Murder in Cormyr

by Chet Williamson

  “Ghost?”

  “Yes, sir, the ghost of Fastred.”

  “Listen, I don’t know anything about any brigands who cut people’s heads off, and I couldn’t care less about ghosts. Now why don’t you get out of here and let me read in peace?”

  I could take a hint. Thanking him for his cooperation, I left the library, to Marmwitz’s great relief, but I waited outside until Grodoveth left a few minutes later. Then I went back in. I wanted to see what book there could possibly be in Ghars’s library that would make someone cover it up.

  Mr. Marmwitz was not pleased to see me, but I gave him a friendly grin just the same and went over to where Grodoveth had been sitting. The book was no longer on the table, but since Grodoveth hadn’t left with it, it still was there somewhere. He had probably put it back on the shelf, but I thought I’d ask Marmwitz just the same.

  “Sir, your pardon,” I said softly, “but as part of my … investigation on the behest of Benelaius and Mayor Tobald, I should like to know in what subject area the gentleman who just left was reading.”

  Marmwitz looked crankier than I ever hoped to get, but he answered. “Local subjects.”

  “Ah. And does Grodoveth take out many volumes on that subject?”

  “He takes out no volumes at all. Only residents of Ghars may withdraw books.”

  I nodded thoughtfully and went over to the section on local history and folklore. Most of the books were very old, and I saw that my master had copies of a good many of them in his library. Then I realized that I could tell which books had been taken off the shelf because of disturbances in the dust. For all his fussiness, Marmwitz was not a superlative housekeeper.

  Nearly a dozen books had been removed and replaced, and I took them all to the table and perused them. Most of them fell open readily enough, as is the case with old and brittle volumes. I supposed Grodoveth had never learned of the proper and gentle care of books, the very first lesson Benelaius taught me. For every one of these volumes opened to a passage or chapter about either the historical or the legendary Fastred.

  There was a wealth of information about the brigand, and apparently Grodoveth had read it all. Yet he had said he wasn’t interested in ghosts. He was lying about something, that was for sure.

  “Mr. Marmwitz,” I said, “you don’t have a lot of people using the library, do you?”

  His instant sorrow showed that I had struck a nerve. “No, and more’s the pity. Days go by when no one comes in at all. Mr. Grodoveth has come in occasionally during the past few months, but our daily traffic is tragically minimal.”

  “That is a shame,” I said, catching the fly with honey. “This really is a grand repository of information. So when did you say Grodoveth started coming in here?” All right, so I wasn’t very good at smooth transitions, but I was still learning. Marmwitz didn’t bat an eye, however. “My, let’s see, it must have been, oh, back around Tarsakh or so.”

  Tarsakh. Five months before. And at least two months before the recent flock of ghost sightings had begun. So why was Grodoveth, the king’s envoy, looking into the matter of Fastred’s ghost before that ghost, in the person of Dovo, began to make his reappearances?

  It didn’t make any sense to me. Either Grodoveth could see into the future, or he had something to do with the phony ghost, or it was one amazing coincidence. Maybe, I thought, Benelaius would be able to make some sense out of it.

  I thanked Marmwitz and cautioned him not to say anything about my curiosity. Then, before I returned the books to the shelf, I copied down their titles and the page numbers to tell Benelaius. I would have withdrawn them, but I didn’t want to start Grodoveth wondering where they had gone if he should return to the library the following day. Odds were that Benelaius owned most of the books anyway.

  Next I went over to Aunsible Durn’s smithy. The establishment had no name, for it was the only smithy in town. Indeed, a man would have been a fool to have opened a smithy in competition with Durn, for his skill was tremendous, and he was always busy.

  The only sign of his trade was what looked like an ever-glowing lump of coal that hung from a curved rod in front of his smithy. It was actually a bumpy globe of red glass inside of which some wandering mage had placed a continual light spell. Durn must have paid the bargain rate, for the light constantly waxed and waned, though it never quite went out.

  Durn was too busy to talk at the moment. It was near closing time, and in the absence of his late assistant, Dovo, he had a backlog of work. Besides the horse he was currently shoeing, two other riders waited with their mounts, so that it was nearly seven o’clock when he wearily set down his tools.

