The garderobe itself was covered with a wooden seat, and Kethol idly wondered if it was at least theoretically possible for somebody to have made his way up the wall of the keep and into the room that way, through the open bottom of the garderobe.
He lifted up the seat and looked down at the frozen midden heap on the snow below. No, the hole cut through the stone, which permitted the user to dump his wastes below, was barely large enough to admit a child, and certainly not a full-grown man, even if he had been able to climb the side of the wall.
And he wouldn’t have been able to do that without leaving some marks on the ice-slickened outside wall, he decided: the dust that had covered the seat showed that it hadn’t been moved in some time. The nobles would, understandably, given the cold outside, prefer to use one of the thundermugs sitting on the stone floor next to the garderobe, instead, rather than exposing their private parts to the cold air.
It was the wall opposite the fixture to which Ereven drew Kethol’s attention. He pulled back on an old tapestry–faded deer fadedly frolicking in a faded meadow–to reveal a wall of bricks set into the stone, the bricks apparently solidly mortared into place.
‘This was a small cabinet, with a wooden inset in the back, when I was a boy,’ Ereven said, ‘and if you pushed up on the shelf that was here, and pushed on the moulding there,’ he said, touching his fingers to two spots on the bricks, ‘it would open into the back of the wardrobe in the Green Suite.’
Kethol shoved on the bricks, and carefully examined the juncture of wall and ceiling, then of wall and floor. It wasn’t impossible, he guessed, that the whole bricked wall could swing on some hidden hinge–or even some part of it–but a close examination of the mortar revealed none of the hairline cracks that would surely have been there.
‘I can ask permission from Baron Viztria and Baron Langahan for you to examine it from the other side,’ Ereven said. ‘It’s still the wardrobe, but–’
‘We’ll skip asking anybody permission, but I will take a look.’
There was none of the expected protest, either in word or on Ereven’s lined face. He simply nodded, accepting the necessity of it.
And he’d take a close look at the other walls, too. And the wardrobe in Lady Mondegreen’s room; and at the walls behind every tapestry in the hall.
It probably wouldn’t do any good, mind, but at least it was something he could do.
‘You can go back to your duties now,’ Kethol said.
‘Yes, Captain.’ Ereven’s face was impassive as always. ‘Father Kelly has asked me to tell him when he may prepare the bodies for the funerals.’
‘Is that something you’ve done, too?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Ereven said. ‘Helping with it, that is. I wrapped the old earl in his cremation shroud with my own two hands, since you ask.’
Was there a flash of anger behind the flat speech and the expressionless face?
‘Is that something that I should ask of the Swordmaster, or is this part of your…authority, sir?’
Kethol didn’t know, but he didn’t want to admit it. Admitting ignorance was a luxury, right now. Pirojil had said that they had to look and act as if they knew what they were doing, and an honest admission that he didn’t have any real idea where his authority began and ended didn’t seem sensible, any more than making an honest admission that he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was looking for.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But not until sundown, just in case my colleagues need to see what I’ve seen here.’
‘Yes, Captain.’ If Ereven wanted to know what Kethol had seen, or if the two bodies lying on the bed in death had affected him, he made no attempt to ask. Without another word, he turned and left the room, leaving Kethol alone with the dead.
He took a last long look at the Lady Mondegreen, her pale face looking serene in death. How could she feel the pain of the blade yet remain asleep? She should have been lying there with eyes wide in pain, her features contorted with fear, not looking as if she but slumbered.
Kethol wiped at the tears forming in his eyes as he said a silent farewell to the Lady.
Damn, but this dust was getting to be annoying.
FOURTEEN
Plans
The nobles turned to watch.
Milo and the dwarf entered the Great Hall reluctantly, gingerly, with quick side glances at the nobles gathered along the far side, and halted under the archway. They looked for all the world as though they would rather have been anywhere else than here.
Pirojil share that feeling more than a little.
