“Such as?”
“Such as, some treacherous councilor who has already agreed to open a gate for him, so he doesn’t have to storm the walls.”
“Oh. That is a daunting prospect.”
By the time the sun was at the horizon, they had made a full circuit of the walls and were back at the East Gate. They descended to street level and began to walk back toward the harbor.
“What do you think?” Nistur asked.
“I think we had better find that killer,” Ironwood answered him.
“Tell me your thoughts, then.”
“Escape from this place is hardly possible now. I watched the nomad patrols while we toured the walls, and they are as efficient as any I’ve ever seen. We’d be nothing but target practice for them. They have this city closed up tight.”
“But you think the demand for the killers is a ruse, do you not?”
“I think so, but even a savage chief like Kyaga must hew to certain appearances. If he says he won’t attack if the killers are turned over to him in time, then he must hold off, at least until he has an excuse. He’d lose face among his subchiefs if he went back on his word.”
“That would buy us some more time,” Nistur said.
“And possibly put us in his debt. There is something else to consider.”
“If it is hopeful, please tell me.”
“These nomads,” Ironwood pointed out, “are expert at their own type of warfare, which is mainly raiding. They can assemble for a big attack like this as long as they don’t have to wait too long. They are not disciplined soldiers, who know that real warfare means a great deal of waiting. To nomads, the sheer excitement of war is important.
Lacking that excitement, they will lose interest.”
“Their patrolling will become lackadaisical and inefficient?”
“Right. And by small groups, and then by whole tribes, they will begin to drift away from the army in search of excitement. When that happens, the others will start to worry about the families they left behind on the plains.”
“Prey to hereditary enemies?”
“Exactly. Every day we buy makes us a little safer and escape a little more likely.”
“Then,” Nistur said, “whether we like it or not, we must act like detectives. And we must be good ones.”
* * * * *
This time when they knocked at the door in Stunbog’s hulk, the barbarian woman admitted them readily. “The old man’s been expecting you,” she said. Her rough-edged sibilants and abrupt vowels made her words difficult to understand, but her gestures were easy enough to interpret.
“We had thought he would be surprised,” Nistur said, doffing his hat and brushing the light dusting of snow from it.
“Pleased, but not surprised,” said the healer from the rear of the vessel. “Come on up and warm yourselves.”
They climbed the stair to the great cabin and accepted cups of mulled wine. Ironwood set a large bag on the table.
“Here,” said the mercenary. “There’re a couple of roast ducks in here, and some fruit and fresh-baked bread, little enough to begin repaying your kindness. The council hasn’t thought to clamp rationing on the city yet. It must have been ages since they’ve withstood a siege.”
“Not since long before living memory serves,” Stunbog affirmed.
“You were expecting us?” Nistur asked, taking a warm, bracing draught of the wine.
“Word came to me this morning that you were out of jail, and a little later that Shellring was out as well. That must have taken some cleverness to pull off. Tell me about it while we eat.”
With the viands spread out on the table and each of them making inroads in them according to the dictates of appetite, Nistur and Ironwood regaled their hosts with their story. Myrsa looked doubtful, but Stunbog laughed heartily through most of it.
“For sheer, brazen effrontery, you two are a match for any ten rogues of my acquaintance,” said the old man when they were done. “To devise such a story took no small degree of imagination. But actually to go about making a reality of it, that is the stroke of pure genius!”
“It is not such a flight of fancy,” Nistur said, “when you consider that nobody in this city has any idea what a criminal investigator is supposed to look, act, or speak like, nor even what such a person is supposed to do at all. Who is to say that we are not the very pattern of such a team?”
“A good point,” Stunbog allowed judiciously. “I personally have never met such a person.”
“How long can you fool them?” Myrsa asked, half a duck gripped in her big-knuckled hands.
“No need to,” Nistur said. “We will catch the murderer, whoever it may be, and we shall do it within the time allotted.” Her answering snort carried equal parts skepticism and derision.
When Ironwood next raised his cup, his hand trembled slightly. Stunbog noticed the subtle movement instantly. “You, my friend, must rest. As your healer, I order it.”
Ironwood seemed about to make a curt reply, then thought better of it. “Yes, you are probably right. We must be up early if we’re to catch our prey.”
“Good advice for any hunter,” said Myrsa.
“I shall turn in shortly myself,” Nistur said, “but I want to hear Shellring’s report when she returns.”
Ironwood went toward his cabin, and Myrsa rose and stretched her long arms. “I will sleep by the door. I’ll wake when the girl comes.” She disappeared below, leaving the healer and the ex-assassin alone.
“Is another seizure coming on?” Nistur asked quietly.
“No, it’s too soon. But our friend is far from fully recovered, whatever he may think.”
“And there is no cure?”
“None that I know of.” Stunbog glanced shrewdly at Nistur. “But when he dies, you will be free. Is that not what you wish?”
Involuntarily, Nistur’s hand went to the mark beneath his jaw. “You know about that, then?”
“The Knot of Thanalus is known even to those who are not terribly learned in the Arts.”
