Murder in Halruaa

by Richard Meyers

  There was a knock at the door. Pryce glanced that way and said, “Yes?”

  The halfling grotto manager stuck his head inside. “Blade?”

  “Gheevy, my friend!” Pryce said with pleasure. “Do come in!” The halfling entered, looking deeply concerned. Pryce laughed. “My dear Wotfirr, don’t worry. I assure you that I will rest on this voyage!”

  “It’s—it’s not that, Blade. It’s … well, how on Toril will you ever pull this thing off?”

  Pryce furrowed his brow and came around the table. “What do you mean, my friend? What’s troubling you?”

  The halfling quickly looked to see if there was anyone else in the hall, then closed the door firmly. “It’s like you said when you left the workshop,” he said urgently. “We know now that Geerling, Gamor, and Teddington are dead. But there’s one more person who is dead, and only we two know it!”

  Pryce turned his head to one side, as if he heard something off in the distance. “Who?” he wondered.

  “You know!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Pryce said calmly. “Darlington Blade!” Gheevy hissed.

  “I am Darlington Blade,” Pryce said casually.

  “Yes, but—”

  Suddenly Pryce held up his hand. “Don’t say it, Gheevy. I know. But if this is going to work, I have to remember one thing: I am Darlington Blade.”

  “But you’re not!” the halfling wailed in despair. “And you know it!”

  “No, I don’t,” said Pryce flatly, his expression blank.

  “What?”

  “You’re wrong, Gheevy. You were wrong when you said that ‘only we two’ knew one more person was dead, and you’re wrong now.”

  Wotfirr looked intrigued. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Pryce held up his forefinger. “The murderer also knows it,” he reminded the halfling.

  Realization dawned on the halfling’s face, followed by storm clouds of anxiety. “Right. So how can you possibly reveal his identity without condemning yourself?”

  Pryce just stared at his associate for a few moments, then turned idly toward the starboard window. He looked out while absentmindedly fingering the heavy wooden table. “An interesting question, that,” he said so quietly that Gheevy barely heard him. “Remember what I told you the most important letter was to a detective?”

  “Certainly.” The halfling nodded. “Y.”

  “Exactly. Why. As in ‘Why has the murderer let me live?’ Or ‘Why hasn’t the murderer exposed me long before now?’ ” He cocked an amused eye at the halfling. “Do you have any answers, Gheevy?”

  The halfling looked around the cabin helplessly. “No, none at all.”

  “That’s too bad,” Pryce Covington said somberly. “Because I think I do.” He turned away again to see his reflection in the windows of the captain’s cabin. “What if our murderer can’t do either of those things?”

  The halfling could only stare at the man who would be Darlington Blade, unable to comprehend.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Pryce went on without looking at him. “Give me a moment alone, would you, my friend?” he asked quietly.

  Gheevy took a final worried look at the man he had almost exposed, then subsequently risked his life to protect. “Of course,” he said, then left the cabin, carefully and quietly closing the door behind him.

  “It’s time to depart!” Berridge Lymwich bellowed from the bow. “Crew members, clear the deck and cast off the lines! Move those people back away from the ship!” The crew rushed to insure that the onlookers were clear of the lines, aided by the inquisitrixes, militiamen, and patrols lining the narrow plateau beneath the Verity.

  News of a Mystran temple skyship’s departure, its hold filled with the magical treasures of Geerling Ambersong, apparently traveled fast, and it appeared as if all the citizens of Lallor had turned out to see them off. Every street and yard along the sloping incline from the city wall to Lallor Bay was filled with people, halflings, elves, and half-elves, waving, setting off harmless magic fireworks, shooting magical streamers, and in general giving the Great Mystra Skyship Verity a magnificent send-off.

  Berridge Lymwich turned from the railing to see that no passengers were considering anything as rude as getting skysick or as foolish as trying to disembark. After checking for several moments, she seemed satisfied that all of Blade’s suspects were present and accounted for.

