GUNNE RUNNER
Roger E. Moore
It would be a grand night in Waterdeep. An old friend, the Yellow Mage, had invited me over for First Tenday dinner; he'd do all the cooking, and he was a master. I knew from experience this was also his chance to show off his latest toy, if he had one, so I made sure I wore something bulletproof but comfortable. No sense in my spoiling the evening by dying unexpectedly.
I needed dependable full-body protection instead of a metal chest plate or displacer cape, so I poked through my ring box until I found my Unfailing Missile Deflector of Turmish. It was my special prize, a little gold band that could turn aside anything short of a flying tree trunk. Even better, it was subtle and wouldn't offend the Yellow Mage. I didn't want him to think I didn't implicitly trust his handling of smoke-powder weapons, never mind that incident three months ago when he blew his priceless Shou Lung clock into little blue glass shards with a Gond-gunne. The bullet missed me by three feet at most. We all make mistakes.
The Yellow Mage's given name at birth was Greathog Snorrish, so I readily understood why he never told anyone else in town about it. He apprenticed late in life, the moment he came through Waterdeep's gates, and could now toss only a pair of spells a day. Still, he was a wizard, and that, for him, was what counted.
Minor pretensions aside, Snorri was really just a kid at heart, which was why everyone in the North Ward of Waterdeep who knew him liked him. He was a big puppy, into everything and always excited at his latest find. A sloppy dresser, yes, and not much of a wizard, but he could cook, he told the best stories, and he had a great laugh. You can understand how intent I was at getting to his place on time that evening, and you can understand, too, why the world just wasn't the same when I found out he had been murdered.
It was an hour before twilight when I arrived at his street, but I could see fine; I had light-enhancing lenses in my eyes. I rounded the stone-paved corner onto Saerdoun Street, clutching a gift bottle of Dryad's Promise, then saw the knot of townsfolk outside Snorri's doorway. They were peeking through the shutters into his home when they weren't talking among themselves in hushed tones. Some of the gawkers glanced at me, then turned away, not wishing to stare at a stranger. Two of the onlookers, though, seemed to recognize me from previous visits. As I came up, they nervously stepped back and grew silent.
Something bad had happened. I knew it instantly. I clutched the brown wine bottle like a good-luck charm. Maybe things will be fine anyway, I thought. Snorri and I will have dinner, tell our tales, pour a few goblets, trade spells The little crowd fell back from the Yellow Mage's door as it opened. Someone inside came out. An old woman gasped and put a hand over her heart.
A Waterdhavian watchman carefully stepped out, his green cloak muffling the clinking of his golden armor. He held the handles of a stretcher with a body on it. Someone had tossed Snorri's hall rug over the body, but the corpse's right hand had fallen down from under the rug, and it had the bright topaz ring of the Yellow Mage on the middle finger, just where Snorri always wore it.
Someone else could be wearing his ring, I thought dumbly, stopping. Snorri could just be drunk. It could be his twin, if he had a twin. If he was really hurt, then I stepped forward. "Your pardon," I mumbled to the watchmen. My chest was tight, and I barely got the words out. The constables saw me and hesitated, eyeing me for trouble. I pointed to the shape under the hall rug and tried to frame a sentence.
The watchman at the figure's feet understood and simply shrugged. "Take a look," he said tiredly.
I reached down with my free hand and pulled the hall rug from the body's face. I had the idea that none of this was really happening, so I thought I could come away unscathed.
I had a moment of trouble recognizing the Yellow Mage, partly because he was so expressionless and still, and partly because so much rust-colored blood was caked over his lower face. Most of it had come out of his mouth and nose. His blue eyes were open wide, dull and glazed in the way of all dead people.
I pulled the rug back farther. Streaks of blood were flung across Snorri's neck and upper chest. His yellow shirt was soaked in red. In the middle of his chest was a bloody hole the size of my thumbnail, like a little red-brown volcano crater. It punched through his sternum and probably went all the way through the rest of him. Bits of pale bone stuck out within it.
I stared at my dead friend Snorri for maybe a minute, maybe five, my head swelling with mad plans to bring him back to life. Money, I thought; sure, I could get money, lots of it, then a priest, and all would be fine. Haifa dozen local temples would be glad to raise the dead for cash.
