Murder in Halruaa (forgotten realms)

by Richard Meyers

  Berridge Lymwich turned from the railing to see that no passengers were considering anything as rude as getting skysick or as foolish as trying to disembark. After checking for several moments, she seemed satisfied that all of Blade’s suspects were present and accounted for.

  Gheevy Wotfirr gave Berridge Lymwich a meaningful look as he passed. The halfling then slipped between the burly Azzo Schreders and the shapely Sheyrhen Karkober at the port bow. The inquisitrix looked down the deck to see that the stooped, jowly Matthaunin Witterstaet stood near Dearlyn Ambersong, both of whom were watched over by the gaunt Asche Hartov, who lived up to his name by appearing positively ashen.

  Even though they all acted reluctant to participate in this journey, they wouldn’t have missed the liftoff for, well, all the electrum in Zoundar, Lymwich thought.

  At that moment, the Verity started to float skyward.

  Renwick Scottpeter handled the carved cylinders like a musical instrument, allowing the levitation fields to be activated at just the right calibration. The liftoff of the big ship never failed to thrill her as it launched into the sea of the sky. She had labored long and vigorously to become a skyship captain, then trained the most capable, prepared, and resolute crew in the realm.

  On the bow of the great ship was a beautiful figurehead, shaped by Minsha Tyrpanninq, Talathgard’s finest sculptor. It was an interpretation of Mystra in flight, created entirely of electrum. The goddess’s serene, smiling face looked up at the clouds, and her gown-swathed figure seemed to draw the ship irrevocably up toward the heavens. The Verity lifted forty yards from the ground, then slowly started a drifting turn to the northwest.

  Lymwich turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes. She tried to feel the powerful magic emanations that would draw the ship unerringly toward Mount Talath, but a voice broke her concentration.

  “Tend to your passengers,” she heard a melodic voice say. Lymwich opened her eyes to see the disapproving gaze of Mystra Superior Wendchrix Turzihubbard, her direct superior and the principal authority at the Lallor Mystran Inquisitrix Castle. “Do not concern yourself with the flight,” the tall, commanding woman in the regal robes said. ‘That is what I, and the others guarding the cargo below, are here for.”

  Her words reminded Lymwich once again that she was not only on this boat in a security capacity but also as a prime suspect

  “Mark two-five-zero-zero!” the bowman cried, his call being echoed until it reached the captain. “Mark-two-five-zero-zero!” she responded, moving the carved cylinder slightly so the climb was less steep. The heavy ship seemed to move along the calm air currents like a soap bubble, rising in small, smooth fits and starts.

  “Mark three-zero-zero-zero!” cried the bowman.

  “Mark three-zero-zero-zero!” cried the aftwoman.

  “Lock on three-zero-zero-zero!” Scottpeter called. She expertly moved the cylinders until the ship leveled off. Dearlyn watched the captain enviously, thinking that her passion for her work rivaled that of the finest musician. Renwick played the levitation fields of the ship as if she were a conductor directing a symphony.

  Dearlyn drank in the view of the skies above and the ground below. If she raised her head and ignored the handsome, shining deck, she could almost believe that she herself was flying. Then she felt a chill from the northwest and quickly hugged her cloak around her.

  Dearlyn stepped down the ladderlike steps to the main deck, where she saw Azzo Schreders with his arm around a shivering Sheyrhen Karkober, while Matthaunin and Asche bundled up their own coats around their throats. Suddenly the three masts grew dark red, and the need to fight the chill was eliminated. Heat magically emanated from the pillars, extending to encompass the entire deck space.

  “Navigator!” Scottpeter called from her post.

  “Aye, Captain,” the female elf answered through an open window behind Renwick.

  “Course verified?”

  “Course verified, ma’am. Two hundred and fifty miles northwest on an exact line of fifty-four degrees.”

  “Excellent. Inquisitrix Lymwich?” Scottpeter called.

  “Here, Captain!” Berridge shouted back, resisting an urge to sneak a look at her superior’s reaction.

  “We have reached our cruising altitude. The Verity is at your disposal. Please be kind enough to prepare your passengers.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Berridge turned toward the others. “All right, everyone gather around the center mast. The great Darlington Blade requests your attention.”

