Here was a mystery he had better solve immediately. What was Dearlyn Ambersong doing in what he thought was his bed, and why the sudden attempt to “plant” him? Pryce clapped his hands to get her attention. “Now, just a minute, Miss Ambersong. I—”
He didn’t have time to finish because all of a sudden the bed came at him. One second it was lying flat on the bed frame, and the next second it was flying at him like a giant flyswatter trying to squash a bug against the wall. Clearly the bed was magically powered!
Pryce threw himself to the side, executing a series of fast cartwheels toward the bedroom door. He spun out of the sleeping quarters just as the heavy bed hit the wall with a resounding slam.
He landed on his feet in the library, but he had no time to enjoy his escape because now the horsehair staff was coming at his face like the spear, the attached garden tools coursing behind it like a particularly dangerous set of stingers.
Pryce pivoted, turned his head, and let his knees buckle. He watched the pole fly by inches over his head as he did the limbo as fast as he could. A trailing cultivating tool scratched an itch on his nose as it rocketed past.
“Now, look here!” he cried, straightening up as the staff hit the far wall. But then a spell struck him in the chest, and he could say no more.
Pryce Covington felt as if a giant serpent had snapped its tail across his torso. He flew across the living room floor and crashed, seat first, into one of the mage’s heavy chairs. The power of the spell was more than enough to overturn it, sending Pryce head over heels into the fireplace.
Pryce was thankful that the fire was out. So was he, nearly. Through a fog of confusion, pain, and soot, he could make out Dearlyn Ambersong, standing angrily in the doorway of the sleeping quarters, her fists on her hips. Pryce blinked, trying to focus on what appeared to be fur that covered her body from her neck to her ankles, and all the way down her arms to her wrists. What was she, another jackalwere?
No, he realized, it was her night clothes. She wore a skintight suit of some sort of soft, gray material. “Hey,” Pryce said weakly. “My color.”
“What?” she demanded. “What did you say?”
“That color,” he continued feebly. “Same as my shirt.” He managed to get his thumb and forefinger to pinch at his neckline.
“How dare you?” she seethed. “I don’t care if you are the great Darlington Blade. You have no right to come into my—I mean, my father’s—home!”
“He said I could.” Pryce whispered weakly.
“What?”
Pryce groaned as he attempted to right himself in the ashes. “Your father … told Gamor … and Lymwich … I could stay here.”
“That’s absurd!” she flared. “I don’t believe it!”
Pryce was finally right side up, and he motioned helplessly at the door. “The door opened for me,” he reminded her. “It wouldn’t have if Geerling hadn’t given me the key.…” He feebly fingered the cloak clasp.
Dearlyn opened her mouth again, shut it, opened it a second time, then stamped her foot and made a harrumphing sound before marching off to fix the bed.
Pryce crawled out of the fireplace and slowly worked his way back to his hands and knees. He dusted off the parts of him he could reach before making his way back to the bedroom on all fours.
The illumination was brighter now, so he could clearly see Dearlyn briskly replacing all the blankets, pillows, and comforter. She then pulled on an ornate robe of beige and teal that looked like an elegant gown.
“I apologize, Miss Ambersong,” Pryce said quietly.
“For what?” she snapped.
“For existing.”
That stopped her, but only for a second. She went back to making the bed as if it were a particularly bothersome patient. “You can’t help being who you are,” she said.
You’d be surprised, he thought, but what he said was, “Perhaps you can help me be who you think I am.”
This time she stopped for longer than a second, her face filled with confusion. “What on Toril are you talking about?”
Pryce pulled himself painfully to his feet, smiled wearily, and crooked a finger at her to follow him. Then he hobbled out to the living area, struggled to set the toppled chair upright, and sat down in it heavily. By the time he sighed with relief, she was standing against the wall opposite him. “I am here, Miss Ambersong,” he said, “but your father is missing. Do you have any idea where he is?”
“Don’t you?” she replied, at first with rancor, then with obvious concern.