The constables were very patient. Perhaps they could tell that I was a wizard, and so were inclined to humor me.
"I'm sorry," said a watchman at my left elbow. I started; I hadn't noticed her before. The gray-eyed elf grimaced and brushed a lock of red hair from her face, then went on. "We were able to summon a Dawn Priest of Lathander who was nearby, but when the priest attempted to restore him to life, the spell did not take. I am truly sorry."
I blinked at her, looked down at Snorri, and realized what she had just told me. The spell did not take. Snorri was staying just as he was. He was gone.
Suddenly I didn't need to look anymore. I gently pulled the rug back over my friend's quiet face, tucked him in, and whispered good-bye. The elven watchman nodded to the others, then the three made their way off toward the guard post at Saerdoun and Whaelgond, only a dozen houses up the street.
I stood stupidly, not knowing what to do next. I'd seen a few dead men when I'd been with the city guard a decade ago. I could tell that Snorri had been dead only a few hours, maybe six at most. I'd spent most of the afternoon preparing a security report for a client in the Castle Ward who constantly worried about thieves breaking into his ugly little mansion. During what point in my writing had Snorri died? How did it happen? I couldn't figure what that ghastly hole in his chest had resulted from; it wasn't a knife wound, and-oh, of course. His latest toy, or one of the older ones. He'd screwed up and shot himself. Snorri, I thought, you dumb bastard, you and those damned smoke-powder toys of yours.
The watchmen had pulled Snorri's front door shut, but it had opened a bit. I looked through the dark doorway into the old-style plaster-and-timber home. Without thinking about it, I walked over to the doorway and went inside. I closed the door after me but did not lock it. I saw no need.
Snorri's home was a nice but unexciting one-story, cramped and cluttered inside, but still pleasant-if you were an average guy. A little kitchen, a privy, a tiny bedroom with only a floor mat and quilt, a stuffy web-filled attic, and a living room the size of the rest of the ground floor put together. Snorri was no decorator, either: a half-dozen badly stuffed fish mounted on the living-room walls, rickety chairs held together by leather thongs, three round tables with cracked legs, some filthy rugs, and a dozen huge cabinets and shelves to hold all of the collectibles he'd gathered. The perfect home for the obsessed, confirmed bachelor.
The place smelled bad as I went in. There was roast boar in the air, coming from the kitchen, but it mingled with the stink of dead, stale blood. I remembered the latter odor from the old days. The air even tasted bad, and I swallowed to keep my stomach down.
I looked away from the line of mounted fish and noticed a spot of cracked plaster on the wall between two shelf cases. I moved closer to get a better view, but looked down just in time to avoid the wide, dark pool on the floor and the Gondgunne that lay in the middle of it. The Gond-gunne, no doubt, with which he'd carelessly shot himself.
"Mystra damn you, Snorri," I muttered, shocked at my sudden heat. "Mystra damn you. You knew better."
"No one heard a thing, you know," said a voice behind me. I barely kept myself from whirling around, instead extending my senses to see if I was in trouble. The voice had a youthful but professional tone to it. A watch officer, likely.
"Nothing at all?" I said without looking around, as if commenting on the weather.
; "Not a sound. Not even us, and our post is just a stone's toss up the street. Curious, I think." The speaker paused, perhaps sizing me up. "If you were a friend of this gentleman, you have my sorrow and sympathy. Nonetheless, I ask that you please do not touch anything until we've completed our investigation."
His condolences lacked something-a sense of heart, I thought. He was unmoved, disinterested. I calmly turned around. A short, lithe figure in gold chain mail and green cloth stood idly by the now-open front door. A three-foot metal watchman's rod hung lightly in the gloved fingers of his right hand. His curly black hair was the color of his high boots.
A halfling watch captain. A tall halfling, though. He came up to my sternum.
"My friend's house," I said. "We were going to have dinner."
"And your name is…" said the halfling.
"Formathio," I said. "Formathio, of Rivon Street."
"I thought I recognized you," the halfling said, nodding slightly. "You gave a talk for the watch officers last year on illusions and contraband. Your advice came in handy." He glanced past me at the Gondgunne on the floor. "Will you assist me in resolving this sad matter?"
I realized I was still holding the bottle of Dryad's Promise. I set it down by the wall beside me. "Of course," I replied. Of course I would.