  The passengers made their way, some more reluctantly than others, to the area around the central pillar, around whose base was carved a visual history of the ship. Sheyrhen, in particular, marveled at depictions of flying dragons, great storms, and hordes of sky pirates. She turned only when she heard the cabin door behind them slam open. She turned to see what everyone else was already staring at.

  Pryce Covington stood at the guidance rod of the ship, dressed in incredibly splendid robes of red and black. Shining from his breast was the Ambersong clasp that marked him as the great Darlington Blade. Completing the picture was the huge, leatherbound book he held in one arm. He stood before them, looking toward their destination as the clouds fittingly darkened overhead.

  He opened his mouth and spoke.

  “Excuse me for a second, would you?” He ran to close the heavy cabin door. “I wasn’t prepared for the wind up here,” he apologized to Scottpeter.

  The captain laughed quietly. “The wind has a tendency to be rather strong at these heights,” she informed him.

  Pryce walked quickly back to the banister overlooking the main deck. He placed the spine of the book on the polished railing. ” ‘When you eliminate the impossible,” he called to them, “whatever is left… no matter how improbable… has to be the truth.’” Pryce looked up. “This was the teaching that my master lived by.” For effect, he let the book fall to the deck with a bang that seemed to echo beyond the gathering clouds.

  “But my master is dead,” he told them. ‘You have known for half a day what I knew even before I set foot in Lallor.” They stood and stared at him, waiting for the next revelation. ‘You had never seen me before,” Pryce continued, leaving the book near the captain and beginning to descend the ladderlike steps to the main deck, “and you never would have seen me at all had my teacher not been murdered. The reasonthe only reasonthat I came to Lallor was to find the killer.”

  He looked from one face to the next, registering their expressions of stupefaction, regret, concern, and recrimination. He took his first step among them. “Does this news surprise you?” he asked, putting his arms out wide. ‘You all know my reputation: I’m an adventurer. What do I need of an exclusive land of leisure?”

  ‘Youyou knew all along?” Lymwich sputtered.

  He turned to look directly at her. “I found his body by a tree when I arrived from the north,” he said evenly, refusing to even hazard a glance in Gheevy’s direction. “Next to the corpse of Gamor Turkal… hanged by the neck from the curve of the Mark of the Question.”

  That elicited an audible gasp from the thicket of suspects. Pryce set the scene for them, letting Geerling become the second corpse. It was the only way to feel his way through this murderous maze without revealing his actual identity.

  “Oh, my deities!” Azzo breathed when Pryce had finished. “Murder? Here in Lallor?” He almost jumped when Covington suddenly lanced a forefinger at him.

  “Exactly!” Covington cried. “Murder? In Halruaa? Incredible! Inconceivable. Absurd! What a heartless, wicked, brainless thing to do!” He turned slowly in a full circle, seemingly trying to comprehend the concept. “This is a community of the most successful, most powerful wizards in the nation! Who in his right mind would murder someone here?

  “And not just anyone,” Pryce continued, waggling his forefinger. “A primary mage, no less, and his assistant. The assistant?” Pryce shrugged. “Not really a problem. But why hang him at the Question Tree, of all places? Why not j
ust… well… club him and feed him to the jackals in the hills?” As he turned, he couldn’t help seeing Gheevy cringe. He didn’t let it faze him. If he was to survive this thing, there had to be as much truth as possible mixed in with the rest.

  “But a primary mage? What could have possibly convinced an individual to take such a risk? And why leave him at one of the most recognizable landmarks in the area?” He looked into each face for an answer but found none. He turned toward the upper deck. “Captain Scottpeter! Do you know the most important thing to trust in a murder investigation?”

  Scottpeter reacted as if Pryce were speaking ancient script, but she understood nevertheless. “No, Mr. Blade,” she called back. “I’m happy to tell you that I have never required the knowledge.” She glanced at her navigator, who had come out to witness this unique experience. “And I hope to the cloud dragons that I never will,” she whispered to her.

  Pryce turned from the captain to the others, moving slowly among them. “In a murder investigation, you can’t trust your friends…” He looked pointedly at Asche Hartov. “You can’t trust your teachers…” He looked at Matthaunin. “You can’t trust the authorities… ” He looked at Lymwich. “You can’t trust your sisters…” He looked at Dearlyn. “You can’t even trust a lover.” He let his last glance rest on Sheyrhen before he walked past them all and talked idly to the sky.

