Lindavar was Benelaius’s handpicked successor in the College of War Wizards. My master confided to me that his former pupil was having some “problems of a professional nature,” and that was the reason for the visit. I confess that I felt only indifference for Lindavar’s plight, and looked on his visit as primarily an inconvenience, although my extra busyness would help keep my impatience for freedom at bay.
But as I rode west toward Ghars, the Vast Swamp on my left growing more and more distant, I thought about neither Lindavar nor my freedom, but of Fastred’s ghost, and prayed that I would not be confronted by the sight of it as I returned home that evening. A great many people around Ghars had seen it, and it seemed to haunt the northwest swampside. It was, if the stories were true, easily seen from the road that connected the farms on the swamp’s north and west with each other and Ghars.
Farmers returning home late from market had spotted it, as had weary drinkers leaving the Swamp Rat, a tavern recently opened to quench the thirsts of those farmers who didn’t like having to ride all the way into Ghars for an ale and companionship. Unfortunately, the Swamp Rat’s business had fallen off severely after the appearance of Fastred’s specter. Even Mayor Tobald himself, coming back from a dinner with the Rambeltook family, had come across the threatening revenant.
Even though no one had claimed to see the creature in the daylight, I still breathed a sigh of relief when I struck the fork in the road. I turned northwest toward town, and saw no one on the southwest road that led to the farms on the west of the swamp.
Another twenty minutes brought me to Ghars. The first thing an approaching rider noticed was the large cistern that had been built once the drought had gained its dry and dusty foothold. This was nothing more than a gigantic barrel on stilts, really, but it was the tallest edifice in town, and water from every producing well in the area was brought to it.
I rode past Aunsible Durn’s smithy and stables, and saw him still at work, banging away at something on his anvil. Whether he was making horseshoes or plowshares, or one of the more impractical products of his calling, I couldn’t tell. Once Durn brought his impressive skills to Ghars, many of the local squires took a fancy to outfitting their farmhands with Durn’s sturdy pikes and halberds, and themselves with fancy armor, just in case we should ever be invaded, you see. I’ve always believed that the squires, vain fools that they are, just liked to wear the armor on wedding and feast days.
I didn’t see Dovo, Durn’s large but less than breathtakingly brilliant assistant. Well, it was nearly six. Maybe Durn had let him off early. Or maybe he had just got tired of Dovo’s idiotic presence.
The Bold Bard was the only place to purchase clarry. The Swamp Rat was much closer, but its inventory was limited to ale, beer, cider, and table wine fit only for cleaning paint brushes. The Bold Bard was surrounded by other buildings in the heart of Ghars, and I saw that it was already bustling, with merchants and farmers going in and coming out its door. The coming out was a bit more unsteady than the going in, a tribute to the power of the tavern’s spirits.
I tied Jenkus to a stout post of the colonnade and went in to the common room. There I bought the cask of clarry and had Shortshanks, the dwarven owner and proprietor, place it behind the bar until I was ready to go. The air of camaraderie was contagious, and I sat at the bar and ordered a cod pie and a Golden Sands Orange, the sweetest, least bitter brew I knew of.
Thus fortified, I relaxed and watched the rest of the world go by, at least that part of it that lived in or stumbled into our little piece of it. The talk that wasn’t about the Merchants’ Guild council meeting seemed to be about the ghost.
“Ah, it’s just an illusion,” said the tailor. “People seeing things.”
“You mean a delusion, and it’s not,” said the chandler. “It’s real, right enough. My Uncle Fendrake saw it oncet, years ago, and Uncle Fendrake never seen anything in his life that wasn’t there.”
“Dunno about that,” returned the tailor. “He musta seen some beauty in your Aunt Magda.…”
Most, like the chandler, held out for the ghost’s authenticity. It’s not like there’s never been a supernatural manifestation in Faerûn before, and there was no good reason not to believe in its existence.
The hubbub died down for a moment when Barthelm Meadowbrock came in. Though he was probably the richest merchant in town, the hush wasn’t so much for him as for his daughter, Mayella. She was one of the fairest flowers of Cormyr, and when you added in her daddy’s money, she became an even greater prize.
