Murder in LaMut: Legends of the Riftwar: Book II

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘No. It was the sleeping watchman that turned a desire into an opportunity, and the murderer had to be in a position to see that sleeping watchman, and quickly–very quickly; I’ll get to that in a moment–take advantage of that rare opportunity.

  ‘Steven Argent, maybe? He’s in charge of the castle and the entire earldom while Earl Vandros is away, but that doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t seem out of place prowling the hall outside the guest quarters, for any reason, much less waiting for a once-in-a-lifetime chance to find the watchman asleep.

  ‘Baron Viztria was quite right–I know it wasn’t the Swordmaster, and indeed I’m more than slightly gratified that he is the only other man in the room beside myself with a naked blade in his hand.

  ‘No, the killer was one of you barons, residing in the guest wing, somebody whose presence in itself would not have drawn any particular attention to him, simply because he–like the rest of you–belonged there.’ He nodded. ‘In my own profession, I’ve always thought it important to take advantage of surprising opportunities, and in a way, I’ve got to admire how the killer did that. He couldn’t be sure that the sleeping watchman would remain asleep, mind you, so he had to be ready to kill him, too –and quickly, before his outcries could summon anybody, and then disappear back into his own room, only to reappear with the rest of the barons who had gone to bed, apparently every bit as surprised as the rest.’ Pirojil looked up. ‘Visualize it yourself, my lords, as I’ve been spending the afternoon doing. The killer hears Morray in the hall and glances out of the door. He sees the Baron enter the Baroness’s chamber. He ponders his choices. He has the two of them alone and vulnerable. He waits. Later that night he looks out of the door again and he notices that the watchman is asleep. Seizing the moment, he quickly dresses himself–’

  ‘Dresses himself?’

  Pirojil nodded. ‘He can’t stalk across the hall in his nightclothes, after all, not with a knife in one hand and a sword in the other–he might need the sword, after all, to kill the guard quickly on his way back to his room, should the guard awaken or be awakened. If, before the murders, he’s seen in such a strange condition, it’s going to be clear to all that his intentions were bloody, although perhaps not quite clear what those intentions were, and why risk anything prematurely? He’s a vile piece of shit, begging the pardon of all but one of you, but he’s not an idiot.

  ‘So, as I was saying, he dresses himself, and takes the opportunity to go over and open the door to Lady Mondegreen’s room, perhaps having spent a moment listening outside, for sounds of sleep or–well, or for other sounds.

  ‘And then he opens the door, sees them asleep on the bed, and steps inside, then closes the door behind him. From this point on, he’s committed, and while he’s fast with a knife–he’s about to demonstrate that as he stands over their bed, he can’t quite be sure to slit first one throat and then another without the thrashing about of his first victim awakening his second.

  ‘So he draws his sword, and holds it back, the point over, perhaps, the eye of his second victim, ready to run the point of that sword through and into the brain to silence his second victim, if the first one’s death is a little more violent and dramatic than he hopes for.

  ‘But he’s lucky, as well as fast and good at what he does, and his knife is very sharp and his hand very steady, and a few seconds later, blood is fountaining from the throats of both Baron Morray and Lady Mondegreen.

  ‘And now, he’s in a rush, and his heart is pounding, thumping in his chest. He’s done his deed, and he has to get out, and back to his room.

  ‘He blows out the lantern–if somebody has heard something and walks in, he wants that somebody to walk into darkness, and his sword point; besides, he wants the room dark when he opens the door, for the obvious reason–and then he’s back at the door, pulling it open only a crack to see if the watchman is still asleep, which he is.

  ‘So he goes down the corridor, with his sword already drawn–remember, the guard could wake up suddenly, even at his quiet footfalls–and back to his room.’ Pirojil finally looked up. ‘But I’ve left something out, haven’t I?’ he asked, smiling.

  He turned to Baron Langahan. ‘Excuse me, my lord, but would you be so kind as to slide over your swordbelt?’

  Langahan did just that, with no more than the slightest of hesitations, and with the hint of a scowl.

  ‘What are you leaving out, Pirojil?’ Steven Argent asked.

