Murder in Cormyr

by Chet Williamson

  “Dovo?” Rolf said in disbelief. “Look, I know you’re a War Wizard and all that, but you expect us to believe that somebody as dumb as Dovo was could even get all this information you’re talking about, let alone come up with this ghost idea? He scarcely had the brains to hammer on a horseshoe!”

  “All he had to do was learn the code,” Lindavar said. “He might not have even realized what he was doing. Perhaps he was told that he was transmitting information to smugglers, or someone less reprehensible than the Iron Throne. Whatever he was told, he was also told all the information the Iron Throne needed.”

  “Told by whom?” Barthelm demanded. “What Cormyrean would betray his king and country?”

  “And the local merchants, eh?” Shortshanks said with a sneer.

  “The information was derived from someone who had easy access to it, someone whose official capacity not only allowed him but required him to know these things and report them to the local lord, Sarp Redbeard, in Wheloon. This person was a repository of export and trade information from Thunderstone to the Way of the Manticore, in all the lands between the Wyvernwater and the Vast Swamp. And it was from him that the information came, the same information that Dovo then gave the agents of the Iron Throne across the Vast Swamp.”

  “Grodoveth …” Mayor Tobald said softly. “Grodoveth was a spy in the employ of the Iron Throne.” And he put his head in his hands and shuddered, and I felt great pity come upon me for this man whose friend had betrayed his country.

  “Grodoveth,” he moaned once again.

  31

  The room was quiet for a moment, as all eyes were on the mayor and his sorrow. But then Lindavar spoke again. “No. Not Grodoveth. You need have no worry on that account, Lord Mayor. Grodoveth was but an innocent conduit of that information, telling what he had seen and what he knew without hesitation to someone he had no reason to distrust.

  “That Grodoveth was the source is apparent from a look at the dates. The ghostly appearances, and thus the secret signals, always occurred just after Grodoveth visited Ghars. There was one exception when no ghost was seen, and the reasonable conclusion to draw is simply that no one saw Dovo from the road that particular night.

  “So the intelligence went from Grodoveth to the Iron Throne agent to Dovo. It was that agent who recruited Dovo into his plans, perhaps winning him over with a romantic story of smugglers, or even Cormyrean agents. Along with the exciting risk was the fun of terrorizing everyone in the town, and, of course, money.

  “But Dovo made a mistake. He became cocky, though I suspect he already was. When he approached Kendra, he told her that there was more to him than she might think—’much more.’ When his secret employer overheard this comment, he panicked, and with good reason. It was only a short step from Dovo telling a paramour that he was the ghost to having the entire story come out, including the agent’s participation. He knew he had to silence Dovo before he said too much, and the most efficient way to do that was to terminate his ghostly career by killing him.

  “He met him at the swamp, made some excuse to examine his axe, and beheaded him, making it look like the act of a vengeful ghost who would bear no mockery. Grodoveth already had an interest in local legends, is that not so, Mr. Marmwitz?”

  “Oh, yes,” Marmwitz said, nodding frantically, recognizing that this was his shining moment. “He was always looking over the books on local folklore, particularly anything to do with the Vast Swamp.”

  “And it was impossible that he could have done all that reading without coming across the legend of Fastred, was it not?”

  “Oh, no,” said Marmwitz, still bobbing like a cork in a squall. “I mean, yes … I mean, I’m certain he would have come across Fastred, oh my, yes.”

  “And coming across stories of the old warrior-brigand, he might have suspected, as did most of us, that Dovo’s death was due, not to a ghost, but to foul play, and, as it turned out, from the foulest motives. His investigations into the legend of Fastred were so deep that he figured out the riddle that has puzzled many people for years—the location of Fastred’s tomb. What better place, he thought, for the hiding place of the murderer. And if, on the other hand, the murderer was not even cognizant of the hidden tomb, what a treat its discovery would be for the historians of Cormyr.

