Murder in Cormyr

by Chet Williamson

  Bread, cheese, ale, dishes, mugs, and flesh merged together on the floor as the two men, locked in a ferocious struggle, rolled back and forth, knocking the legs out from under Shortshanks’s patrons, and tumbling many to the ground. The dwarf came from behind the bar with his twenty-pound oak mallet, a toy with which he had settled many a tavern altercation. But just as he raised it to strike whichever of the two brawlers first came into range, the roar of a single voice froze everyone, including the horizontal combatants.

  “STOP!” the voice cried, and when I looked away from the battlers, I saw that Barthelm, who had fathomed everything at a glance, had returned. His was a voice that commanded attention, and Rolf and Dovo looked up for all the world like two mischievous acolytes caught squabbling by their priest. Neither one had a bloody face, though both were coated with ale and bits of cheese and bread.

  “Mayella!” Barthelm growled. “Come with me, girl!” She scooted to her father’s side, holding the terrified dog under one arm. He took his daughter’s hand and led her outside, sharply pulling the door shut behind him as if to seal in the scum.

  In the silence, all of us scum bits looked at each other uncomfortably until Shortshanks broke the silence. “Who started it, then? Come on, who was it?” he said, brandishing his mallet.

  An angry dwarf with a mallet is a power not to be ignored, and more than a few patrons who had seen it all were soon mumbling, “… uh, Rolf … Rolf started it … yeh, Rolf did it.…” and other such comments.

  With his free hand Shortshanks grasped Rolf by the ear and pulled on it until the roofer was standing up, though bent over at the waist, for the dwarf still held his ear. “Out with you,” Shortshanks said, and with no more explanation than that he led Rolf to the door, yanked it open, and twisted Rolf’s ear like he was cracking a whip, so that the lad was flung outside.

  Shortshanks slammed the door shut and swung round, glowering at his clientele. “No more trouble tonight,” he said, “from anybody.” His words were not loud, but we all decided to follow the command implicitly.

  The first to speak was Dovo, who was brushing himself off. “I thank you for your wise justice, brother Shortshanks, and to show my appreciation, I should like to buy a drink for all here!” Shortshanks’s eyebrows went up, as close to a smile as he got. Then Dovo added, “Although I don’t know how so many people are going to get more than a few drops of a single drink.…” and started laughing. Shortshanks frowned again, and he curtly ordered Sunfirth to clean up the mess and charge it to Rolf’s account.

  The girl did as she was told, and recorded the damages in the large account book kept just behind the bar. I felt sorry for her, having to clean up after idiots every night. And speaking of idiots, Dovo remained on the scene, wiping the mess off himself with a bar towel, assuming, no doubt, that his wife would get his clothes clean.

  I sat for another half hour, chatting and listening to the drivel that passes for conversation among those slowly getting drunk. Now and then I fancied that I was the great Camber Fosrick, sitting disguised as a wizard’s servant in some back-alley watering hole where the vermin of crime met to hatch their dastardly plots. Such a fantasy was difficult to maintain, what with the talk of barley yields and rainfall (or lack thereof), but it got me through the dull patches.

  And I was glad I lingered, for at about nine o’clock, in through the door walked one of the most prime specimens of womanhood that I have ever seen.

  7

  Her perfect if stern face was framed by red hair, cropped off just beneath the woman’s chin, leaving her neck bare. She wore a broadbelt that supported a steel bustier, mail leggings, and a leather skirt that was open in front almost to her generous hips.

  From the broadbelt hung an assortment of bladed weapons, all of which legally bore peacestrings upon their hilt, though I suspected these symbols of nonaggression would not have prevented the woman from drawing any of her blades efficiently. Although the armor and weaponry was daunting, they did not manage to hide a glorious face and, shall we say, a healthy body that now positioned itself at the dark end of the bar.

  “Who,” I asked the all-knowing tailor, “is that?”

  “Must be Kendra,” he said quietly. “An adventuress.” I had heard of her. But her reputation, though impressive, had not nearly done her justice. “Heard she was coming to the Vast Swamp,” the tailor went on. “Supposed to be looking for treasure there.”

