Murder in Tarsis

by John Maddox Roberts

  “Why,” Nistur said, “that could be a beloved ancestor. Think what interesting conversations they must have. I can see how such a person might make an amusing companion when one has tired of the company of these barbarians, for their store of casual discourse is uncommonly limited.”

  “Oh, be quiet!” she snapped. “You shouldn’t joke about such things!” Between the barbarian camp and the shaman’s uncanny tent, Shellring’s nerves were near the snapping point, so Nistur did not bait her further.

  From the rear of the tent there came a shuffling, rattling noise, and through a curtained door came Shadespeaker. In the gloom of the hide tent, he was little more than a shapeless mass. Then he tossed a handful of something on the hearth, and the fire flared brightly although, strangely, it put out no heat. Now it was bright enough for them to discern the color of his green face paint, and to make out the brown eyes behind the bizarre strings of amulets. Before, in Kyaga’s tent, he had been obscured by the chief’s presence. Here, in his own lair, Shadespeaker was a formidable and frightening figure. He stood before them for a moment, then sank down on a cushion.

  “What do you wish of Shadespeaker?”

  “We have certain questions to ask you,” said Nistur, “concerning Yalmuk Bloodarrow.”

  “Yalmuk is dead,” said the shaman. “Do you wish me to contact his shade, so that you may speak with him?” Even through his heavy accent, they could hear the amusement in his voice.

  “Do not seek to toy with us,” Nistur warned him. “We have permission from Kyaga himself to question whom we wish, including you.”

  “Do you think you know Kyaga Strongbow as I do?” said the shaman. “It was I who proclaimed the coming of the great conqueror. I went out on the icy plains, fasting for many days, seeking a vision. I cut myself and let my blood flow out onto the snow until I was more dead than alive. And when I was nearly dead the spirits of the Plains and the ghosts of my ancestors vouchsafed unto me that which I sought.”

  He cast something onto the cold fire, and this time it flared a brilliant green. “I saw before me a mighty white stag, ten times the size of a true stag of flesh and bone. This was a spirit stag, and it was whiter than the snows of the plains. A golden griffon rose up before the stag, and the stag slew it, then leapt into the sky and ran among the stars.”

  The green flames died down, and the shaman regarded them soberly. “All the tribes of the Plains of Dust, whatever their sort, are descended from the magical white stag. The griffon to us means the cities that surround the plains. I knew from this vision that a great chief would soon come to unite the tribes and destroy the cities.”

  “Why do you wish to destroy them?” Nistur asked. “Surely you depend upon them for much you cannot produce for yourselves.”

  “It is not fitting that free nomads should depend in any way upon the weak, degenerate people of the cities. Better that they should all perish, and we return to the ways of our ancestors. Where the cities now stand, soon there will be only grass, and our herds will graze there.”

  “What a melancholy thought,” Nistur said. “However, we are not here to be won over to the cause of Kyaga Strongbow. We are here to find out who killed his ambassador.”

  “It does not matter,” said Shadespeaker. “The Tarsians killed him. When we have killed everyone in Tarsis, he will be avenged.”

  “A thorough vengeance,” Nistur agreed, “but only if it was a townsman who did him in. We are not so convinced.”

  “Then you are fools. All the chiefs here hate one another. Many had old feuds against Yalmuk and his people. But Kyaga put an end to their feuds.”

  “It’s one thing to submit to a high chief,” Ironwood said. “It’s another to forget the enmity of generations. Perhaps someone here decided his devotion to a feud outweighed his loyalty to Kyaga.”

  “Or,” Nistur said, “perhaps some ambitious, jealous person”—he looked the shaman up and down with open insinuation—“found that he could tolerate no rival for the esteem of the chief.”

  Shadespeaker’s expression, obscured by amulets and paint, seemed to be amused. “And if so? Surely it would be easier for such a one to kill Yalmuk out here on the Plains. In the city, nomads are closely watched.” He grinned. “If you”—he pointed at Nistur—“wished to kill him”—his pointing finger swung toward Ironwood—“would you lure him out here to the nomad camp and commit the deed where you are a stranger and all eyes must be drawn to such a sight?” He laughed softly.