“To answer your question: at first I was distressed and resentful. But now … I cannot say that I enjoy being bound to another, but somehow I cannot help liking the surly rogue. Despite his manner, he is not a brainless lout like so many of the mercenaries. He has accepted his terrible fate with a certain grace, and he adheres to a personal code of honor, which many more fortunate persons do not.”
“True, true.” Stunbog took another drink, then spoke quietly. “And you, my friend. Were you not growing weary of your life? Had the assassin’s trade not come to sicken you even before you were hired to kill a man already doomed?”
“You miss little, old man,” said Nistur in a near-whisper.
Stunbog nodded. “Aye. In my long life I have met humans and dwarves and elves of all conditions, in every sort of distress and predicament. When one has come to the end of a life he has chosen in error, the signs are plain to see, for one who has the eye for it.”
“In truth, I have always thought of myself as a poet. Unfortunately, we live in an age wherein poets do not receive the esteem that once they did.”
“It is sad but true,” Stunbog agreed.
“And what of you?” Nistur asked. “These books and articles of magic”—he waved an arm, taking in the cluttered cabin—“are not the belongings of a humble healer. You are more than you seem.”
After a long pause, Stunbog nodded. “It is true. Once, when I was very young, I aspired to be a great mage. I traveled widely, seeking out wizards of power to learn their craft. In my youthful arrogance, I began to think myself the equal of the greatest mages, ones far older and wiser than I. I offended them with my pretensions and my greed to know their most powerful spells.
“One wizard after another to whom I had apprenticed myself expelled me. They protested that one such as I would never be worthy to take the Test at the Tower of High Sorcery, would never qualify for any of the Orders of Magic. Fool that I was, I thought I could attain t
he greatest magnitude without the Test, that I needed no Order, for I esteemed the limitations imposed by the Orders to be fit only for lesser wizards. I desired the freedom to act exactly as I wished, beyond the strictures of Good, Neutrality, and Evil.
“I confess that I stooped to the most unscrupulous tactics to secure rare and mighty techniques. I essayed spells that were far beyond my youthful skills, spells that should be attempted, if at all, only by wizards of much experience and great strength of character. Maturity is as important in sorcery as in government or any other serious activity.”
“So I understand,” Nistur murmured sympathetically.
“In time, so arrogant, so full of myself did I become that other magicians came to despise me, mages older, wiser, and in some cases far more evil than I. For in my own feeble defense I must protest that I never thought to become a wizard of the Black Robes. My flaws were those of ambition and impetuosity.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Nistur said. “You were, after all, quite young.”
Stunbog laughed. “You have a rare gift of diplomacy, my friend. It disguises well what a dangerous man you are. But then, lions are the color of grass, and sharks are the color of their native waters. Even predators must have protective coloration.”
“You are perceptive. So your ambitions led you into folly?”
Stunbog’s smile went away, and his visage darkened. “Folly of the most dreadful sort. To impress my betters, whom in my vanity I perceived as rivals—great must have been their amusement at that particular bit of presumption—I sought to perform a spell that had not been attempted, even by magicians of the highest rank, in more than five hundred years. I cannot even repeat its name to you, for so potent is its power that certain preliminary rituals of protection must be performed before it can even be discussed, and then only among initiates of certain arcane mysteries.”
“It sounds like a daunting rite,” Nistur said.
“That is far too mild an expression. It was more than merely deadly, it was catastrophic, not only to the practitioner but to all who dwelled around him. My colleagues, who had by this time all become my enemies, cooperated to thwart each step of the ritual as I performed it, turning every bit of its baleful influence against me. Had I been a great wizard, I would have detected their interference with ease and taken steps to protect myself. But then”—he shrugged his bowed shoulders with resignation—“had I been a great wizard, I never would have attempted anything so foolish.”
“Ah, but the impetuosities of youth are common to all of us. Why, I, myself—”
The healer held up a forestalling palm. “Do not overdo the commiseration, my friend. Even when sincerely meant, a simple assurance is usually sufficient.”
“Your pardon.” Nistur bowed slightly, fingers of one hand spread upon his breast.
“No offense taken, I assure you. To continue: I completed the spell in every detail, glorying in what I thought to be my tremendous power and expertise. I stood there in triumph, surrounded by my sigils, my magical artifacts, all the glowing and glamorous effects of my chosen art …” His words trailed off, his eyes distant as he looked back across the years toward what Nistur was certain must have been his last happy moment.
“And then?” Nistur asked quietly.
“And then,” Stunbog continued, his face transformed into a mask of bitterness and regret, “I heard the sounds of horror and desolation from all around me. I was not elevated among spirits of vast power, as I had anticipated. Instead, I was in my wizardly lair as before, but my fires and candles were dimming, as if covered by some unseen candlesnuffer. The beams and stones overhead creaked with strain, and fine powder sifted over me, as if I were in an ill-constructed tunnel that was about to cave in. I knew then that I must have performed some part of the rite incorrectly, although I could not imagine what it might have been.
“Fearing the collapse of my lair, I stuffed my books and such instruments as I could salvage into a great bag and carried it all out.” He gestured around the cabin. “Much of what you see here is what I contrived to salvage. I ran from the building, and even as I broke out into the light, I heard it shudder behind me. But the sight that greeted my eyes was so terrible I did not even turn around to see my home fall and become dust.