  Her looks alone were treasure enough for a hundred men, I thought, but I kept my opinion to myself. Others were not so tactful. It came as no surprise to me when Dovo lumbered up to Kendra and sat down next to the woman. “Buy you an ale, missy?”

  I hope I’m never looked at that coldly by a woman. If Dovo had been any other man, his blood would have frozen, and once it thawed he’d have been on his merry way. But his skull was as thick as his muscles, and he merely leered in response to her sneer. “And what are you?” she said, examining his stained clothing. “Slop boy?”

  He colored then, and drew himself up. “Slop boy, is it? Not hardly, missy!”

  “Nay indeed!” shouted a tavern wag, safely from a dark corner. “A nail gatherer!”

  “A fire stoker!” cried another, given the anonymity of the mob and the tavern’s darkness.

  “A smith!” insisted Dovo.

  “A smith’s assistant!” cried the first voice.

  “Then,” said Kendra with a voice that would have frosted over Anauroch, “I’ll know who to come to when I want my horse’s spit licked off its bridle.”

  It wasn’t the most eloquent insult I’d ever heard, but it got under Dovo’s skin. “Watch yourself, missy!” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “There’s more to me than you might think—much more.”

  Kendra glanced down, then looked away disinterestedly. “I doubt it.”

  He grabbed her arm then and started to whirl her about, but as quick as a snake she pulled out a dagger and pressed it against his throat. “I don’t like being touched,” she said. “Especially not by a smith’s assistant Barkeep!” she said to Shortshanks. “Why don’t you toss this bat’s dropping out of your establishment?”

  Shortshanks had already come up with that idea on his own. He laid a smart rap behind Dovo’s knee with his mallet, and the man nearly fell. “Out!” the dwarf bellowed, and Kendra added to the command by flinging Dovo toward the door.

  Dovo went, but with no good grace. He spat on Shortshanks’s floor (another cleanup job for poor Sunfirth, thought I) and snarled at Kendra. “No woman treats me like that! I’ll show you yet, you—” I shan’t say what word he used, but it had Kendra off her stool with a savageness that spurred Dovo to a fast sprint through the door and away into the darkness. The adventuress looked after him for a moment, then returned to the bar without another word.

  One would think that such a strong reaction to Dovo’s faux pas would have taught a lesson to the other men in the Bold Bard. But such was not the case. Mayor Tobald left shortly after the contretemps, with many a yawn and a belch, but Grodoveth remained behind, with a predator’s eye on Kendra, who continued to nurse a single mug of Old One Eye.

  At last the king’s envoy got up and walked over to the beautiful adventuress. Everyone in the tavern suddenly quieted and paid attention, but Grodoveth was using the technique he had used with Mayella—soft and subtle, though not subtle enough for Barthelm’s tastes. Not enough for Kendra’s either, for she looked at Grodoveth as though he had just fouled her beer, and placed a hand on her sword hilt.

  I saw Grodoveth’s shoulders shake with a chuckle, and Kendra’s expression change from sneer to snarl, showing pearly, perfect teeth. Grodoveth shrugged, said something else that infuriated the woman, then slowly stood up and bowed deeply.

  Kendra knew better than to attack an envoy of the king of the land in which she was a guest, and Grodoveth knew she knew it. I can only guess at what he said to her, and those who were close enough to hear would not repeat the words. “Nay,” said Tim Butterw
orth later, “that language I’d not use before the foulest drab in Huddagh.”

  Grodoveth spoke again, and this time Kendra turned her back on him, wishing, no doubt, that he would grab her as Dovo did, so that she could split his head to the gullet legally. But Grodoveth didn’t touch her, just laughed and walked out of the tavern. No one talked to the woman after that but Shortshanks, who apologized for the crude behavior of his customers.

  In another half hour I decided to leave as well and return to Benelaius’s cottage. He would still be awake. Indeed, I hardly ever saw my master sleeping, in spite of his physical indolence. Perhaps, I thought, his lack of motion made it unnecessary for sleep to refresh him, since he never really expended any energy other than mental.

  I retrieved the cask of clarry from behind the bar, settled my account with Shortshanks, and strapped the cask behind the saddle. Then I mounted Jenkus and headed southeast toward the Vast Swamp. And the ghost.

