Pathfinder Tales - Shy Knives

by Sam Sykes

  “They’re expecting an attack from Qadira?”

  “Not Qadira. At least, not only Qadira. Most of them are paranoid about Cheliax bringing its devils down to seize control. Or Andoren revolutionaries making a mess of things. Or Galt. Or the centaurs. Ask enough nobles and I’m sure you’d find at least one who was worried about the possibility of invasion by an army of intelligent monkeys riding on the backs of dragons and firing crossbows that shot fireballs.”

  I clicked my tongue. “Makes sense.”

  She whirled, fixed me with the kind of suspicious stare that I usually only got from guards, priests, and ex-lovers.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to elaborate on that,” she said, “else I’m going to have to rapidly rethink my opinion of your intellect.”

  “When it comes to watching one’s gold, it pays to think of every possible way you could lose it,” I replied. “You get a lot of money, makes sense that you’d spend a lot to keep it.”

  She sniffed. “And you would know, would you?”

  “I would.” I grinned. “I am from Katapesh.”

  “You keep saying that like you expect me to know what it means.”

  “It means I know rich people. I know they get their gold by taking it, I know they keep their gold by assuming others are coming to take it, and I know what they’d do to prevent that from happening.”

  “You make it sound like all nobles are villains,” Dalaris said. “Scheming little plotters who think of nothing but gold.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “I’m not.”

  “And how well did you say your house was doing?”

  Under most circumstances, I would have felt a little pleased with myself for that line. And when her face screwed up in irritation, I certainly did. But then she had to go and ruin it by looking pointedly away.

  The wounded look that crossed her face then would have almost been petulant if it weren’t so pained. She swallowed something hard, her lips twisted into a bitter frown, as though I had just flung a knife at her rather than a few insults.

  I’ve never been good with emotions; no one in this line of business gets very far if they consider other peoples’ feelings. But damned if that look she tried so hard to keep me from seeing didn’t make me want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it was all going to be okay.

  If she were my type, I might have.

  But I liked them a little taller.

  “How much farther?” I asked. “To the temple of Abadar?”

  Changing the subject seemed like the next most merciful thing. And she was quick to perk up at it. All business, this girl.

  “Not far,” she said. “We just passed the Stelvan estate. The temple is at the edge of the noble district, where it meets the commons.”

  I nodded. That made sense. Worshipers of the merchant god liked being at the center of rich and poor, I’d noticed. They said it was so they could serve all walks of life. I preferred to believe they knew as well as anyone that a poor man’s gold weighed as much as a rich man’s.

  “I admit to being surprised that you’d use Abadar’s services,” I said. “You don’t seem the type to be one of his faithful.”

  “I’m not,” Dalaris replied sharply. “But Gerowan’s family observes. As we were never officially wedded, it was their decision to inter his body with Abadar.” She looked away. “Frankly, I don’t see the point in going. It’s disrespectful.”

  “Respect is for bodies who go pleasantly in the night,” I said. “As we’re fairly certain that Gerowan didn’t get that honor, I’ll have to take a look at his body to find out exactly what did happen.”

  “I assure you that we’ve already seen to that,” Dalaris said, the subject clearly putting her on edge.

  “You had a good look at the corpse?”

  “The priest inspected the body, yes,” Dalaris said, forcefully. “All proper arrangements were made and, at his brother’s insistence, a spell was even cast to communicate with his spirit.”

  “And?”

  “And everything suggests that centaurs killed him.” She frowned. “Including his spirit. It looks hopeless.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m starting to think you don’t want me poking around your dead husband’s corpse.”

  “I don’t!” she snapped back. “At least, I don’t want him desecrated. If there was anything I thought you could gain from inspecting him further, I would allow it, but—”

  “There is.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then how can you know you’ll find anything that Gerowan’s brother and the others didn’t?”

  “Because they were looking for closure,” I replied simply. “And I’m looking for a murderer.”