  “No, my friend,” he went on. “You would accost him in some back street of the city, where you feel at home, where no one will spare a second glance for such as you.”

  “I concede that you make a strong point,” Nistur admitted.

  “And you—” The shaman addressed Ironwood. “You have a more important quest than finding the slayer of Yalmuk.”

  “What do you mean?” Ironwood demanded.

  The shaman leaned close, his eyes wide and so dark the irises could not be distinguished from the pupils. “I see the deathly illness in your face, and I see the trembling of your hands. Your friends cannot see these things with the eyes of the body, but I can see with the eyes of the spirit. The sting of the black dragon is slow, but it is sure.”

  “There is nothing to be done about that, and it does not bear on our mission!” Nistur said sternly, his equanimity slipping for once.

  “Are you so sure of that?” said the shaman. “Do you believe that the healers and wizards of your cities know all there is to know of the Arts? I myself have raised from near-death men and women your sorcerers would have given up for dead.”

  “I thought you raised them after they were dead,” said Shellring, greatly amazed at herself for speaking up. He turned the piercing brown eyes on her, and immediately she regretted her rashness.

  “You are not one to speak of sacred things, thief!” he hissed.

  “On the contrary,” Nistur said coolly. “She is a serving official of the Lord of Tarsis, empowered by him and, I remind you, by your own sovereign, to speak as she pleases to any subject of either ruler. Do not underestimate the gravity of our mission or overestimate your own importance, shaman.”

  For long moments the tribal wizard was silent. “I am not accustomed to being spoken to thus. I punish terribly those who insult me.”

  Ironwood leaned forward. “Your pride does not interest us. If we don’t find the killer, we die anyway. So save your threats.”

  Shadespeaker seemed to smile behind his amulets. “There are worse things than mere death. But this talk is futile. What do you want of me?”

  “We have heard,” began Nistur, “that you and Yalmuk Bloodarrow had, shall we say, a certain mutual aversion and—”

  For once Ironwood interrupted his loquacious companion. “We are wasting time, and we have little left. Shadespeaker, did you kill Yalmuk?”

  The shaman sneered. “Shadespeaker does not slay with weapons!”

  “Did you hire or in any way command or coerce another to kill him?” Nistur asked.

  “Never!”

  “Wouldn’t you lie about it if you did?” Shellring said.

  Unexpectedly, the shaman laughed. “This is like watching a wolf chase its own tail! Enough of this! Look here.” He rose and crossed the tent to an intricately carved wooden chest. Returning, he set a folded leather packet before them. This he unwrapped, and as he did Shellring noted peculiar sigils painted or tattooed on the backs of his hands.

  Open, the packet revealed a handful of yellowish crystals that might have been hardened tree sap, and a twisted, dried root that resembled a skeletal human hand. “Do you know what this is?” Shadespeaker demanded.

  “I confess I do not,” Nistur answered. He looked at Ironwood, but the mercenary just shook his head.

  “This is the Hand of Truth, and one who tells a falsehood under its spell suffers terrible harm.”

  “I believe I may have heard of the spell,” Nistur said.

  “Then behold.” The shaman s
prinkled the yellow crystals into the brazier, and the flames died down to a sullen red glow. Carefully, he laid the dried root on the coals. They expected to see the root consumed, but instead it remained whole while flames of dazzling white shot up from the fingerlike appendages.

  His eyes closed, Shadespeaker muttered something in a strange language. Then, his eyes open once again, he thrust his left hand into the white flames and held it there. While they held their breath, the flames above his hand writhed, slowly coalescing into a fiendish face. It had three eyes and stubby horns, and its mouth was lined with long fangs. The mouth moved, and the voice that came to their ears was chillingly inhuman.

  “Speak,” hissed the voice, “and if thou liest, thy hand is mine.” The mouth gaped until it engulfed the shaman’s hand, the fangs lengthening so that they seemed to touch the flesh. The shaman did not change expression, nor did he look at the apparition. He was silent while the others sat in quiet dread; then he began to speak.

