Murder in Cormyr

by Chet Williamson

  “And who would want to kill Dovo or Grodoveth?” Benelaius said. “Yet killed they were. Now,” he went on, walking toward the door of the study, “I should like to hear your reports of what you found at this … tomb, was it? And if I’m not wrong, I do believe it’s past time for our noonday meal.”

  I cooked a hearty luncheon of soup, which I served with black bread, and while we ate we told Benelaius everything we had seen that morning in the swamp. He looked at each of us intently as we spoke, and I fancied that each word, each disparate observation on our part was coalescing in his mighty brain, forming some ingenious solution that he would soon share with us.

  When I came to the part about finding the white powder on the tomb floor, I handed the bit of paper to him. He unwrapped it, wet his finger, and tasted the powder the way I had in the cave. His lip curled for an instant at its bitterness, and he grunted and wrapped it up again.

  “We’ll analyze this after lunch,” he said, putting it in one of his inner pockets.

  Lindavar and I finished our story, and I leaned forward breathlessly, waiting to see what conclusions Benelaius would draw. “So,” he said slowly, wiping his mouth and beard with his napkin, “it seems that Grodoveth was beheaded by a left-handed killer at Fastred’s tomb. But the question remains, what was he doing at Fastred’s tomb in the first place?”

  Lindavar steepled his fingers and looked at the inside of them as he spoke. “He was reading about Fastred in the library.”

  “But before the ghost started appearing,” I reminded him.

  “Yes. But supposing that was merely a coincidence. Then, as Dovo began to appear as the ghost, Grodoveth got more interested, more curious. The more he reads, the more he starts to discover about Fastred, where his tomb might be, and the treasure that’s supposed to be there as well.

  “Then Dovo is found murdered, and it becomes more than a treasure hunt for Grodoveth. Despite his faults, he is the king’s envoy, and he sees a chance to bring a killer to justice. Find the tomb, he reasons, and he may also find the person who kills as Fastred killed—and a treasure to boot.

  “So, by using clues that he found in the old books, Grodoveth is actually able to discover not only the whereabouts of the tomb, but the secret of opening it as well.”

  “Would that be possible?” I interjected. “I mean, weren’t these bandit kings usually able to keep their tombs a secret? You know, the old ‘dead men tell no tales’ thing?”

  “Since you found no skeletons of those who had interred Fastred,” Benelaius said, “I think it likely that someone put him in there and left alive. Perhaps his curse kept those who knew the secret away from the tomb.”

  “But it didn’t keep them from talking about the tomb,” said Lindavar, “at least elliptically, if someone—the killer or Grodoveth or maybe both—was able to find and open it.”

  “Mmm,” Benelaius said. “So you think Grodoveth and possibly the killer put together the different clues left hither and yon over the years and found the tomb.”

  “Yes,” Lindavar said. “Unfortunately when Grodoveth found it, the killer was lying in wait and killed him.”

  “Or,” I said, “perhaps the killer hadn’t found the tomb at all but followed Grodoveth there, killed him, and took the treasure.”

  Lindavar considered that for a moment and then nodded. “True,” he said. “We have no knowledge of anyone else examining those particular books in the library.”

  “The lack of something proves nothing,” said Benelaius. “The killer might have gotten the information elsewhere. With all due respect to Phelos Marmwitz, there are greater receptacles of knowledge than the Ghars library. For example, I’d be willing to wager that my own modest collection contains enough works of local folklore and history for a methodical reader to locate Fastred’s tomb.” He sighed. “Be that as it may, do you two feel that we are any closer to an actual solution now than we were before?”

  “Further away, if anything,” Lindavar said. “Before, Grodoveth was strongly in the lead as the murderer, but becoming a victim has definitively put him out of the running.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said flippantly. “Perhaps he was the killer, and out of guilt, he chopped his own head off.”

  Neither Benelaius nor Lindavar laughed. Instead they looked at me with pained expressions, and I realized my joke had not been terribly funny. “Sorry,” I said.

  “Apology accepted,” said Benelaius. “Well, we must press on. Any suggestions?”