  * * *

  The carriage rolled to a stop. The door opened. Standing before us was an older gentleman: hard face behind a hard beard, wrinkled body under wrinkled clothes, the kind of gray hair and deep lines that you only got from honest labor. Looking at the man made me hope I’d be dead before I saw any of those things.

  “Here,” he grunted as he produced a stepping stool and set it down before the door.

  Lady Sidara had no servants left besides this man, the others having all left to serve at more expensive houses. And as he snorted and spit on the cobblestones, I was starting to see why he wasn’t serving someone else.

  “Thank you, Harges,” Dalaris said, gesturing to me to exit first. I did, then reached back to take her hand and help her out—Harges didn’t seem like he was in a hurry to do so. “We’ll be brief. Please see to it that you water the mares.”

  She gestured to the two horses drawing the carriage—workhorses about as old as Harges was. He nodded at her and she turned to leave. I paused, glancing at him as he mopped his brow.

  “The temple probably has water,” I offered. “You want to come?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t like priests,” he said. “Don’t like rich men. Don’t like priests of rich men.”

  I decided I liked Harges.

  I hurried up a simple stone walkway stretching down a simply cut lawn leading up to a simple stone building with tall doors and high windows. You’d never guess it was a temple if not for the symbol of an intricately wrought bronze key hanging over the doors. The sigil of Abadar.

  Admittedly, I was a little surprised. The god of merchants was obviously popular in Katapesh. And though I hadn’t spent an awful lot of time in my home country—enough to know that I hated it, at least—I had vivid memories of sprawling golden doors and great, expensive tapestries dedicated to Abadar.

  I supposed that just because he was a god of merchants didn’t necessarily mean he was a god of wealth.

  But then, in Katapesh, wealth was a god unto itself.

  “Let me do the talking,” Dalaris said.

  She reached up, knocked three times upon the door. After a few moments of silence, she reached up and knocked three times more. After another, longer few moments, she did so again, three times more. And again, silence.

  That was about the time I pulled my dagger free from my belt and slammed its pommel against the door three times. The sound echoed through the building within, and the doors shook on their hinges. Dalaris glared at me as I resheathed my dagger.

  “What?” I asked. “I didn’t say a thing.”

  If she were going to chew me out about that, it would have to wait. The doors creaked open. A man’s face with the sort of cheeks that suggested too much wine and too little labor peered out. His eyes, cautious and shrewd, widened a little at the sight of Dalaris.

  “Lady Sidara,” he said. His gaze drifted to me, looked me over and narrowed again. “And company.”

  “Apologies for the intrusion, Tessan,” Dalaris began.

  “Lender Tessan, if you don’t mind,” the chubby fellow replied. “I take it you desire to come grieve over Lord Amalien once more?”

  “I do, Lend
er,” she said.

  “It is typically considered polite,” he paused to let that word sink in, “to arrange an appointment before arriving.” He waited a moment, as if we might simply turn tail and run out of embarrassment. I folded my arms and glared at him, and he sighed. “But I am under instructions to allow you to see Lord Amalien at your leisure, as per the wishes of his brother, Lord Amalien. The other Lord Amalien, that is.”

  “My thanks, Lender,” Dalaris said, bowing.

  “You are welcome to enter,” he said, turning an eye toward me. “Your Qadiran friend, however—”

  “Katapeshi,” I interrupted.

  Tessan’s cheeks pulled his face into an impressive frown. “It’s quite rude to—”

  “That is,” Dalaris said, quick to impose herself between us, “my Katapeshi friend was also a dear friend of Gerowan. I’ve come to escort her as she pays her respects.”

  From over her shoulder, I could see the emotions play out on Tessan’s chubby face as he went from irritated to suspicious and, finally, to apathetic. Abadar’s people didn’t seem to mind most transgressions, presuming they were paid adequately for them. And whatever Gerowan’s brother, the other Lord Amalien, was paying, it must have been enough to excuse this interruption.