Rising, Pirojil gestured to Baron Viztria to say seated where he was, in the only other occupied chair next to the small hearth, and walked over to where Milo and the dwarf waited, shuffling nervously.
For once, Viztria didn’t complain, although all throughout Pirojil’s interview with him he had been emitting an almost nonstop series of complaints, combined with, as far as Pirojil could tell, no useful information.
Viztria claimed he had spent the entire evening–including dinner, ‘which was adequate, under the circumstances, although the meat had been decidedly overdone, and there wasn’t enough garlic in the world to hide the gamy taste of a boy-lamb that had been slaughtered months past its prime,’ he had observed–in pleasant conversation with the others in the Great Hall. That lasted until the celebration over the mid-evening announcement of Morray and Verheyen’s decision to put their difficulties behind them had led to a great many toasts, and much relief. ‘Despite the inadequate training and supervision of the castle’s bumbling servants that led the thumb-fingered clods always to neglect to properly air a wine before serving it–and never mind the fact that the Earl’s cellars were poorly stocked in the first place, although a gentleman had to make allowances here, out in the middle of nowhere, after all,’ he had added. Viztria then went on to explain to Pirojil that later, in the company of Langahan, he had walked up the stairs to the guest rooms–past the entirely awake guard, and since Viztria now knew that guards in LaMut habitually fell asleep on duty, that failure would surely be of great interest to some in Krondor!–and gone up the provincially uncarpeted stone steps, then down the hall into the suite that he shared with Baron Langahan. Viztria had then proceeded into his own bedroom after using the garderobe for one of its intended purposes and, since a certain impudent breveted captain apparently wanted to know all the details of matters that were none of his concern, Baron Viztria had, indeed, pissed like a racing horse. Then, without any prompting on Pirojil’s part, Viztria added, ‘And if the Captain needed further information, the name “Viztria” is a contraction of an ancient Delkian phrase meaning “dark snake” or “black serpent”, a nickname of the founder of the line, which referred both to the relatively swarthy complexion that I, the present Baron Viztria, have not entirely inherited, and to other, rather more impressive, anatomical characteristics which I most certainly have inherited, thank you very much, which is why I’ve petitioned the Royal Heraldry Guild to add a Black Python to my family’s coat of arms!’
Pirojil nodded and said nothing. After relieving himself, Viztria had gone back into his sleeping chamber and stripped off his clothes quicker than a fifteen-year-old nobleman’s daughter from Rillanon could shuck her first ballgown in the back seat of a closed carriage, and was fast asleep before his head hit the pillow, and if there were no further insulting questions, he would just as soon let the Captain get on to insulting somebody else…
Pirojil found himself relieved to leave Viztria behind him, and joined Milo and the dwarf, beckoning them to follow him into an alcove off the Great Hall. The alcove contained a table which was used by servants when the Earl held a gala in the hall, but currently it was empty.
‘You sent for us, Captain?’ Milo asked, as though there was any question of it.
‘If he didn’t, there’s a regular who’s going to be missing a few teeth,’ Mackin said.
‘Yes, I sent for you,’ Pirojil said as he leaned back against the table. �
��I’ve got until noon to finish questioning the nobles–’
‘About the murder?’ asked the dwarf.
‘No, about their preference in linen and flowers.’ Milo shut his companion up with a quick slap to the back of the head.
Mackin was about to object to the rude treatment, when Pirojil said, ‘Yes, about the murder. You’ve heard?’
‘Shit, captain,’ Mackin said, ‘everybody has heard, including those poor bastards out marching in the snow, from what I was hearing as Kelly and his men were chivvying one bunch out of the gates this morning.’
Milo nodded. ‘Yeah. We’ve even heard that you and the other two have been put in charge of finding out who did the two of them.’ His smile seemed almost genuine. ‘Better you than me, eh?’
‘Yes, you’ve heard right.’
