Hour of the Octopus

by Joel Rosenberg

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a rip in the paper windowscreen on the opposite wall.

  If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that somebody had been through the room before me: over by the window, clothes and implements were scattered under the weaponstand. Minch’s own bow and arrows were off in one corner, as though thrown there.

  A bit of temper at being outwitted yesterday, eh, Minch?

  I had thought that he was dead, and that there was no hurry, but then he groaned, and his body shifted.

  “Somebody get the wizards,” I said.

  “Shall we get him down?” Dun Lidjun raised an eyebrow as he looked at me, as though asking my permission. Why me? Just because Lord Toshtai had told me to investigate? Did that really mean so much to the old warrior?

  I didn’t know what he was asking permission for, but I nodded.

  Dun Lidjun reached out and drew his sword—Lord Toshtai’s sword, actually—then slipped it between Minch and the wall. One quick slash cut the arrow shaft, and Minch was falling away from the wall.

  I caught him as he slumped.

  Now, I never liked Minch, but I also didn’t like the way his breathing went all ragged and desperate as he died in my arms. It reminded me of the way my sister had died, and I didn’t much like the memory of that.

  I stood and looked down at the body. The front of my shirt was wet with blood, and the floor was covered with it. I never realized that there was so much blood in a body.

  The next thing I remember was looking up at the three lords: Demick, Toshtai, and Orazhi. It was all I could do not to wipe my hands on my shirt, but that would only have made them bloodier.

  “It seems we have a puzzle for you, Historical Master Dan’Shir,” Demick said.

  “Yes,” Toshtai said, “you must find out who murdered Minch. Narantir will be at your disposal.”

  Orazhi nodded. “All of Glen Derenai is at your disposal, Kami Dan’Shir. You must find the murderer. And quickly, before the wedding.”

  My gaze was drawn to the same place that all three of theirs was.

  To the fletching of the shaft of the arrow projecting from Minch’s chest.

  “Yes,” Demick said. “It could be rather… embarrassing otherwise.”

  And to the three gold bands just forward of that fletching. The three gold bands that announced, for all the world to see, that Arefai had just murdered Minch.

  Chapter 13

  A flare of kazuh, the beginning of an Investigation, a broad smile, and other penalties and rewards.

  Three gold bands…

  The bait of a trap, the poisoned whey left for a rat. No, I was neither going to eat the bait nor going to ignore it. We D’Shaians are not an unhypocritical people. “That which is not seen is not” is a saying that we both mean and don’t mean at all. There is power in ignoring the obvious, but more in acknowledging it, and still more in threatening to do so.

  My kazuh flared, pointing the way. I didn’t know enough, not now, to give me the solution, but at least for a moment, the path I would walk toward it shone clear and bright in my mind.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll need the wizards—”

  “Done,” Lord Orazhi said, as Lord Toshtai nodded.

  “—and two others to help me investigate,” I said, deliberately not addressing anyone in particular. “Lord Dun Lidjun for one.”

  Lord Toshtai caught my eye. “And why would that be?”

  “Another murderer, Lord Toshtai, managed—even before he murdered my sister—to find me and beat me half to death. I have no reason to believe that the coward who murdered Lord Minch by stealth would be more gentle. It’s not that I am concerned with being beaten to death, you understand; I live but to serve. It’s just that I can’t find and expose the cowardly murderer of Lord Minch if I’m lying on a slab with my skull split open.”

  Lord Toshtai’s eyes might have twinkled ever so slightly as he nodded at Dun Lidjun.

  The old warrior faced me, his back straight. “I am at your disposal, Historical Master Eldest Son Discoverer-of-Truths.”

  Lord Orazhi spoke up, “All of Glen Derenai, from the highest to the lowest, is at your command, Kami Dan’Shir. Expose the murderer, no matter what his station might be.” His voice held no trace of a quiver or trembling, but his lips were almost white. “Show me, show all the one who murdered a noble guest under my roof.” He fought for control, and got it. “From a dungfooted gardener to my own person, you are to ask for any help you require, and it is yours.” He raised his voice. “By my command! Kami Dan’Shir speaks with my voice; his commands are my commands; and his words are no gentler than mine will be.”