  I had stayed out of the way all the time, listening to Durn’s conversation with his clients, which was minimal. He was a man of few words in the smithy and never once asked me what I was doing there. But when he was away from the anvil, he was among the most garrulous of men.

  As the last client led his newly shod horse out of the smithy, Durn finally acknowledged me. “And what do you want, Jasper?”

  “A word or two, Aunsible Durn, about Dovo.”

  Durn shook his head. “I don’t know what grieves me more, his death or the fact that I have been without a helper all day long. Come upstairs and have a cup of tea with me.”

  We climbed the round staircase in the corner of the smithy, up past the second floor lofts where Durn stored his supplies, and stopped on the top floor, a modest apartment where Durn lived alone. As he brewed a tea that reeked strongly of seaweed, I explained my mission to him, and we talked about Dovo.

  “He was a good worker, for all his other faults,” Durn said. “The gods know I missed him terribly today. Yes, he would be off at the taverns roistering away, but never when there was work to be done. Still, I pity his wife and children. He paid little attention to them when he was alive, and now they shall not even have the comfort of his salary since he is dead. Though perhaps,” he added roughly, “I can help in some way.”

  “You heard he was playing the ghost?”

  Durn gave a snort of disgust. “Aye, just like him. Always on the lookout for a prank or a jest. He tried that here the first week he worked for me. Put a burr under his friend Argys Krai’s saddle. When Argys mounted, the mare went crazy and threw him off. I let Dovo know in no uncertain terms”—Durn pounded a fist into his palm—“that type of behavior would not be tolerated in my smithy. He never gave me trouble after.”

  “Did he ever say anything about the ghost to you?”

  “He said he saw it. In fact, I believe he was the first one—setting everyone up for his little joke. Must’ve been, oh, back in Mirtul, four months ago. Told me, and probably everybody in the tavern, that Fastred’s ghost had come out at him one night while he was riding home from the Swamp Rat. Said it took a great swing at him with its axe, and showed a cut in his cloak to prove it. Got a lot of mileage out of that story, he did, and made everyone nervous enough that they were ready to see a ghost even without him pretending to be one. Guess somebody didn’t think it was very funny.”

  “True enough,” I said. “I know that he was quite a hand with the ladies. Is there anyone you can think of who might have wished him ill?”

  “Husbands and suitors, you mean? ‘Twould be a long line, I fear. I know little about the details of his romances. That was another thing I told him right off to keep out of the smithy. If his philandering lost me customers, I would let him go. But that never happened.” Durn shrugged his heavy shoulders. “People here have little choice. They either come to me or ride all the way to Hultail, and the smith there is … well, no artist with an anvil.”

  The tea was finished steeping, and he proudly presented me with a cup. I took a sip. It smelled like seaweed but tasted like … decomposed seaweed. I smiled and nodded anyway and made myself take another sip.

  “You know,” Durn said after nearly draining his cup with one long, scalding swallow, “there is one lad who Dovo had a real rivalry with—that Rolf. Rolf the Roofer, Dovo
always called him.”

  “Yes,” I said. “The one who’s got his cap set for Mayella Meadowbrock.”

  “That’s him. A stout worker, but an ill-tempered sort. Gets in fights nearly every week. His father was in the other day and told me he worries about him. Nearly beat a fellow to death over in Thunderstone. The other fellow started it, but Rolf sure enough finished it.”

  “Did Dovo ever mention him to you?”

  “Oh, yes, told me he enjoyed playing up to Mayella just to drive Rolf wild.” Durn cocked his head. “You think maybe he drove Rolf a little too wild?”

  The thought had certainly occurred to me. “Possible, I suppose. What was Dovo’s manner in the smithy like?” I asked. “Did he get along with customers?”

  “Yes, most of them. Some he rubbed the wrong way with his joking. When he found someone’s weak spot, he’d play on it, you know? Then I’d have to … take him in hand a bit.” His eyebrows raised as though he had just thought of something. “Just the other day in the smithy he had a run-in with the king’s envoy, what’s his name?”

  “Grodoveth?”