  I had not had very much to drink, so it was difficult to forget about the stories of Fastred’s ghost. I tried to occupy my mind by recalling as best I could everything that had been said and done tonight at the Bold Bard, for I knew Benelaius would want to hear every detail.

  He revelled in the stories I brought back from town, and I often wondered why he did not go in himself on occasion. In spite of his corpulence, he was certainly mobile enough, for I once saw him dash across the room to keep an armillary sphere from crashing to the floor after one of the cats had bumped it.

  Still, as I drew nearer the Vast Swamp, my mind was filled with the tales of haunts and phantoms and geists, let alone the monsters that I was positive really did live in the swamp. I tried to imagine once more that I was the brave and gallant Camber Fosrick, who would laugh at ghosts and snicker at specters.

  But by the time I arrived at the fork in the road and turned left toward Benelaius’s abode, I was, I confess it, aquiver with nervousness. I tried to avert my glance from the swamp now on my right, but my gaze kept moving there. The moon provided but little light, and I thought that a mercy as I rode on. Jenkus sensed my nervousness, for he was a mite skittish himself, and I kept a firm grasp on his reins.

  Then, at a spot where the road curved to bring my path close to the treacherous Vast Swamp, I heard a dull moan, like the voice of a man with his head in a well. It came from the direction of the swamp, and although I told myself to ride on and not to look, of course my head shifted until I was gazing through ribbons of mist. Not twenty yards ahead, so close to the road that it could have reached out and touched me as I passed, I saw what could only be Fastred’s ghost.

  Naturally I didn’t pass. I retained enough presence of mind to haul back manfully on the reins, but Jenkus had anticipated me. Already he had stopped and was backing away from the apparition, and I didn’t blame him one bit.

  At the sight of the ghost’s green and glowing face glaring at me from within an antique helm, my blood had turned to ice in my veins, my stomach felt as though a ten-pound weight of frozen lead had been dropped into it, and my throat felt thick with lard. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t speak or even squeak. I have never been so completely terrified.

  And when the axe came up, its blade catching the faint rays of moonlight that filtered down through the mist, it got worse.

  8

  Both Jenkus and I panicked. He reared as I pulled back on the reins so hard we almost toppled over. We wheeled around as though man and horse were one, and dashed as fast as Jenkus could run in the opposite direction. Neither one of us cared where we went, just so long as it was away from that dreadful apparition. We fairly flew down the swamp road, a quite dangerous stunt in the darkness.

  But by the time we came to the fork again, I had calmed enough to think about getting to the first place of habitation I could find, and that was among the farmers on the swamp road to the southwest, rather than take the longer journey into Ghars. So I yanked the reins to the left and down the road we went.

  The first farmhouse was a scant quarter mile from the fork, and I pulled Jenkus to a stop by its door, swung off, and hailed the folk within. To them, a fat farmer and his fatter wife, I told the story of what I had seen.

  The farmer then told me that was quite a tale, and asked what, besides the hot tea and cake they had already given me, they could do about it I realized that there was nothing. If we returned with a force of farmers, the ghost would probably be nowhere to be seen, even if the farmers were brave enough to go, which I doubted.

  They offered to let me spend the night, but when I thought about it, I decided to brave the ghost again. After all, he had not been able to catch me, and if I saw him I could simply ride away. Besides, there was a bit of laughter in the eyes of the farmer and his wife, and I believe they thought me a hysterical chap who had had one too many at the tavern.

  So I thanked them, and rode back toward the place of the haunting. Jenkus was not anxious to take the road toward my master’s cottage, but I was able to turn his head, and on we rode.

  It was well after midnight by now, and I hoped that whatever Fastred had had to do out there he had done and returned to his ghostly home. But my fears were rekindled when, as soon as we left the fork, I heard something up ahead. I swallowed hard, and gave Jenkus a comforting pat on the neck.

  But what I heard was not the previous hollow groan, and I saw with relief, not a ghost, but another rider traveling toward me. At that point I would have been happy to see a highwayman, as long as he did not glow.

  I could not make out the figure, but it seemed large and was wearing a heavy cloak and a hat with a wide brim that hid its features. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman, and I could see only that the horse was of some dark color, be it black, chestnut, or gray. Dark is dark in the darkness.