Pryce waved that aside. “Irrelevant. Don’t you care?”
“Don’t I …?” She stared at him in amazement until her reserve started to crack. “You, of all people, have no right to ask me that,” she continued quakingly, holding herself tightly. “Don’t I care? Don’t I care!” Suddenly she threw her arms wide. “Look at this place! Look at it! The home of Lallor’s primary mage. Do you see one magical item? Do you see a single spellbook? There’s not a single one. And do you know why?”
Pryce lowered his head, frowning. He knew the answer—Azzo Schreders had told him—but he wanted her to say it. She didn’t disappoint him.
“Because he gave it all to you!” she cried out. “His precious daughter could not be burdened with the responsibilities of magic. Oh, no, but you … you are given everything!” She stalked over to a closet and wrenched out a cloak that seemed to be the mirror image of the one he was wearing.
“Even this … this cloak he created with his own hands … the one thing I thought was mine alone! Even that, I discovered, he had also given to you!” She hurled it angrily to the floor, its ornate clasp hitting the floor with a thunk. Pryce’s eyes narrowed when he saw it, but they returned to her as she walked away.
She talked at the ceiling, her arms up in amazement. “The Ambersong legacy, dropped in the lap of some fast-talking fool from who-knows-where! You! A man who can’t even defend himself from the simplest spell!”
She caught herself, and Pryce grinned sadly, letting her wonder if it wasn’t already too late to protect her now obvious secret. But instead of saying anything about her illicit learning, he said, “Unlike many, I do not waste magic. And,” he added gravely, “I do not use it as an extension of my negative emotions.”
Dearlyn looked down regretfully.
He gave her a way out. “Did you ever stop to think about what your father really wanted for you?”
“Please don’t take that patronizing tone with me,” she said quietly. “I know my father better than you ever could. He is an honorable, fiercely moral man. He hated battling against the restrictive laws of the Elders, but he wouldn’t give in.”
“No less fierce than his daughter.” Pryce grimaced as he felt a twinge in his shoulder. That statement got a smile of pride out of her. “But he didn’t want that sort of life for you,” he reminded her.
“More than anything else,” she said with sardonic sadness, “he wanted a life of peace for his only child.” She shook her head, then looked up at Pryce imploringly. “You asked if I ever stopped to think what he wanted? Of course not! I’m his daughter! I learned it from him. Did he ever stop to think what I wanted? No! He simply forbade me to learn magic. Forbade me! He even told the council that I must never learn spellcasting!”
Pryce gingerly rubbed his chest. “I see that didn’t stop you,” he said quietly.
You could have heard a feather drop in the silence that followed. They stared at each other for several moments.
“What will you tell the council?” she finally asked quietly. “I learned some magic, yes, but after all, I am the daughter of Geerling Ambersong.”
Pryce continued to rub his wounded and still slightly tender chest. “You are indeed,” he sighed. She continually referred to her father in the present tense, Pryce noted. “I know” and “he is” instead of “I knew” and “he was.” From all signs so far, she considered her father amongst the living. That really shouldn’t surprise him, Pryce finally acknowledge
d. After all, he thought, Geerling Ambersong must have been away for days or weeks at a time in order to train Darlington Blade—I mean, me.
He thought about gaining the emotional upper hand by lecturing her, but something in her expression stopped him. She was looking straight at him. Her look said that she was willing to take responsibility for her actions, but her nature was essentially honest.
He looked straight back at her, feeling things he had never felt before. He suddenly wanted to protect her, to work with her. He wanted, in fact, to know everything he could about her.
“What would I tell the council?” he finally said. “That the great Darlington Blade was chased across the room by a maddened mattress?”
She laughed with relief and honest mirth. “You did look surprised,” she managed to say.
“Did I?” he replied, arching an eyebrow. He looked carefully at the fallen horsehair staff. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know why you even bother with magic. You are extremely accomplished with that rod.”
