The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The creature had finally managed to retrieve the scepter, somewhat the worse for wear; cobwebs had wrapped themselves around the shaft, and one of the ornamental protrusions on the head was visibly bent. The servant held it out for its master.

  “I don’t want it,” Rasec snapped. “Put it somewhere!”

  The creature blinked. “Where, master?”

  “Somewhere even you can find it again!”

  The servant looked down at the scepter, closing both hands on the heavy shaft; it looked at the wizard.

  Then with horrifying suddenness it swung the scepter up in a swift arc, and brought it slamming down on the wizard’s head.

  Croy jumped from his chair with a wordless shout, and caught Rasec as he slumped sideways.

  The servant flung the scepter aside, and ran; Croy, holding the wizard’s crumpled body, was unable to pursue. Instead he shouted, “Stop! Help!”

  The servant ignored him, and vanished through the nearest doorway.

  “Help!” Croy bellowed. “We need help here!” He looked around the room, but saw only inanimate devices; then he looked down at Rasec.

  What he saw did not look good; there was a visible dent in the old man’s skull, and blood seeping from a hole made by one of the points on the scepter.

  “Sir Wizard,” he said, “can you hear me?” He lifted the wizard’s shoulders, and the head flopped backward limply. Croy could not hear any breath, nor did the wizard’s chest show any sign of a beating heart.

  Rasec did not respond to his question; even if the wizard still lived, he was obviously not conscious.

  “Help!” Croy shouted again.

  This time he received an answer. “What appears to be…” a voice began.

  Croy turned to see the servant re-entering the room through a different door—or so he thought at first, but then he realized that this was probably not the servant who had wielded the scepter, but one of the others.

  The newcomer caught sight of the wizard, and did not complete its question.

  “Fetch my men,” Croy barked. “Bring them at once. Nampach took them to the rose garden.”

  “At once, my lord. And I’ll send someone to tend to my master.”

  “Bring my men first,” Croy barked. “I’ll do what I can for your master, but I fear it’s too late.”

  “Yes, sir…”

  Then the servant was gone, and Croy was alone with the wizard.

  He knelt and put an ear to the narrow chest, then felt a bony wrist; he could find neither heartbeat nor pulse, and the flesh already seemed to be cooling.

  The wizard Rasec was dead.

  * * * *

  An hour later Rasec had been laid out upon his bed, and Croy’s men had the five servants under guard in a bare stone storeroom. That was where Croy confronted them.

  The soldiers had found the five scattered about the house, and had brought them here. All five had vehemently denied killing the wizard, and had not admitted to any knowledge of which of their fellows might have committed this heinous act.

  It was up to Croy to decide what to do with them all.

  The simplest thing would be to have them all put to death, on the grounds of conspiracy to commit murder, and as Duke he certainly had the authority to do so—but these five were probably the only beings alive who knew anything about Rasec’s magic, who knew their way around the household, who knew whether Rasec had any family.

  And more importantly, four of them might be innocent of wrongdoing, and while they were not human, still they surely deserved whatever justice he could arrange.

  He could have freed them all, pardoned the killer, perhaps let it be known that the wizard had died of the plague—but that would leave a murderer alive and loose on his lands, and furthermore, Rasec deserved better. That meant that Croy needed to determine which of the five had killed their master.

  Looking at the five of them seated on the storeroom floor, however, he could see no way at all to distinguish one from another.

  “Fetch me ribbons, or strips of cloth,” he ordered one of his soldiers. “Tear them from draperies if you must. I need at least five different colors.”

  The man saluted, and hurried away, leaving Croy standing in the storeroom doorway, looking in at the homunculi. Their inhuman faces were hard to read, but none of them appeared any more agitated than the others.

  “This is a serious matter,” Croy said. “Your master has been killed, do you understand that? I must question you to determine who is responsible. Lying to me in such a circumstance is grounds for execution.”

  “We understand, my lord,” said one of them. The others nodded agreement.

  That said, Croy tried to think what to ask, but the words did not want to come. He was distracted by footsteps, and turned to see the soldier returning.

  “I found the kitchen ragpile, your Grace,” the man said, holding out several strips of cloth.

  Croy selected five, red, white, green, blue, and brown, and tossed them to the homunculi. “Now,” he said, “each of you will wear one of these tied around your right arm at all times, so that we can tell you apart.”

  The servants sorted out the tags, and secured them in place, as ordered, with varying degrees of reluctance.

  “I wonder,” Croy said, “that your master never saw fit to label you. Could he tell you apart by sight?”

  “No,” said the nearest, who now wore a green band around his arm.

  “He knew our voices,” said the creature wearing the white band.

  “I don’t think he cared which of us was which,” said the brown-wearing servant.

  “He called one of you by name,” Croy said. “Nampach.”

  “He had heard me speak just a few moments before,” said the one wearing white.

  “You are Nampach?”

  “Yes, your Grace.”

  Croy looked at the green-banded servant, and asked, “Can you tell your companions apart by their voices?”