  I bowed.

  Demick’s smile was mocking. “You reach far beyond your station for assistance, Kami Dan’Shir. I’m pleased that Lord Dun Lidjun is so willing to stoop to help.” He rubbed a thumb against the side of his jaw, as though idly considering whether or not that lowered Dun Lidjun.

  “True enough.” Dun Lidjun’s voice was flat. “I’d swim through vomit and dig in dung if that would help find the cowardly murderer of Lord Minch,” he said, each word a tick on a drumhead.

  Demick’s smile didn’t fade. “Of course you would. Of course any of us would,” he said, taking a scrap of blue silk from his sleeve and sniffing at it, as though to refresh himself. His unblinking eyes turned toward me. “And I take it the other… assistant you require will be Lord Arefai?”

  I bowed deeply. “No, Lord Demick.” I knelt next to the body, willing Arefai to keep his mouth shut. No protestation of innocence would do him any good, not now.

  I put my finger to the shaft. “I doubt that anybody’s noticed it, but this arrow has three gold bands on it. Lord Arefai’s marking.”

  “Oh, yes,” Demick said. “Now that you mention it… I had thought the arrow looked familiar.”

  “Which leads me to conclude,” I said, “that the murderer wants us to think that Lord Arefai did it.”

  Or that it is Arefai, and that he’s both clever and clumsy enough to portray himself as so clumsy and half-clever.

  I was going to let it all go unsaid, but Demick’s smile mocked me too loudly. I could take that, but I couldn’t let him be the one to spread it all out in the open. Now was the time to deal with that, and to deal with it bluntly.

  “Or,” I said, “one could conclude that the murderer is Lord Arefai, pointing a clumsy finger at himself. ‘Surely,’ we all would say, ‘surely Arefai would not murder Lord Minch in such a fashion that left him accused but not proven either innocent or guilty.’

  “But then we might decide that Lord Arefai is precisely clever enough to do that, and we might never know, leaving a raincloud over his marriage to Lady ViKay. I’ll need somebody far too clever to believe such a foolish idea, so that when Lord Arefai is properly cleared of this murder, his reputation will be left clean, as well. I’ll need someone whose honor is above suspicion, but who isn’t fealty-bound to the father of the obvious suspect.”

  “And who is this epitome of honor and sagacity?” Demick asked.

  I let my smile grow broad, and waited a beat. “Why, you are, Lord Demick. I request and require your assistance in investigating Lord Minch’s murder.”

  I wished that it had been Demick who had been playing at placques with me that morning.

  I would have wagered anything that his expression would have been just as flat and controlled, his hint of a smile still every bit as merry and self-satisfied in paying off as it was when he bowed gently, and said, “Then I am, of course, completely at your disposal, Historical Master Eldest Son Discoverer-of-Truths.”

  Chapter 14

  Chicken, conspiracies, Demicks cooperation, and other things on which to chew.

  Framed nicely in the wizard’s window, the morning sky had clouded over, threatening a coming storm. I would have spat at the sky and told it to stick its threats up its back passage, but I doubt that would have done much good; I’m not a wizard, after all.

/>   I don’t respond well to threats, I wanted to say, except that I didn’t see any need to tell a lie for practice so early in the morning. I respond very well indeed to threats.

  Tebol’s face was split in a broad grin that looked like it didn’t quite fit on his thin face, but Narantir was un-amused.

  “Not only do I have to work with you at my elbow, knocking over pots and vessels at awkward moments, but now, in addition, I have Lord Toshtai’s hoary killer and the Lord of Patrice also to deal with?” The fat wizard reached under his robes to scratch at his crotch.

  I shrugged and reached for another piece of chicken before he could handle it. I’m by no means the most fastidious person in the world, but I’d rather not eat food that’s been fondled by Narantir. “Them also,” I said. “Them too, as well, likewise, and in addition.” I patted his arm. “Trust me; I’m the Historical Master Dan’Shir.”

