Hour of the Octopus

by Joel Rosenberg

  But that wasn’t what I was here for. I pulled my eyes away. “I’ll light the lamp,” I said.

  “Never mind.” Narantir reached down and opened a pouch at his waist. Light flared brightly, casting his face into shadow. He pulled out a brightly glowing gem. I would have guessed it to be a diamond, but I’ve never seen a diamond as large, or one that glowed at all, much less so brightly that it was hard to look at.

  “This should work well here,” he said, as he set the gem in the lantern’s niche. The curved mirror lining the niche took the white light and scattered it across the room.

  It was going to be a mess, no matter what I tried. But it was worth a try, anyway.

  Deren der Drumud, the much-mourned Minch’s chief guard, insisted on helping, and of course Demick’s own chief guard, an overmuscled type with the unlikely name of Verden Verdunt, had to accompany Demick. What with castle servitors constantly coming and going with trays of sweets and cups of hot tea for the nobles, it was all I could do to pretend some sort of concentration.

  Minch’s body was below, somewhere in the dungeon. “We’ll have to examine the body later,” I said to Narantir. “Can you… do something to prevent it from being tampered with?”

  He snorted. “Any of one hundred and twelve things.”

  “One hundred twenty-three,” Tebol said. “At last count.” He raised an admonishing finger. “You haven’t been keeping up with your studies.”

  Narantir snorted again. “And how could I, out in the hinterlands in Den Oroshtai? And why should I, even if I could? I don’t trust neoteric spells, and I don’t care for them. The modern styles are different from when I was young; much of the new magic is too baroque and complex for the likes of me. I like magic that does something, and doesn’t sit around congratulating itself with how stylish it is.”

  “True enough.” Tebol’s smile was noncommittal.

  “And loud and never-ending protestations to the contrary, I’ve often found Jen Poraycis far more concerned with how prettily the spells are constructed than with what they actually do—”

  “Narantir,” he said, raising a finger almost to lips, “I’m in agreement; cease persuading me. You’re trying to make steak become beef. Still, I think you’ll like my new contribution to the genre.” His fingers traced symbols through the air. “The warnings aside—”

  “Simple contagion; all that does is chill the heart of somebody who approaches.”

  “Which should slow them down,” he said, “but then we add this,” he said, finishing off with a short series of gestures that ended with him brushing away a puff of breath with his fingertips.

  “Now, that I like,” Narantir said. “Let them complete the spell, and—”

  “Precisely.”

  The fat wizard nodded. “Go ahead, then; I’ll manage things here.” He chuckled and shook his head as Tebol bowed his way out of the room. “Elegant, that is elegant! Applause, Tebol.”

  Demick was far too poised to show weakness by asking, but part of my job is to ask questions.

  “Is this one of those things that only wizards can understand, or can you explain it?” I asked.

  Narantir chuckled. “No, it’s simple enough even for the likes of you.”

  I forced a smile. “Then it must be simple indeed.”

  Narantir’s grin broadened. “Indeed. Tebol is now engaged in setting up a dragon spell around the corpse.”

  I swallowed, hard. Everybody knows that dragon magic is too dangerous to deal with, so much so that even the most temporal of artists will paint a dragon only by indirection—the grass bending before its icy breath, a huge impression in wet sand, a mass of fog concealing a dark, hulking shape.

  Narantir raised his index finger. I’d seen cleaner nails. ‘The beautiful part is that he leaves a critical… stroke out of the spell. Anyone who is not… made unsimilar to that stroke will complete the spell as they approach. And then…“ His hands came together with a sound that should have been a clap, but was a snap, like teeth on teeth. ”Which breaks the indition, dismissing the dragon.“ He nodded. ”Impressive, no?“

  “Fascinating,” Lord Demick said, looming over me as I knelt in front of the bloodstain that marked where Minch had died. It would have been convenient if I could have found the words “Demick murdered me” traced in Minch’s blood, but…

  Well, no, it wouldn’t be convenient for everyone. It would push Den Oroshtai and Patrice toward a more direct war.

  On the other hand, I’m not everyone. A dan’shir doesn’t have to play in the battles that liven up the lives of men of our beloved ruling class.

