Murder in Cormyr

by Chet Williamson

  “Maybe he was there,” Lindavar suggested, “but no one rode by. It’s possible. Or perhaps Dovo didn’t go haunting then.”

  I shook my head in frustration. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Grodoveth was investigating the legends of the ghost, yes, but what connection could he have to Dovo? How does the appearance of the ghost do him any good?”

  Benelaius stroked the tabby perched on his left shoulder. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But stop and ask, what do we know about the murderer?”

  “That he was right-handed,” Lindavar said.

  I nodded. “And Grodoveth is left-handed, while everyone else, as far as I know, favors the right hand.”

  “So should we rule Grodoveth out?” asked Lindavar.

  “But,” said Benelaius, “is your primary conclusion correct?”

  “That Grodoveth is left-handed?” I said. “He does everything with his left hand.”

  “No no. Your primary conclusion.”

  “Ah!” said Lindavar. “You mean the deduction that the killer is right-handed.”

  Benelaius nodded sagely.

  “Well,” Lindavar said, “Dovo was certainly facing his killer, and the axe blade struck him on the left side of his neck.…”

  Then I remembered my dream, and how the reassembled Dovo had swung the axe at me.

  “Backhand,” I said quietly. “A warrior would swing his axe backhand.”

  “That is a more powerful stroke,” Benelaius said.

  “In that case,” Lindavar said, “the killer would have used his left hand. Making him left-handed instead of right.”

  “Quite possibly. And Grodoveth is a trained warrior.”

  “Master,” I said. “Are you suggesting that Grodoveth is the killer?”

  “I am suggesting nothing. I merely wish for us to get all the facts straight.”

  “Grodoveth was angry at Dovo at the smithy,” Lindavar said, “but making his horse stumble would be no reason for killing him.”

  “Unless,” I added, “he was mad at Dovo about something else, and the horse was just an excuse. Aunsible Durn said that Dovo was asking Grodoveth irritating questions. Maybe the envoy resented them.”

  Just then the cats began to rise and move en masse toward the front door. In a few seconds we heard the sound of horses’ hooves. I opened the door as soon as the knock sounded.

  On the small porch stood three men. Mayor Tobald was pale and trembling, and Captain Flim looked his usual stolid self. A third man, whom I didn’t know, was with them. He was small and haggard, and his lined and leathery brown skin proclaimed him a gnome.

  “Jasper, I must see Benelaius,” Tobald said in a rush. “Is he in?”

  “Of course, sir. Please, come in.”

  “Oh, not me, sor,” said the gnome in a gravelly voice. “I’ve got peat and muck all over me boots, I do. Wouldn’t want to soil yer foin rugs now, indeed I wouldn’t, sor.”

  “Oh, for mercy sake, Darvik!” said Tobald, who seemed a hairsbreadth from panic. “Come in, man, come in. A little muck won’t matter.” Easy for him to say, who doesn’t have to do the cleaning up of aforesaid muck.

  The gnome hesitated, the mayor clucked, and Captain Flim looked impatient with both of them. Benelaius ended the standoff by appearing behind me with Lindavar. “Lord Mayor,” he greeted Tobald. “To what do we owe the—”

  “The honor of the visit, yes, yes,” interrupted Tobald. “Murder, Benelaius! There’s been another murder!”

  “Oh my my my,” said my master. “And who was the victim this time?”

  “None other,” said Mayor Tobald, “than King Azoun’s envoy. Grodoveth is dead!”

  19

  “Grodoveth?” I said. Speak of the devil.

  “Yes, Grodoveth!” said Tobald. His usually ruddy cheeks were pale as ashes. “Murdered!”

  “I’m so sorry, Tobald,” Benelaius said. “I know he was a friend of yours. But come in, come in and tell me more about this dreadful news.”

  “But me shoes, sor …” said the gnome.

  “Oh, that’s quite all right, um …”

  “Darvik’s me name, sor,” said the solemn little man.

  “Well, how do you do, Darvik. I am Benelaius, this is Lindavar, and Jasper is the name of my servant, who will be happy to clean up any soil should you unintentionally deposit some on the interiors. Please, enter.”