She looked down at it coyly. “When your father refuses to teach you the family business,” she said as she moved forward and bent down to retrieve the staff, “you rechannel your energy to learn other skills.”
He got a whiff of her hair as she bent over. Its freshness and vitality filled his head. “So,” he said, “are you a great martial artist, a gardener, or both?”
She faced him again, only they were much closer this time. “Neither,” she said. “I still have much to learn on both accounts … although the vines that cover the cul-de-sac outside would have completely taken over the area if not for this … and my pruning.” She tapped the horsehair-covered gardening tool into her palm. Then their eyes locked again.
Here was a man she had told herself many times was deserving only of hatred, but in his eyes she saw many things: a certain sweetness, a tendency toward kindness, a definite sense of humor, an alluring self-deprecation, even a beguiling helplessness.
“So,” she said when she finally managed to look away. “You won’t tell anyone?”
With the question, Pryce realized that if he did report her transgression to the authorities, Berridge Lymwich would take great pleasure in punishing her. He was beginning to understand that the repressed, tightly wound inquisitrix found any youthful, strong, and beautiful young woman a threat to her ego.
“We all have secrets,” he said quietly as she returned the staff to its place against the bedroom wall. He waited until she turned back to him before risking her wrath once more. “No, I won’t tell anyone … on one condition.”
She looked at him in surprise, even disappointment “But—but I thought …” she stammered, then regained control of herself. “Oh, I knew you were too good to be true!” she cried. “I knew there had to be a catch!”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Pryce said, shamefaced. “Believe it or not, I need your help.”
The bogus Blade glanced over at Dearlyn as they made their way to the shore of the bay. She really was a magnificent creature—all curves and strength and eyes and hair and pouty lips. She was back in her outfit of the previous afternoon, only this time she had concealed it beneath the cloak her father had made for her—the one that was a sister to the one he wore. Not surprisingly, as far as Covington was concerned, it looked far more impressive on her.
The cape swirled scant millimeters above the perfectly maintained streets, the predawn fog elegantly curling up from beneath the garment as if it were manufacturing the mist. Her cloak’s clasp was the same size as his, but bore a different design. Instead of an intricate forest of thorns, hers portrayed a sea of delicate flower petals that managed to spell out D and A in the most subtle manner imaginable.
“Why not wait until sunrise to visit the Mystran Inquisitrix Castle?” she whispered as they walked side by side.
“I may not have the time to wait,” Pryce said grimly. “Make no mistake, Miss Ambersong. I wouldn’t have made my presence known before the Fall Festival were it not imperative. There is a mystery to be solved in Lallor … and it involves your father.”
She stopped in her tracks and gripped his arm. He stopped to face her. “My father?” she gasped, her eyes wide. “What do you know?”
“That’s the problem,” he said intently. “I don’t know enough. But Berridge Lymwich might, and time is of the essence!”
What he didn’t tell her was that the longer he remained in Lallor, the greater the chance he would wake up dead. Whoever had killed those two men was still at large and couldn’t be overjoyed that someone everyone thought was Darlington Blade was still alive.
To stay alive, he had to know what Lymwich was doing at the Question Tree late last night … and he had to know now. He would confront Teddington Fullmer later. At the moment, Lymwich was his only lead, while his only advantage was the element of surprise, and his only sanctuary was speed.
“But why do you need me to test the magical defenses?” she countered. “Surely whatever the inquisitrixes have prepared in an effort to repel unwanted visitors will be nothing to you!”
He snorted impatiently, trapped by the complications of his impersonation. “Please, Miss Ambersong. If I’m so great, couldn’t you stop questioning my so-called unfathomable wisdom and just do as I suggest? I promise, as soon as I know anything, you’ll know.”
She bit her full lower lip, looking deep into his eyes, still holding his arm. For a moment, he considered telling her the truth … the whole truth … but then he suddenly realized that the real Darlington Blade had to have been killed by someone Blade knew and trusted. And that person had to be talented indeed in order to murder Blade, even if his guard was down. So, with a great effort of will, he remained silent
“Darlington, I …” she began pleadingly, then thought better of it. Her fingers released his sleeve and she stepped back. “Very well, Blade,” she said coolly. “I will put faith in what you say, but only until it is proven otherwise.”