  “Narantir, could you tell which hand wrote a note?”

  “Oh, easily. Writing’s always relevant to the hand, often to the pen. Only sometimes to the brush; brushes don’t have much personality of their own.”

  Of course, if I wrapped Minch’s dead fingers around a pen…

  … I wouldn’t be able to write at all, much less lucidly, much less try to imitate the Eastern scrawl that Minch had. Well, so much for that idea.

  The arrowhead was still buried in the wall where the shaft had pinned Minch. Which gave me an idea. “Any thread in your bag, Narantir?”

  Wordless, he tossed me a ball of thread.

  “Hmm… you didn’t roll this yourself,” I said.

  Narantir’s brows raised. “True, and I usually do. Dan’shir magic?”

  “Something like that.” Actually, it wasn’t complicated; the ball was rolled far too neatly for it to have been Narantir.

  I tied one end of the thread to the end of the shaft, and walked across the room, paying out thread as I went. “Lord Demick,” I said, “would you be kind enough to sight down the thread. What do you see?”

  He leaned his head over. “Your hand. And behind it a lovely windowscreen.”

  True enough. The paper, so thin as to almost glow even in the light of an overcast sky, held an ink sketch of a cock crowing its hour. I usually prefer art that has more detail, but somehow the bold strokes of a brush brought strength and vigor to the bold bird tilting back its beak to pronounce the day properly begun.

  “And the hole in the windowscreen,” he added.

  The hole was two-thirds of the way up on the right side of the windowscreen, the outer edges of the tear just missing the cock’s beak. Which was just as well. Killing Minch was one thing, but to defile the painting would be a much worse crime.

  I knelt on the floor and looked up at Narantir. “Chalk?”

  Narantir tossed me a small chunk; I marked off where the screen’s feet were, just in case I had to do this again. I threw the chalk back to the wizard and tied the end of the thread around my index finger. “Now, nothing’s been touched since last night,” I said, as I pulled back the screen, holding my finger over where the hole had been. “And what do you see as you sight down the thread?”

  “Hmmm…” Demick frowned. “Directly over your finger, I see the window to a room on the second floor, across the courtyard. If I am correct, it’s a room occupied by myself.” His smile was self-assured.

  Later, I told myself. Now was not the time.

  I put the screen back where it had been and rewound Narantir’s thread. Fine; I had the spot where the arrow had been fired from, and perhaps I had an inkling of the why, but I didn’t have the how.

  I walked to the corner of the room, where Minch’s weapons lay. His sword was properly scabbarded, but instead of being set on the swordstand next to the door, it was just lying on the floor.

  Verden Verdunt, Demick’s guard, glowered down at it. “Shameful way to treat a good weapon.” He started to reach for it, desisting when Dun Lidjun interposed himself.

  “If you please, Raging Sunflower,” the old man said, holding up a hand, “not until Kami Dan’Shir has examined it.”

  The big man looked more irritated than puzzled, although Demick’s nod stilled him.

  “Not to offend, Lord Verden Verdunt,” I said, “but it’s always details. Not long ago, t
he mark of a sword’s break against a doorframe helped me find the murderer of my sister.”

  Narantir’s ugly face almost split in a grin, but he didn’t say anything. What I’d said wasn’t true; I’d already known who the murderer was, and the plans involving using the markings of the sword’s break never quite came together.

  The hilt of this sword was of highly polished black wood, bound with leather strips that fit into indentations in the wood. It seemed to afford a good grip, but that wasn’t something I know a lot about. I slid the blade partway out of the scabbard. The bright steel was beautifully polished, the fine black tracery on its surface almost too small to see.

  I handed it to Dun Lidjun. “What do you think, Lord Dun Lidjun?”

  “Far too fine a blade for the likes of Minch,” he said, an audible sniff as punctuation. “An Old Lithburn, or perhaps an early Middle Lithburn.” He raised an eyebrow, asking permission. I was always impressed with old Dun Lidjun, and how well he did everything, even asking permission; I wouldn’t have thought of saying no.