  “And he found it. But he also found the killer. Or the killer found him. He struck quickly, so that Grodoveth did not even have a chance to defend himself. To the superstitious, it would have looked like one more act of revenge from beyond the grave, this time for entering Fastred’s tomb and disturbing his rest. The only thing is, if that were the case, Fastred’s treasure would still have been there. But it was gone, taken by the killer, either then or long before, if he had indeed discovered the location of the tomb before Grodoveth had.

  “But the killer made one mistake, one foolish error of the type that has tripped up far more clever criminals than he. He left something behind him—a clue, which Jasper was alert enough to find. Something that pointed the finger of suspicion at him enough for us to investigate further.

  “We surreptitiously searched his personal belongings and found a certain vial. When we analyzed the contents of that vial, we found that it was poison. Blackweed, extremely potent but slow acting. Once it had been ingested by the victim, there would be no sign of its presence until at least twelve hours later, when the pains would begin, first annoying, then excruciating. But no one who took it would be alive within twenty-four hours of ingestion.”

  My mind was racing as I listened to Lindavar’s tale. No wonder Benelaius had advised me against drinking the water in Ghars. Blackweed, just like the poison Benelaius had extracted from Mayor Tobald. But who would try to poison Tobald and then …

  The word suddenly came back to me. Extracted, Benelaius had said. But what did he mean, exactly?

  “There was enough blackweed in that vial,” Lindavar said, “to kill the entire population of a town the size of Ghars, along with whatever important guests were visiting the town at the time.”

  “The council!” Barthelm cried, leaping to his feet.

  “Please, Barthelm,” Benelaius said. “All is in hand. Sit and allow Lindavar to complete our case against the killer.” Barthelm sat, but he was trembling, and his face looked ashen.

  “The Iron Throne wants revenge on Cormyr for its banishment. And what better way,” said Lindavar, “for it to drive a stake through this kingdom’s heart and strengthen its own trading powers than by assassinating the entire Grand Council of Cormyr’s Merchants’ Guild? And by something as simple and certain as the ceremonial drink of welcome each member of the council would take upon entering Ghars. The fate of kingdoms depends on more than just the fate of kings. Cormyr’s trading position would be thrown into chaos, and the Iron Throne could establish a foothold that might never be broken.”

  Shortshanks raised a hand. He looked ill and was holding his hand to his stomach. All of the others appeared equally distraught, and even the sun-burnished faces of the Purple Dragons looked pale. “What did you do with the poison?” Shortshanks asked.

  “We replaced the vial in the traitor’s possession, so that he would not know we had found it.”

  “Wait a minute!” Rolf said, turning toward old Khlerat and pointing at him. “It had to get into the water supply for it to work, and he’s the one who’s in charge of the water!”

  “Khlerat is not the killer,” said Benelaius. It seemed that he chose to speak only when people needed reassuring. “And don’t worry. None of you have been poisoned. Before the vial was returned, it was thoroughly cleansed and the poison was replaced with a harmless crystal.”

  “A crystal?” asked Rolf. “Wouldn’t the killer see that?”

  “A crystalline powder,” Lindavar clarified, as I considered the possibility that Rolf had little room to be calling other people stupid. “One that dissolved in water as invisibly as the poison. Now,” he said, “who drank from the water supply in Ghars this day?”

&nbs
p; Everyone except for Benelaius, Lindavar, Kendra, and me raised their hands, all of them uncomfortably. Even the one I now knew was to be identified as the killer did. He probably thought it his last chance.

  “Benelaius, Kendra, and myself,” said Lindavar, “were not in Ghars today, and Jasper was told not to drink any water there.” The young mage went to the first brazier and partially covered it so that only a small amount of light leaked out. He did the same with the others, so that the light remaining was similar to that of a nearly dead fire, enough for us to see each other’s forms but no details of face or clothing.

  “The crystal we used as a replacement,” Lindavar said when we were in near darkness, “was discovered by Benelaius.”

  “There is nothing of magic in it,” my master said, and I heard pride in his voice. “It is a perfectly safe, natural compound derived from crystalline rock. Its main quality is luminescence.” He opened his mouth wide, and a ghostly, blue-green circle appeared. “As you see, it shows itself most clearly in the mucous membranes, such as the inside of the mouth and the bowels. If I were to be eviscerated and turned inside-out, I would be quite a sight.”