  ‘Why, the knife, my lord,’ Pirojil said, extracting the knife from Langahan’s belt. He held it up. It was a usual sort of belt-knife, its stacked-wood grip fancier than Steven Argent would have preferred, and its single-edged blade gleamed from both polish and oil. ‘When a throat is cut–and I can tell you that I’ve cut a few throats in my time–blood doesn’t just ooze out. It spurts. He would have been lucky if the blood didn’t coat the whole blade, and perhaps his hand as well.

  ‘He could hardly go out into the hall with a blade dripping blood, could he?

  ‘Now, if he wasn’t rushing, he could have spent a few minutes carefully cleaning the knife off–perhaps using the sheet from the bed, or tearing off a piece of the sheet, although that would have made a loud noise.

  ‘But my friend Kethol examined the room very closely, and he reported that there were no bloody rags left–just some spots on the sheet, where, perhaps, he quickly cleaned his blade as well as he could in a few seconds. Did he stand in the light of the oil lamp and clean the blade carefully, thoroughly, being sure to get at all the cracks, then bring the bloody cloth along with him?’ Pirojil shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think that he went across the hall with the knife held behind his back, or along the flat of his arm, either, as that would have indelibly marked his clothes with blood, and with his sword in his right hand, as he crossed the hall. He would want to keep his left hand free.

  ‘I think he simply made two quick swipes on the bedsheet, in the dark, and then sheathed his knife, and later thoroughly–very thoroughly, my lords–cleaned that knife in his own room, down to the last spot of blood, perhaps burning the rags afterwards, or more likely simply using his water pitcher, and pouring the bloody water down the garderobe–or perhaps even drinking it, as disgusting as it sounds, to hide the evidence.

  ‘Blood is so…so messy, my lords.’

  Steven Argent shook his head. ‘But…’

  Pirojil took the knife and began to cut away at its sheath. ‘My apologies, Baron Langahan, for ruining your sheath.’ He spread the leather out. ‘If it had been Baron Langahan, we would have seen signs of the blood here. In fact, if you look at those brown stains there–’

  ‘That’s an old stain,’ Langahan said. ‘Hasn’t everybody at some time put away a knife when it wasn’t clean?’ He shrugged. ‘I can remember once when I was hunting with the Viceroy, years ago, when we took a boar, and–’

  ‘Yes, my lord, it is indeed old blood, or at least old something.’ Pirojil turned to Viztria. ‘I think I’ll ruin your sheath next, my lord. Unless you have some objection?’

  For once, Viztria was speechless, but he simply slid his swordbelt across the table, and Pirojil repeated the process.

  ‘No stains here, my lord. Baron Verheyen next, I think.’

  Verheyen snorted as he did the same, and Pirojil cut his sheath open as he had the others.

  ‘Interesting, Baron Verheyen,’ he said, as he spread the leather for all to see. These stains appear rather…fresh.’ A sneer curled itself across Pirojil’s thick lips. ‘You murdering pig.’

  Verheyen was on his feet, snatching the sword from Folson’s sheath. ‘You lying sack of–’

  ‘Stop right there, Verheyen,’ Steven Argent commanded. ‘You’re under arrest, in the name of the Earl of LaMut.’

  Verheyen shook his head, his face red with rage. ‘I’m innocent,’ he bellowed. ‘I’m not sure what your man is up to, Argent, but I’ll find out after I’ve stuck him a few times!’

  He lunged for Pirojil, who was quic
kly out of his chair and around the table.

  Steven Argent moved between them, and struck the Baron’s rapier aside with his own rapier.

  Pirojil watched the two men confront one another, waiting for an opportunity to bolt for the door. It wasn’t fear that motivated him, but caution, for he had heard Durine’s recounting of the practice bout between Argent and Verheyen and knew the Swordmaster would be fortunate to emerge from this conflict alive. Once to the door, Pirojil would shout for guardsmen to overpower the furious baron.

  The only problem with the plan was that several barons were standing in a knot between Pirojil and the door. To try to move around them would bring him within a thrust of Verheyen’s sword.

  While he pondered his next move, the struggle commenced.

