Pryce started to eat. “Doesn’t appreciate my approach?” he ventured.
“Doesn’t appreciate your existence,” Azzo corrected him.
Pryce took another bite of his food, choosing his next words carefully. “Can’t blame her, I suppose.…”
“Oh, don’t take it personally,” Schreders said absently, busying himself with some goblets and tankards. “It’s the talk of the town. Full of resentment, that one. She’s told anyone who’d listen that her father should have been teaching her instead of you.” He looked deeply into a goblet, seemingly to spot any stains he may have missed with his washcloth. “No one wants to listen to her anymore.”
Pryce ate his food without comment, but inwardly he felt relief. Another disaster narrowly avoided. That’s what he got for trying to exploit his mistaken identity. His best course of action was to finish his meal, leave the city quickly to “take care of some business that just came up,” and then let the legend of Darlington Blade grow or wither of its own accord.
By the time Covington had finished his meal, he was more convinced than ever that this was the only possible scenario. Now all he had to do was leave the tavern without speaking to another soul. That way, no one else could possibly discover that he wasn’t Darlington Blade—that he was, in fact, actually nothing more than the lowly, insignificant, inconsequential—
“Pryce Covington!” he heard from behind him.
Pryce sat bolt upright on the barstool and spun around. Behind Pryce stood Azzo Schreders. Off to one side was Sheyrhen Karkober. And coming directly toward him, his arms spread wide, was tiny, portly, extravagantly dressed Teddington Fullmer.
Teddington Fullmer … Pryce didn’t have to wonder what he was doing in Lallor, nor in Schreders’s bar. Fullmer was a successful trader of Luiren stout and Ulgarthian coffee, for whom Covington had worked when the businessman was investigating the exportation of Nathian ore deposits. He had ultimately decided to stay with liquid assets, but he was about to trade in cooked goose if Pryce didn’t shift his mind into top gear.
“Pryce! Pryce!” Fullmer boomed.
“Please, sir,” Azzo interrupted from behind the bar. “I’ll have your check for you immediately. No need to shout.”
Covington launched himself from his seat and caught both Fullmer’s arms in a death grip. “Teddington Fullmer,” he said directly into his face. “Call me Darling.”
“What?”
“Darling. Isn’t that what you used to call me? Your Darling boy at any Pryce?” He laughed, a trifle hysterically. He knew even Fullmer might balk if he thought Covington was trying to impersonate a man as great as Darlington Blade. “Please, Teddington, for old time’s sake—for me—call me Darling. Would you do me that favor, dear?”
“Darling? You want me to call you darling?”
“Would you? That would be wonderful.” Pryce quickly leaned over and hissed into Fullmer’s ear. “It’s a bar bet. Go along with it. I’ll cut you in.” He leaned back and looked hopefully into the trader’s face.
“What? Oho! Oh, ho, ho, ho!” Teddington said knowingly, then nodded.
Pryce nodded back, then led the man to the bar. “Azzo Schreders,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Teddington Fullmer, the finest trader of refreshing beverages this side of the Shaar.”
What the barkeep saw was a short, round man—stout, befitting his product—with a magnificent mustache and goatee and a prominent widow’s peak. He wore a dark-colored coat over an ornate vest, a ruffled shirt, and copper breeches under shin-high boots of expensive leather.
“Pleased to meet you, Schreders,” the trader said expansively. “Any friend of … Darling’s is a friend of mine.”
Covington considered fainting in relief but decided against it.
“Well,” said Schreders with a raised eyebrow. “Good to meet you, too, Teddi. I imagine you’ll be wanting to meet our wine-master, Gheevy Wotfirr. I’ll call him up here, eh?”
The bartender left to fetch the wine manager while Fullmer turned to Pryce. “So what do I get, Pryce?” the trader asked insistently. “What’s this all about?”
“No, no!” Pryce wailed softly. “Darling. Call me Darling. You get nothing—I get nothing—unless you call me Darling. Do you understand? From here on, I’m not … that other name. To you, I’m Darling!”
“Yes, yes, all right!” Fullmer replied indignantly. “From now on, you’re Darling.”