  It would have been rude to refuse my master’s gracious invitation, though I wished everyone were not so cavalier about my ability to obliterate swamp muck from carpeting. I winced at every messy step the gnome took. In spite of his muddy state, the cats thronged happily around him, though they remained aloof to both Tobald and Flim.

  In the main room, Darvik seated himself on a wooden chair, for which I was thankful since it would clean more easily than upholstery, and at least two dozen cats settled in at his moist feet.

  “Now,” Benelaius said, “what happened?”

  “I left Grodoveth last night at the Swamp Rat,” Tobald began. “He was staying the night there because he was too tired to return to Ghars with me. He said he planned to ride south on his duties this morning, and going to Ghars would have meant backtracking as well, so we said farewell. The next thing I know, Captain Flim is knocking on my door to tell me that Grodoveth’s dead—murdered.”

  “And where did this occur?” said my master.

  “In the swamp,” Captain Flim said. “This gnome found him.”

  With a comforting smile, Benelaius turned to the little creature. “Would you be so kind, Darvik, as to tell me about it?”

  “Certainly, sor. I was out pickin’ peat, y’see. I pick peat about once a month or so, since Missus Darvik and I use it in the stove, y’know. Burns a heap better than wood, it does, and almos’ as good as coal even. Well, sor, there’s this one spot that’s got grand peat, foin and thick it is, and I’ve been there afore plenty o’ times. You got to know how to get there, though. You don’t know how to get there, you’ll end up bein’ sucked down fer sure, sor. But if you know where to walk, there’s solid footin’ the whole way. Well, sure there is, isn’t there? Or I’d be at the bottom of the swamp now, wouldn’t I?”

  “Just get on with it, man!” said Tobald.

  “Right, sor. Well, it takes a heap o’ pokin’ about with yer feet to find yer way there, but I done it, and there’s a little rocky island there, sor, like a firm rock right in the midst of the swamp, covered with moss. Often had me lunch there, sor, when I’d be pickin’ peat, and never thought a thing about it, just that it was nice it was there to have me lunch on.…”

  “Darvik, please,” said the mayor.

  “Right, sor. Sorry, sor. But anyways, I never seen it with its lid off before.”

  “Its lid?” Lindavar said.

  “Aye, sor. Like a big door it was, right in the middle of the rock where the moss had hid it. A door, only it opened up instead of out.”

  “A trapdoor, you mean,” said Benelaius.

  Darvik looked at him as though he had said something worthy of genius. “A trapdoor! That’s the very thing, sor. A trapdoor it was. Well, I’d never seen a trapdoor in the middle of the swamp before, so I looked down in and there was steps, sor, leadin’ down. I had a candle with me—always carry a candle and flint and steel along, I do, because you never know, no, you don’t. So I got a little tinder goin’ and lit the candle and went on down, though I don’t mind tellin’ you, sor, I was a trifle scared, I was. I’ve seen my share of funny things in that swamp, all right, even in daylight, but the peat’s so good there, sor, that I just—”

  “Will you please forget the peat and get to the paint … er, point,” Tobald said.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sor. Well, I went down the stairs, sor, watchin’ fer traps an’ such, and halfway down I see this light, sor, and I get to the bottom and see it’s a torch, only it’s fell down from the one who was carryin’ it and it’s still burnin’ on the floor. And then I see the one what was carryin’ it, and
he looks mighty dead, sor.”

  “How could you tell he was dead?” Lindavar asked.

  “Well, sor, with his head over here and the rest of him over there, it didn’t look promisin’ for him.”

  He spoke this last with the same utter earnestness that had graced the rest of his narrative, and I withheld what I feared would sound like a crazy laugh, though I thought I saw Benelaius’s lips turn upward just a bit.

  “No, sor, he was deader than a fish. A dead fish, I mean to say.”

  “When you saw the body,” Benelaius said, “what did you do?”

  “I hightailed out of there, sor. I figgered that whatever done fer him might try and do fer me, and I like me head right where it is, sor.”

  Benelaius nodded understandingly. “A wise move, under the quite frightening circumstances.”