"You must forgive my manner as we proceed," the half-ling said as he abruptly walked over and passed by me with a measured tread, his eyes scanning the darkening room. It occurred to me that he, like me, was having no trouble seeing in the poor light. "I never mean to be rude, but I wish to get to the heart of a problem as swiftly as possible." He suddenly looked up at me, chin high. "I am Civilar Ardrum, by the way."
He looked away again before I could respond. "Tell me about your friend, the Yellow Mage," he said, looking at the bloodstained floor and Gondgunne.
I collected my scattered thoughts. "I met him five years ago, when he came to Waterdeep from the south, from Lantan. I did a security check for him, of this house, and we became friends. We got together every so often to talk over things, to trade gossip about the order, trade spells and-"
"The Order of Magists."
"Yes, Magists and Protectors. He was… Snorri was…"
My thoughts came to a dead end. It hit me. I'd just said was. Snorri was really dead. For good. Forever.
Strange, I thought in my shock, that I have no intention of crying. How odd of me, and sad. My best friend is dead, and no one cries for him. I breathed the knowledge in, over and over again.
I don't know how long I was lost like that. When I looked up, Civilar Ardrum was eyeing me curiously. The room was almost completely dark.
"We should have light, if it will not bother you," he said. With a last look at me, he reached down and pulled open a pouch on his belt. A moment later, bright light spilled out of the pouch across the room. He lifted an object like a candle on a stand and placed it on a nearby shelf beside a brass paperweight. Clean white light streamed from the top of the short stick.
"Better," said the civilar. He pulled off his gloves, tucking them into his belt. "We have much to do and little time. I believe that the Yellow Mage's murderer may be about to flee the city, if he has not already done so. If you have any powers to aid our investigation, please tell me now, and let us begin our work."
"Murderer?" I repeated. I was doubly stunned. "His murderer?"
"Did I not say that no one heard any sound from this place?" The halfling was clearly irritated. "Yet he lay, clearly shot by an explosive projectile weapon. A girl selling scent packets found his door ajar and looked in, summoning aid. Five washerwomen gossiped outside not two doors from here for half a day and heard no sound of struggle, no explosion, nothing at all. As silent as a tomb, one said of this place. Yet the Yellow Mage died not earlier than noon. No wizard leaves his house door open and unlocked, even on the hottest day on the safest street. Do you?"
I opened my mouth-and closed it. "No, never," I said. Inside, I was still thinking murderer.
The halfling officer nodded with slight satisfaction. His manner was oddly comforting even if he was as empa-thetic as a stone. I looked around at the shelves, the furniture, the fish on the wall. A murderer had been here. "I received my training in the college of illusion," I said automatically, like a golem. "I worked for the watch ten years ago, then apprenticed myself and set up my own security-counseling business." I thought, then said, "To answer your earlier question, I believe I do have talents to lend you."
"Good." Civilar Ardrum knelt down to look at the Gond-gunne. He put his watchman's rod on the floor beside him, then pulled a small bundle from his pouch, unwrapped another magical light stick, and set it on a tabletop to his right. White light and doubled shadows filled the room. "You said you were once a thief, Formathio. When you gave your lecture last year."
"Yes." I added nothing, continuing to scan Snorri's jumbled possessions for missing or out-of-place items. I greatly disliked talking about the mistakes of my youth and how I'd paid for them. "The'knowledge has since helped me greatly in my business."
"So I would imagine. What were you hiding for your friend?"
I stopped and turned to the civilar. He was still examining the Gondgunne, though he had not yet touched it. "What?" I shot at him.
The halfling snorted impatiently as he looked up. "Any secret you hold keeps us from finding the murderer. I would think you would want justice and vengeance done as quickly as possible, and so send your friend Greathog Snorrish on to a peaceful rest."
Ardrum's remarks awoke a rage within me. Who was he, the little snot, to tell me that I… what?
"He told you his name?" My rage burned out in an instant, snuffed by yet another shock. "He never told anyone-"
And a new truth dawned.
Civilar Ardrum's lips pressed into a flat line. He looked up at me without blinking. He'd said too much, and he knew it.
"He worked for you," I breathed. "He was a watch-wizard. A secret watch-wizard." I understood now how Snorri always had ready gold for the best wines and foods, though he had so few spells and so little business from the order for retail spellcasting. But why had he never said anything to me about his work?
