Evillia moaned. Her knees buckled. She toppled onto Radnal’s bent back.
When Evillia fainted, Lofosa screamed and ran forward to try to help. Nocso zev Martois screamed, too, even louder. Moblay Sopsirk’s son hurried toward Radnal with Evillia. So did Fer vez Canthal and Zosel vez Glesir. So did Toglo zev Pamdal. So did another tourist, a Highhead who’d spoken very little on the way down to the lodge.
Everyone got in everyone else’s way. Then the quiet Highhead stopped being quiet and shouted, “I am a physician, the six million gods curse you! Let me through!”
“Let the physician through,” Radnal echoed, sliding Evillia off him and to the ground as gently as he could. “Check her first, freeman Golobol,” he added, pleased he’d hung onto the doctor’s name. “I’m afraid you’re too late to help Dokhnor now.”
Golobol was almost as dark as Moblay, but spoke Tarteshan with a different accent. As he turned to Evillia, she moaned and stirred. “She will be all right, oh yes, I am sure,” he said. “But this poor fellow—” As Radnal had, he felt for Dokhnor’s pulse. As Radnal had, he failed to find it. “You are correct, sir. This man is dead. He has been dead for some time.”
“How do you know?” Radnal asked.
“You felt of him, not?” the physician said. “Surely you noticed his flesh has begun to cool. It has, oh yes.”
Thinking back, Radnal had noticed, but he’d paid no special attention. He’d always prided himself on how well he’d learned first aid training. But he wasn’t a physician, and didn’t automatically take everything into account as a physician would. His fit of chagrin was interrupted when Evillia let out a shriek a hunting cave cat would have been proud of.
Lofosa bent by her, spoke to her in her own language. The shriek cut off. Radnal started thinking about what to do next. Golobol said, “Sir, look here, if you would.”
Golobol was pointing to a spot on the back of Dokhnor’s neck, right above where it bent gruesomely. Radnal had to say, “I don’t see anything.”
“You Strongbrows are a hairy folk, that is why,” Golobol said. “Here, though—see this, ah, discoloration, is that the word in your language? It is? Good. Yes. This discoloration is the sort of mark to be expected from a blow by the side of the hand, a killing blow.”
Despite Bottomlands heat, ice formed in the pit of Radnal’s stomach. “You’re telling me this was murder?”
The word cut through the babble filling the common room like a scalpel. There was chaos one heartbeat, silence the next. Into that abrupt, intense silence, Golobol said, “Yes.”
“Oh, by the gods, what a mess,” Fer vez Canthal said.
Figuring out what to do next became a lot more urgent for Radnal. Why had the gods (though he didn’t believe in six million of them) let one someone from his tour group get murdered? And why, by all the gods he did believe in, did it have to be the Morgaffo? Morgaf would be suspicious—if not hostile—if any of its people met foul play in Tartesh. And if Dokhnor of Kellef really was a spy, Morgaf would be more than suspicious. Morgaf would be furious.
Radnal walked over to the radiophone. “Whom will you call?” Fer asked.
“First, the park militia. They’d have to be notified in any case. And then—” Radnal took a deep breath. “Then I think I’d best call the Hereditary Tyrant’s Eyes and Ears in Tarteshem. Murder of a Morgaffo sworn to the Goddess is a deeper matter than the militia can handle alone. Besides, I’d sooner have an Eye and Ear notify the Morgaffo plenipo than try doing it myself.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Fer said. “Wouldn’t want Morgaffo gunboats running across the Sleeve to raid our coasts because you said something wrong. Or—” The lodge attendant shook his head. “No, not even the island king would be crazy enough to start tossing starbombs over something this small.” Fer’s voice turned anxious. “Would he?”
“I don’t think so.” But Radnal sounded anxious, too. Politics hadn’t been the same since starbombs came along fifty years before. Neither Tartesh nor Morgaf had used them, even in war against each other, but both countries kept building them. So did eight or ten other nations, scattered across the globe. If another big war started, it could easily become The Big War, the one everybody was afraid of.
Radnal punched buttons on the radiophone. After a couple of static bursts, a voice answered: “Trench Park militia, Subleader vez Steries speaking.”