  “These are the words of Shadespeaker, shaman of the nomads of the Plains of Dust. Shadespeaker did not slay the chieftain Yalmuk Bloodarrow. Shadespeaker did not cause another to slay Yalmuk. Shadespeaker does not know who slew Yalmuk, nor why. If Shadespeaker lies, may the truth-fiend devour his hand.”

  They held their breath, teeth clenched, waiting for the fiend to decide. Slowly, the hideous head backed away, and the yawning mouth closed. “Thou speakest the truth, and I hunger.” It began to fade, like dissipating smoke. As it did the voice came to them again, faintly. “Bring me a liar.”

  The flames died down, and the shaman reached into the brazier and withdrew the hand-shaped root. It showed no damage from its sojourn among the coals. “Are you satisfied now?” he demanded.

  “I suppose we must be,” Nistur said, getting to his feet.

  “For now,” said Ironwood.

  “Forget about finding the slayer,” Shadespeaker told him. “You are a doomed man anyway.”

  Ironwood’s hand went to his sword hilt. “There is no real need for you to outlive me, shaman!” he snarled.

  “Your threats are idle, mercenary,” Shadespeaker sneered. “And yet,” he went on more reasonably, “my chief has need of brave fighting men. If you were to swear fealty to Kyaga Strongbow, he would wish me to help you. As his loyal shaman, I would have to obey.”

  “What do you mean?” Ironwood hissed.

  The shaman rose. “My chief needs me.” He walked to the back of the tent; then he turned. “You had better find your killer. Time grows short.” He pushed the curtain aside and was gone.

  “What could he have meant?” Ironwood said as they went outside.

  “He was just trying to distract you,” Nistur assured him. “He wants us to be confused, and he knows how to work on one’s weaknesses. He saw the signs of your infirmity and went to work on you. Half of a mountebank’s art lies in sowing confusion so that one fails to notice the most blatant trickery.”

  “Do you think that spell was false?” Ironwood asked.

  “I think I know who can tell us,” Nistur answered.

  As they passed through the postern of the East Gate, Captain Karst accosted them. “The lord sent a messenger,” he informed them. “You are to render your report to him this evening. Be at the palace at the sounding of the sunset gong. In case you are unfamiliar with the customs of the city, it is rung when the sun touches the western horizon, not after it is down.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Nistur. “We shall not fail.”

  Ironwood squinted at the angle of the sun. It was yet only late afternoon. “Two hours until the gong rings. Where do we go in the meantime?”

  “To Stunbog’s vessel,” said Nistur. “I have certain questions to pose to our host.”

  * * * * *

  Stunbog looked up from his book as they entered, with the barbarian woman close behind them. The tome appeared to be a manuscript treatise on the properties of magical beasts.

  “I rejoice to see that you suffered no further misadventures,” Stunbog said. “How went your mission?”

  “I wish you could have accompanied us,” Nistur said, seating himself. “Your expertise would have been most welcome during our last interview.”

  “It is still at your disposal, even at second hand. Tell me what happened.” The healer listened attentively as Nistur and Ironwood described their uncanny visit with Shadespeaker. Several times he interrupted and made each of them give a close description of some aspect of the experience.

  “What you have described,” the healer said when he was satisfied, “sounds like an authentic spell of truth. The properties of an artifact such as the Hand of Truth are all but impossible to falsify, and there are terrible penalties visited upon those who would even attempt to conjure a fraudulent representation of a truth-fiend. Believe me,” he added ruefully, “I know all about penalties of that sort.”

  “Then he was telling the truth?” said Ironwood, disappointment heavy in his voice.

  “Almost assuredly,” Stunbog answered.

  “And he is a genuine shaman, not a fraud?” asked Nistur.

  “That is not so certain,” Stunbog told him. “Like the simple love spells sold by witches, that particular spell of truth may be prepared by a wizard, then used by one who has had certain minimal training in this single art. Having used it, the uninitiated would not be able to prepare another such spell.”

  “Just a minute,” Shellring interrupted, “I just remembered something.”

  “Please tell us,” Stunbog urged.