  “Usually, my lord.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  The one in green obeyed.

  “Now, tell me each name as you hear each voice.” Croy pointed to the brown-banded creature.

  “What would you have me say, my lord?”

  “That’s either Suturb or Nahris,” the green promptly announced.

  “I’m Suturb.”

  Croy pointed to the white.

  “I take it I should not say my own name.” The voice was somehow a little richer than Suturb’s.

  “Nampach.”

  Croy nodded, and pointed again, choosing red this time.

  “I’m Suturb,” the indicated homunculus said.

  “Is it Suturb again?” the green asked. “You sound more like Nahris.”

  “It’s Nahris,” Nampach said.

  “It is,” Nahris admitted. “I was just seeing if I could fool you.”

  That left one who had not spoken, wearing a blue band; Croy pointed.

  The blue-banded creature did not respond immediately, but Nahris prodded it with a thumb, and it said, “I can’t think of anything to say.”

  “Thoob,” the green-wearer pronounced, as it opened its eyes. “And my name is Yar, my lord.”

  It occurred to Croy that perhaps he should be able to recognize the murderer’s voice himself; after all, he had heard the creature speak. Unfortunately, he could not be certain; while there were subtle differences, the voices were fairly similar, and he had not been listening carefully when the killer replied to the wizard’s commands.

  He was fairly sure that it hadn’t been Nampach—but then, he already knew that Nampach had been sent to escort his men to the rose garden.

  “Which of you answered the door and admitted us?” he asked.

  “I did, my lord,” Yar replied.

  None of the
others spoke up, but Croy asked Nampach, “Is that right?”

  “I believe so, your Grace.”

  That left three. “And which of you was assisting your master in the great chamber?”

  The homunculi glanced at one another, but none spoke.

  “Your Grace, we may not be as clever as true men,” Nampach said after a moment’s awkward silence, “and I can scarcely comprehend the thinking of one who would strike our master, but I do not believe you will catch the killer that easily! We all know that the one who was serving in the great chamber is the murderer.”

  “And does any of you know which it was? Nampach?”

  “Alas, I do not, your Grace.”

  “Yar?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Thoob?”

  The blue-marked creature shook its head.

  “Suturb?”

  “I know only that I was not there.”

  “Nahsir?”

  “I say what Suturb said, my lord.”

  “One of you is lying.”

  “One of us is,” Nahsir agreed, “but I assure you, it is not me.”

  Croy stared at the five of them for a moment, remembering puzzles he had heard as a boy about men who always lied but might, by clever questioning, be coerced into yielding useful information.

  Unfortunately, these creatures were not so limited; they could speak lies or the truth as they pleased. And presumably only one of them knew who was guilty, so the others had no information to yield.

  He had narrowed it down to three, in any case. That was a start. He could not spot the killer by appearance, nor by voice; what did that leave?

  Actions, of course—actions, so it was said, spoke louder than words. The killer had been clumsy, constantly dropping things—but Rasec had said that all of them had spells of clumsiness.

  Was there some pattern to those spells, some way to determine which of them was afflicted today?

  “Yar,” he said, “come with me.” He gestured to the soldiers. “You two, with us. The rest of you wait here.” Leaving the remaining servants under guard, he led Yar and his two chosen men down the corridor and into the scullery. There he posted the two soldiers at the door, then turned and looked at the servant’s wary face.

  “You need have no fear,” Croy said. “You and Nampach are not suspected, and even if we find it necessary to hang all three of the others, you two will be free to go your own way. In fact, it may be that we will find a comfortable place for you.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Yar said, bowing—but its expression did not entirely relax.

  “I sincerely hope that we will not find it necessary to hang two innocents, but the guilty party cannot be permitted to live; I hope you understand that.”

  “I believe I do, my lord.”

  “Good. Now, I noticed something about the killer’s behavior. Your late master said that there was a flaw in your construction, and that sometimes you have spells in which you lose your wits and become quite clumsy. Are you familiar with this?”

  “Of course, my lord; I have seen my companions drop fragile objects or trip over their own feet, on occasion.”

  Croy nodded. “And when did you last experience such a spell?”

  Yar hesitated. “My lord, I do not remember ever experiencing one.”

  Croy frowned. “Speak honestly, now, or it will go ill with you.”

  “My lord, I am speaking honestly! I do not say I have never experienced such a spell, merely that I do not remember one. I have seen them affect the others, and perhaps one result of the unhappy event is that one does not remember it.”

  “Very well. But you have seen all the others afflicted?”

  Yar hesitated again, then said, “I do not know, my lord.”

  Croy sighed. “Explain yourself,” he said.

  “I have certainly seen someone be clumsy, at least half a dozen times,” Yar said, “but I don’t know which of my fellows was involved in each instance. The clumsy one did not generally speak, and without a voice I cannot tell them apart any more than you can.”

  “Have you ever seen more than one be clumsy at a time?”

  Yar thought that over carefully, then said, “No, my lord.”

  “Might it be that only one of you is ever afflicted?”