“Gods bless you, Liem vez,” Radnal said; this was a man he knew and liked. “Vez Krobir here, over at the tourist lodge. I’m sorry to have to tell you we’ve had a death. I’m even sorrier to have to tell you it looks like murder.” Radnal explained what had happened to Dokhnor of Kellef.
Liem vez Steries said, “Why couldn’t it have been anyone else but the Morgaffo? Now you’ll have to drag in the Eyes and Ears, and the gods only know how much hoorah will erupt.”
“My next call was to Tarteshem,” Radnal agreed.
“It probably should have been your first one, but never mind,” Liem vez Steries said. “I’ll be over there with a circumstances man as fast as I can get a helo in the air. Farewell.”
“Farewell.” Radnal’s next call had to go through a human relayer. After a couple of hundred heartbeats, he found himself talking with an Eye and Ear named Peggol vez Menk. Unlike the park militiaman, Peggol kept interrupting with questions, so the conversation took twice as long as the other one had.
When Radnal was through, the Eye and Ear said, “You did right to involve us, freeman vez Krobir. We’ll handle the diplomatic aspects, and we’ll fly a team down there to help with the investigation. Don’t let anyone leave the—lodge, did you call it? Farewell.”
The radiophone had a speaking diaphragm in the console, not the more common—and more private—ear-and-mouth handset. Everyone heard what Peggol vez Menk said. Nobody liked it. Evillia said, “Did he mean we’re going to have to stay cooped up here—with a murderer?” She started trembling. Lofosa put an arm around her.
Benter vez Maprab had a different objection: “See here, freeman, I put down good silver for a tour of Trench Park, and I intend to have that tour. If not, I shall take legal measures.”
Radnal stifled a groan. Tarteshan law, which relied heavily on the principle of trust, came down hard on those who violated contracts in any way. If the old Strongbrow went to court, he’d likely collect enormous damages from Trench Park—and from Radnal, as the individual who failed to deliver the service contracted for.
Worse, the Martoisi joined the outcry. A reasonably upright and upstanding man, Radnal had never had to hire a pleader in his life. He wondered if he had enough silver to pay for a good one. Then he wondered if he’d ever have any silver again, once the tourists, the courts, and the pleader were through with him.
Toglo zev Pamdal cut through the hubbub: “Let’s wait a few heartbeats. A man is dead. That’s more important than everything else. If the start of our tour is delayed, perhaps Trench Park will regain equity by delaying its end to give us the full touring time we’ve paid for.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion, freelady zev Pamdal,” Radnal said gratefully. Fer and Zosel nodded.
A distant thutter in the sky grew to a roar. The militia helo kicked up a small dust storm as it set down between the stables and the lodge. Flying pebbles clicked off walls and windows. The motor shut down. As the blades slowed, dust subsided.
Radnal felt as if a good god had frightened a night demon from his shoulders. “I don’t think we’ll need to extend your time here by more than a day,” he said happily.
“How will you manage that, if we’re confined here in this gods-forsaken wilderness?” Eltsac vez Martois growled.
“That’s just it,” Radnal said. “We are in a wilderness. Suppose we go out and see what there is to see in Trench Park—where will the culprit flee on donkeyback? If he tries to get away, we’ll know who he is because he’ll be the only one missing, a
nd we’ll track him down with the helo.” The tour guide beamed. The tourists beamed back—including, Radnal reminded himself, the killer among them.
Liem vez Steries and two other park militiamen walked into the lodge. They wore soldierly versions of Radnal’s costume: their robes, instead of being white, were splotched in shades of tan and light green, as were their long-brimmed caps. Their rank badges were dull; even the metal buckles of their sandals were painted to avoid reflections.
Liem set a recorder on the table Dokhnor and Benter vez Maprab had used for war the night before. The circumstances man started taking pictures with as much abandon as if he’d been a tourist. He asked, “Has the body been moved?”
“Only as much as we needed to make sure the man was dead,” Radnal answered.
“We?” the circumstances man asked. Radnal introduced Golobol. Liem got everyone’s statement on the wire: first Evillia, who gulped and blinked back tears as she spoke, then Radnal, then the physician, and then the other tourists and lodge attendants. Most of them echoed one another: they’d heard a scream, run out, and seen Evillia standing over Dokhnor’s corpse.