  “That’s the one. His horse had thrown a shoe, and we were putting one on, when Dovo starts asking the envoy a lot of questions about what he’s seen on his journeys, just run of the mill questions, but with an edge to them, almost as though he’s making fun of the man.

  “Well, I finish the shoeing, and Dovo is leading the horse out while the envoy’s paying me, and something happens, the horse stumbles a bit, and this Grodoveth suddenly goes mad. He clouts Dovo on the side of the head, knocking him down, and then stands over him. If he made another move, I was ready to help Dovo, but he didn’t. He just said, ‘Be careful how you treat my horse, boy,’ and that was all.

  “He finishes paying me, then without another look at Dovo, leads his horse out. It’s a magnificent beast all right, and maybe Dovo did yank its bridle too hard, but that was quite a clout. Still, some men love their horses better than women.” Durn eyed my cup.

  “More tea?”

  I declined, thanked him for the information, and left him for the happier cups of the Bold Bard. I hoped I wouldn’t have seaweed on my breath. There were a lot of people I wanted to talk to.

  14

  And they all seemed to be at the tavern that evening. Nothing fills a drinking establishment quite as handily as a tragedy. People want to talk about it, and also want to feel alive and grateful that they were not the one to die. How people can feel more alive in a hot, smoky, reeking tavern than outside in the fresh air on a hilltop gazing up at the evening sky is puzzling, but human nature has always been so.

  The first person I noticed in the press of people there was Mayor Tobald. A huge, half-eaten pork pie was on the table in front of him, and he was digging into what was left with his customary ardor for victuals—his way of feeling alive, I suppose.

  Since I was acting under his authority, I felt that put us on an equal footing in the democracy of the tavern, so I sat across from him and bade him a good evening. “Ah, Jasper,” he responded, “and how goes your work?”

  I didn’t wish to spill too many beans before I had a chance to talk to Benelaius. “Not too well, Mayor. But I’ll persevere.”

  “Good man,” Tobald said, wrapping his mouth around another forkful.

  “Yes, I asked Grodoveth if he was aware of any brigands who might have been responsible for Dovo’s slaying, but he knew of no such parties.”

  “Hmm, yes, well, if anyone would know, you’d think it’d be him. I mean to say, riding around all the time as he does, eh?”

  “Indeed, sir. I was just wondering, sir, how did you come to know him?”

  “He was my student at the university.”

  “University?”

  “Yes, the University of Suzail. I taught there, you know, before my retirement. The academic life held too many pressures. A small, unhurried town like Ghars was much more appealing to me—just like the feelings of your master Benelaius—and more conducive to my scholarship. I’m writing a history of Cormyr, you know.” I knew. Everyone in the village knew.

  “When Grodoveth was assigned as envoy to our district,” he went on, “I invited him to lodge at my house when he came through Ghars. He accepted, and I learned that he plays as fine a game of chess as any man in the village. That alone would be enough for me to put up with his … well, I mean to say, I’ve enjoyed his company immensely.”

  There was something that Tobald wasn’t saying, but I didn’t quite know how to tactfully draw it out. “So he stays with you whenever he’s in town?” Tobald chewed and nodded. “And how often is that?”

  “Oh, every few weeks or so. It’s only for a night or two, and I’ve got the room, not having a missus. Let that be a lesson to you, Jasper. Marry now. Don’t put it off like I did, or you’ll wind up a lonely old man like me.” He wrinkled up his face as a twinge of pain went through him. “And a gouty old man. Do me a favor, Jasper, and ask your master to mix up another batch of those gout pills he made for me. I didn’t want to say anything earlier today in front of Doctor Braum.” He sighed. “That man couldn’t cure a nosebleed with a wagon load of cotton.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “And perhaps he could give me an examination sometime. I’ve not been feeling well, not well at all, and Braum can’t find anything wrong except for my gout. You know what he tells me? Eat less. Well, I mean to say, eat less? This is the advice of a trained physician?”

  “I’m sure my master will be happy to do what he can, and I’ll tell him about the pills.”

  “Thank you, Jasper. No man could have a better prize than a good and faithful servant.”