  “Our master said there was a flaw in our design, my lord, and we were all made to the same design.”

  “But of your own knowledge, you cannot say how many have actually been affected?”

  “No, my lord, I cannot.”

  “Have you ever seen one of your fellows lose his temper? It seemed to me that the blow was struck in a fit of rage, without planning or forethought; I cannot otherwise account for how anyone could be so foolish as to slay your master today, when my men and I were here, rather than on some private occasion when no witnesses were present.”

  “Indeed, my lord, I cannot imagine how it could be otherwise.”

  “Have you ever seen one of the others lose his temper?”

  “Often, my lord. Nampach was furious at the mice in the pantry, and the other day Thoob went shouting across the yard about something. Someone threw a pot at me once, but I never determined who was responsible. I fear we are all as prone to anger as any human.”

  “Do you have any idea who slew your master?”

  Yar looked down at the floor for a long moment before replying, “I have no knowledge of who did it, my lord. Sometimes I think it might have been Nahsir, as part of a joke gone wrong, but I have no evidence to support that suspicion.”

  “It appeared to be a fit of temper, not a joke gone wrong.”

  “And all of us are capable of fits of temper.”

  “Indeed. Thank you, Yar. You are free to go.”

  * * * *

  Nampach was the next to be questioned. His responses were much like Yar’s, right down to acknowledging that fits of clumsiness were common, but denying any memory of ever having had one himself.

  “Nor am I aware of any gaps in my memory, your Grace,” he said. “But I suppose I might have lost the memory of such gaps, as well.”

  Croy had definite suspicions about the clumsiness now. “Can you say for certain which of your fellows have had these spells? I realize you cannot say with certainty who has not, but can you confirm any who has?”

  Nampach had to think about that, and finally answered simply, “No.”

  * * * *

  Each of the others, in turn, denied any memory of experiencing bouts of awkwardness.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nampach drop anything,” Suturb volunteered. “Nahsir is usually quite agile, but there have been incidents that might have been its doing.”

  Nahsir shrugged when asked who had been clumsy. “I’m afraid I just haven’t paid attention, my lord.”

  “They always blame me,” Thoob said, “but I never drop anything! I think it’s mostly Yar, my lord.”

  Where Yar and Nampach had been released, the three still under suspicion were escorted back to the storeroom after questioning.

  “Perhaps we could use the wizard’s magic to determine the guilty party, your Grace,” Captain Tilza suggested. “These creatures have been assisting him; surely, they must have learned some of the art! Ask the two you trust to work a spell that will compel the truth.”

  Croy shook his head. He did not like the idea of inviting the homunculi to practice the arcane arts; it seemed somehow unholy. And besides…

  “I have a simpler idea,” he said, picking three apples from a bin. “One I really should have thought of sooner.”

  Fruit in hand, he returned to the storeroom.

  The three suspects were seated on the floor, simply waiting; they looked up at his arrival.

  “Catch!” he said, tossing an apple.

  The red-banded homunculus, Nahsir,
caught the apple easily, and looked up questioningly.

  Croy tossed another, and Suturb, banded with brown, snatched it from the air. The third was lobbed toward blue-marked Thoob.

  It bounced from Thoob’s fingers, ricocheted from Nahsir’s shoulder, and was neatly captured by Suturb just short of the floor. Suturb handed it to Thoob.

  “Now, toss them back,” Croy ordered.

  Suturb tossed its apple in a gentle overhand; Nahsir glanced at the others, then used a side-arm snap to send its fruit back to the duke’s hand.

  Thoob demanded, “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Suturb, Nahsir,” Croy said, “please move back, away from Thoob.”

  “Why?” Thoob asked angrily, as the others obeyed.

  “You dropped the scepter,” Croy said. “You dropped a chair. You couldn’t catch the apple.”

  “I didn’t catch the apple, but I didn’t drop any scepter! That was one of them having an attack, it wasn’t me!”

  “No one has any attacks, Thoob,” Croy said. “You’re just clumsy. There’s no design flaw in anyone else; it’s just you. You’re always clumsy and awkward. But you’ve been blaming the others when you break things, saying it wasn’t you, so everyone, even poor Rasec, believed you and thought that you all had moments of ineptitude.”

  “We all do!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The master said so!”

  “Because you fooled him.”

  “I didn’t fool him! He knew it was me all along!” Thoob leaned forward, hands on the floor, as it shouted. “He said it was the others so they wouldn’t realize he was always yelling at me, never at anyone else. He made me clumsy on purpose, so he’d have someone to take out his bad temper on, and I put up with it for years, I played along, I let him mock me and abuse me in front of the others, but when he shouted at me in front of you, the new Duke…”

  Thoob suddenly stopped, realizing what it had said. It looked around, at the shocked expressions on Nahsir and Suturb, the determined ferocity of the soldiers guarding the door, and the sadness on Duke Croy’s face, and licked its lips.

  “Kill it,” Croy said, stepping aside to make room for the guardsmen.

  The soldiers drew their swords and stepped forward to obey their lord’s command.