  The centerpiece of breakfast in the wizard’s tower was cold chicken, some sort of honey-lemon glaze baked to the skin. It crunched beneath my teeth; I took another swallow of the straw-colored drayflower wine that had cleared the last traces of morning mouth.

  That’s the nice thing about a clear morning: it reminds you that the sun always rises, every day a new day, a new rebirth. A new hole to stick your head through, wondering if there’s an axe descending toward your neck.

  Tebol tilted his head to one side, evaluating me. “You seem, perhaps, relaxed? Happy?”

  “Neither.” There wasn’t any harm in explaining part of it, not really. “But at least I’m doing something that… that I’m in charge of. Ever since I stopped being Kami Khuzud and became Kami Dan’Shir, I’ve been told where to go, what to do. Now, at least for now, I’m in charge of something. Of my life.”

  “Where do we start?” Narantir asked. “The outer wing? The room from where the shot was fired?”

  “Certainly,” I said, “if you can tell which room the shot was fired from, leaving alone for a moment how the killer knew to fire through that screen at that moment.”

  Narantir shrugged. “I would have thought it obvious. The screen was translucent. A lit lamp hung on the wall in Minch’s room: his shadow played on the light, and Arefai—”

  “The killer,” I said. “The unknown killer, if you please, and even if you don’t please.”

  The wizard considered me for a long time. “You know, Kami Dan’Shir, there are even more painful ways to check for broken bones than I’ve used on you. Perhaps we will discuss those ways next time you come to me with a broken bone.”

  Tebol tilted his head to one side. “What makes you think there will be another time?”

  Narantir snorted. “Anyone with a mouth so loose to talk thusly to the likes of me will be lucky if the worst that happens is an occasional broken bone.” He turned back to me. “You don’t like my explanation.”

  “No, I like it fine, but I don’t believe it. Minch was pinned to the wall, all the way across the room, and the lamp was hung above him and to his left. Unless you’re going to have me believe that the arrow picked him up and carried him across the room, he was shot where he stood, and whatever dim shadow he cast wouldn’t have been on the windowshade, but on the floor.”

  It was possible, but barely, that while the killer had watched from across the courtyard, Minch had just carried the lantern toward the window, long enough for the killer to aim at his shadow, then brought it back to hang it up against the wall, and that a blind shot at that moment had eventually killed him, but it didn’t sound likely.

  I mean, imagine Minch’s reaction when the arrow spunged into the wall next to him…

  Could that be it? Could it be that an attempt simply to provoke Minch into action had gone horribly wrong?

  Anything was possible, including my head rolling around in the dust. I shook my head. “I don’t know how it happened; we’ll have to find out.”

  “So we begin with Minch’s room, eh?”

  “Very good. And magically?”

  “With relevance?”

  “Probably. Can you tell which bow fired the arrow?”

  He shook his head. “That’s somewhere between unlikely and impossible.”

  “Eh?” Tebol’s brow was furrowed. “Try irrelevance instead.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Beg more humbly, if you please, friend Narantir. Collect all the bows in the castle, and try each. Those that have never fired that arrow will be absolutely irrelevant to it—”

  “—assuming we can control for the fact that arrows are designed to be shot from bows, and therefore every arrow is relevant to every bow—” Narantir put in, then washed a bite of chicken down with a deep swallow of wine.

  “—and if you find one that isn’t absolutely irrelevant, you have the bow.”

  I shook my head. “No, I can’t afford that. Arefai.”

  Narantir drained his mug and poured himself more wine. “I don’t understand.”

  Tebol’s brow furrowed. “Nor I.”

  “More for me, too,” I said, holding out my mug. “We’re not going to find the bow that did it, nor would it do us any good if we did. What we’d find is that Arefai’s bow isn’t irrelevant to that arrow. Or worse, that it did fire the arrow, because the killer borrowed it and then returned it.”

  “And, at all costs, we must not find that Arefai’s the killer,” Tebol said, his voice pitched so that I couldn’t tell whether he was speaking frankly or in shtoi.

  I decided to take his words as unnuanced, and nodded. “If it isn’t Arefai’s, the actual bow that fired the arrow has been chopped into little bits and burned, or spirited out of the castle by now. I don’t need more evidence against Arefai; that won’t do any good at all.”

