The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (7 page)

"Even so." Sir Orizhan nodded. "The man Pargas had clearly killed the prince, and I wasn't about to let this fellow help him escape."

"And that was the end of it?"

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"As far as I know," Sir Orizhan said.

Matt turned back to the innkeeper. "How did you get all your customers back?"

"The soldiers brought them, sir, when they couldn't catch the one who went out the window."

"All?" Matt turned to Sergeant Brock.

"We lost him quick enough," the sergeant said, "and herded the rest of the civilians back in here, though you may be sure they didn't like it. We might have lost one or two, but no more, I'll wager."

"Yeah, but that one or two might include the murderer." Matt turned away with a sigh.

"The murderer?" Sergeant Brock stared. "Are you ma— I mean, it's clear Pargas killed him, sir!… Isn't it?"

"Then why did you all chase the man who went out the window?" Sergeant Brock stared at him, at a loss. Everyone else stared, too, and Matt could see they were all asking themselves the same question.

"It's an instinct," Matt explained. "If somebody runs, it's natural to chase them, because why would they be running if they hadn't done anything? But in this case the man was trying to decoy you all out of the inn so the real murderer could escape."

Sir Orizhan frowned. "How can you be sure it was not Pargas who struck the fatal blow?"

"Because you said the prince was lying in a pool of blood," Matt told him, "and Paiges only had a club."

Sir Orizhan stared, then whirled to exchange glances with Sergeant Brock, who only stared back at him.

"Where did the prince fall?" Matt asked.

"Over here." Sir Orizhan led the way to the foot of the stairs, where a dark stain covered the floorboards, three feet across.

Matt looked down, nodding. "Pool of blood, all right. What time did it happen?"

"Time?" Sir Orizhan frowned; the medieval mind scarcely thought in terms of hours, let alone minutes. "In the middle of the night, my lord. What more can we say?"

Matt raised his voice. "Is there a man of the Watch here?"

"Here, my lord." One of the Merovencians stepped forward. He didn't wear livery, like the soldiers, but only a brassard to show his office.

"How far into your Watch did this happen?"

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"We were almost done, my lord, when a pot-boy came running to summon us. We were in time to see the folk come streaming out of the inn."

"An hour before midnight, then." Matt had set up the duty rosters himself. The first Watch began their shift at dusk, which would have been about seven o'clock in this season. "Where is the body now?"

"We brought it back to the castle, milord," Sir Orizhan said. "We thought his parents would wish it."

"I'm sure they do. And Pargas and Laetri?"

"At the castle also, milord," Sergeant Brock said, "but in the dungeons."

"Of course," Matt said sourly, gazing down at the stain. "But you saw the prince's body. Where was the wound?"

"In his back, my lord." Sir Orizhan's face writhed with disgust, and he spoke with contempt. "It was truly the stroke of a base coward."

"But Pargas fought the prince face-to-face, with only a club."

"Two clubs, milord," Sergeant Brock told him. "Small ones. I fought him myself, till some fool of a Merovencian pulled me away and stabbed at me."

The Merovencian soldiers' faces darkened, and Matt hurried on. "Two small clubs? Why did he only have one when he was standing over the body?"

"Because someone had stabbed his left shoulder, milord."

"You?"

"No, milord," the sergeant said. "He had both clubs when I was torn away from him. Then another brawler came at the prince's back, felling the soldier who warded him there, and I had to leap to guard him from behind until I was laid low in my turn by some other Merovencian bully boy."

"Probably the prince who stabbed Pargas, then." Matt turned away before the sergeant could object, and measured the distance from the stain to the bottom step with his eyes. "Ten feet clear of the stairs, at least. The prince fought a good way into the room."

"He was a decent fighter with a knife, milord." The sergeant's tone was neutral.

"And not very many noblemen are good knife-fighters, hm? Not his first tavern brawl, no doubt. Unfortunately, he made it far enough away from the walls so that virtually anyone could have come at his back."

The room was very quiet.

Into the silence, Sir Orizhan said, "Then anyone here might have struck that blow?"