‘Well, it seems to me that you’d better come up with the killer quickly, because the Morrays already have their candidate, and the Verheyens are looking halfway between scared shitless and furious.’ He rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together. ‘And some of the others have been able to add one dead lady and one dead bursar, and start worrying about whether our noble employers are going to decide that it’s easier to kill the help than pay it off.’
Pirojil held up a hand. ‘You can relax about that,’ he said. ‘It’s being seen to.’
An officer had to be able to lie to the men, and tell them everything was fine. How it was being handled and by whom wasn’t what Pirojil was trying to concentrate on at the moment, although it would be handy if Kethol happened to find the magical pass-phrase to the strongroom in Baron Morray’s suite of rooms. The Earl of LaMut and his predecessor hadn’t been fools, and would surely have allowed for the possibility of all of the few possessors of that secret being killed, and put in place some scheme to deal with that eventuality.
Pirojil liked his own theory about the pass-phrase being hidden somewhere in Baron Morray’s rooms, although he probably wouldn’t have known what it was if he was looking right at it, and wouldn’t have wanted to test it out, even if he was pretty sure that he had the right one.
It was likely that the Swordmaster would know where it was, or at least know how to get to it, but it was even more likely that Steven Argent would very much not appreciate being nagged about such–to him–trivial matters as paying the men, not at the moment.
And he would have had a point.
Pirojil turned to the dwarf. ‘Mackin, what I want you to do is get the captains together–all of them–and get a moment-by-moment description of everything they did last evening.’
‘Can’t do it.’ Mackin shook his head. ‘Four of them are out with the marchers.’
‘Then get all the rest, on my authority–any who object, send them straight to the Swordmaster. I think that’ll convince them to behave. They can meet you down in the dungeon. Tom Garnett is busy keeping an eye on Erlic, and I’d like them all there.’
‘Giving orders to captains, eh?’ the dwarf smiled too broadly. ‘I could get used to that.’
‘Better not.’ Milo cocked his head to one side. ‘And for me?’
‘Just a moment. Mackin, why are you still just standing there?’
The dwarf gave Pirojil a long look that as much as shouted that they’d discuss this later, privately, and that Pirojil wouldn’t much like the form or results of the discussion. Pirojil had heard enough empty threats to not react. Mackin shrugged, then stalked away.
There was an idea flittering around the back of Pirojil’s mind, but first things first.
‘Well?’ Milo asked, when the dwarf had gone.
‘Can Mackin handle the captains alone?’
‘Hell if I know.’ Milo shook his head. ‘This isn’t the sort of thing that he knows anything about, Pirojil. That goes for me, too, and–’
‘And it goes for me, and Durine and Kethol, as well, and Steven Argent has given us about as much choice as I’m giving you.’
Milo smiled. ‘Which is none.’
‘You have a keen eye for the obvious. For one thing, you can go after Mackin and get him started with the captains, and make sure he doesn’t start a fight! Get them talking about their activities last night. When you think he’s got the hang of it, I want you to get back up here and help me with the nobles–see if you can get anything useful out of Viztria; I didn’t.’
The mercenary’s mouth twitched. ‘Very well. Not that I know what to ask about.’
‘You think I do?’
Milo smiled. ‘One can always hope.’ The smile thinned. ‘You said there was one thing. Which suggests that there’s another.’
Pirojil nodded. ‘I…I have a question to ask you.’
‘I don’t know as I like the hesitation. You’ve not been so shy, of late.’
‘I’ll be blunt, then: what are you wanted for?’
Milo’s face went totally blank. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do. I think you’ve got a price on your head, and a local one, and I want to know what it’s for.’
He sniffed. ‘It wouldn’t be for murder, that I can tell you. If there were such a thing as a price on my head, here or anywhere else. Which there isn’t.’
‘Very well: there’s no price on your head here, and I promise to give you fair warning when I next see the Constable–who, by the way, is presumably still snowed in in Kernat Village. But if there was such a thing, what might it be for?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ Milo shrugged. ‘But if I had to guess about how somebody else might have gotten himself in such a…predicament…’
Pirojil nodded. ‘Of course. Somebody else.’