  “Well,” she began, a bit self-consciously, “I noticed something on the back of Shadespeaker’s hands. It was like, I don’t know, a sort of squiggly design, maybe a tattoo.”

  “You mean a sigil?” Stunbog prodded.

  “I guess that’s what you call it. Like some kind of magical mark, anyway. I was wondering whether maybe it was some sort of protective spell that kept the fiend from biting his hand off.”

  “I remember the mark,” Nistur said, “but the thought did not occur to me.”

  “Aye,” said Ironwood, “the same with me. Well done, Shellring.”

  “Can you reproduce it for me?” Stunbog asked. He gave her a scrap of parchment and a charcoal stick. With the tip of her tongue protruding slightly from the side of her mouth, Shellring began, inexpertly, to draw. When she was finished, she pushed the rendering across the table to the healer.

  “There. That’s not it exactly, but I think it’s close.”

  Nistur squinted at the cursive design, with its numerous cross-hatchings and hooked protrusions. “Yes, that is much as I remember it. I wish now I had paid closer attention.” Ironwood nodded agreement.

  Stunbog pondered for a while. “I do not recognize it, but there are so many. It doesn’t look like a protective talisman, which is odd. Myrsa, please take down my grimoire of sigils and talismans. It is the thick one on that upper shelf, between the retort and the crystal mortar.”

  Myrsa took down the heavy tome and set it before Stunbog. He opened it to the first page. There were at least twenty-five arcane designs on the page, and below each were several lines of minuscule writing.

  “Is each page like that?” Nistur asked, appalled.

  “Yes,” said Stunbog. “On some pages there are even more. Garlak’s Catalogue of Sigils is one of the standard reference works, and much prized. There are more than fifteen thousand sigils listed here.”

  “Then our task may be long over, one way or another, before you find this one,” Ironwood said bitterly.

  “And yet I shall try,” Stunbog said. “I think Shellring may have found something important. The task is not as hopeless as it seems. The sigils here are grouped by certain distinctive traits of design. With an exact copy of the sigil you saw, I could locate it quickly. But, with a little time, this approximation may be enough.”

  “Let us hope so,” said Nistur. “The crucial hour draws on apace.”

  Chapter Nine

  They hurried through the
streets of Tarsis, whipped by a cold wind. The sky was still bright, the setting sun glaring red from the undersides of a few high-flying clouds, but the streets were in deep shadow.

  “We stayed too long in that tavern,” Shellring fretted. “Well get to the palace late.”

  Nistur belched softly. “I am not about to face the Lord of Tarsis on an empty stomach. A couple of pints of ale make his sour face more endurable.”

  “Well probably cool our heels for a couple of hours in an anteroom before he deigns to see us, anyway,” Ironwood groused. “That’s how these lords usually behave.”

  To their surprise, they were ushered into the lord’s presence the moment they set foot across the palace threshold.

  “I should have remembered,” Nistur muttered under his breath as they were conducted down a long hallway, “the Lord of Tarsis is just another jumped-up merchant. Such people are sticklers for punctuality.”

  “You are late,” the lord observed upon their arrival.

  “Your service is arduous,” Nistur said. “Our efforts on your behalf have kept us uncommonly busy.”

  “Then you must learn to make better use of your time,” the lord admonished them. “What have you to report?”

  Patiently, Nistur related the gist of their interviews with the barbarians. The lord attended to his report with considerably less patience.

  “You have wasted an entire day!” he said when Nistur was finished.

  “I beg your pardon? It was my own impression that we had learned much of value.” Nistur was more than a little put out at this dismissal of their efforts.

  “Forget the barbarians! Even if one of them committed the murder, Kyaga would never admit it. I want you to concentrate on certain nobles of this city. Here is a list of their names, together with the locations of their mansions.”

  “You mean, my lord,” said Nistur, “that you would rather the murderer were a Tarsian noble?”

  “I must be fair and evenhanded, after all,” said the lord.

  Ironwood looked at the list over his companion’s shoulder. “If I recall aright what Captain Karst said, these are all members of the Inner Council.”