“Someone who thinks she has information we can use,” Nistur replied, as imperturbable as always.
The two of them stood on the shell-and-trash-littered harbor bottom outside the door of Stunbog’s hulk. There were patches of snow here and there but, Nistur noted, the snow in Tarsis never seemed to be deep enough to be truly attractive. Shellring joined them, wrapped in her thin, ragged cloak and shivering.
“Why don’t you steal yourself a decent cloak?” Ironwood asked her.
“If you get too warm and comfortable, you get slow,” she replied with bravado. Then, more subdued, she said, “Besides, if I had a good one, someone would just steal it from me.”
“There must be a certain art to your life,” Nistur observed. “You must acquire possessions sufficient to sustain life, yet these must not be of such quality as to make you tempting prey for thieves far more ruthless than yourself.”
“It’s always a problem,” she admitted as Stunbog and Myrsa emerged from the hulk. The barbarian woman wore her customary leather garments and a fur-trimmed hat, but she did not bother with a cloak, nor did she draw on the embroidered gloves she carried beneath her belt. Apparently it took weather far more severe than this to make one raised in the icy wastes wear extra clothing. Myrsa’s only weapon was a broad-bladed knife that resembled a pointed cleaver.
“Are you two sure you wish to accompany us?” Nistur asked. “Allowing us accommodation is one thing. Going along with us in town is quite another. You could find yourselves sharing our enemies, who, I expect, will be numerous.”
“Some oddity of fate has thrown us together,” Stunbog said. “When the gods have designed thus, it is unwise to struggle against them. Besides, you are the most interesting people I have come across in some time. I am curious to see how you accomplish your task.”
“And you?” Ironwood asked Myrsa. “If you are fond of us, you hide it well.”
“I go with Stunbog,” she said expressionlessly.
“Then lead on, Shellring,” Nistur said.
They passed among the grounded ships and the clean-picked ribs of the craft that had been scavenged for firewood and construction materials. A flight of brick steps led up to what had been the old stone wharves and the waterfront, an area characterized by tumbledown taverns built of scavenged materials and grafted onto the surviving sections of the warehouses and chandleries that had once serviced the maritime trade.
Most of these helter-skelter structures backed against the harbor wall, a continuation of the defensive wall encircling the city. In the center of this wall was the old harbor gate, once the city’s most magnificent, now blocked up with stone since there was no more harbor traffic. Its low postern remained, and the five companions passed through it with little notice from the somnolent guards. Clearly, no danger was expected from the harbor side, for its terrain was exceedingly hostile to the tactics favored by the nomads, and it was assumed they would concentrate their attack, if any, on one of the gates that could be opened.
Shellring led them through a district of homes, shops, markets for food, spices, livestock, fabrics, perfumes, medicines, cutlery, and furniture, as well as other commercial establishments, skirted north of the great plaza before the palace, and into the Upper City. Here, instinctively, they walked with their hands on their weapons.
In the other districts of town, the inhabitants had looked them over with curiosity or indifference, but with neither alarm nor hostility. Here, they were examined from doorways, shuttered windows, and dark alleys by predatory eyes.
“I calculate we have passed five different bands of thugs,” Nistur said, “but none have offered us harm.”
“The Green Dragons and the Scorpions are the only ones that might bother us,” Shellring said.
“Why is that?” Ironwood asked her.
“We have three fighters here. The gangs want at least three to one odds in their favor before they attack. Those two are the only ones with nine or more members.”
Ironwood snorted contemptuously. “They’ll need more than three to one.”
“They don’t know that,” she replied. “Nistur doesn’t look like a trained fighter, and Myrsa isn’t wearing armor or a sword. They might think three to one’s enough.”
“Will they attack while Stunbog is with us?” Nistur asked. “My impression is that he is highly regarded in this city.”
“Nobody’s safe from attack in this part of town,” she told them. They followed her down a narrow alley, and she stopped before a low doorway beneath a crude wooden sign. It was painted on what had once been a shutter, by a hand that clearly did not belong to an artist. The design was simple, a staring eye done in cheap paint. All around the eye had been fastened oak twigs with leaves and acorns attached.