  He pushed open the doors. His tall and heavyset frame was covered in gold and white robes, a heavy bronze key hanging by a chain around his neck. He stepped aside and gestured in.

  “Please, come in.”

  We did so and he eased the doors closed behind us. The interior of the temple was sparser than I remembered the ones in Katapesh being. Certainly, it was clean: the pews were all of high-quality wood, the candles burned with a nice clean smell and carpets were arranged for the comfort of kneeling worshipers. But there were none of the splendid gold statues or fantastically wrought ivory altars I had seen in Katapesh.

  From windows, at least. I was never invited into the temples proper.

  This temple had a simple stone altar with Abadar’s key carved upon it. The place had a nice, well-lit atmosphere that was still slightly foreboding. And this temple had only a few people—dressed both nicely and shabbily—kneeling in supplication. That didn’t surprise me much. Few came to Abadar unless they needed something.

  Like us.

  “Follow me, if you please.” Tessan walked past us, gesturing for us to follow. “Lord Amalien is right through here.”

  He led us down a nearby hallway that was dotted with doors on either wall. At the third door on the left, he stopped and fished out a key ring from his belt. With no particular hurry, he sorted through them and opened the door into a modest room that was just a little larger than an alcove. It was lit with candelabras at all corners to complement the daylight seeping in from the high window overhead, and dominated by a rectangular wooden table.

  All in all, this might have been a pleasant little breakfast nook, had it not been for the dead body.

  Dalaris cringed at the sight of him. I blinked. Tessan checked his nails.

  Long and slender, his skin just slightly darker than the white funeral shroud he was dressed in, a man lay upon the table. His hands were folded over his belly, eyes closed, black hair and goatee stylishly trimmed. Clean, peaceful, smelling vaguely of flowers.

  Gerowan Amalien, late husband.

  A pleasure to meet you, at last.

  “As per his brother’s wishes, we have continued to weave spells each day to preserve the cor—” Tessan caught himself, cleared his throat. “To preserve the body, Lady Sidara. Though Lord Amalien’s contract compels me to tell you that we will be concluding this service at the end of the week, that he may be interred in the family crypt.”

  “A week.”

  Dalaris spoke the word simply, a grimness in her voice that caught my attention. Not that she sounded callous or anything, but not an hour ago, this woman looked like she was ready to burst into tears. Now she spoke with a solid sorrow, an acknowledgment, a remorse—but nothing else.

  “A week, Lady Sidara,” Tessan said. “Any further services must be renegotiated.”

  “That means,” I interjected, “that all services you offer are still available.”

  Tessan regarded me carefully. “It does.”

  “Would you kindly permit us to speak with the corpse?” I asked.

  To my credit, I kept the revulsion out of my voice. I found spells that allowed communication with the other side profoundly creepy. Sure, some said that the dead had a lot to teach us, but that never seemed to make much sense to me.

  They were dead, after all. Whatever they did in life, they couldn’t have been that great at it.

  “Apologies,” Tessan replied. “I meant that services are available to House Amalien.” He inclined his head to Dalaris in what was almost respect. “To which you were never officially joined, my lady.”

  I didn’t give her the chance to do more than frown at that, pushing past her to stand before Tessan. My voice slid low as a knife under a table, and I leaned close to the priest.

  “It’s I who should apologize, dear lender,” I said. “We haven’t been entirely truthful with you.”

  “Shy!” Dalaris exclaimed.

  I held up a hand without looking back at her. “You see, sir, I was not lying when I said I was Katapeshi, and I was not lying when I said I was Lord Amalien’s friend.” I gave him a knowing look. “I am his Katapeshi friend. And he owes me a debt.”

  It would have been slander to say that Tessan had no manners. He at least tried to conceal the sneer of disgust he shot my way.

  “What manner of debt?” he asked.

  “Money,” I replied. “The kind of money that calls a woman all the way to Taldor from across the Inner Sea. The kind of money that would merit me requesting such a service from you.”