  It wasn’t any of Tobald’s business, but I was going to be good and faithful for only three more days. Then it was the high road for me, and a life, perhaps, of criminal investigation, depending on how this particular case came out. Now it was time to investigate further. “Have you seen Barthelm Meadowbrock today?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Tobald. “I was helping him prepare for the arrival of our merchant dignitaries. So little time and so much to do. Barthelm seems nearly exhausted, and we have only two more days until the great event.”

  “Exhausted, say you?”

  The mayor nodded. “Poor man, his eyes are as weary as death. He told me he was up all night worrying when he was not working.”

  Up all night, I thought. Worrying and working? Or getting revenge on a man who insulted his daughter? “The incident with his daughter can hardly have helped him sleep any better,” I said.

  “With Mayella?” I thought Tobald’s voice softened somewhat. Our mayor was not yet that old, it seemed. “It is true,” he said, “young men do seem to make fools of themselves in her presence.” And, I could have added, a few older ones as well, remembering Tobald’s encounter with Mayella’s yapping little dog. “But I suppose that’s something that any father of a beautiful daughter must deal with. Even my friend Grodoveth was not immune to her charms. Ah, here he comes now!”

  I turned and saw Grodoveth coming in the front door. He looked none too happy to see me talking with Tobald, so I begged my leave of the mayor and retreated to the bar, with Grodoveth’s glower following me as I went.

  Shortshanks brought me a Golden Sands and I sipped it gratefully. It had been a long day, what with retrieving Lindavar, finding Dovo’s body, and making Benelaius’s required investigations, and the cold brew tasted wonderful. I ordered a pork pie, since Tobald’s had looked so tempting, and wondered if Camber Fosrick felt as weary at the end of a day of sleuthing.

  By the time I was finished with my flaky treat, the tavern had fallen into that comfortable state where everyone had started a new glass and no one, not even Sunfirth, was scurrying to take or bring orders. Even Shortshanks looked relaxed, so I tried to engage him in conversation, recalling how Camber Fosrick would gain invaluable clues from barkeeps.

  “Heard about Dovo?” I asked him.

  He nodded but didn’t speak. You real
ly had to touch a chord within Shortshanks to open him up. The dwarf took pride in his memory, so I decided to try that tack.

  “I was trying to remember,” I went on, “when the so-called ghost first started appearing. You recall?”

  “Mirtul.”

  At least it was a word. “End of Mirtul? Or the beginning?”

  “End.”

  I had to be careful—the words were getting shorter. “Benelaius and I just couldn’t remember who said they saw it … and when. I don’t suppose you’d remember.”

  Yes, it was heavy-handed, but it worked. At the suggestion of a slight against his attic of a brain, Shortshanks turned and gave me the evil eye. “Of course I’d remember. Ye think I’d forget a short little list like that? What else was everyone in here talkin’ about at those times but this phony ghost and the fools who’d seen it?

  “ ’Twas at the beginnin’ of spring. Dovo was the first, though he lied about it. The twenty-seventh of Mirtul it was. That merchant from Arabel espied it on the twelfth of Kythorn. Mayor Tobald seen it the night after the flower festival—that was the twenty-first of Kythorn. Kythorn the twenty-seventh ’twas Diccon Picard. Then on the eighth of Flamerule Loony Liz spotted it; Flamerule”—he paused for a moment, ticking through the days in his head—“twenty-first it was when Lukas Spoondrift seen it. Then nobody seen it again until Farmer Bortas and his wife on the sixteenth of Eleasias! And the last was Bryn Goldtooth, the halfling, on … ah, yes, the twenty-eighth of last month!” Shortshanks cried triumphantly. Then he gave a dwarven smirk. “Comin’ back from the Swamp Rat he was. Swore he’d never go on that road after dark again.”

  I shook my head admiringly. “Your memory, Shortshanks, is as impressive as the brews you serve. I take it that, uh, your trade has increased since the late Dovo’s little pranks began?”

  “Best thing that could’ve happened to the Bold Bard,” he said. “Got to where folks didn’t like travelin’ the swamp road after dark, and that was just fine by me.” Then he sighed. “A course, now that the ghost’s a phony, more folks’ll probably be goin’ to the Swamp Rat again.”