  Gheevy Wotfirr gave Berridge Lymwich a meaningful look as he passed. The halfling then slipped between the burly Azzo Schreders and the shapely Sheyrhen Karkober at the port bow. The inquisitrix looked down the deck to see that the stooped, jowly Matthaunin Witterstaet stood near Dearlyn Ambersong, both of whom were watched over by the gaunt Asche Hartov, who lived up to his name by appearing positively ashen.

  Even though they all acted reluctant to participate in this journey, they wouldn’t have missed the liftoff for, well, all the electrum in Zoundar, Lymwich thought.

  At that moment, the Verity started to float skyward.

  Renwick Scottpeter handled the carved cylinders like a musical instrument, allowing the levitation fields to be activated at just the right calibration. The liftoff of the big ship never failed to thrill her as it launched into the sea of the sky. She had labored long and vigorously to become a skyship captain, then trained the most capable, prepared, and resolute crew in the realm.

  On the bow of the great ship was a beautiful figurehead, shaped by Minsha Tyrpanninq, Talathgard’s finest sculptor. It was an interpretation of Mystra in flight, created entirely of electrum. The goddess’s serene, smiling face looked up at the clouds, and her gown-swathed figure seemed to draw the ship irrevocably up toward the heavens. The Verity lifted forty yards from the ground, then slowly started a drifting turn to the northwest.

  Lymwich turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes. She tried to feel the powerful magic emanations that would draw the ship unerringly toward Mount Talath, but a voice broke her concentration.

  “Tend to your passengers,” she heard a melodic voice say. Lymwich opened her eyes to see the disapproving gaze of Mystra Superior Wendchrix Turzihubbard, her direct superior and the principal authority at the Lallor Mystran Inquisitrix Castle. “Do not concern yourself with the flight,” the tall, commanding woman in the regal robes said. “That is what I, and the others guarding the cargo below, are here for.”

  Her words reminded Lymwich once again that she was not only on this boat in a security capacity but also as a prime suspect.…

  “Mark two-five-zero-zero!” the bowman cried, his call being echoed until it reached the captain. “Mark-two-five-zero-zero!” she responded, moving the carved cylinder slightly so the climb was less steep. The heavy ship seemed to move along the calm air currents like a soap bubble, rising in small, smooth fits and starts.

  “Mark three-zero-zero-zero!” cried the bowman.

  “Mark three-zero-zero-zero!” cried the aftwoman.

  “Lock on three-zero-zero-zero!” Scottpeter called. She expertly moved the cylinders until the ship leveled off. Dearlyn watched the captain enviously, thinking that her passion for her work rivaled that of the finest musician. Renwick played the levitation fields of the ship as if she were a conductor directing a symphony.

  Dearlyn drank in the view of the skies above and the ground below. If she raised her head and ignored the handsome, shining deck, she could almost believe that she herself was flying. Then she felt a chill from the northwest and quickly hugged her cloak around her.

  Dearlyn stepped down the ladderlike steps to the main deck, where she saw Azzo Schreders with his arm around a shivering Sheyrhen Karkober, while Matthaunin and Asche bundled up their own coats around their throats. Suddenly the three masts grew dark red, and the need to fight the chill was eliminated. Heat magically emanated from the pillars, extending to encompass the entire deck space.

  “Navigator!” Scottpeter called from her post.

  “Aye, Captain,” the female elf answere
d through an open window behind Renwick.

  “Course verified?”

  “Course verified, ma’am. Two hundred and fifty miles northwest on an exact line of fifty-four degrees.”

  “Excellent. Inquisitrix Lymwich?” Scottpeter called.

  “Here, Captain!” Berridge shouted back, resisting an urge to sneak a look at her superior’s reaction.

  “We have reached our cruising altitude. The Verity is at your disposal. Please be kind enough to prepare your passengers.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Berridge turned toward the others. “All right, everyone gather around the center mast. The great Darlington Blade requests your attention.”

  The passengers made their way, some more reluctantly than others, to the area around the central pillar, around whose base was carved a visual history of the ship. Sheyrhen, in particular, marveled at depictions of flying dragons, great storms, and hordes of sky pirates. She turned only when she heard the cabin door behind them slam open. She turned to see what everyone else was already staring at.