Golobol added, “The woman cannot be responsible for his death. He had been deceased some while, between one and two daytenths, possibly. She, unfortunate one, merely discovered the body.”
“I understand, freeman,” Liem vez Steries assured him. “But because she did, her account of what happened is important.”
The militiaman had just finished recording the last statement when another helo landed outside the lodge. The instant its dust storm subsided, four men came in. The Hereditary Tyrant’s Eyes and Ears looked more like prosperous merchants than soldiers: their caps had patent-leather brims, they closed their robes with silver chains, and they sported rings on each index finger.
“I am Peggol vez Menk,” one of them announced. He was short and, by Tarteshan standards, slim; he wore his cap at a dapper angle. His eyes were extraordinarily shrewd, as if he were waiting for someone around him to make a mistake. He spotted Liem vez Steries at once, and asked, “What’s been done thus far, Subleader?”
“What you’d expect,” the militiaman answered: “Statements from all present, and our circumstances man, Senior Trooper vez Sofana there, has taken some pictures. We didn’t disturb the body.”
“Fair enough,” the Eye and Ear said. One of his men was flashing more photos. Another set a recorder beside the one already on the table. “We’ll get a copy of your wire, and we’ll make one for ourselves—maybe we’ll find questions you missed. You haven’t searched belongings yet?”
“No, freeman.” Liem vez Steries’ voice went wooden. Radnal wouldn’t have wanted someone to steal and duplicate his work, either. Eyes and Ears, though, did as they pleased. Why not? They watched Tartesh, but who watched them?
“We’ll take care of it.” Peggol vez Menk sat down at the table. The photographer stuck in a fresh clip of film, then followed the two remaining Eyes and Ears into the sleeping cubicle nearest the entrance.
It was Golobol’s. “Be careful, oh please I beg you,” the physician exclaimed. “Some of my equipment is delicate.”
Peggol said, “I’ll hear the tale of the woman who discovered the body.” He pulled out a notepad, glanced at it. “Evillia.” A little calmer now, Evillia retold her story using, so far as Radnal could tell, the same words she had before. If Peggol found any new questions, he didn’t ask them.
After about a tenth of a daytenth, it was Radnal’s turn. Peggol did remember his name without needing to remind himself. Again, his questions were like the ones Liem vez Steries had used. When he asked the last one, Radnal had a question of his own: “Freeman, while the investigation continues, may I take my group out into the Bottomlands?” He explained how Benter vez Maprab had threatened to sue, and why he thought even a guilty tourist unlikely to escape.
The Eye and Ear pulled at his lower lip. He let the hair beneath it grow out in a tuft, which made him seem to have a protruding chin like a Highhead’s. When he released the lip, it went back with a liquid plop. Under his tilted cap, he looked wise and cynical. Radnal’s hopes plunged. He waited for Peggol to laugh at him for raising the matter.
Peggol said, “Freeman, I know you technically enjoy military rank, but suppose you discover who the killer is, or he strikes again. Do you reckon yourself up to catching him and bringing him back for trial and decapitation?”
“I—” Radnal stopped before he went any further. The ironic question reminded him this wasn’t a game. Dokhnor of Kellef might have been a spy, he was dead now, and whoever had killed him might kill again—might kill me, if I find out who he is, he thought. He said, “I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but I’ve never had to do that sort of thing.”
Something like approval came into Peggol vez Menk’s eyes. “You’re honest with yourself. Not everyone can say that. Hmm—it wouldn’t be just your silver involved in a suit, would it? No, of course not; it would be Trench Park’s, too, which means the Hereditary Tyrant’s.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Radnal said, with luck patriotically. His own silver came first with him. He was honest enough with himself to be sure of that—but he didn’t have to tell it to Peggol.
“I’m sure you were,” the Eye and Ear said, his tone dry. “The Tyrant’s silver really does come first with me. How’s this, then? Suppose you take the tourists out, as you’ve contracted to do. But suppose I come with you to investigate while my comrades keep working here? Does that seem reasonable?”
“Yes, freeman; thank you,” Radnal exclaimed.