"Anyone," Matt agreed. "Start asking questions, Sir Knight. You, too, Sergeant. I want to know where everyone was when the prince fell."

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They started asking. Half an hour later Matt had a complete picture of where everyone had been. Each one of them remembered whom he had been fighting, and their stories all checked—except for two men whose opponents had disappeared chasing the fugitive, but Matt was inclined to believe them, so the escapees couldn't have been the murderers. One of the Bretanglian troopers even remembered that he'd been fighting Pargas when Laetri screamed, and that he'd seen her over the pimp's shoulder the whole time. The serving wenches had all been hiding behind the bar, and all remembered each other's presence.

"It would seem that the murderer was the man who went out the window after all, milord," Sir Orizhan said.

"That," Matt agreed, "or somebody's lying. Let's go back to the castle, Sir Orizhan. I want a look at the body before I talk to its father."

"A look at the body? But why?"

"Tell you outside," Matt muttered, men snapped, "Come on, Sergeant. Let's go!" They strode out into the night—and Matt halted, turning to face the two men. "I didn't want to say this where the bystanders could hear—but if the man who went out the window didn't stab the prince with his own hand, and everyone else remembers who they were fighting, there's a very good chance the prince was killed by magic."

The knight stared, face sickening, eyes filling with dread— but Brock's expression turned stone cold. Prince Gaheris' body lay in state in the Great Hall, surrounded by candles and Bretanglian guards. His face and hands had been washed, but the servants couldn't undress him to bathe because of rigor mortis. Sir Orizhan had to do some fancy talking to keep the guards from objecting to Mart's inspection, and Sergeant Brock had to order them away from the casket—all the way to the edges of the room, so they couldn't hear the muttered conversation.

Matt turned the body over and stared at the wound in the back. Doublet and cut alike were stiff with dried blood. He swallowed heavily against nausea and whispered to Sir Orizhan, "You really think a knife did that?"

"Assuredly not!" The knight's face turned gray. Even Sergeant Brock turned pale. It was a huge, gaping, horizontal cut, at least six inches long. The edges were ragged, as though someone had cut in with a saw instead of stabbing.

"What weapon made that?" Sir Orizhan whispered "A sword," Sergeant Brock told him, "or a spearhead. Even then, the murderer must have twisted it and hacked a bit, to make the edge so ragged." Matt turned the prince faceup again. "A lump on the left-hand side of his forehead—Pargas scored once, at least. A few more bruises, but I don't see any blood on this side "

"No," Sir Orizhan agreed. "I have seen sticks hit men hard enough to make them bleed, but nowhere nearly as much as the prince did. The pimp could not have slain him, then, could he?"

"A club doesn't cut into a body too well, no," Matt acknowledged, "and it's hard to hit both the front and the back of a man at the same time." He scanned the body, frowning. "Notice what's missing?"
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Both men stared down, thinking. Then Sir Orizhan said, "His purse!"

"Right." Matt nodded. "Sergeant, send somebody back to the inn to search. Might be the prince really did think he'd been robbed."

"Why else would he have accused her?" Sir Orizhan asked. His face sickened as he realized the answer.

"Right again." Matt nodded. "Gaheris wanted an excuse to beat up on her."

"I assure you, this prince never troubled with such an excuse."

"A real sweetheart," Matt said grimly. "Still, it might be interesting rinding out where that purse is. Send someone, would you, Sergeant?"

"There's no need," Brock said, voice very low. "I watched you fight the sorcerer from the shadows. I wondered why he needed two purses. I thought perhaps one held magical powders."

"Not a bad guess, but wrong this time." Matt nodded with satisfaction. "You've got sharp eyes, Sergeant. So whether or not the sorcerer struck the death blow, he did provide the excuse for the brawl." He stepped away from the corpse. "Okay. I can't put it off any longer. Time to tell his parents." They went out of the Great Hall, but Sir Orizhan said, "I can see you do not believe all you have seen, Lord Wizard."

"Oh, it's believable," Matt told him. "I've seen knives big enough to make a wound like that."

