shellring.

The healer smiled. “Shellring never steals from us, and I assure you that our new friend Nistur is too honorable a personage for such,things. He is a poet.”

The barbarian woman grunted, as if she put little faith in this line of reasoning.

“Where did the dwarf come from?” Nistur inquired. “I saw none in the city. Is his band passing through?”

“No,” Stunbog replied, “his people have lived here almost from the founding of the city. They are the descendants of folk hired to dig the foundations. Many of the oldest buildings extend several stories underground. That is where the Tarsis dwarves live. There are not many of them now. With no infusion of new blood for centuries, they now suffer from a number of hereditary conditions. I fear they will be extinct within a few more generations. Of course, that can be a long time for dwarves.”

“Astonishing! I had thought Tarsis a wholly human city.”

“Few places are as simple as they seem to us on first impression. Tarsis is no exception. There are many cities here. The Old City, the New City, the underground, the harbor, these are just the major divisions. There are others. Well, I must go now. There are cabins here where you may sleep. I will look in on your friend early in the morning.”

“You have my profoundest gratitude,” Nistur said.

“Don’t thank me until the man recovers,” Stunbog said. He donned a cloak and drew its hood over his head. Carrying his bag, the barbarian woman followed him. At the doorway, she glared back at Nistur, as if promising dire consequences should all not be in order when she returned. Then the two were gone.

“Your city is a much more interesting place than I had thought,” Nistur observed. “What an unlikely pair. And that dwarf. Are the rest like him?”

Shellring nodded. “More or less. They live underground, can’t take bright light. They never harm anyone, but people are afraid of ‘em, think they’re ghosts or something.”

“I fear that my friend’s treatment may be dear. I am troubled as to how I am going to pay for it.”

Her eyes widened. “That purse I took off you was heavy. Old Stunbog never asks much.”

“Oh, I must return that purse. It was my fee, and I failed in my mission.” He sighed at this reversal.

Now her eyes grew even wider. “Return it? Are you crazy?”

“No, but I am a man of principle. There is such a thing as professional ethics, you know.”

“I don’t understand you! First you try to kill a man, and then you don’t when it looks like the gods have given him to you as a gift. Then you take him to a healer, and

now you want to give money back to some vicious coward who hired you to murder the poor fool!”

“Please,” said Nistur, offended. “I am not a murderer. I am an assassin.”

“Big difference.”

“I would not expect you to understand. You are an odd sort of person yourself. Shellring is a lovely name for a somewhat less than lovely person. How did you come by it?”

She grinned lopsidedly. “It’s from my trade.” In the growing warmth of the cabin she had doffed first her cloak, then her jacket. Now her upper body was clad only in a vest of soft leather, and Nistur saw that she was not emaciated as he had first judged, but rather lean and sinewy, like an acrobat. Her hand dipped into a pouch at her waist and emerged with a broad ring of shell covering the first joint of the thumb. In her nested fingers glimmered a tiny knife, its blade less than two inches long.

“It’s how cutpurses work in this city. See, you distract your mark, or a friend does it for you. You get the purse strings between the blade and the ring and snip them. The mark never feels a thing.”

“I am familiar with the technique. In my homeland the cutpurses use a thimble of horn to cover the thumb tip. For this reason they are called ‘hornthumbs.’ Shellring makes a much prettier name.”