“Cost!”
Covington winced in stunned amazement at the sound of the new voice. No, he thought It can’t be …
It was. Asche Hartov, a tall, thin, almost cadaverous Nath mine owner, with whom both he and Fullmer had had less than straightforward dealings, was coming toward them. And that was not Pryce’s only new problem. In order to maintain the secret of Fullmer’s interest in Hartov’s ore deposits, Pryce Covington had told Hartov that his name was Cost Privington.
“Cost!” Hartov called again loudly.
“I’ll get your bill immediately, sir,” replied Sheyrhen Karkober, scurrying off.
“Bill?” echoed Hartov.
“No,” said Fullmer. “Darling.”
“What?”
“He’s Darling,” said Fullmer, pointing at Pryce.
“Well, I suppose he is,” said Hartov, “but I wouldn’t go around announcing it.”
“No, no,” Covington said, putting his arm around Hartov’s shoulder, his other hand on the mine owner’s chest, speaking directly into his ear. “It’s a bar bet. I’ll cut you in. Don’t call me Pryce.…”
“What?” the mine owner interjected. “Are you going to cut me in on this bet or aren’t you?”
It was Covington’s turn to say “What?”
“Well, first you say you’ll cut me in, and then you say you won’t name your price!”
Covington gritted his teeth and grimaced for a split second. “Sorry … my mistake.” He kept one arm around Hartov’s neck while pointing at Fullmer. “You don’t call me Pryce.” Then he pointed at Hartov. “You don’t call me Cost.” He positioned himself before both of them. “Both of you call me Darling. My name is Darling. Right?”
“What’s wrong with you, man?” Hartov bristled. He always had been a humorless sort
“Tell me, Asche,” Pryce said reprovingly, “did you ever unload that shaft of Merrickartian ore?”
Fullmer’s face grew dark. “Darling, don’t you dare …” the trader warned.
“As a matter of fact, no,” the dour mine owner replied. “The secret bid was pulled back at the last moment.”
“How could that have happened?” Pryce exclaimed. “You should discuss it with my friend here. He’s one of the most experienced traders in all the Shining South.”
“Really?” Hartov said with interest, always looking for any edge to turn a profit “What do you know about it, sir?”
Fullmer stared daggers at Pryce, but Covington didn’t really mind. The trader had pulled a fast one in that deal, and he knew it Besides, Covington hadn’t really exposed Teddington, just supplied himself with a quick diversion. Now all he had to do was slip out and run away as fast as his legs could carry him.…
As the mine owner cornered the trader for some inside information, Pryce was distracted by the tankard next to his titanium plate. He could see that there was just a gulp left. He was ready to leave, but this adventure truly deserved a final toast before what he hoped would be Pryce Covington’s successful escape.
Pryce raised the glass quickly and drank it down, but he hadn’t moved more than a step before he was frozen in place by yet another sound coming from behind the bar, where a bubbly, high-pitched voice intoned the four most awful words Pryce had ever heard in his life: “You’re not Darlington Blade!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Name Your Pryce
Pryce Covington’s body remained poised for escape, but his head spun toward the voice. There stood the burly Azzo Schreders, and next to him, coming up only to the barkeep’s stomach, was a surprised halfling.
He had curly salt-and-pepper hair and a mustacheless beard that mixed almost every known color. He had an open, friendly face, marred only by an obviously big mouth. Moving nothing but his eyes, Covington took stock of the effect of what that mouth had said.
If the tavern proprietor had heard the halfling’s exclamation, he gave no sign. Fullmer, the liquids trader, and Hartov, the mine owner, were too concerned with their own business, while the shapely Karkober was still working out costs and prices. The other patrons in the restaurant and along the horseshoe-shaped bar showed no sign of having heard anything out of the ordinary.
Not standing on ceremony, Pryce ran forward with his arms wide until he stood directly in front of the halfling. “My dear fellow,” he said pleasantly, “of course I am not Darlington Blade.”
“I—you—” the almost four-foot-tall halfling sputtered.
“Would Darlington Blade allow a woman to throw wine in his face?” Pryce asked him expansively.