  Pryce Covington stood at the guidance rod of the ship, dressed in incredibly splendid robes of red and black. Shining from his breast was the Ambersong clasp that marked him as the great Darlington Blade. Completing the picture was the huge, leatherbound book he held in one arm. He stood before them, looking toward their destination as the clouds fittingly darkened overhead.

  He opened his mouth and spoke.

  “Excuse me for a second, would you?” He ran to close the heavy cabin door. “I wasn’t prepared for the wind up here,” he apologized to Scottpeter.

  The captain laughed quietly. “The wind has a tendency to be rather strong at these heights,” she informed him.

  Pryce walked quickly back to the banister overlooking the main deck. He placed the spine of the book on the polished railing. “ ‘When you eliminate the impossible,” he called to them, “whatever is left … no matter how improbable … has to be the truth.’ ” Pryce looked up. “This was the teaching that my master lived by.” For effect, he let the book fall to the deck with a bang that seemed to echo beyond the gathering clouds.

  “But my master is dead,” he told them. “You have known for half a day what I knew even before I set foot in Lallor.” They stood and stared at him, wailing for the next revelation. “You had never seen me before,” Pryce continued, leaving the book near the captain and beginning to descend the ladderlike steps to the main deck, “and you never would have seen me at all had my teacher not been murdered. The reason—the only reason—that I came to Lallor was to find the killer.”

  He looked from one face to the next, registering their expressions of stupefaction, regret, concern, and recrimination. He took his first step among them. “Does this news surprise you?” he asked, putting his arms out wide. “You all know my reputation: I’m an adventurer. What do I need of an exclusive land of leisure?”

  “You—you knew all along?” Lymwich sputtered.

  He turned to look directly at her. “I found his body by a tree when I arrived from the north,” he said evenly, refusing to even hazard a glance in Gheevy’s direction. “Next to the corpse of Gamor Turkal … hanged by the neck from the curve of the Mark of the Question.”

  That elicited an audible gasp from the thicket of suspects. Pryce set the scene for them, letting Geerling become the second corpse. It was the only way to feel his way through this murderous maze without revealing his actual identity.

  “Oh, my deities!” Azzo breathed when Pryce had finished. “Murder? Here in Lallor?” He almost jumped when Covington suddenly lanced a forefinger at him.

  “Exactly!” Covington cried. “Murder? In Halruaa? Incredible! Inconceivable. Absurd! What a heartless, wicked, brainless thing to do!” He turned slowly in a full circle, seemingly trying to comprehend the concept. “This is a community of the most successful, most powerful wizards in the nation! Who in his right mind would murder someone here?

  “And not just anyone,” Pryce continued, waggling his forefinger. “A primary mage, no less, and his assistant. The assistant?” Pryce shrugged. “Not really a problem. But why hang him at the Question Tree, of all places? Why not just … well … club him and feed him to the jackals in the hills?” As he turned, he couldn’t help seeing Gheevy cringe. He didn’t let it faze him. If he was to survive this thing, there had to be as much truth as possible mixed in with the rest.

  “But a primary mage? What could have possibly convinced an individual to take such a risk? And why leave him at one of the most recognizable landmarks in the area?” He looked into each face for an answer but found none. He turned toward the upper deck. “Captain Scottpeter! Do you know the most important thing to trust in a murder investigation?”

  Scottpeter reacted as if Pryce were speaking ancient script, but she understood nevertheless. “No, Mr. Blade,” she called back. “I’m happy to tell you that I have never required the knowledge.” She glanced at her navigator, who had come out to witness this unique experience. “And I hope to the cloud dragons that I never will,” she whispered to her.

  Pryce turned from the captain to the others, moving slowly among them. “In a murder investigation, you can’t trust your friends.…” He looked pointedly at Asche Hartov. “You can’t trust your teachers.…” He looked at Matthaunin. “You can’t trust the authorities.…” He looked at Lymwich. “You can’t trust your sisters.…” He looked at Dearlyn. “You can’t even trust a lover.” He let his last glance rest on Sheyrhen before he walked past them all and talked idly to the sky.