"Short swords, more likely," Sergeant Brock grunted, then stared in surprise at his own words. Matt nodded "Could have been a short sword, like a Reman gladius, yes."

"But you do not believe it," Sir Orizhan pressed.

"No, I don't," Matt told him. "It's much more like the hole a scissor blade would make, or maybe a paring knife, if you stuck it into the back of a straw doll and jabbed it around a little for good measure. It wouldn't even be an inch long, of course, but on the real body…"

"Witchcraft!" Even the toughened sergeant shuddered.

"Or sorcery." Matt nodded. "No way to defend yourself against it, is there? And all three of us know the man who went out the window was a sorcerer."

"Then you must tell the king that his son was slain by one of his own countrymen!" Sir Orizhan exclaimed.

"Yes," Matt said heavily, "and I don't think he's going to like that In fact, I don't think he's going to believe me at all."

"You lie!" King Drustan cried, and Queen Petronille declared, "You seek to shield a man of your own!" Their rage was frightening, but Matt felt a surge of anger at being called a liar. "If I had the man here, you couldn't deny it"

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"If you had him here, aye!" Drustan roared. "Lord Wizard, do you call yourself? When a peasant sorcerer can outdo you in magic? Or did you let him escape in order to shield your country from war?"

"Ask your own man." Matt nodded at Sergeant Brock. "Ask him how I fought."

"He wrought wonders," the sergeant told the king. "It was pure bad luck that he lost, and good luck he lived."

Matt flashed the man a look of surprised gratitude, but Drustan roared, "Bad luck for him, for he'll die in battle on a Bretanglian lance!" He struck Brock backhanded.

"How dare you insult us by saying our son was slain by our own countryman!" Queen Petronille cried, white-faced and trembling.

"There can be no question of peace between our countries now!" Drustan shouted, and turned to Alisande. "We go back to Bretanglia at first light—to gather our armies, and march in vengeance!" He spun to Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock. "You have failed in your duty, knight and soldier! You were set to guard the prince, and he is dead! Do not think to come back to Bretanglia until you have found his murderer, or avenged his death!" He whirled back to Alisande. "Prepare your people for war, Your Majesty!" He made the words an insult. "Prepare for war—and defeat!" Matt stood beside Alisande on the battlements, watching the Bretanglian royal family ride away from Bordestang surrounded by their entourage—knights, soldiers, servants, and ladies-in-waiting. "So the sorcerer gained what he wanted— war."

"Not the sorcerer alone." Alisande gazed after the departing party, saddened and troubled. "They came to seek an excuse for war, Drustan and Petronille both."

Matt stared at her. "You don't think they planned on their son being assassinated!"

"Of course not!" Alisande looked up, shocked that he could even think of such a thing. "They meant to rely on their own tempers and insults to provoke me into declaring war." She turned to look after her erstwhile guests. "Nonetheless, my heart is heavy with their sorrow. I have a son now, and know how Petronille must grieve."

"That heart is too good," Matt said softly.

She looked up and found his eyes doting, and smiled, taking his hand. "You are a greater comfort than you know, husband, and I have need of such reassurance now." She turned to look after the Bretanglians again. "Unpleasant though he may have been, Gaheris was my cousin, for so is his mother, though rather distant kin. I am overcome with guilt that he should have been slain in my capital."

"You couldn't prevent it," Matt assured her, "if someone in their own party was planning it all along, and just waiting for this trip to set that plan into motion."

Alisande turned to him with a frown. "Do you truly think so?"

"I do, but howls for me telling you about it inside? This spring wind is brisk, and a warm fire would be a great comfort, too, just now.”

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Alisande smiled again and laid her arm on top of his. "Let us go down to the solar, by all means.” The huge clerestory windows justified the solar's name, letting the sun bathe the room in early morning light. With a roaring fire to warm them outside and spiced cider to warm them inside, they could relax with Mart's parents and mull over the nights events.

Alisande sat back with a sigh. "I confess it is a relief to have them gone, though that relief will be short-lived."