  “There is only one thing you can trust,” he said. “M.O.M.”

  ‘Touryour mother?” Lymwich stammered incredulously.

  “No,” Pryce corrected, walking back to them and counting on three fingers as he spoke. “Means. Opportunity. Motive. M.O.M.” Before they could react to this, Pryce continued. “Means. Who had the means to kill Gamor Turkal?” He looked at them. “Anyone of you, I would imagine. He was hanging by his neck from the branch of a tree. He was certainly not a heavy man. Once he was unconscious, I imagine that any one of you could have accomplished the deed.”

  Each looked suspiciously at the others until Pryce finally let them off the hook. “Ah, but who had the means to kill Geerling Ambersong?” Pryce shook his head sadly. “Now, that’s a problem… especially because even I could discern no obvious cause of death.”

  “Now, wait a moment,” Lymwich interrupted irritably, stepping forward from the crowd. “Wait just a moment! Where are their bodies? Why haven’t II mean webeen given the opportunity to examine them?”

  Pryce caught a glimpse of Gheevy’s pale face over Lymwich’s shoulder before he plunged on. “The situation necessitated that I take precautions with both corpses, Inquisitrix Lymwich. I had to ensure that materials vital to the safety and welfare of our entire nation did not fall into the wrong hands.” He could see Gheevy looking as if he were about to have a seizure, certain that this explanation would never pass muster.

  The halfling was nearly right. Berridge went face-to-face with Pryce, seething. “Are you saying you don’t trust the disciples of Mystra to”

  “That’s enough, Inquisitrix Lymwich!” Mystra Superior Turzihubbard snapped. The imperious leader had slid silently behind the smaller woman. “If the great Darlington Blade felt that precautions had to be taken that precluded our authority, then that’s good enough for me.” But she gave Pryce a piercing parting glance and added pointedly, “For now.”

  Pryce grinned sheepishly. Even so, he was grateful for the reprieve, as short-term as it might be. “We were talking about means, Inquisitrix Lymwich,” he chided. “And the fact that I could find no cause for my master’s death.”

  “Very well,” Berridge huffed, straightening her already straight uniform. “Go on.”

  ‘Thank you.” Pryce turned his attention back to the others. “Any one of us could have killed Gamor Turkal, but why? Why kill anyone? To gain more land? To get more power? These are common motives for killing, but there’s a difference between killing in battle and murder. There’s killing in Halruaa every day. Ores kill ogres, ogres kill giants, giants kill people, people kill each othersadly, it’s happening all the time.

  “But such is the nature of good versus evil,” he stressed. “Killing occurs when good people must defend themselves against evil people for the good of the many. Murder happens when the battle between good and evil is lost inside one individual.”

  He held up his forefinger, then slowly let it curl back into his fist. “The great priest Sante wrote that when a good person is doomed, he closes his door and murders himself. But when an evil person is doomed, he opens his door and murders someone else. That, I’m afraid, is what happened here. Someone had come to the end of his morality. But why? What is the most obvious motive for these murders?” He pointed with both hands to the deck. “We’re standing over it. Geerling Ambersong’s life’s work. Enough magic items and spellbooks to make everyone on board this ship wealthy beyond his grandest dreams.”

  He pointed at Berridge Lymwich. ‘To you, it was an end to your ambitious means.” He pointed at Dearlyn Ambersong. ‘To you, it was a birthright.” He pointed at Matthaunin Witterstaet, Labor’s jack-of-all-trades and primary gatekeeper. ‘To you, it was a way to become the one thing you could never become while Geerling lived.” He used two fingers to point at Azzo Schreders and Sheyrhen Karkober. ‘To the two of you, it meant that whatever you wanted, you could have.” Finally he pointed at Asche Hartov, mine owner. “And to you, it meant the biggest business deal you could ever hope to make.”

  The suspects looked from Pryce to each other. They began to mutter, even apologize, when Pryce continued briskly. “So much for motive,” he said dismissively. “Now we really separate the insidious from the innocent. Opportunity knocks. And who among you had the opportunity to murder anyone, let alone my master and his assistant?” He considered the nervous group.