  Darvik looked puzzled, then went on. “If you say so, sor. Anyways I ran, and runnin’ ain’t too smart when you got to think about where to put your feet, and that’s how come I got so mucky. But I made it out all right, and run up to the road, and thank the gods, down it is comin’ some of the Purple Dragons.”

  “I was reconnoitering with some of my men,” said Captain Flim. “It was lucky we were riding by when this one came up on the road. He took us back to see, and after I saw who it was, I left the men there and rode into town for the mayor. Right away he said he had to see you.”

  “Benelaius, you must do something,” Tobald said. “I mean, Dovo’s murder was bad enough, but to have an envoy of King Azoun slaughtered … and the king’s relative, on top of it!”

  “There there, Tobald,” said my master. “I know it must come as a terrible shock to you, but I assure you, we shall do everything we can. Have you sent word to Suzail yet?”

  Tobald nodded. “Of course. Captain Flim’s speediest messenger is on his way even now with the news.” He shook his head disconsolately. “Oh, terrible, terrible day,” he wailed. “Everything had been going so smoothly for the arrival of the guild council … and when my gout kicked up again, I knew something bad was going to happen. But this …”

  “Ah, yes, your gout,” said Benelaius as though he had forgotten. “Jasper did say you needed some more medication, and that you had requested a physical examination as well. Ill tell you what, Tobald, why don’t we let Jasper, Lindavar, and Captain Flim go back to the swamp, and you remain here with me. You seem quite distressed, and it would be wise for me to give you a thorough examination now to make sure that nothing ails you but your gout.”

  A wave of relief swept through me at this suggestion, for I could think of nothing worse than Tobald mourning and moaning and distracting us as we searched for clues. Perhaps it was in Benelaius’s mind as well, for he was quick to insist when Tobald demurred.

  “Oh, Benelaius, I must go. Grodoveth was under the protection of Ghars, and his death reflects shockingly on our town—and on me as its mayor!”

  “Nonsense,” said my master. “The mayor cannot help if the king’s envoy decides to go off on his own into the middle of a swamp where a murder has recently been committed. Hold yourself blameless and consider the task ahead of you this week. The Merchants’ Guild council meets in Ghars, murder or not, and it is up to you and Barthelm to offer them the very best hospitality you can. In order to do that, you must be in the pink of health. Now, have you seen Dr. Braum lately?”

  “We stopped at his house,” Tobald said, “but he was out seeing a patient.” Then he added under his breath, “That great quack … gave me snake dung salve, he did … I’ll like to snake dung him, I’ll tell you.…”

  “That settles it,” Benelaius said, turning to the rest of us. “Captain Flim, Darvik, I would be appreciative if you would lead Lindavar and Jasper to the … place of the murder, while I minister to Mayor Tobald.”

  “Happy to, sir,” said Captain Flim, who then corrected himself. “Well, not ‘happy to,’ the circumstances being what they are, but—”

  “No apologies necessary, Captain,” my master said. “I understand.” He looked at Lindavar and me. “Be my eyes, gentlemen. Mark everything well and let me know in detail what you observe. Farewell, and it was very good to meet you, Mr. Darvik.” This with a bow to the gnome.

  “The pleasure wor all mine, sor,” the gnome said, bowing solemnly. Then he caught himself as Flim had. “Well, not a pleasure, perhaps, circumthingies bein’ as they are …”

  Benelaius smiled as we filed out of the cottage, and I heard him say to Tobald, “Very well, Lord Mayor, please disrobe and I shall examine you.”

  “Disrobe? But, Benelaius, it’s just my great toe …”

  “What affects the toe may have its source in other parts of the body. The great physician-priest Odum once stated that …”

  Then the door closed, and we were on our way to the Vast Swamp.

  20

  Darvik rode behind Flim, I took Jenkus, and Lindavar rode Tobald’s mount, a mild and amiable mare. We headed west, passing the Swamp Rat, which, at that hour of the day, appeared to be deserted. A half mile farther, and we were at the spot where I had seen Dovo as the ghost, and where his body had been found.

  To my surprise, we turned off the road and trotted down the embankment, riding the same path we had made earlier through the marsh grass and muck. I saw two horses hitched to a dead tree that stood at the swamp’s edge.