  “There is only one thing you can trust,” he said. “M.O.M.”

  “Your—your mother?” Lymwich stammered incredulously.

  “No,” Pryce corrected, walking back to them and counting on three fingers as he spoke. “Means. Opportunity. Motive. M.O.M.” Before they could react to this, Pryce continued. “Means. Who had the means to kill Gamor Turkal?” He looked at them. “Anyone of you, I would imagine. He was hanging by his neck from the branch of a tree. He was certainly not a heavy man. Once he was unconscious, I imagine that any one of you could have accomplished the deed.”

  Each looked suspiciously at the others until Pryce finally let them off the hook. “Ah, but who had the means to kill Geerling Ambersong?” Pryce shook his head sadly. “Now, that’s a problem … especially because even I could discern no obvious cause of death.”

  “Now, wait a moment,” Lymwich interrupted irritably, stepping forward from the crowd. “Wait just a moment! Where are their bodies? Why haven’t I—I mean we—been given the opportunity to examine them?”

  Pryce caught a glimpse of Gheevy’s pale face over Lymwich’s shoulder before he plunged on. “The situation necessitated that I take precautions with both corpses, Inquisitrix Lymwich. I had to ensure that materials vital to the safety and welfare of our entire nation did not fall into the wrong hands.” He could see Gheevy looking as if he were about to have a seizure, certain that this explanation would never pass muster.

  The halfling was nearly right. Berridge went face-to-face with Pryce, seething. “Are you saying you don’t trust the disciples of Mystra to—”

  “That’s enough, Inquisitrix Lymwich!” Mystra Superior Turzihubbard snapped. The imperious leader had slid silently behind the smaller woman. “If the great Darlington Blade felt that precautions had to be taken that precluded our authority, then that’s good enough for me.” But she gave Pryce a piercing parting glance and added pointedly, “For now.”

  Pryce grinned sheepishly. Even so, he was grateful for the reprieve, as short-term as it might be. “We were talking about means, Inquisitrix Lymwich,” he chided. “And the fact that I could find no cause for my master’s death.”

  “Very well,” Berridge huffed, straightening her already straight uniform. “Go on.”

  “Thank you.” Pryce turned his attention back to the others. “Any one of us could have killed Gamor Turkal, but why? Why kill anyone? To gain more land? To get more power? These are common motives for kil
ling, but there’s a difference between killing in battle and murder. There’s killing in Halruaa every day. Orcs kill ogres, ogres kill giants, giants kill people, people kill each other—sadly, it’s happening all the time.

  “But such is the nature of good versus evil,” he stressed. “Killing occurs when good people must defend themselves against evil people for the good of the many. Murder happens when the battle between good and evil is lost inside one individual.”

  He held up his forefinger, then slowly let it curl back into his fist. “The great priest Santé wrote that when a good person is doomed, he closes his door and murders himself. But when an evil person is doomed, he opens his door and murders someone else. That, I’m afraid, is what happened here. Someone had come to the end of his morality. But why? What is the most obvious motive for these murders?” He pointed with both hands to the deck. “We’re standing over it. Geerling Ambersong’s life’s work. Enough magic items and spellbooks to make everyone on board this ship wealthy beyond his grandest dreams.”

  He pointed at Berridge Lymwich. “To you, it was an end to your ambitious means.” He pointed at Dearlyn Ambersong. “To you, it was a birthright.” He pointed at Matthaunin Witterstaet, Lallor’s jack-of-all-trades and primary gatekeeper. “To you, it was a way to become the one thing you could never become while Geerling lived.” He used two fingers to point at Azzo Schreders and Sheyrhen Karkober. “To the two of you, it meant that whatever you wanted, you could have.” Finally he pointed at Asche Hartov, mine owner. “And to you, it meant the biggest business deal you could ever hope to make.”

  The suspects looked from Pryce to each other. They began to mutter, even apologize, when Pryce continued briskly. “So much for motive,” he said dismissively. “Now we really separate the insidious from the innocent. Opportunity knocks. And who among you had the opportunity to murder anyone, let alone my master and his assistant?” He considered the nervous group.