  “Matthaunin Witterstaet?” he wondered, then shook his head. “It’s hard to believe anyone spending twelve hours beneath a watchful eye while studying the means, motive, and opportunities of hundreds of immigrants would have the lime or inclination to confront a mage and kill him.

  “Sheyrhen Karkober? Is it possible that someone who appears so guileless and acts so silly is capable of plotting the coldblooded murder of a mage in the middle of a city of mages?” He nodded curtly. “Possible.” She gasped. “But not likely,” he concluded. She relaxed, but not for long.

  “Besides,” Pryce continued, “she was too busy hiding her affair with Gamor Turkal from the man who has secretly been her devoted paramour for years.”

  “Sheyrhen!” the restaurant owner shouted like a wounded bull. “How could you”

  Pryce cut off any further exchange between the two. “Forgive her, Azzoparde,” he told him, stepping between the burly barkeep and the shamed serving wench. “I’m sure Gamor pressured her unmercifully and made many tempting promises of wealth and fame he had no intention of keeping. I’m also sure that it was only one night, and she regretted it so deeply and was so intent on keeping you from being hurt that she allowed herself to become a murder suspect before she would admit the unfortunate truth.”

  Pryce moved his head so Azzo could see Karkober nodding anxiously, then quickly straightened to lock eyes with the restaurant proprietor. “But you yourself aren’t out of the woods yet, Azzoparde Schreders. Although I know that the hours needed to run a successful tavern are long, you have your own secret, don’t you?” He stared at the bearded, burly man until Azzo’s gaze wavered. Only then did Pryce shake his head. “You knew, didn’t you? Just as Sheyrhen was keeping the secret of her one-night stand, you were keeping your knowledge of it from her, weren’t you?” The burly tavern owner said nothing. Instead, he looked sheepishly down at the deck. Karkober ran into his arms.

  Pryce stepped back, a small smile crossing his face. “No, although you might have the urge to kill Gamor Turkal for what he did,” he told the burly man embracing the beautiful waitress, “I don’t think you had the time or inclination to murder a mage.”

  “Howhow did you know?” Azzo wondered.

  “You forget,�
�� Pryce said with a grin. “I knew Gamor Turkal, too… probably better than all of you put together! And then… I saw the way you looked at Sheyrhen when you thought she had called me ‘darling’ in the bar last night. The rest was easy.” He sniffed modestly.

  He turned quickly from the visibly relieved barkeep to the defiant inquisitrix. “Berridge Lymwich,” he mused aloud. “She certainly has cunning and desire that know few reins… ”He stared hard at the cold-eyed woman who faced him with her chin thrust forward.

  He continued, his tone softening. “But she also has an entire castle of sisters who spend all day and night trying valiantly to teach her… that ambition without wisdom is meaningless.”

  Lymwich held her defiant pose for a moment more. Then the words made it past her mental defenses, and she blinked. Her stare wavered and she turned quickly to look at her inquisitrix leader.

  WendchrixTurzihubbard smiled benevolently and slowly nodded.

  As Berridge Lymwich looked down at the deck, her fists clenching and unclenching, Pryce stepped carefully around her and faced the mine owner. “And now we come to Asche Hartov, visitor to our fair shore… ”

  “All right, all right!” the gaunt man exploded, surprising everyone, including Covington. “You want to know why I came to Lallor? I’ll tell you why. Did I have the opportunity to meet with Geerling Ambersong and Gamor Turkal? Yes, I did, but I didn’t kill them! I tell you, I didn’t!”

  “Wait a minute,” Pryce cried, trying to mentally catch up with the mine owner’s words. “If you didn’t kill them, what did you do, Asche?”

  Hartov stared at Pryce, his lips trembling. ‘You know, Blade,” he whispered, almost blubbering. “Don’t you?”

  “I only think,” Pryce stressed. “You know.”

  “Yes,” Hartov cried, hiding his face in his hands. “I plotted with themFullmer and Turkal and 1.1 admit it!”

  Pryce hastily looked at Lymwich and Turzihubbard, holding his arm out to keep them back. “To do what, Asche?” he demanded. “Speak now, or they’ll disintegrate you. You plotted with them to do what?”