  Again Narantir snorted. “And who would such evidence serve? Anyone in this castle is fealty-bound to one of the lords or is one of the lords himself. What good would it do to, say, find that one of Lord Orazhi’s armsmen murdered Minch?”

  “None,” I said. “There’s only one person in the castle who it would do good to find evidence on.” I held up a thumb. “Arefai and Edelfaule are out; if it were either of them, it would shame Lord Toshtai beyond imagining. Ditto for anybody else in Lord Toshtai’s party. I can’t imagine that my way will be improved by shaming Lord Toshtai.” Adding a finger, “The same for Lord Orazhi. If it’s one of his people,” like, perhaps, his daughter, “the very least that would happen would be to delay the wedding and interfere with the Den Oroshtai and Glen Derenai alliance.”

  There were other candidates, certainly. Esterling came immediately to mind; he clearly still wanted Vikay. There were likely others of ViKay’s lovers about—I could tell from close personal observation that ViKay was more than casually familiar with the male anatomy—and, frankly, I could easily see how any one of them would happily have wiped out a blot like Minch in return for the possibility of another night with her.

  But to implicate ViKay would be more than slightly dangerous. To blame anybody else from either Den Oroshtai or Glen Derenai would be almost as bad.

  An old story is told of ancient Lord Rekson, lord of the Agami regions, about how, when a runner brought him the news of the defeat of the Three Armies at Presteen, he insisted that his wizard discover the implications of the defeat by reading the runner’s entrails. One of the inferences I’ve always taken from that story is that bringing bad news to a member of our beloved ruling class is not an entirely safe proposition; even during times of stomach distress, I’ve always felt that my entrails are entirely happy where and how they are, not lying on the ground and getting all dirty.

  “Demick,” Tebol said, pronouncing the syllables with relish. “You really think it was Demick.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think it was Demick. I hope it was Demick. I assume it was Demick. It had better have been Demick. And I’m going to somehow have to be able to prove that it was Demick, with him watching me closely.”

  Tebol said, “And I thought that the time Narantir got drun
k enough to start drawing dragon symbols was the closest I was going to come to seeing a suicidal madman at work.”

  I took a final bite of chicken, stood, and rinsed my hands in the fingerbowl before I walked to the door.

  Dun Lidjun was outside the door, sitting on the small platform crowning the long stone staircase, his scabbard across his knees, toying with a plate of chicken. He hadn’t eaten much, but he had managed to eat something without staining either his fingers, shirt, or beard.

  “Ready to get to work, Lord Dun Lidjun?”

  He nodded. “First we send for Demick, eh?” He smiled. “It begins.”

  “That it does.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “I do hope you know what you’re doing, Kami Dan’Shir,” he said. “It could be… inconvenient if you do not.”

  “The worst they can do is kill me,” I said.

  Dun Lidjun shook his head. “No, the worst they can do is to kill you slowly.”

  The first thing to do was to sniff for spells.

  Tebol had insisted on accompanying us, to act as Narantir’s assistant. I wondered out loud if a wizard could put some sort of spell on an arrow that would make it seek the heart of any enemy. I guessed not, though, or one surely would have heard of it.

  “If I ever develop such a spell,” Narantir said, “I’ll be sure to place your order for a dozen such.”

  The rooms were guarded by a half dozen of Lord Orazhi’s scowling warriors, who let us in without objection, but without any simulation of friendliness.

  I wouldn’t have minded if they’d kept us out in the hall longer. The wall was decorated in a fine Mesthai mural, this one of the Cycle of Sleep. I could tell from the worn spot on the rug that the face that got the most attention from passersby was the chubby-cheeked baby sleeping peacefully, his lips and chin still wet with his mother’s milk. It was nice, but not my favorite. I particularly liked the face of the old man, restless and unsatisfied by what they call in the north the wolf’s rest, the sleep that does not refresh. I could have spent hours staring at that one, or at the carving of the boy caught in a nightmare that he can’t wake up from, or at the old woman, her limp hair pulled back severely, allowing herself just a short nap before resuming her labors.