  “Why don’t I go back to town?” I said. “This murder has brought us full circle back to the phony ghost again. If Grodoveth had been killed in his room at the Swamp Rat, or on the road to town, or nearly anywhere else, there would be no further connection with the ghost. But to have him slain in Fastred’s tomb … well, if nobody had taken the treasure, I’d have thought the actual ghost killed him. So my idea is, learn more about the ghost, learn more about the murderer. They seem inextricably bound.”

  “And exactly how are you going to learn about … the ghost?” asked Benelaius.

  “By talking to everyone who saw Dovo playing it. I have the list. Maybe there’s something that one of the witnesses remembers that might shed some light on this whole murky business. I swear, it’s getting muddier than the Vast Swamp itself.”

  “Muddy …” said Benelaius. “Very well, Jasper, go to town. But that ‘muddy’ business reminds me … before you go, please do the washing. It’s a breezy day at last, so it should dry quickly, and Lindavar has brought only a limited wardrobe.”

  I bet Camber Fosrick never had to do the laundry before he went off investigating, I thought as I trudged into the kitchen.

  23

  The dirty garments lay at the bottom of the chute from upstairs, and I had to remove several cats who were reclining on the unmuddied parts of the clothes, which were few. I scraped soap into the washtub, filled it with boiling water, and washed the clothes.

  It was extraordinary, I thought, how the swamp muck from Lindavar’s and my clothing had permeated everything else in the clothes pile, even Benelaius’s robe of the night before. But some hard work and elbow grease soon had them spotless, and I threw out the soapy water and rinsed them in fresh.

  At last I had the clothes hanging on the line, and bade good-bye to Benelaius and Lindavar, who were now at work in the study, examining, I hoped, the powder I had found. I left them to their task and headed for Ghars.

  It was midafternoon when I arrived, and though I hoped that I would be able to speak to everyone I could and return before dark, I doubted it would happen. Benelaius had given me money for lodging were I too uneasy to return home at night, but Jenkus had outdistanced pursuers before, and there was no reason he could not do so again.

  I stopped first at the library, where I asked Mr. Marmwitz if he could recall anyone but Grodoveth looking into the past history of Fastred. “Alas, not for years,” he said, shaking his head. Nonetheless, I looked on the flyleaves of most of the books to see if there was any record of withdrawal in recent months.

  Marmwitz was correct. The most recent withdrawal had been eight years before, and the patron had been Mrs. Barnabas Hinkel, who had been dead and in the ground for seven of those years.

  Back on the street, I got out my list, concentrating on it and trying to ignore the flood of people listening to Barthelm Meadowbrock’s commands. It was difficult. They were scurrying all about me, hanging banners welcoming the Merchants’ Guild council, putting up garlands and wreaths on the lampposts, washing the windows of all the store fronts, even sweeping the horse dung out of the gutters. Shabby, sleepy little Ghars was undergoing a metamorphosis, but I was paying it no mind.

  The first two names on my ghost witness list were easy. Dovo was dead, and the Arabel merchant was probably back in Arabel. I scratched them off. The next was trickier—Mayor Tobald. At this point I figured the last thing he needed was more talk about ghosts.

  Looking up the street, I spotted him standing next to Ba
rthelm, disobeying Benelaius’s orders to rest before throwing himself back into the fray. Tobald was looking upward and signaling with his hands, apparently guiding some garland or banner hanger lost in the shuffle. No, it might be best to leave the mayor to his civic pleasures and go farther down the list.

  Diccon Piccard had seen the Dovo-ghost on the twenty-seventh of Kythorn, so I tied up Jenkus and went over to his jewelry shop on Wattle Lane. The heavy wooden door reinforced with steel bands was open, and through it came the sound of the Selgaunt fiddle that Piccard played whenever he was not assisting a customer. I think the tune was either “Warrior’s Woe” or “Red-haired Lad”—most fiddle tunes sound the same to me.

  When Diccon Piccard saw me, he called out my name as though he were delighted I was entering his shop, though I had never bought a thing from him and could ill afford to. His smile was as wide as the Dragonmere, and his great bush of hair was blindingly white.

  “Jasper, is it not! Benelaius’s man! And a finer man is hard to imagine! Benelaius is very lucky indeed!” Diccon Piccard was a born salesman. I had no doubt that if he used that much oil on people who could afford his wares, the precious jewels practically waltzed out of his shop.