“As far as I could see, every building, every house and barn and shed, was disintegrating. The leaves withered and fell from the trees; the crops shriveled in the fields. The people were running from their crumbling dwellings, keening laments at this catastrophe. The cattle bawled in the fields, for the grass had withered, and the water holes were drying up.”
Stunbog took a deep breath and a deeper draught of his mulled wine; then he went on. “All day long I wandered through that blasted landscape. Everything made by human hands had crumbled to dust. Except for the folk themselves, every living thing was dead or dying. And when the people saw me, they knew. Before they had feared me, but no one was afraid of my magic. When they saw me, unharmed, still in my ritual garments and bearing the great bag of my belongings, they stoned me and drove me forth. Had they not been so shattered by what had befallen them, they would have torn me to shreds.
“In time I came to untouched lands. Still I did not understand. I sought out the local mages, pleading for some aid in undoing what I had done. They all laughed at me, even the kindliest of them. The punishment for folly is inevitable and irreversible, for a wizard. It must be borne. I protested that it was not just that my neighbors should suffer for my stupidity. The wizards were pitiless. Justice is for the dealings of ordinary folk, they told me. Justice is a man-made thing, an idea enforced by courts and rulers and judges. It has nothing to do with wizardry, which has different rules. I, an aspiring wizard, should know this, surely.”
The old man shook his head. “How they delighted in pushing my humiliated face into the foul puddle of my idiotic arrogance. Well, if there was any justice in the business at all, that was it. In the end, when I came to understand the profundity of my guilt, I forswore all practice of wizardry. I donned the garments of a healer, and from that day to this, I have never touched magic, save for creating some very minor, beneficent potions that promote healing.”
Nistur was pleased to detect a slight note of pride in those last words. “I think you are too hard on yourself, my friend. And surely your many years of good works have earned you atonement. They should have brought you peace as well.”
Stunbog shook his head. “A single human lifetime is not enough.”
“Where was this land of yours?”
“That, I will not reveal. When I left, I did more than change my calling. I gave up my homeland and even the name by which I was known.”
“Stunbog is not your birth name then?”
“No. In my childhood, Stunbog was an addled beggar who wandered the back lanes of my homeland, an object of derision, living on the charity of farmers and townsfolk. I thought it fitting that I should adopt his name.”
“And how does one such as yourself, devoted to humility and good works, come to have a devoted companion as misanthropic as that formidable barbarian woman? If the question is not too personal, that is.”
Stunbog sighed. “Hers is a sad story, and not a pretty one. Some years ago, while wandering in the cold waste, I came upon her on an ice field. She was half-frozen and terribly wounded, more than three-fourths dead. She had been attacked, very brutally raped, and left for dead.”
Nistur’s eyebrows rose. “By someone very large or else very numerous, I suppose.”
“You may be sure of that. All around were signs of a terrible battle in which more than one man had died. Preserving her life was a deed I would rate among my finest, were I to allow myself vanity. Healing her mind was more difficult. She tried to kill herself frequently during the first year. Except for me, for whom she shows an almost embarrassing devotion, she has little use for humanity. None at all for men, and only an intermittent ability to form friendships with other outcast women, like young Shellring.”
“Quite understandable, under the circumstances. But why for outcasts?”
“Because that is what she was. Myrsa’s mother was of the mountain folk. Her father was a barbarian of the ice. Their tribes would not countenance their union, so they fled to the wasteland to live alone and raise their daughter. In time they were hunted down and killed by one tribe or the other, I am not certain which. The girl escaped and lived for several years by using her hunting and other skills. She hired out as a freelance warrior from time to time, but she was never amenable to discipline. In time, she fell afoul of the bandits who nearly killed her. Luckily, I happened along soon afterward.”
“Lucky, indeed,” Nistur said. There was a knocking, clumping sound from below. Moments later, the barbarian woman appeared, and behind her was Shellring. The thief rushed to the little fireplace and warmed her hands.
“Were you able to learn anything?” Nistur asked.
“Nothing on the street.” Her hands warmed, Shellring dropped her cloak, turned around and began to warm her backside. “The temperature’s dropped out there. It’s freezing. No, I can’t get a word out of any of the beggars or thieves or night-stalkers. The gangs I avoided as always. But I got one lead that may be worth following.”
“What might this be?” Nistur asked.
“I ran into old Granny Toadflower in the herb market. Actually, she came up to me. She said come by her place tomorrow. She knows something that can help us. I’ve no idea how she found out about us. She disappeared as soon as she issued her invitation.” The thief accepted a mug of warmed wine from Myrsa.
“Granny Toadflower?” Stunbog said, astonished. “What can that old creature have to impart?”
Shellring just shrugged.
“Who might this oddly named person be?” Nistur asked.
Stunbog’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s just say you are in for a treat.”
Chapter Seven
“Who is Granny Toadflower?” Ironwood asked, seeming more irritable than usual.
Murder in Tarsis Page 11