  I considered that that would be quite a sight even if he wasn’t luminescent, but did not offer the observation.

  “So open your mouths, everyone,” Lindavar said. “And the outcome will be obvious. The person whose mouth is not glowing did not drink from the Ghars water supply today, even though everyone here, with the noted exceptions, declared that they did so. That person is not only the attempted assassin of the entire Cormyrean Merchant’s Guild council and the citizens of Ghars but the successful killer of Dovo and Grodoveth. So open. Open wide, I pray you.…”

  And they did. One by one, irregular blue-green moons appeared in the darkness of the piazza, except for one person who sat, mouth clamped shut. The Purple Dragons were a row of luminous spheres, and those seated provided a jagged constellation of cool fire.

  But on Benelaius’s right, there was only darkness, the outline of a figure, a hunched shape that bespoke fear, refusal, and yes, malignancy.

  Then Benelaius’s voice spoke coldly. “What is the matter, Lord Mayor? Afraid you’ll get a mosquito in your mouth?”

  32

  “Open your mouth, sir, or my men will do it for you,” said Captain Flim, his voice as rough and grizzled as his beard.

  Mayor Tobald hesitated only another moment, then opened his mouth. It was merely a darker hole in the darkness of his face. I heard the click of his teeth as his mouth slammed shut again.

  “Khlerat,” said Lindavar, “when I spoke of the poison several minutes ago, you were the first to be alarmed. Is it because you knew that someone other than yourself had access to the cistern today?”

  “Y … yessir,” Khlerat said.

  “And who was it?”

  “Mayor Tobald, sir. He wished to examine it to make sure all was well for the arrival of the council.”

  “And let me guess—he told you not to bother, that he could examine it himself without you accompanying him.”

  “Yessir. That’s right, sir. Just like you say.” I could see Khlerat’s head nodding just the way that Marmwitz’s had, and hoped I didn’t come down with such fear-of-authority palsy when I reached their age.

  “Did anyone else have access to the cistern today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Could anyone have gotten to the water supply without your knowing about it?”

  “Absolutely not, sir!” That was more like it. There was life in the old boy yet.

  “How odd,” said Lindavar with more than a touch of sarcasm, “that the only person who had the opportunity to poison the water supply is the only person who did not drink from it today. A dark mouth, Mayor Tobald, is not the thing to have this night.”

  “Nor is a pronounced limp,” said Benelaius, “which I noticed as you entered, Lord Mayor. A limp possibly due to the fact that you have not been taking your gout medicine, which I had prescribed for you and which Jasper had delivered. Could it be that you didn’t take your remaining pills because you didn’t have them? Because you dropped them on the floor of the cave where Grodoveth was killed, and where Jasper later found them crushed? You said you were never in that cave, Lord Mayor. So how did the pills come to be there?”

  The form next to my master had begun trembling, the shoulders hunching as if in the grip of a terrible rage. The Purple Dragons, caught up in the drama, were gripping the hilts of their swords, as was Captain Flim, who had moved nearer the mayor. “Is that everything, sir?” Flim said, his voice cold with anger.

  “One thing more,” said Benelaius, displacing Grimalkin just long enough to reach into his robe and come out with a small metal oval. He held it up, and in the dim light I could just see the symbol etched into its surface:

  “This was found with the vial of poison. It is the sigil of the Iron Throne.”

  A wordless cry of rage started to bubble up from Tobald’s throat as he got to his feet. Unintelligible at first, it transformed itself into words. “You wretch! You meddling old fool! You should have been the first to die!”

  “I suspect it would have gone more smoothly for you if I had,” said Benelaius gently.

  “Here stands the killer and the traitor,” Lindavar pronounced. “A man willing to murder not only the council but everyone in the town—all the people who trusted him as their leader—in order to aid the Iron Throne.”

  “The orders from Suzail,” Barthelm said, and his deep tones sounded like the voice of doom, “were to have this monster put to death immediately.”