“In many lands,” Nistur said, “this is the sign of a fortune-teller. Is it so here?”
“It is,” Stunbog said. “Granny Toadflower is a seer of sorts.”
“Is she a mountebank, or has she the true gift?”
“Oh, she’s real enough,” Stunbog said. “Sometimes.”
They ducked low and passed within. The smell that struck them caused Nistur and Ironwood to recoil slightly. Even Myrsa wrinkled her elegantly broken nose. The odor was compounded of decaying foodstuffs of both animal and vegetable origin, sour ale, mildew, swamp gas, and essence of tomcat. Two such cats glared at them from opposite sides of the room, each having apparently staked out half the room as its territory. As the visitors’ eyes grew accustomed to the gloom they saw that the room itself had apparently fallen into some disarray during the Cataclysm and had not been tidied up since.
Heaps of indescribable junk were stacked everywhere: broken furniture, cracked vessels, bales of moth-eaten cloth, shattered statuary, defaced paintings, and utensils of doubtful function. This was, clearly, the lair of a compulsive scavenger.
“I’ve seen prettier bear dens,” Ironwood said.
“Granny Toadflower,” Shellring called. “It’s Shellring, and I’ve brought my friends, like you asked.”
They heard shuffling sounds from the rear of the dwelling, and a curtain was pushed aside. The creature that emerged from the back room was about three feet tall, with a head grotesquely large in proportion to its body. Its hair, had it been clean, would have been white. Its face seemed to consist of equal parts mottled, pale skin and warts. The beady little eyes, a muddy green in color, regarded the visitors with cheerful dementia. The mouth opened in a face-splitting grin, revealing wide-spaced yellow teeth. The stench in the room redoubled.
“Welcome!” it shrilled. “Granny Toadflower don’t get visitors so much! Hee-hee-hee!” The laugh assaulted their ears with physical pain.
“I can’t imagine why,” Nistur said.
“A gully dwarf?” Ironwood said, incredulous.
“Aghar,” Stunbog admonished him. “Mind your manners.”
The ancient Aghar waddled up to Ironwood, seized one of his hands, and ogled the broad palms, long fingers, and large knuckles. “Good to meet you, cousin! Hee-hee-hee!” Ironwood snatched the hand back as if she had burned it and thrust both hands beneath his cloak. Granny Toadflower twirled around three or four times, giggling and snorting. She wore layers of black rags that were dulled by mildew around the hems.
Abruptly she stopped in midtwirl, staring brightly at her visitors. “You bring Granny food?”
“We never neglect a friend,” Stunbog said, holding out a bulging sack. The old Aghar snatched it and thrust a dirt-crusted paw inside. She withdrew a small loaf and jammed it into her mouth, chewing as she fished in the bag for more goodies.
“I see you enjoy good health, Granny Toadflower,” Stunbog said. “Your appetite seems healthy enough.”
She mumbled something, but it was unintelligible since she was simultaneously stuffing in a dried fish to accompany the bread.
“At this rate she’ll choke,” Ironwood said with a certain note of hopefulness.
“Food was never made in sufficient quantity to choke a gully dwar
f,” said Nistur.
When Granny Toadflower had regained use of her mouth for speech, she made a beckoning gesture and disappeared through the curtained doorway.
“Guess it can’t smell worse than here,” Myrsa muttered.
“I wouldn’t wager on it,” Nistur said.
“No help for it,” Stunbog observed. “Let’s see what she intends.” The little group passed through the doorway, Ironwood and Myrsa having to duck their heads and turn their shoulders sideways to squeeze through.
They passed through a bedroom that did not bear close inspection, and they averted their eyes from its contents. The next room was all but bare, with a dirt floor, walls shored up with broken timbers, and a ceiling that appeared to be in imminent danger of collapse. The only object in the room was a rough but undistinguished stone in the center of the floor. It was gray-black, about the size of an average building block, and unornamented except for some flowers that had expired long before. Withered petals lay around its base. Granny Toadflower was stroking the stone, crooning, her eyes shut.