  “I see.” As a priest of Abadar, the fellow couldn’t help but be impressed. But as a particularly lazy bastard, the fellow couldn’t help. “Well, best of luck with that. But it’s really not my—”

  “Very well, sir,” I replied. “I’ve no mind to press you further. If you’ll just give me your full name, I’ll be happy to send it to my superiors and let them handle it. I really don’t get paid enough.” I offered him a smile. “Refresh my memory, it was Tessan what?”

  In this line of business, pulling a knife on the right man can get you far. But that’s messy work. Pulling a lie is quicker, cleaner—and besides, the annoyed glare he gave me in exchange for my smile was infinitely more satisfying than sticking some fool.

  See, I’d met people like Tessan before. No longer a novice to be taken care of, not yet a high priest to order others around, he had likely been sent to Yanmass to prove himself, and likely deeply resented that.

  Too old to be adored, too young to be respected, he was doubtless the middle child in a family of thousands: uninterested, unhelpful, and unmotivated by the thought of anything but work.

  Or rather, the thought of avoiding it.

  And so we locked eyes for a moment, my smile digging into his scowl like it had claws, as I let him work out just how much trouble it would be to deal with debt collectors.

  Katapeshi debt collectors.

  “Very well…” I began.

  That did it.

  “One moment,” he sighed as he trundled to the head of the table.

  I shot Dalaris a grin over my shoulder. She shot me a confused look, like she wasn’t quite sure what had happened. I couldn’t tell if she was impressed with my lying or if she just hadn’t seen a lie before.

  Either way, I liked her a little more.

  My attentions were drawn back to the table as Tessan took Gerowan’s face between his hands. He shut his eyes, began to murmur words that hurt my ears.

  I probably should have mentioned—to Dalaris, at least—that I didn’t care much for magic. It always seemed to me like cheating. That wouldn’t offend me quite so much if it were cheating I could do myself, but I never had a knack for it.

  I clenched my teeth, steeled myself
for what would happen next.

  Regrettably, it happened very quickly.

  Gerowan didn’t move much. His eyes didn’t shoot open, he didn’t shoot up and dance a jig; really, I didn’t even know if there were a spell that could do that. But his mouth opened ever so slightly and I heard the faintest sound of wind whistling.

  I leaned forward, whispered.

  “Is that you, Gerowan?”

  “… yes…”

  His voice was a rasping, echoing thing, as though spoken from a great distance away and still far too close.

  My skin crawled. And given that I had enough skin on display, I wagered Dalaris probably saw that and was a touch offended. I ignored her and continued. Everything I knew about talking to corpses was that they only ever answered questions, and they were thematically appropriately cryptic.

  “Where is the money you owe me, Gerowan?” I phrased it vaguely enough that I hoped his answer would be just as cryptic.

  “… I … don’t … know…”

  Good. That probably wouldn’t draw too much suspicion from Tessan.

  “Who killed you, Gerowan?” I asked.

  “… cen … taurs … descended … fire … fear … pain…”

  “How did you die?”

  “Really,” Dalaris whispered, “we went over this once before, there’s no need—”

  “How did you die?” I spoke louder.

  “… stabbed … in the … back … tried to … flee … had to … escape…”

  “How many centaurs were there?”

  “… don’t re … member…”

  “What weapons were they carrying?”

  “… axes … swords … fire … fear…”

  I bit my lower lip. I almost hated to ask this next part, but …

  “Gerowan,” I said, “what were your last thoughts of?”

  “… last thoughts … of … lady … lady…”

  “Is this really conducive to your collection?” Tessan’s voice jolted me back to my surroundings. His suspicious glare caught my eye. “Did your superiors ask you to traumatize his widow if you couldn’t collect his debts?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and cringed. Dalaris was looking away, her face buried in one hand. Yet her hand was so mercilessly small that I could still see the despair on her face.