  “This is as far as we can ride,” said Captain Flim, dismounting and tying his horse to the tree. We did the same.

  “Back in there?” I asked, pointing to what looked like impassable swamp.

  “Aye, sor,” said Darvik. “Ye’d be surprised, ye would, but ye can step through this swamp even if ye weigh a near ton. Just so’s you know where to step.”

  The little gnome sounded confident, but it was with some trepidation that I followed. Darvik led the way, then Lindavar, me, and Captain Flim bringing up the rear, his hand on his sword hilt. Even though it was daylight, the Vast Swamp was still the Vast Swamp.

  We had left our cloaks with the horses, for as soon as you entered the swamp itself, the temperature rose at least ten degrees, the result of all the rotting, all that vegetable death. I could feel the sweat break out on my skin, and hoped that the fluid flowing out of my pores would prevent any of the stench of the swamp from flowing into them.

  As nasty as the Vast Swamp is, the worst thing about it is the smell. The reek of decaying vegetation—and other rotting things you’d rather not think about—hangs in the air as heavy mist, and goes up your nostrils and into your sinuses like snakes dipped in acid. It permeates your clothes and your hair as well, even your skin. After a trek through the Vast Swamp, you want to live in the bathtub for a week.

  The feel of the swamp beneath your feet isn’t too pleasant either. Even the rocks are covered by a shallow layer of marshy soil that your boots press down. When you move on, the footsteps fill up again in seconds. The place was filled with nature’s dangers, patches of quicksand and sucking pits that could make a person vanish forever.

  All the trees looked dead, even the living ones. Their bark and leaves were black. I wondered if their buds in spring were green, or if even those were black, tinted by the foul sediment pulled up through the roots. Moss festooned their branches, but there was no sense of gaiety in the hangings. They seemed rather to be strips of green, pocked flesh, dangling from decaying corpses. Marsh-reeds picketed the surface, and cattails thrust up like fingers of the drowned. And everywhere the mist drifted, clung, hung, surrounded and claimed us.

  “Watch this tree up ahead here, sors,” said Darvik softly. “A thornslinger it is. Just move slowly by it, and speak not …” I didn’t know what a thornslinger was, but its name gave me an idea, and the foot-long thorns that extended from its white, spidery branches gave me a further clue. Needless to say, I did as Darvik suggested.

  Suddenly, we came into a large open space, and I looked across what might have been a half mile of sodden marsh, but with few trees. The spaciousness of it was disconcert
ing, and I hoped we wouldn’t have to walk across the expanse. Being in the middle of all that space would make me feel more vulnerable than I had ever felt in my life.

  To my relief, Darvik slogged off to the left, and we picked our way around the perimeter of the marshy lake. When we had gone perhaps a hundred yards, he parted a curtain of hanging moss to our left, and we entered the dimness again, leaving the open mere behind. The moss clung to me like wet, filthy hair as I went through the opening, and I continued to wipe my face with my sleeve for several minutes afterward.

  At last we saw the two soldiers ahead, standing on top of a small mound that protruded from the swamp like the back of a submerged beast. They tried to look official as we approached, but I could tell that their vigil had been a tense one.

  “Anything happen while I was gone?” Captain Flim asked, and one of the soldiers shook his head.

  “Not a thing, sir, except … well, we did as you commanded and searched farther back in the cave, and … we found something, sir.”

  “The killer?” Lindavar asked.

  The soldier got a funny look on his face. “I hope not, sir.”

  Captain Flim wasn’t a man who liked riddles. He pushed past the soldier and descended the stone stairs. We followed, lighting the lanterns we had brought. The steps were slimy, so we trod slowly, and twenty steps downward brought us to the floor of the cave. There was a small chamber there. Its walls were stone, and the striations showed how the levels of rock had been deposited many centuries ago, rock so hard that it stood against the encroachment of the Vast Swamp even to this day.

  The floor was stone as well, except for where pockets of moisture had eroded it into a sickly claylike substance. The stone was gray, but the place where Grodoveth had bled away his heart’s blood was a flat brown-red. It was the second beheaded corpse I had seen, and much more gruesome than the first. Unlike Dovo’s decapitation, this one had been far from efficient.