“If this is how she does her seeing,” Nistur observed, “wouldn’t it make more sense to do it in the front room?”
“Remember who she is,” said Stunbog. “Her folk are not noted for efficiency or great powers of logic.”
“She’s good at this,” Shellring said, defensively. “Just give her a chance.”
The watery old eyes snapped open. “Tell Granny your trouble,” she hissed.
“There has been a murder …” Nistur began hesitantly.
“Dead nomad!” she screeched. The others covered their ears. “Got a wire round his neck!”
“How did she know that?” Nistur said, uncovering his ears.
“Granny knows stuff,” Shellring said. “Go on, Granny.”
“You tell Granny more!” she demanded.
“The barbarian chief wants the killer or there will be war—”
“War!” she screamed. “Good pickings after a war! Whoop!” She jumped up and down a few times, hooting and whooping.
“How good to know that someone finds the prospect pleasing,” said Nistur. “To continue, the Lord of Tarsis wants us to find the killer, but we must question many people who may have done the killing, would just as soon kill us, and may have tried already. Perhaps I should explain. Someone hired me to kill my new companion Ironwood—”
“You no killer!” she cried. “You poet-man! Put words together, make ’em rhyme! Hee-hee-hee!”
“Never has my art been defined so succinctly. Yes, I am a poet. But in my former occupation, a great noble hired me … What are you doing?”
The old Aghar was rummaging in his purse. “You got any sugar?”
“Try to keep your mind, as it were, on our problem,” Nistur admonished patiently, pulling his purse from her filthy hand. Stunbog handed her a stick of hard candy, and she gnawed it with a blissful expression on her wizened features.
“There’s a nomad shaman,” Ironwood offered. “We think he may be—”
“Green-face wizard!” she shouted. “Lotsa amulets! Skins and rattles!” She shook her head, waved a hand dismissively. “Him nothing.”
“That is comforting,” Nistur said. “If we don’t find the killer, the Lord of Tarsis will kill us, or the chief of the nomads will torture us to death, a threat I do not regard as idle.”
“Yep. He do it. Cut you up in little pieces, burn an’ brand an’ … an’ …” She seemed to lose her train of thought, which the others regarded as a blessing.
“And,” Stunbog added, “our warrior friend here suffers from a unique difficulty. He was bitten by a young black dragon.”
“That all?” she asked.
“Do you find these matters insufficient?” Nistur demanded.
She ignored him and climbed on top of her rock. Pointing at Ironwood, she intoned, “You come here.” He stepped over to her. “Stoop down!” He bent so that their faces were on a level. For long moments she stared into his eyes with unsettling fixity. Abruptly, she pressed her hands against his breast and shoved him back, howling with laughter. She leapt from her stone in a backward somersault, then did handsprings around the small chamber, whooping and giggling.
“It’s not enough that she’s a gully dwarf,” Ironwood said bitterly. “She’s insane as well.”
“Perhaps,” Stunbog said. “But insanity never impeded a seer’s vision.”
“You’re no prize yourself,” Myrsa added.
Suddenly exhausted, the old Aghar sat on the floor, her back against the stone, her feet stuck straight out ahead of her while she gasped and wheezed and tried to catch her breath. Then she pointed at Ironwood.
“Your problem not dragon!” she screeched. “Your problem not barbarian chief! Your problem the musician!” At the last word Ironwood looked as if he had been slapped, recoiling as from a physical assault. She howled with laughter. “Got you there, eh? Hee-hee-hee.” With another mercurial change of attitude she pointed directly downward, jerking her finger down repeatedly for emphasis. “You want cure for dragon bite? Down there! Find the lightning-worm!”
“The what?” Nistur asked, but she was already on her feet in a tumbler’s spring and whirling. She came to a halt in front of them. “Barbarian chief! Green-face shaman! Noble councilor! Musician! Hee-hee-hee!” She went into a veritable ecstasy of chuckling. “All of them! There is one! There is one! False eyes! False eyes!” Her own eyes rolled up in their sockets, and she trembled all over. Suddenly, she threw up her hands and fell onto her back, her fists and heels drumming on the ground for several seconds, the violence of her convulsion propelling her tiny body all over the room. Finally her head fetched up against the stone, and she calmed, then lay still. Stunbog crouched beside her, felt for a pulse, and peeled back an eyelid.