Hair as golden as corn silk, eyes as blue as the Dragonmere in summer, lips as red as … well, you get the general picture. Not a man in the Bold Bard did not wish himself in the place of the little lap dog that Mayella tenderly caressed. And along with her looks, she had a marvelous personality as well, though she always seemed a bit shadowed by the presence of her father.
That was no cause for wonder, since nearly everyone seemed shadowed by the presence of her father. He was a mountainous man, peaked with a wavy mop of hair that once must have been red-orange, but that was now diluted by white-blond hairs to the shade of the Sheaf of Wheat’s butter-tomato soup. None of that particular dish’s sweetness sat on him outwardly, however, for he was a most demanding man. Money can do that to a person. Or so I’m told.
Barthelm required the best table, the best bottle of mead, the most delectable viands, and the most scrupulous service possible, or the proprietor and everyone else within earshot would hear about it. He owned the local grist mill (ox driven, due to the shortage of running water, so he would never be impoverished by drought), as well as a fleet of fast wagons to take the produce he bought from the local farmers to Suzail and Marsember before it spoiled. In those cities, his agents sold the edibles for up to ten times what he had paid for them, and the buyers were glad to get them at any price.
But today I could see that Barthelm had more on his mind than finding a suitable suitor for his lovely daughter, or worrying about how the drought was going to affect his bottom line. In three days the Grand Council of Cormyr’s Merchants’ Guild, of which Barthelm was the district representative, would be coming to little Ghars for their annual meeting.
This important group, comprising the wealthiest and most powerful merchants in the realm, always met in one of Cormyr’s major cities—Suzail or Arabel or Marsember. Occasionally they would deign to gather in a smaller resort town like Gladehap, for the fine food, drink and accommodations. But for them to gather in such a little rattrap as Ghars, where the forgettable fare at the Sheaf of Wheat and the Silver Scythe are the best to be offered … well, it was unheard of, and was a great testament to Barthelm Meadowbrock’s perseverance.
But once the die was cast, Barthelm was going to leave nothing to chance. This meeting was going to be the best ever. The council would be lodged in both the Sheaf and the Scythe, since neither inn had enough rooms to accommodate them all, and Barthelm had, out of his own pocket, given Garnet Pennorth, owner of the Silver Scythe, enough gold to add a large and impressive meeting room onto his inn.
The merchant had likewise overseen every detail of the provisioning of the meeting’s larder and cellar, including bringing in chefs from Suzail, and now his grumbling thunderclap of a voice called out to Shortshanks behind the bar. “Dwarf. Did you get the butt of Westgate Ruby that I ordered?”
“Coming in tomorrow,” Shortshanks grumbled back. He didn’t like being called “dwarf.” In fact, he didn’t like being called anything.
“It better,” Barthelm said. “The welcoming dinner is Beef and Oysters Barnabas, and Westgate’s the only wine to go with it.”
Closer to the dwarf than Barthelm, I overheard Shortshanks’s muttered comment as to what liquid Barthelm could drink with his Beef and Oysters Barnabas. I wasn’t the only one, from the titters that swept down the bar. But Shortshanks didn’t crack a smile. Dwarves, sullen and cranky as they are, are miserable choices for tavern keepers, but Shortshanks had come into possession o
f the Bold Bard by inheritance. It had been left to him by its former owner, a jolly gnome whose will said he bequeathed it to Shortshanks solely in the hopes that it would finally make the dwarf smile. It didn’t work.
“Better watch your tongue, dwarf,” said Barthelm, not as angry as he would have been had he actually heard the comment, “or I’ll take my business to the Swamp Rat.”
As he whirled round on the merchant, Shortshanks’s expression changed from one who has bitten into a pickle to one who has just sucked up the entire barrel of brine. “The Swamp Rat?” the dwarf said with as much disgust as he could muster. “Aye, go there! Serve your fancy guests with sour cider, watered wine, and ale as flat as a duergar’s head! I’ve known horses to make a better brew than Hesketh Pratt serves. And give my curse to Fastred’s ghost on your way!”
With that final riposte, Shortshanks turned back to polishing his bar glasses, no doubt wishing they were gems from dwarven mines.