He swallowed and nodded. “Fair enough,” he said tightly. “Now, let’s go … quickly.”
They continued on in silence, allowing Pryce to further consider his situation and the magnificence that was Lallor. Beauty was everywhere, consciously designed to have the most therapeutic and pleasing effect. Continual light spells kept a rosy glow on everything in sight, so there was little chance for anything to take anyone by surprise, either by design or accident The security of the city seemed complete.
No wonder the dead bodies were found outside the wall, Pryce thought If the two men’s deaths had occurred inside, the murderer wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Still, a primary mage was missing and two people were dead. And as much as Pryce hated to contemplate it, unless Gamor had committed suicide or somehow accidentally stuck his head in a noose and hanged himself six feet off the ground, foul play was indicated. But Turkal’s death was not really the problem. Blast it, Covington thought, I could have killed Gamor. He frowned philosophically and shrugged. And fairly easily, at that.
No, the real Darlington Blade was the problem. Killing him would not have been easy. Covington felt very ill-suited to deal with this revelation. Human behavior had been the core of his business back in Merrickarta, but the emotions needed to actually plot, carry out, and get away with the underhanded, petty, cunning crime of murder nearly overwhelmed him. To kill Gamor Turkal was one thing, but to assassinate Darlington Blade? That would take a dangerous opponent indeed.
He gave a start when Dearlyn laid her hand on his arm again. “There,” she said. “The Inquisitrix Castle.”
He nearly did a double take as he saw the castle close up for the first time. He moved down the lane, which emptied out onto a stone quay, for a better look. Coming around a patch of swaying trees, he could finally see the entire structure. It stood out in Lallor Bay, looking at first like many other castles. Magnificent, certainly, but not overly large or brilliantly designed, considering the truly breathtaking floating castles in other parts of Halruaa.
From his position on shore, Covington could see three turrets. The windows looked like huge gemstones of different colors. They bulged out as if someone had catapulted red, green, and blue jewels the size of boulders into the walls, and they had stuck halfway through. From the outside, he could see the glimmer of light and movement within.
There was no classic gate. This castle’s “gate” was a simple, unadorned wooden door with a plain copper doorknob. Pryce leaned forward, having a hard time believing his eyes, because the entire Mystran Inquisitrix Castle rested on top of a single, simple door, which in turn seemed to float a paper’s thickness above the water.
He turned back to look wonderingly at Dearlyn, who shrugged. “It’s always been like that,” she told him. “A huge stone edifice resting atop a plain wooden door. Don’t ask me to explain it.”
Pryce got as close to the water’s edge as possible. He walked down the quay until the water lapped at his boots. He moved to the left and to the right, craning his neck, but he never could see whether there was anything beside or behind the door. No matter what angle he looked from, the huge castle continued to appear as if it were balancing on a single door beneath it.
Covington blinked, shook his head, and looked down. The wonders didn’t cease. The castle, now some fifty yards away, rested on the door, which in turn hovered over a solid concrete shelf, covered by only a single inch of placid, crystal-clear bay water.
“The Lalloreef Strait.” He turned at the sound of Dearlyn’s voice in his ear. She smiled understandingly, then nodded toward the shelf with its thin layer of clear water. “I’ve never seen anyone but an inquisitrix or an inquisitrix’s guest move across it No one has. Even children consider it off limits.”
If it could be said that Pryce was in over his head in only one inch of water, the visual conundrums the Mystran Inquisitrix Castle presented him with had done the trick. But just like the rest of the dangers this mystery posed, Covington couldn’t afford to dwell on it. If he had, he would have run screaming into the predawn murk, as opposed to staying and fighting for what he was rapidly beginning to believe in—little, unimportant things like love and justice.
Murder in Halruaa Page 9