“Is she dead?” Shellring asked hesitantly. She wore a concerned expression. The others just looked confused.
“No,” said the healer, “she is asleep. A full stomach and a fit of prophecy can do that to a gully dwarf.” He looked up at his companions. “It is a well-known phenomenon.” He straightened. “We’ll learn nothing more here. Myrsa, put her on her bed and let’s leave this place.”
The other three did not wait to see the barbarian woman carry the gully dwarf to her malodorous bed, but instead fled the dwelling with almost indecent haste. When they were outside, they breathed deeply for a while. Even the air of the alley smelled good after Granny Toadflower’s lair. When Stunbog and Myrsa rejoined them, Nistur was first to speak.
“That was a waste of bread and dried fish.”
“Do not be so sure,” Stunbog cautioned. “That was a prophetic trance if ever I’ve seen one. The problem is, with the likes of Granny Toadflower it can be difficult to distinguish a trance from her normal state.” He cocked a sardonic eyebrow toward Ironwood. “What’s this about a musician?”
For once, the steely mercenary seemed hesitant and almost tongue-tied. “It was … long ago. Maybe I’ll tell you someday. Not now.”
“It is your privilege,” Stunbog allowed. “Still, she struck home there, didn’t she? So perhaps the rest of it was as pertinent.”
“Why must seers always speak in obscurities?” Nistur complained. “Granted a gully dwarf is hard put to string three words together coherently at the best of times, but a simple, straight statement would be much appreciated at this juncture. ‘There is one!’ she said. Well, of course there is one! We have to find him before our time runs out. Speaking of which, that time gets shorter by the minute.”
Ironwood snorted. “False eyes! What drivel!”
“And what did she mean by a lightning-worm?” Myrsa asked.
Shellring frowned. “There’s an old story …”
“Yes?” Stunbog said encouragingly.
“It says there’s some kind of monster down below the city. It used to come up and eat people. See that drain?” They were back on the street now. The drain indicated was a broad, circular hole in the center of the street, ha
lf-choked with leaves, branches, and other debris. It was covered by a rusted grate of heavy iron. “They say all the drains are covered by those grates so the monster can’t come up and snatch people.”
“Every place has a story like that,” Ironwood said. “There’s always a monster in the nearby lake, or on the mountaintop, or in the deep swamp. Nobody’s actually seen it, but they know someone who has, or their grandmother saw it”
“How could it help Ironwood’s condition anyway?” Nistur asked.
“A magical beast?” Stunbog hazarded. “There is ample precedent for such things. I know the properties of many such.”
“We have no time to go traipsing through the sewers of this city, even if a cure is to be found there,” Nistur pointed out.
“We’ve spent too much time here,” Ironwood proclaimed, shaking off his foul mood. “Whether we’ve wasted it, I suspect we’ll learn soon enough.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here,” Shellring said.
Nistur placed a hand on her shoulder. “Nonsense. You found a lead, and we had to follow it. Oh, well, I suppose it is time to call upon the great lords of the city.”
“No,” Ironwood said. “I want to go out to the nomad camp first. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I have a feeling the savages will be far easier to read than the masked, two-faced aristocrats of this place.”
“You may be right, and in any case I do not think it matters greatly whom we approach first. By all means, let us go and see these colorful brutes at close range.”
“Hey, there!” The shout came from ahead of them, and suddenly there were seven sullen, ragged young men filling the street in their path. A further shuffling of soft-booted feet announced the arrival of five more behind them. A few of them held swords; the rest had makeshift weapons of chain and wood, including a few nail-studded clubs. Despite their youth, every one of them bore a thoroughly depraved face.
“Green Dragons, or Scorpions?” Nistur asked Shellring.
“Dragons and Scorpions,” she answered. “Not all of both gangs, but enough.”
“And do they customarily cooperate?”
She shook her head. “Never.”
Murder in Tarsis Page 12