  He produced a tiny knife—I didn’t see where it came from, although I was looking for the motion—and cut at the inset leather in the swordhilt, then pried the hilt away from the sword.

  “Ah. Old Lithburn,” he said, tapping the point of his knife against the markings on the tang. “I wouldn’t be surprised if its name is in the Scion’s registry.” He fitted the hilt back around the tang and gave the leather a few turns around it, temporarily fixing it in place. Somewhere in the process, he got rid of the small knife. I wish I knew how he did that.

  “I’m but little wiser,” I said.

  Dun Lidjun’s dry lips pursed. “Lord Toshtai’s favorite sword, the one he gifted me with the use of last night, is a fine blue Greater Frosuffold; this is easily its equal. This is the sword of a major lord, the master of a domain, far too fine for a minor noble of Merth’s Bridge, no matter how wealthy the Agami lords they are bound to might be.”

  He balanced the scabbard level on his palms for a moment, then set it gently on the arms of the swordstand by the window.

  Demick looked from Dun Lidjun to the sword, and to me.

  “Lord?” I asked. “I know you wouldn’t want to contradict Lord Dun Lidjun, but if there’s something you’d like to add…”

  Say, that you bribed Minch to risk his life in embarrassing Arefai and stopping the wedding with the sort of sword that he could only dream of possessing. That would be a nice start.

  Demick’s expression didn’t change as he blinked, twice. “No; Lord Dun Lidjun is correct. But it happens, every now and then, that one can own a sword too fine.” His smile was only vaguely insulting. “Particularly a minor lord such as Lord Minch,” he said.

  The bow was unstrung, but the string hung from one end of it. I handed it to Dun Lidjun next. “A nice piece, but I’ve seen better,” he said, handing it to Demick. “I have better.”

  “Rather better,” Demick said.

  Dun Lidjun gestured at the pile of arrows across the floor. “The arrows are unspectacular.”

  “Oh?” I said, selecting one. “You see nothing surprising about this?” I held it up. It had no arrowhead on it; the point was flat and blunt.

  Verden Verdunt snickered, and Demick shook his head.

  “An arrow without a head isn’t any more unusual than a formerly insolent peasant without a head,” the Patricien lord said, letting only the content carry his scorn for my ignorance. “One often removes a head,” he said, with just a slight pause, “of an arrow to repair or replace it with another.

  “A good arrow is like a woman; each one is different, no matter how much someone who knows nothing about arrows nor women will think them all the same. Some arrows prefer heavier heads, some prefer lighter, or broader.” He gestured at the pile. “Likely you’ll find a favored arrow or two with damaged fletching, waiting repair; it’s the same thing at that end, too.”

  Verden Verdunt picked up one of the arrows; Dun Lidjun was going to say something, but stopped when I shook my head. I had already looked them over.

  Verden Verdunt hefted the arrow in his hand. “Unspectacular,” he said. “Balance is all wrong.” He balanced it in his palm and swung his arm, throwing it at the nearby wall, aiming roughly for the bloody spot where Minch had been pinned. It clattered to the floor; Verden Verdunt picked it up and wrapped his fist around the shaft, sticking it in only with difficulty.

  “What are you doing, if I may ask, Lord Verden Verdunt?”

  He shrugged. “Just seeing how soft the walls are, how easily an arrow can sink into one. Except for the balance, this one shouldn’t have been a problem. All wrong, but then again we know there was something wrong with Minch’s balance,” he said, smiling to himself, as though over a private joke.

  No matter.

  I moved over to the wardrobe in the corner, and ran my finger down, looking for the catch. Like mine, it was Agami larken woodwork, each side made of hundreds of smaller pieces carefully fit together, but this was not nearly as nice a piece of work as mine. Fealty-bound as Merth’s Bridge was to the Agami lords, it was likely more plain than Minch was used to. I doubt that he had taken offense, though; a wonderful Mesthai Cycle of Joy smiled down from the wall above, its hundred carven faces expressing joy in a thousand ways.

  Too good for the likes of Minch? Perhaps.