Barthelm, for once, contained his anger. He knew, as we all did, that he had touched a sore spot. Before Hesketh Pratt opened the Swamp Rat, Shortshanks’s tavern was the only game in town for those who wanted an informal atmosphere in which to drink, since the Silver Scythe and the Sheaf of Wheat concentrate more on Ghars’s definition of “fine dining,” which basically means food that won’t bite back. But the Swamp Rat had taken away much of Shortshanks’s business, or at least it had until the ghost came along.
“Pretty full place tonight, Shortshanks,” called out Tobald, the mayor of Ghars, as he strode into the tavern with a big, burly man I recognized but could not name.
Shortshanks, true to dwarven form, did not acknowledge Tobald’s merry hail, but Tobald went on anyway, seating his slightly overweight frame in his usual booth and inhaling deeply the scent of tobacco smoke and rich ale with his red, bulbous nose. “That ghost must be good for business, eh? Scared the willies out of me, I’ll tell you. I’ll not ride that swamp road at night if I can help it.”
Shortshanks gave a grunt, and that was good enough for Tobald, who began to speak cheerily to his companion.
“Who’s that with Tobald?” I asked the tailor.
“You don’t know Grodoveth?” he said, and the name rang a bell. “He’s Azoun’s envoy to this region. Brings the king and Sarp Redbeard news of everything between Thunderstone and Wheloon.” Sarp Redbeard of Wheloon was our local lord, if over sixty miles away as the crow flies can still be “local.”
The tailor leaned in closer to me and spoke so softly that I had to struggle to hear in the noisy tavern. “Related to the king, and yet he rides about from one small town to the next like any other low-grade civil servant. Funny one, you ask me. Pretty short, too.”
“He looks quite tall to me,” I said, eyeing Grodoveth.
“Not in stature,” the tailor said wearily, “in temper. The royal crest had come off his cloak, and he had me sew it back on. This on a Sunday morn and me with a head that feels like an ore’s been waltzing on it all night. So I sewed it a little crooked … just a little … and you’d have thought I had questioned his mother’s honor. He threw the cloak back in my face and started to draw his blade, but I was able to … calm him down.”
“By begging abjectly,” added the chandler.
“Well, he may be short-tempered,” I observed, “but he has good taste in the fairer sex.”
While we were speaking, Grodoveth had gotten up and gone over, Tobald in his wake, to the table at which Mayella and her father were sitting. Tobald was the first to speak, however. “Barthelm! So good to see you this fine evening! And your lovely daughter too! Oh my, what a precious little doggie. I do so love animals, and they love me as well. Hello, my little precious …”
Tobald’s charm must have failed him. As he put out a hand to pat the dog, it gave a surprisingly low growl, pulled back its upper lip, and snapped at him. Only a quick retreat saved the mayor’s fingers from being bitten. He nearly fell over but righted himself, looking truly shocked. “Muzlim,” said the girl, giving the dog a little shake, “what’s wrong with you? The nice man only wanted to pet you.” She looked up at the crestfallen mayor. “I’m sorry, Mayor Tobald, I don’t know what came over him.”
“No, no …” muttered Tobald. “Strange indeed. I usually get on so well with animals.” I had to chuckle. Tobald was a jolly, good enough sort, but seeing the high and mighty get a comeuppance, deserved or not, always tickled me. “I’ll, uh, get our ales, Grodoveth,” the mayor said, retreating to the safety of the bar. Shortshanks may have been as cranky as Muzlim, but at least the dwarf didn’t bite.
Grodoveth remained at Barthelm’s table, though I didn’t hear either the merchant or his daughter invite him to sit. He placed himself across from Mayella, who drew, I fancied, a bit nearer her father as Grodoveth looked at her and gave his impression of a smile. It struck me as more of a smirk.
Their conversation grew quieter than it had been with the garrulous Tobald, and though I couldn’t hear what was said, I assumed that it was displeasing to both Barthelm and his daughter. Mayella smiled uncomfortably at first, then a slight blush colored her cheeks.
Barthelm’s reaction was more violent. His stern expression slowly grew so tense that I could see his jaw muscles tremble. Finally he leaned toward Grodoveth and spoke in a low, intense voice. I couldn’t hear the exact words, but the sibilants hissed at Grodoveth like angry snakes.