“But—”
“Would Darlington Blade sit alone in such a distinguished establishment as this?” Pryce interrupted the flustered little fellow.
“But you’re not—”
“No, I am not the Darlington Blade you know,” Pryce said gravely. “I have changed. I’m different”
“You haven’t-um, I mean, you have—” The halfling continued to grope for words. “I mean, you are—you aren’t—”
“Aren’t the same as when you saw me last?” Pryce shook his head sadly but kept talking quickly. “No, I’m not. I have experienced much … learned much.” He threw his arms wide again. “I’m a completely new Darlington Blade!”
The halfling was reduced to pointing, his head turning from Pryce to Azzo. “But, you’re not—he’s not—”
“Not willing to talk privately with you, old friend?” Pryce interjected. “No, I will never change that much. How could you even think that? In fact, let us go talk, person to person, this very moment!”
Pryce moved between the proprietor and his wine expert, put his hands under the halfling’s arms, and half-dragged, half-carried him until he came to a small open trapdoor on the far side of the bar.
Just as the halfling started to recover from the surprise, Covington dangled the winemaster’s hairy, shoeless feet over the opening and dropped him. Then he grabbed the lip of the trapdoor and jumped, ignoring the ladder that ran between the door opening and the dirt floor of the grotto. As he fell, he closed the thick wooden door after him.
Twelve feet below, Pryce found himself directly in front of the stunned halfling. The little fellow sat on a small barrel placed beneath the trap door. “Please, please, please!” Pryce begged quickly and quietly, his hands together in supplication. “Don’t expose me. It’s all a misunderstanding—an innocent accident. I won’t hurt you. Just don’t say anything … not yet!”
“The trapdoor opened a crack, and the proprietor’s face appeared. “Gheevy? Is everything all right?” Schreders asked tentatively.
Pryce’s head whipped toward the sound of the bartender’s voice, then whipped back toward the halfling, fervently praying. The halfling looked at Pryce’s desperate face for a moment, then replied, “Everything is fine, Azzo. We’re just talking over … old times. You’ve heard how entertaining a storyteller Blade can be.”
Pryce moved his lips, thanking the halfling silently and effusively.
“Oh, heh, heh, of course,” chuckled the barkeep. “Just checking. Take all the time you need, fellows!” Schreders closed the trapdoor just as Pryce dropped to his knees and kissed one of the halfling’s hairy feet.
“Don’t do that!” the halfling cried, pulling his leg back.
“Sorry,” said Pryce, scooting backward on his knees to lean against another barrel. “It’s just all been so … so stressful.” Quickly he took in his surroundings.
One wall of the grotto was lined with aging casks. Some were installed right in the wall, others were stacked upright, while still others lay on their sides. Directly across from Pryce was a long line of wrought-iron wine racks, the bottles held at an angle. On a wide shelf stood a maze of multicolored glassware, each stoppered glass holding a different rare, esoteric liquid within it.
The ceiling of the grotto was made of both natural stone and wood. It was fairly high—almost eighteen feet in places. It stretched off in different directions into the gloom. The central area where they were now, however, was a mere twelve feet or so beneath the trapdoor and was dramatically lit by, Pryce guessed, a continual light spell of some kind.
“What’s all this about?” the halfling asked, his eyebrows wrinkling with concern. “Who are you, anyway? You’re certainly not Darlington Blade.”
“You have a firm grasp of the obvious,” Pryce said dryly. When the halfling looked affronted, Covington quickly continued. “Sorry. Just blowing off some pent-up tension. My real name isn’t as relevant, however, as the question how do you know?”
“What do you mean?” asked the halfling, taken aback.
Pryce took a moment to study the fellow carefully. He was wearing a dark, soft, comfortable-looking shirt that cinched loosely at his neck and wrists. Matching loose pants of some similar soft fiber cinched more tightly at his ankles. Over the shirt was a long vest with three pockets on each side, the top left one displaying the stitched legend Gheevy Wotfirr and under that At Your Service.