  “Greeting, Diccon Piccard,” I said. “You must be prepared for the arrival of the guild leaders, if you have time to play so beautifully.” Actually, he didn’t play all that well, but this flattery stuff becomes mutual pretty quickly.

  We went back and forth for a while, and when we touched on the subject of the newest murder (which made him frown for only a second, for he had not known Grodoveth) I was finally able to come to the subject at hand. “Ah, yes, the ghost,” he said with a smile, as though Dovo’s had been a noble jest. “I don’t mind telling you that it gave me a fright, quite a fright it did, even though it was a hoax. When I saw that dreadful apparition, I went shivery all over. We rode away as fast as our horses would take us.”

  “ ‘We?’ ” I said. “You weren’t alone?”

  He looked guilty, as though he had just betrayed a trust. “I, uh … oh bother, I said I wouldn’t tell.…”

  “Surely, sir, civic duty is more important than a secret held for a friend. I assure you that no one but my master and I shall know, that is, unless it should prove absolutely necessary to capture the killer.”

  “All right then, I was riding back from the Swamp Fox with Barthelm.”

  “Barthelm Meadowbrock?”

  “Yes. We had gone out there together just to see what the place was like—and I wasn’t impressed. But he didn’t want anyone to know he was out there, for he feared that if Shortshanks found he was patronizing another tavern, the dwarf would not be cooperative in filling Barthelm’s spirits order for the guild meeting. So I let on that I was alone when I saw the ghost … er, Dovo.”

  “Perfectly understandable, Diccon Piccard. And I thank you for your honesty.”

  “You are quite welcome, Jasper. My honesty also extends to my business dealings, so I trust if you ever require my services, say a fine stone for a beloved young lady, or …” And so it went until I was able to extricate myself.

  Elizabeth Clawthorn, known to everyone as Looney Liz, was next on the list, but since she lived just south of Ghars, I decided to make her my last stop on the way home. That meant Lukas Spoondrift was next.

  I didn’t look forward to seeing Spoondrift. He was my former employer at the Sheaf of Wheat, and hadn’t taken it very well when I had left his miserable job to go with Benelaius. Add to that fact the certainty that he was going to be as busy as anyone in Ghars getting ready for tomorrow’s guild visit, and I knew I would have a none too happy host for my own call.

  Spoondrift was a fat hulk of a man, who ate up much of his own profits. But he could afford it, especially with the income the Merchants’ Guild meeting would bring. Barthelm Meadowbrock was spending a great deal of his own money to host the event, and the guild leaders themselves could be counted on to spend a great deal.

  The inn owner was outside, overseeing the unloading of the butcher’s wagon, carefully counting each fowl, fish, beef and lamb quarter as it crossed his kitchen threshold. He stopped and examined some of the butchered beasts, as though he feared spoilage, though Butcher Skedmoor’s reputation was unsullied. The butcher stood by, frowning every time Spoondrift slowed his men in their unloading.

  I waited until the last carcass was out of the wagon and the voucher was signed. When Spoondrift started to go back into his kitchen, I left the security of the barrels behind which I’d been standing and walked up to him.

  “Mr. Spoondrift,” I said, “could I have a word with you?”

  When he saw who I was, his face grew even colder than before. Too much time in the meat lockers, I thought. “A word with me, slop boy?”

  “I’m not a slop boy anymore, sir,” I spoke with as much dignity as a former slop boy could muster. “I work for the wizard Benelaius, as you know.”

  “ ‘As you know,’ ” he parroted. “Well, don’t we speak high and mighty now. Where’d you get all that education, slop boy?”

  “My master has tutored me,” I said, trying to keep my temper. My right buttock will forever bear a scar from one of Spoondrift’s beatings.

  “Isn’t that nice,” he said sarcastically, “that some employers have the time to educate their servants. Have no time for such shenanigans myself. I’m running an inn here, not a school.”

  I could see the conversation was getting nowhere fast, so I tried to butter up the old weasel. “Nevertheless, I learned a great deal by working here, sir. Invaluable lessons about life.” Like how to avoid working in future for a scum-swilling swine like Spoondrift.