‘Well, it might be that this somebody else had a different, er, profession, when he was younger and more foolish. One that paid a damn sight better than soldiering, at that–thievery, say. Maybe somebody got out of town, just in time, some years ago, having to leave too quickly to take the evidence with him. And maybe he found that his profession paid just as well in other places, too, and picked up a few other tricks of another trade, along the way. It could happen.’
‘Yes, it could.’ Pirojil nodded. ‘But why would he ever come back?’
‘I don’t know.’ Milo’s shrug was too casual. ‘Probably he wouldn’t come back. I know that I wouldn’t.’
‘But we’re not talking about you; we’re talking about this other fellow.’
‘Well…maybe when the war broke out, just maybe he would remember that he’d had a home, and a homeland, once.’ Milo swallowed hard, although his calm expression never changed. ‘Maybe he remembered those things, even though it was long ago, and just possibly he might want to, oh, kill one, or two, or maybe even a few dozen of the bastards that had invaded his home and his homeland.
‘But maybe he couldn’t quite just show up and enlist in the regulars, and find himself garrisoning the very town that he had left so…hurriedly.’
‘No, I can see that he wouldn’t be able to do that.’
Milo’s eyes went all vague and unfocussed. ‘But still, he might really want to do something about the Tsurani invasion, even if he couldn’t do much–after all, he was just one man, and the one thing he was really good at couldn’t do a damn thing to help the war effort.’ He shrugged again. ‘But I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘Of course not,’ Pirojil said. ‘Not that it would matter much, given that the Constable is out of town, and there’s probably nobody like that in LaMut, anyway.’
‘I hoped you’d see it that way, Captain,’ Milo said with more threat than hope in his voice.
‘This non-existent person–I wonder which baron might he have been fealty-bound to…not to Baron Morray, or to any other baron, I’d hope?’
Milo shook his head. ‘None, I’d guess, if I had to guess–I’d think of this fellow as a townsman, born and raised in LaMut or a nearby town, and not beholden to any baron.’ He looked up at Pirojil. ‘No more so than you or me, eh?’
Pirojil nodded. ‘I’d imagin
e so. You’d better go help Mackin gather the captains and get him started with them, then I’ll want you back up here to see what you can get out of Viztria while I take on Langahan.’
‘That sounds like more fun than talking about somebody else, eh?’ Milo brightened. ‘The dungeon, you say,’ he said, his mouth twitching. ‘I’ve never much cared for jails, for some reason or other, but this time, I’ll be on the right side of the bars, I suppose. You think that the captains will know anything useful?’
‘Nah.’ Pirojil shook his head. ‘I very much doubt it, and even if they did, they’d be no more likely to tell me than to tell you. But you never know–and I might have something else for you to do, later on.’
‘You know…’ Milo sighed. ‘I was afraid you were going to say that.’
Durine caught up with Kethol in what had been Baron Morray’s suite.
His desk in the sitting room here might have been the twin of the one in the dungeon. The books stacked on it looked to be the same ones that Durine had seen sitting on the Baron’s desk downstairs–they probably were the same ones, come to think of it; it was unlikely that the Baron maintained two sets of books–and they were stacked in the same position at the front right corner.
Durine didn’t think that the pen and mottled green inkwell had been carried up from the dungeon, and they, too, were in precisely the same place as their counterparts below, and either the finely embossed glass-and-brass oil lamp was identical to the one that stood on the desk in that small office outside the strongroom, or it had been brought up here, and the first seemed much more likely. Even the straight-backed wooden chair was identical.
Durine nodded. Baron Morray had liked things his own precise way, and it made sense that he would want his working environment to be identical in the dungeon and his suite. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that he had, as usual, got his way.
In the end, though, had he got his way? Had he really been willing to trade his chance at the earldom for the certainty of Lady Mondegreen?
Murder in LaMut: Legends of the Riftwar: Book II Page 27