Ardrum looked down at the Gondgunne once more and was silent for a while. "He was very valuable to us," he said at last, without inflection. "He kept an eye and ear on various persons and groups, and he reported to the watch what he saw and heard. He was reliable in the extreme, always eager to serve, with a tremendous memory. He reported directly to me."
I felt I was losing my grip on the real world. I almost became dizzy. "Snorri was an informer? Who was he spying on? What did-"
"Formathio, I believe I asked you a question," Ardrum interrupted. "You helped him hide something. I must know what it was and where it is now. Answer me, please." The "please" was shod in iron.
I stared down at the watch captain, then turned toward the line of stuffed fish on the wall. I raised a hand toward them without warning and intoned a handful of words quickly, gesturing as if brushing away a fly.
The images offish faded away like blown fog. In place of each was an apparatus of wood and metal, most slightly shorter than my forearm from elbow to fingertips. They rested on hooks and struts on the wooden plaques that had once held dead carp, greenthroats, and crownfish.
It was Snorri's toy collection.
Though I had heard them called arquebuses, cavilers, or other things, Snorri called them gunnes or Gondgunnes. He acquired them from various specialty traders in his old country, Lantan. He thought the word "gunne" was a recent corruption of the name of Gond, the Lantanna deity called Wondermaker or Wonderbringer by the faithful. Gond oversaw inventions, crafts, and new things, and the inventive Lantanna had recently discovered the fine art of enchanting smoke powder and making "fiery arms" that spewed out small lead or iron bullets with outrageously loud reports. It was a magic that made my insides curdle, a weird and subtly frightening thing that simply fascinated Snorri.
Gunnesmithing w
as a holy thing in Lantan, Snorri had once told me. Thanks to novelty dealers and preaching Gondsmen doubling as religious merchants, gunnes were now showing up everywhere in civilized Faerun. At least, that's what was said by some of my other wizard friends, who made their opinions on this clear by the way they grimaced and spat on the ground when the topic came up.
"Ah," Civilar Ardrum breathed, rising to his feet to stare at the gunne collection. "Excellent. Clever of you. Three, four, five, six, seven-the old ones are here." He swung about, saw Snorri's work desk in a far corner of the room, and stalked over to it at once. He reached down suddenly and drew his dagger, then used the steel tip to lift the scattered papers and scrolls stacked there. He flipped one stack aside and revealed yet another wooden plaque with mountings for another gunne-but no gunne on it.
I heard the civilar exhale from across the room. His face worked briefly as if he were angry. Then he used the dagger tip to carefully lift the plaque and turn it over.
Something was written on the back. I could see the shifting letters in the light, almost legible.
"Allow me," I said, coming over. Almost by reflex, I pulled a little prism from my breast pocket and began the words of the first spell every wizard learns. As I finished, the shifting letters cleared and fell into place.
" 'Received from Gulner at the market,' " I read, " 'two doors west of the Singing Sword, the ninth of Kythorn, Year of-'"
"He had it, then," Ardrum interrupted. "He sent a message this morning that he had made another purchase, but he had picked up the wrong package. He wanted to examine it and get the opinion of a friend"-Ardrum glanced at me-"before bringing it to the watch station tomorrow morning. He said the device was a new type. He was quite excited about it." Then a new thought dawned, and Ardrum spun about to stare again at the gunne-the eighth one in the room-in the blood pool.
"He was spying on gunne traders? Are you saying that he was killed because he picked up the wrong trinket at a store?"
The tall halfling restrained himself from lunging across the room for the pistol. Instead, he said nothing for perhaps a minute, staring across the room as if hooked by my words. When he spoke, his tone had changed. "These are not trinkets," he said softly. "They are not toys. These are weapons, Formathio, clever ones that are turning up all over. They are meant to kill things-beasts, monsters, people. Anyone can use them. They punch through armor like a bolt through rotted cloth. They can be raised, aimed, and fired in a heartbeat. One little ball spit from the mouth of a gunne can drop an ogre if it hits just right. Any dullard with a gunne, a pocket of fishing sinkers, and a pouch of smoke powder could cut down a brace of knights, a king, or an arch-wizard." v
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