The king’s envoy sat back, shrugged, and opened his hands as though he had been misunderstood. Then he gave a gravelly laugh, stood up, nodded in what might have been mock politeness, and rejoined Tobald, who was looking on concerned. I heard the mayor ask Grodoveth what was wrong, but the envoy waved the question away and began drinking his ale.
6
Barthelm looked angry for a long time, and I thought I could see the glimmer of tears in Mayella’s lovely eyes, but I wasn’t about to go and comfort her. I know a furious father when I see one.
“So what do you think that was all about?” I asked the tailor, who seemed to know everything.
“The only thing hotter than Grodoveth’s temper,” he said, “is his taste for the ladies. And he’s not always the most tactful of men.”
“I’d think,” said the chandler, “that Barthelm would be glad to have one of King Azoun’s relatives paying attention to his daughter, especially since the only chap she seems set on is that roofer’s lad, Rolf.”
“But what if that attention is coarse? And what if that king’s relative was related to the king by marriage?”
“He’s married?” the chandler squeaked.
The tailor nodded sagely. “Grodoveth’s wife is one of Azoun’s cousins.”
“That doesn’t seem to stop him,” I said, “from making suggestions that make maidens blush and fathers bluster. I assume his position and family ties protect him.”
“So far,” the tailor said. “Though I’ve heard tell that some indiscretion on his part was what got him booted out of Suzail. By the king hisself, yet. Now it’s just a rumor, but I heard that this drab in a Suzail tavern was—”
The no doubt colorful anecdote was abruptly interrupted by the tavern door banging open and the entrance of none other than Dovo, Aunsible Durn’s mighty but moronic assistant. He walked in as though he were the gods’ gift to women everywhere instead of a metal bender with a wife and three children. He grinned at the men and eyed the ladies saucily, and even had the gall to give a big wink to Mayor Tobald, as though they were on the same social level. The mayor looked as angry as his cheerful countenance allowed, and turned his attention back to his ale and Grodoveth.
Dovo bellied up to the bar, ordered a mug of North Brew, and fell into conversation with a few other town rowdies. I noticed, however, that he was not immune to Mayella’s charms, and kept glancing at her as he weaved for his chums some tale of amorous conquest or bullyish retribution. At one point he showed them some small pictures, and from the salacious snickers I assumed they were not miniatures of his kiddies.
After the barmaid, Sunfirth, brought bread and cheese to Barthelm’s table, the old man got up and went to use the necessary room. Dovo didn’t waste a moment. He whirled around and plunked himself down right across from a startled Mayella, whose little dog was so scared by Dovo’s sudden appearance that he hopped up and lay shivering in the girl’s lap.
“Ah,” breathed Dovo, “there’s a lucky little dog. So how are ya this evening, milady? Waitin’ for Dovo here to look your way?”
“No sir, I was not.”
“Come on now, a course you were!” And so the conversation went for a minute, until the door opened again, letting in a cool autumn breeze and three roofers, hot and tired after a long day’s work. At their stern was Rolf, who was in the midst of saying, “Ghost my britches! It’s just some boyo having fun, making fools out of everybody. Why, I’ve half a mind to go out to the Vast Swamp myself and—”
But he stopped when he saw the less than encouraging spectacle before him. Rolf had set his cap for Mayella ever since they were children, and as far as I knew, she had returned his affection, though old Dad had his sights set a mite higher for his daughter.
Rolf was a fairly touchy lad to start with, and when he saw Dovo, the local married lecher, seated across from his beloved, he started shaking as though he wanted to leap on Dovo and rend him limb from limb. But instead he went up behind the smith and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Dovo slowly looked at the hand, then up at the face of its owner. “Well well,” he said. “Look who ’tis—Mister Out-In-The-Sun-So-His-Brains-Fry. Go away, little boy. I nearly got this lass talked into a little love walk, and you’re liable to queer my play.”
That was all it took. With a groan of fury, Rolf yanked his rival backward, tipping his chair over so that it fell with a crash. Dovo’s foot caught the table and pulled that on top of him as well, and Rolf followed with a heedless dive into the whole mess.
Murder in Cormyr Page 3