  Pirojil was impressed. He had seen many a fight, from barroom to battlement, and with every sort of blade imaginable, but Baron Verheyen was as fast a swordsman as he had ever seen. Pirojil was certain that had he stood to face the Baron alone, he’d now be dead upon the floor of the Great Hall. He wasn’t even sure he could confront him with Durine and Kethol standing behind him with their swords at the ready.

  Argent and Verheyen were now exchanging blows faster than Pirojil thought possible. The look of concentration on the Swordmaster’s face revealed the fact that he knew himself over-matched. Yet he continued to press on. He might not be quite as fast as the Baron nor as deft with the blade, but he was far more practised, and experience counted for a great deal when death was on the line.

  Back and forth they lunged and parried, yet they hardly moved from their original positions, taking only a step or two in either direction, and Pirojil kept watching for an opportune moment to run to fetch the guards.

  Three high attacks from Verheyen were countered by Argent, who riposted twice and found his opponent ready. Then the Swordmaster launched a seemingly frantic attack of his own, only to be repulsed by the nimble footwork of the Baron.

  Then Pirojil sensed a change in Argent.

  It seemed that the Swordmaster had spotted something that Pirojil hadn’t seen. There was a pattern emerging, and suddenly Pirojil forgot about seeking the guardsmen, instead becoming entranced by the display of swordsmanship before him.

  Both men were drenched in their own perspiration, despite the cold, and the only sound in the room was the stamp of leather boots upon the cold stone floor, the ring of steel upon steel and the heavy breathing of the two combatants. Blow, parry, riposte, parry; the contest wore on.

  Then Pirojil saw it. Argent was laying a trap. Each time the two men crossed swords, the blades lingered in contact a tiny bit longer, with a little more pressure upon the opponent’s blade. Argent almost fell into a pattern, three high strikes and a low strike, lulling Verheyen into studying it for an opportunity. He changed to two strikes, then three again, causing the Baron to hesitate in his riposte.

  Then Argent offered Verheyen the blade. He took a block and pressed forward, and for an instant Verheyen took the blade, resisting the pressure. Then Argent moved left, allowing his blade to fall away and Verheyen found himself over-extended and exposed for just an instant.

  And then Steven Argent was standing over a dead man, and Verheyen’s blood was running down the length of his sword. The Swordmaster looked down at the dead baron then very slowly and very deliberately he produced a handkerchief from his tunic, and cleaned the blade very carefully before putting it back into its scabbard.

  ‘You thought it would turn out this way, Pirojil,’ Argent said.

  The ugly man nodded. ‘It seemed possible. Corner a rat and he’ll fight; and I wanted this rat cornered, my lord. He deserved that. And I’d just as soon I not be known as one who killed a nobleman, no matter what the justification or cause. Baron Verheyen has relatives, and he has some friends, I’m told, and I’m sure that some will blame me as much for exposing him as they will blame him for the murders.’

  ‘So you put me in harm’s way to protect you from retribution?’

  Pirojil shook his head. ‘To tell the truth, my lord, I wasn’t thinking that far down the road.’ He shrugged. ‘As to why, well, in the field, I’ll put myself and my friends up against almost anybody–we’ve done that enough times–but I know I’m no match for a nobleman in a duel, and you were the only man here with a chance to stand against the Baron.’ He looked down at the body on the floor and added, ‘I’ll tell you it doesn’t bother me at all that a murderer met his reward.’

  Lord Viztria looked down at Verheyen’s still form. Blood was soaking into the thick carpet covering the cold stones. ‘But why?’ he asked.

  ‘My lord?’ said Pirojil.

  ‘Why kill Morray and Lady Mondegreen? Morray had agreed to step aside in Verheyen’s favour.’

  Pirojil shrugged. ‘Just because Morray said a thing, doesn’t mean it’s true. Is any agreement made here between the barons binding upon the Earl? Or the Duke of Yabon? Or the King?’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Lord Viztria. ‘But it seemed logical.’

  ‘A combined Mondegreen and Morray makes the most powerful barony in the duchy,’ added Argent. ‘And the very selfless act of stepping aside for the greater good might be just the thing that would cause Earl Vandros to recommend Morray to the Duke as his successor.’