  Our beloved ruling class likes things complicated. If it had been up to me, there would have been some sort of prefix attached to designations. Maybe feathers, that would be nice. A minor noble, fealty-bound to the lord of a minor domain, might be called a one-feather lord, and wear it in his hair like a low-class courtesan does. Of course, by the time one got past minor lords of minor domains and minor lords fealty-bound to medium domains and medium lords of medium domains up to the whole cast of nobility of a major domain, you’d find lords like Toshtai, Orazhi, and Demick decked out like pheasants, so maybe that isn’t a good idea.

  Besides, I’m not entirely sure how they all compared. Who was more important? The sole lord of a minor domain like, say, Conner’s Heath, or a fealty-bound lord like Dun Lidjun, the marshall of all the forces of a medium-sized but strategically substantial domain like Den Oroshtai?

  Well, I wasn’t going to sort that out, not today. I was barely going to sort through the clothing. I mean, I don’t spend a lot of time going through nobles’ wardrobes, no matter what it may seem like, but I was quickly getting the impression that the late lamented Minch could have kept himself busy doing nothing but changing his undergarments.

  “Anything of interest, Kami Dan’Shir?” Demick asked, politely.

  “Nothing that I can see, Lord,” I said.

  “Then what is next?”

  “The body,” I said.

  Demick nodded. “It’s down in the dungeon, so I am told, with good Tebol. Shall we meet you there?” he asked, not waiting for an answer as he stalked out of the room, Verden Verdunt and Deren der Drumud at his heels.

  I folded my hands across my chest as I looked at the door close behind them. I was missing something, perhaps something important.

  Dun Lidjun eyed me quizzically. “You seem to see a problem?”

  “Lord Demick’s being far too cooperative.” I shook my head. “Or perhaps not.” I had the feeling that I was being led, and not just by the facts as presented. I don’t mind being led, as long as it’s not to the chopping block.

  “Demick,” he said. “Demick was directing Minch, seeking to use him to throw young Arefai off—to disconcert him, cause him to shame his house and father.”

  You figured that out all by yourself, Dun Lidjun ? That wasn’t the issue, now that Minch was dead.

  Unless… “We’ll see.”

  “About what?”

  I took a chance. “With all respect, Lord Dun Lidjun, I am to handle this as I see fit. Let me do that, Lord, without having to face my placques before I have them sorted.”

  His face was impassive. “As you will,” he said.

&nb
sp; It’s your neck, he didn’t have to say.

  Narantir looked over at me. “You’re being clever again,” he said. “I don’t like it when you think you’re clever.” Dirty fingers played in his beard.

  Dun Lidjun was idly holding the arrow Verden Verdunt had been playing with. “I wouldn’t know about that, Narantir. Perhaps Kami Dan’Shir’s cleverness is leading in the correct direction.” He turned to me. “May I?”

  I didn’t have the slightest idea what the old warrior was asking permission for, but that didn’t matter.

  “Of course, Lord Dun Lidjun.”

  His face grew flat instantly, and he stood for a moment, the arrow held lightly at the balance point between two fingers. And then he whirled his arm, once experimentally, then spun.

  Not just the arm holding the arrow—his whole body spun around once, always in balance, as his arm whirled. He released the arrow as he and his arm came around.

  It thunked into the wall between the speaking tube and the stub of the arrow that had killed Lord Minch, burying its head completely.

  “Soft wall,” he said.

  Just once, I’d like to see a dry, cheery dungeon, its whitewashed walls scattering the bright morning sunlight streaming in through broad windows, a steady crossdraft breeze of fresh air carrying away the dampness and musty smells. They could even put bars on the windows, if they’d like.

  But no, all dungeons are the same. The shaft of the arrow tenting the blanket that was covering it, Minch’s body lay on a slab in a cheerless cube of a room, dark, dank, and gloomy, the darkness barely challenged by a sputtering overhead lantern, the dankness relieved only by the horrid fecal smell of the dead, the gloom not at all mitigated by anything whatsoever. I wondered for a moment if they always kept a lantern lit here, or if the almost prescient servitors of the keep had lit it and fled, just ahead of Demick and the two huge warriors, but then I decided I had more important things to wonder about.