  “Good evening!” I hailed, more to hear my own voice than to greet the rider. But there was no reply. Horse and rider passed by me so quickly and dismissively that I never got a glimpse of the shrouded face. Maybe that was another ghost, I thought to myself. Maybe they’re having their annual meeting in Ghars as well.

  But I didn’t really think it a ghost, since Jenkus hardly reacted to it at all, and I had always heard that animals were sound identifiers of spirits. The rider had been moving quickly, but not as speedily as one would who had just seen an axe-swinging ghost. So I assumed the path ahead was free of haunts for the time being.

  And it was. I saw nothing untoward all the way back to Benelaius’s, though I don’t mind telling you that I jumped at every branch that moved in the wind. I was most nervous, of course, at the place where I had seen the thing before. But everything was peaceful. Nothing moved except myself and Jenkus as I kicked him into greater speed past the haunted spot.

  It was very late when we arrived home, but Benelaius had of course been awake and working in his study. He greeted me at the door as I entered with the cask of clarry in my arms. “What kept you?”

  I shrugged. “Tavern talk, brawls, and most of all, a ghost.”

  I was glad to see that I had gotten a reaction from his usual stoic countenance. His eyebrows raised. “A ghost, is it?”

  “Yes, I saw him near that boggy bit of land where—”

  He held up a hand. “On the way there, or the way back?”

  “Why, the way back.”

  “Then start from the beginning, with the tavern talk. It’s been a while since I’ve heard of the doings in town. You’ll get to your ghost anon.”

  Maybe he had had so many experiences with the supernatural in the past that another sighting of a spook had little in it to interest him. But I suspect he told me to offer my tale in chronological order to tease me. I hate being teased.

  But he was my master—for another three days—and I did as he asked. We sat in front of the dying fire, and I told him about Barthelm and Mayella Meadowbrock’s repast being interrupted by Grodoveth, Mayor Tobald’s guest, and what the tailor had told me about the man.

  Benelaius nodded sagely. “Yes. I know
of the envoy. He was doing quite nicely for himself in Suzail, having married King Azoun’s cousin Beatrice, when he dishonored himself and embarrassed the throne by an idiotic act of casual wantonness. His ‘reward’ was to ride from one small town to another, with that blustering Sarp Redbeard as his supervisor. Very demeaning. Quite a comedown for a man with an ego so huge.”

  “What, um, was the ‘act of casual wantonness’?” I asked.

  “Nothing for you to be concerned about. Then what happened?”

  I told him about Shortshanks’s fury over the Swamp Rat, Tobald’s little altercation with Mayella’s dog, Dovo and Rolf’s battle over Mayella, the subsequent departure of the Meadowbrocks, and Grodoveth’s unsuccessful attempt at romance with Kendra—in short, all those little events that make small-town life so interesting.

  At last, I concluded, “And then, of course, I saw Fastred’s ghost, and that’s the evening in a nutshell.” I stood, stretched, and yawned. “Well, good night, master.”

  “Good night, Jasper,” the wizard said, putting his head back in his easy chair and closing his eyes.

  My bluff had not worked. “Master?” I said.

  “Mmm?”

  “Don’t you want to hear about the ghost?”

  He opened one eye. “If you wish to tell me.” For Benelaius, opening that eye would be akin to you or me jumping up and down in anticipation.

  So I told him of the ghost, of my flight, of my visit to the farmer (“that would be Pygmont Kardath,” Benelaius said), and of my meeting with the stranger but no further ghosts on the way home.

  “Well well well,” he said when I had concluded. “It’s been quite a full evening for you, Jasper. I suggest you get to bed on the instant, for you must be up at dawn to go into Ghars and meet Lindavar. His coach travels through the night, and should arrive at half past the hour of seven. Sleep well.”

  I crawled up the dark stairs, circumnavigating the cats sleeping on nearly every one. All of them, that is, save for Razor, who was well named. A coal black cat with yellow eyes, he was notoriously testy, and when I trod, quite by accident, on the end of his tail, he erupted into a spitting, clawing, biting tornado. His fangs sank deeply into my ankle, and with that final bon mot he scurried down the stairs to seek a less hazardous berth.