  Pirojil said, ‘Seeming to have no reason to murder a rival, Verheyen now could ensure beyond a doubt Morray would not become again a rival for the earldom. He’s got no motive, so no one thinks he did it.’

  Steven Argent said, ‘It sounds so simple.’

  Pirojil arched an eyebrow. ‘Swordmaster, if I may?’

  ‘May what?’

  ‘Address the barons, once more, for just another moment?’

  Steven Argent nodded. ‘Please.’

  Pirojil turned to the others. ‘I just wanted to thank you for your kind attention, and bid you all farewell. As I said, I’m not entirely sure that some won’t blame me and my friends for exposing the murderer more than the murderer himself, so we’re withdrawing ourselves from the service of the Earl of LaMut, and we shall be on our way in the morning.’

  ‘In the snow?’ said Lord Viztria, with his usual raised eyebrows and sneer.

  ‘Snow melts, my lord Viztria. We’ll manage.’ He turned back to the Swordmaster. ‘May we keep our room in the barracks for the night, my lord? Or should we seek accommodations in town?’

  Steven Argent didn’t understand.

  Why?

  These men had proven their worth, under the most trying of circumstances, and he had been about to offer them permanent commissions, subject to the confirmation of the Earl. Maybe they weren’t exactly what he thought of as officer material, but competence and loyalty should have a reward.

  But, before the barons, with Verheyen lying dead on the floor, he didn’t quite know what to say, so he said nothing, and simply nodded.

  ‘A good day to you all,’ the preposterously ugly man said. Then he turned on the balls of his feet and walked out of the hall.

  He didn’t look back.

  SIXTEEN

  Truth

  It was dark outside.

  But that was outside, and they were, thankfully, inside, and the oil lamps made the room comfortably bright.

  The sounds from the barracks common room were more muted than usual. Pirojil could just make out the sounds of distant conversation over the rattling of dice.

  They gathered around the hearth in their quarters, the bottle of wine from Lady Mondegreen’s room on a side table next to Kethol, who was busying himself, weaving leather thongs in and out of each other across a wooden frame.

  What few possessions they had seemed to have grown in their time in LaMut, and they had had to procure four extra rucksacks from the castle dungeon in order to keep what they didn’t want to throw out. A packhorse would have been good, but Pirojil couldn’t quite see how to get a horse on brezeneden.

  Durine had been sceptical, and was ready to make another run, throwing out some of their collection, bu
t Kethol had quickly improvised a sort of sled from an old door, some extra strips of wood, and a piece of rope, which should be easy enough to pull across the snow, until the snow melted, which it showed every sign of doing quickly.

  A few days of hobbling along on these awkward-looking brezeneden, and then…

  After that, they’d have to procure some horses in the next town, though that might be difficult. Well, if they had to walk all the way to Zun to get mounts, at least they had enough money for it. They could even afford to be a bit picky–

  No, any horses would do. They would have to sell them in Ylith anyway, and men who were about to take ship away–far away, as far away as they could get–were hardly in the best bargaining position. They’d need five horses, most likely…

  Kethol had already finished another set of brezeneden and was working on one more, when there was a knock at the door. It opened without a word being spoken, and Mackin’s improbably broad face peered through.

  ‘Come in,’ Kethol said. ‘We were just talking about you.’

  ‘Milo says we’re going with you,’ he said.

  ‘You’re welcome to leave town with us,’ Durine said slowly, carefully. ‘Although if you are going to come with the three of us, there’re some things we’ll have to get straight–’

  ‘Yeah.’ The dwarf’s grin broadened, and he stretched out his thick hands and cracked his knuckles. ‘Looking forward to it, I am.’

  ‘–by talking it out. We settle things by discussion and vote, the three of us, and not by beating each other up. We save that for when we get paid.’

  Mackin shrugged. ‘Well, we can talk about it. If it doesn’t work out, you three can go your way, and Milo and me, we can go ours. Long as I don’t have to keep calling you “captain”, and saying “yes, sir” all the time, that might happen. Or it might not. You never know.’