“Good,” Peggol said. “My concubine has been nagging me to bring her here. Now I’ll see if I want to do that.” He grinned knowingly. “You see, I also keep my own interests in mind.”
The other Eyes and Ears had methodically gone from one sleeping cubicle to the next, examining the tourists’ belongings. One of them brought a codex out of Lofosa’s cubicle, dropped it on the table in front of Peggol vez Menk. The cover was a color photo of two good-looking Highheads fornicating. Peggol flipped through it. Variations on the same theme filled every page.
“Amusing,” he said, “even if it should have been seized when its owner entered our domains.”
“I like that!” Lofosa sounded indignant. “You sanctimonious Strongbrows, pretending you don’t do the same things—and enjoy them, too. I ought to know.”
Radnal hoped Peggol would not ask how she knew. He was certain she would tell him, in detail; she and Evillia might have been many things, but not shy. But Peggol said, “We did not come here to search for filth. She might have worn out Dokhnor with that volume, but she didn’t kill him with it. Let her keep it, if she enjoys telling the world what should be kept private.”
“Oh, rubbish!” Lofosa scooped up the codex and carried it back to her cubicle, rolling her hips at every step as if to contradict Peggol without another word.
The Eyes and Ears brought out nothing more from her sleep cubicle or Evillia’s for their chief to inspect. That surprised Radnal; the two women had carried in everything but the donkey they’d ridden. He shrugged—they’d probably filled their saddlebags with feminine fripperies and junk that could have stayed behind in their Tarteshan hostel if not in Krepalga.
Then he stopped thinking about them—the Eye and Ear who’d gone into Dokhnor’s cubicle whistled. Peggol vez Menk dashed in there. He came out with his fist tightly closed around something. He opened it. Radnal saw two six-pointed gold stars: Morgaffo rank badges.
“So he was a spy,” Fer vez Canthal exclaimed.
“He may have been,” Peggol said. But when he got on the radiophone to Tarteshem, he found Dokhnor of Kellef had declared his battalion leader’s rank when he entered the Tyranny. The Eye and Ear scowled. “A soldier, yes, but not a spy after all, it would appear.”
Benter vez Maprab broke in: “I wish you’d finish your pawing and let
us get on with our tour. I haven’t that many days left, so I hate to squander one.”
“Peace, freeman” Peggol said. “A man is dead.”
“Which means he’ll not complain if I see the much-talked-about wonders of Trench Park.” Benter glared as if he were the Hereditary Tyrant dressing down some churlish underling.
Radnal, seeing how Benter reacted when thwarted, wondered if he’d broken Dokhnor’s neck for no better reason than losing a game of war. Benter might be old, but he wasn’t feeble. And he was sure to be a veteran of the last war with Morgaf, or the one before that against Morgaf and the Krepalgan Unity both. He would know how to kill.
Radnal shook his head. If things kept on like this, he’d start suspecting Fer and Zosel next, or his own shadow. He wished he hadn’t lost the tour guides’ draw. He would sooner have been studying the metabolism of the fat sand rat than trying to figure out which of his charges had just committed murder.
Peggol vez Menk said, “We shall have to search the outbuildings before we begin. Freeman vez Krobir already told you we’d go out tomorrow. My professional opinion is that no court would sustain a suit over one day’s delay when compensational time is guaranteed.”
“Bah!” Benter stomped off. Radnal caught Toglo zev Pamdal’s eye. She raised one eyebrow slightly, shook her head. He shifted his shoulders in a tiny shrug. They both smiled. In every group, someone turned out to be a pain in the backside. Radnal let his smile expand, glad Toglo wasn’t holding his sport with Lofosa and Evillia against him.
“Speaking of outbuildings, freeman vez Krobir,” Peggol said, “there’s just the stables, am I right?”
“That and the privy, yes,” Radnal said.
“Oh, yes, the privy.” The Eye and Ear wrinkled his nose. It was even more prominent than Radnal’s. Most Strongbrows had big noses, as if to counterbalance their long skulls. Lissonese, whose noses were usually flattish, sometimes called Tarteshans Snouts on account of that. The name would start a brawl in any port on the Western Ocean.
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