  “That was the order of the king’s court,” said Benelaius.

  “And it shall be done,” Captain Flim said, starting to move toward Tobald, who, in his shivering rage, resembled a blood-bloated spider, ready to run from the fist that is crashing down.

  Then a great many things happened. I saw all the cats by the braziers move at once, and the low bowls toppled from their stands, the coals gleaming brightly for a second as they met the air. But their lights were extinguished as they fell over the rail and landed on the ground just below. The piazza and all upon it were instantly thrust into a black, clinging darkness, and I heard the rattle of arms as the Purple Dragons moved to cut off Tobald’s escape.

  They were too late. The traitor’s chair had been placed by the single opening through the railing to the swamp, and Tobald had instantly bolted when the braziers toppled, taking his chances with the swamp and the darkness rather than his executioners. Try as I might, I could not hear his escaping footfalls over the clatter of the blindly seeking soldiers.

  “Stand still!” Captain Flim called. “A light! Someone make a light!” After what seemed like an eternity, I saw a feeble glow inside the door of the cottage, and Lindavar came out bearing a hooded lantern that slowly grew brighter as its oil ignited.

  Several Purple Dragons were clustered at the gate, staring into the rapidly fading blackness. Captain Flim pointed a gloved hand and shouted, “There!”

  I saw the dim and shadowy figure of Tobald then. He was moving into the Vast Swamp, and, during our search for a light, had gone nearly a hundred yards through the mire. He seemed to be moving slowly, his feet sticking in the black ooze, but he pulled his boots out and continued to stumble on, toward the heart of the swamp.

  “After him!” Captain Flim cried, and his men complied, following him down the few stairs that led from the piazza to the ground, but Benelaius called after them, and Flim paused.

  “Wait!” Benelaius said. “Not without a light. There are sinkholes and quicksand everywhere.” Lindavar passed down the light to Flim, but as I looked out at the swamp, I could see that Tobald was already nearly lost in the darkness.

  It didn’t stop Captain Flim, though, who moved as quickly as he could through the muck, his men behind him. If he could keep Tobald in sight, I had no doubt that the soldiers would apprehend him.

  But then the light of the lantern started to fade, not from any gust of
wind, but as though someone were slowly turning off the oil supply. Flim paused to examine it but jerked his head up again when Rolf shouted, “Look!”

  Something was beginning to glow out in the Vast Swamp, at the spot where I had last seen the vanishing form of Tobald, and I could see that it was the figure of a man. Even from a hundred yards away, he looked like a giant.

  In the cold blue light that radiated from his entire frame, I saw a mane of long hair falling about his shoulders, a gleaming shirt of mail over a broad, muscular torso, and legs as thick as tree trunks. The features of his face seemed magnified by the eerie light that streamed from him. His cheeks were gaunt, his mouth looked as though it had never smiled, and his eyes … let me just say that they had seen things I pray mine never have to look upon.

  The sight of him was bad enough, and the huge war axe he held effortlessly in his right hand made him not a whit less frightening. “Fastred’s ghost,” Benelaius said, and although I heard no fear in his voice, I could tell he was as surprised as the rest of us at the appearance of the apparition.

  The sight had frozen the Purple Dragons in their tracks, and I could see their forms against the constantly brightening light the ghost exuded. I could also see Tobald.

  He was standing only a few feet away from the ghost. My fear at seeing the ghost at a distance was so great that I could only imagine Tobald’s terror at such proximity to the creature. He was brightly illuminated by the blue light of the ghost itself, and I saw him throw up his hands as if to ward it off. He stood there, face-to-face with it for a long time. Then it took a step toward him.

  Tobald backed away, his head still up, transfixed by the apparition’s baleful glare. His arms were up as well, as though he were being accosted by a highwayman. But Fastred’s ghost was far more terrible than any mortal brigand.

  The ghost advanced, and Tobald continued to back away, until I saw his left foot sink into the black ooze. His fear had usurped his strength. He could not pull his foot out, could only step back with his right foot as well, so that now he was completely mired in the clinging muck.