“Well, Gheevy,” Pryce said affably, “everyone else in this town—including its official gatekeeper, a top-ranked inquisitrix, the owner of its most popular gathering place, and the daughter of the man’s own teacher!—have never laid eyes on this Blade person, but apparently you have.”
“Well, everybody knows me,” the halfling said.
“Did Darlington Blade drink with you in the privacy of this grotto? Because no one upstairs seems to have seen him.”
“No,” the halfling began hastily. “You see, I deliver wine all over the area. That’s how everyone knows me. And I—I used to make some deliveries to a predetermined place outside the wall for Geerling Ambersong and—”
“Don’t say it,” Pryce implored. “Let me guess … the person I’m not.”
Wotfirr nodded.
“So,” Pryce continued wearily. “did you all sing songs around the campfire?”
“Now, now,” chided Gheevy Wotfirr. “There’s no need for sarcasm, my good man. Geerling Ambersong wanted Darlington Blade’s identity to be kept a strict secret until he personally presented him to the Lallor citizenry at the Fall Festival. My seeing him was a complete accident. I only caught a glimpse of him through some trees.” The halfling shook his head sadly. “And ever since that moment, I’ve wished I hadn’t.”
“Me, too,” said Pryce dryly. “Why the Fall Festival? What’s the big secret?”
“Oh,” Wotfirr said with renewed spirit. “Mage Ambersong had a sincere desire to improve the lot of the people of Halruaa. But he was getting older, and he wanted his successor to be ready … and undistracted by the entreaties of many in Lallor who would seek favor with a new primary mage.”
“Hmmm,” Covington considered. “And with his identity a secret, he could travel without attracting undue attention … as long as he removed this blasted cloak, of course!”
“Mage Ambersong showed the cloak to the people at last year’s Fall Festival,” Wotfirr explained. “ ‘By this cloak you will know him,’ he said.”
“Just my luck,” Pryce said miserably. “I assure you, Gheevy, that I came into possession of this cloak completely by accident and was totally innocent of any malice aforethought. If I had known what it meant and what it represented, I never would have touched it, but it was windy and wet and cold, and, well …” Covington let his words trail off into silence.
“If it’s any help,” the grotto manager said quietly, “I believe you. But who are you?”
Pryce glanced at the earnest halfling. “Trust me, the name would be meaningless to you … just a bunch of syllables you would be better off not knowing. Or, to put
it more truthfully, I would be better off if you didn’t know. For the shortest time it takes to figure out a way out of this, please just call me anything but Darlington Blade.”
“Very well … friend … I understand. But what are you going to do now?”
“Well,” Pryce said briskly, standing up and brushing off his trousers, “The way I see it, there’s nothing to do but cut my losses, try to prevent any more trouble, and go back where I came from, never to be seen in these parts again.”
“But—but you can’t!” Gheevy blurted suddenly. Pryce looked at the halfling askew. “Why not? I grant you, the eye at the gate might be a problem, but—”
“No, you can’t just leave now!”
“Oh, but I can, my dear Gheevy,” Covington said patiently. “That is, if you’ll be kind enough not to say anything.”
“No,” the halfling said, agitated. “It’s not me. It’s you. It’s Darlington Blade!”
“I told you not to call me that!”
“No, you don’t understand! They’d hunt you down to the ends of Toril!”
“Who would?”
“The wizards. The mages. The inquisitrixes. Berridge Lymwich!”
“Why?” Pryce asked in anguish. “All I did was borrow a cloak! I’ll put it back!”
“It’s too late! All those people you mentioned. They saw you. They called you … by that name. You didn’t disagree. Don’t you understand? Impersonating a mage is punishable by death!”
The wine grotto was silent for what seemed like minutes.
A variety of emotions shot through Pryce Covington’s brain, but none showed on his expressionless face. Gheevy Wotfirr looked up at him in concern but said no more.
Finally the silence was broken by Pryce’s quiet, considerate, careful words. “Oh, dear.”
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, my.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Oh, no.”
Gheevy felt impelled to dispel the paralyzing mood that was filling the grotto. He gathered his courage and addressed the stunned man the only way he could. “Blade?”
Murder in Halruaa Page 6