  “What do you want?” he barked.

  “As you might have heard, I’m trying to aid my master by finding out certain things about the recent murders outside of Ghars.”

  “Ah, the slop boy’s become the great Camber Fosrick now, has he?”

  I made myself smile. “Hardly that. But I would like to know about your experience when you came across Dovo as the ghost.”

  “Look, sonny, if you really want to know who killed Dovo and the envoy, all you’ve got to do is ask me.”

  I had no idea things were going to be this easy. “All right,” I said. “Who do you think did it?”

  “I don’t think, I know. It was that roofer’s son, that Rolf. He’s got a temper hotter than a midsummer desert at high noon, he’s in love with Barthelm’s daughter, and both Dovo and the envoy made insulting advances to her. Now they’re both dead. And where was he while they were getting murdered, eh? If I were you, Mr. Jasper Fosrick, that’s what I’d be finding out, and not asking a lot of stupid questions about phony ghosts. Now run along and play your little games. I’ve got work to do.” And he went into the inn, slamming shut the kitchen door behind him.

  If it was going to be that simple, I was going to be very annoyed. And the thing that galled me was that it could be just that simple. A lad filled with a jealous, killing rage who sets out to avenge his sweetheart’s honor.

  Still, Rolf was right-handed, but maybe we were wrong. Maybe he had come up behind Dovo and Grodoveth. No one kept track of Rolf when he wasn’t working. He could have been out on the swamp road the night Dovo was killed, and he could have followed Grodoveth early that morning to the tomb, and gone away with the treasure. Maybe the thing to do was watch and see if Rolf started buying drinks for the house.

  Behind me I heard footsteps, and turned to see Butcher Skedmoor coming up behind me. His men had finished watering their horses, and they were ready to take their wagon back to their shop. “A word, young man,” said the butcher, and I nodded respectfully. “One thing you ought to know before paying owt to what old Spoondrift says—he dislikes the lad, y’see. Rolf, I mean. Had a new roof put on part of the inn six months back, waited too long, the old roof leaked and damaged some joists beneath. Young Rolf’s got the wood shingles up on the roof, leaves boxes of them there overnight, and around midnight, crack! Their
weight breaks the rotten beams beneath, and the boxes of shingles come crashing through the roof, through the attic floor, and shingles start raining onto the bed of Spoondrift and his missus.

  “Well, Spoondrift makes a great stink.” Butcher Skedmoor snickered. “More than usual for the bean-eating old mole. But Rolf says that the wood was already bad, so he can’t be blamed, and Spoondrift says that he shouldn’t’ve had all that weight on the roof, and so it goes. Finally Rolf’s father says they’ll share the cost of rebuilding the floors and roof, but that’s not good enough for Spoondrift, who should’ve had his roof fixed years before. They’re still arguing before the magistrate in Wheloon. Anyways, lad, that’s why you should maybe take that story with a grain of salt—or a box of shingles.”

  I thanked the butcher, and he waved a pleasant good-bye as his wagon creaked away. His story didn’t clear Rolf, but at least it gave a reason for Spoondrift’s malevolence.

  I sighed and looked at my list. I would get no more out of Lukas Spoondrift. Farmer Bortas was next, but I had already talked to him. Bryn Goldtooth, the halfling, was the last on the list, except for myself, and I headed over to his shop.

  24

  Bryn Goldtooth was getting ready to close up for the day. He was not involved in the furious preparations that occupied the other inhabitants of Ghars, since he was not a member of the Merchants Guild. His shop was a buy-and-sell-and-trade place where you either found exactly what you were looking for, or nothing at all. It was a labyrinth of dimly lit narrow aisles, where a stuffed leucrotta head might sit between a pair of gold candlesticks and an assortment of used cranial drills.

  And since his stock came from his customers rather than from wholesale merchants, he felt no sense of brotherhood with the guild. Besides, it would have curdled his halfling blood to give money to human merchants and receive nothing in return except an intangible membership.

  While I had never patronized Diccon Piccard, I had bought things from Bryn Goldtooth. I think he gave me better prices because I had told him about my halfling blood. No purchase or trade was ever made without his looking up at me, winking, and saying, “We halflings have to stick together, eh?”