With an inarticulate snarl the recruiter drew his dagger and darted it toward Ironwood’s midriff, but Nistur drew the dirk from his right boot and applied a neat, precise cut to the inside of the man’s wrist. Instantly, the dagger dropped from his nerveless fingers.
“No need for a battle when an object lesson will do,” said the former assassin.
“Kill them!” the recruiter squealed, seeking with one hand to stanch the bleeding.
Eager to please their paymaster, the ragged mercenaries jumped toward the two unwanted intruders, both of whom had their weapons clear in an instant. Nistur punched one attacker in the face with the boss of his small shield and dealt a similar clout to the jaw of another, using the steel basket hilt of his sword. Ironwood was fending off two more with his own curved sword and dagger.
From the corner of his eye, Nistur saw the barkeep dashing out through the door. It was time to leave. Even with their relatively short weapons the quarters were too cramped to fight effectively.
“Let’s go!” Nistur said. “It is far too crowded here, and the watch will be coming shortly!” He drove off an attacker with a neat cut to the knee and made another fall back by cracking him across the nose with the edge of his shield.
“Break for it!” Ironwood said. “I’ll cover your back.”
Nistur gave him no argument. The mercenary’s armor gave him a considerable advantage in such a rear-guard action, one that the ex-assassin wholly lacked. The instant he reached the door he darted into the alley outside and shouted, “Through!” A moment later Ironwood squeezed past, bleeding slightly from a nick high on one cheekbone.
“Time to be on our way,” Nistur said. They dashed up the alley as men began to boil from the tavern, only to come to a skidding halt as they reached the street beyond. Around the mouth of the alley stood a dozen men with a chest-high net stretched between them. Behind these stood others with polearms balanced at shoulder height.
“In the name of the Lord of Tarsis,” intoned a man wearing the gorget of an officer, “surrender your arms and come with us to the Hall of Justice!”
Ironwood snorted. “Since when did the city watch begin to show such zeal?”
“Since our lord laid the city under military discipline, foreigner. Surrender your arms now!”
Ironwood turned to Nistur. “He means he wants a bribe. Do you have any money? The price of a couple of ales will do.”
“My friend, I do not think—”
“Bag them!” shouted the officer. Instantly, the watchmen threw their net over the two men. The pursuing mercenaries had faded back into the tavern by this time. Ironwood and Nistur struggled briefly, but within a few minutes they were trussed up, disarmed, and being dragged off to the well-peopled dungeons beneath the Hall of Justice.
* * * * *
“They are an amazingly inefficient force of men,” Nistur observed as he felt about his clothing, satisfying himself that he yet retained his small dagger and several other unobtrusive weapons disposed about his person. “It escapes me how they can find all one’s money while missing concealed weapons.”
“It’s because they want your money, and they don’t care if you kill yourself or your fellow prisoners,” Ironwood informed him. The two men sat on the straw-covered floor of a windowless cell that held a dozen more wretches, some of them showing the marks of severe beatings and torture of moderate severity. “The only reason they didn’t take my armor is that it would fit none of them. But they’ll find a buyer soon.”
“If you had not been so precipitate in seeking employment,” Nistur chided, “we would not be in this predicament.”
“I wish the two of you would shut up,” groaned one of their cellmates. “At least you were caught disturbing the peace. We did nothing at all.” The man held a handful of bloody straw pressed against the side of his mouth, as if to stanch bleeding.
“I daresay,” Nistur remarked. “I have never been in a jail that held any save innocent prisoners. Such is always the claim, anyway. What was the nature of your incredible misfortune, my friend? Did a cutpurse drop that stolen money bag in your tunic, unbeknownst to you, getting rid of the evidence?”
“I once knew a man,” Ironwood said, “who’d been caught in an alley crouched over a corpse with one hand on the dagger and the other rummaging under the wretch’s clothes. He swore to the judge that he’d found the poor, unfortunate fellow lying there. When the watch arrived he was just trying to pull out the dagger while feeling for a pulse.”
This raised a weak laugh from the prisoners in their cell and those nearby, but another of their cellmates said, “No, he speaks the truth. We were just minding our own business in the Tavern of the Bottomless Barrel when it closed up. Outside we were milling around when somebody yelled that there was a body on the base of a statue in front of the tavern. We were looking it over when the night watch arrived and held us there. Then who should show up but the Lord of Tarsis himself!”
“The lord and his police have been working us over ever since,” said another. “They want to know who we saw and what we heard. But nobody saw or heard anything of importance. That doesn’t make them happy, so each time we’re questioned they beat us a little harder. It’ll be the rack and hot irons before long.”
“Why so much fuss over a murder?” Nistur asked. “Was it someone important?”
“It was one of the nomads,” said the first speaker. “Someone said he was their ambassador.”
“No wonder the nomads are beating their drums,” Ironwood mused. “That’s the sort of thing that would put them in a bad temper. How was he killed?”
“Throat cut,” said a man in the clothing of a traveling merchant. “We heard some shouting, but that was all. Who notices such things? Next time I see a corpse in a foreign city, I’m getting away as fast as I can.”
“A wise course,” commended Nistur.
They passed time discussing their various sad fates until feeding time arrived and they were served thin gruel from a wooden bucket. By this time, all knew better than to complain. Sometime in what they judged to be late evening, they were distracted by the sounds of someone being hustled down the stone corridor toward the cells.
“No need for that! Keep your hands to yourself!” The voice seemed familiar to Nistur. “Forget it! You’ve already taken everything I had!”
Then the speaker was standing before the door to their cell. As Nistur had thought, it was Shellring. The guard behind her wore the black tunic and hood that was the uniform of the Hall of Justice jail staff.
“This is the one I want,” she said in a low voice as the turnkey unlocked the cuffs that bound her wrists. With her hands freed, she turned slightly away while the door was unlocked. When she turned back she pressed something into the guard’s palm. Then he pushed her through and locked the door behind her.
“Well,” she said, smiling brightly, “look who I’ve found!”
“You must not be a very good thief,” Ironwood said, “to be caught at your work twice in just a few days.”
“I was caught because I wanted to be!” she insisted.
“Perhaps this is an obvious question,” Nistur said, “but just why do you prefer incarceration in this dungeon to freedom?”
“I came to find you two, of course,” she said, taking a seat on the straw.
“I confess I am touched,” Nistur said. “But, why?”
“It wasn’t really my idea,” she confessed. “I heard that you’d been arrested and told Stunbog. He’s worried that you’ll die down here because you don’t know how the place works. He said I should look after you.”
“I’m grateful that the man treated my—my illness,” Ironwood grumbled, “but I didn’t ask him to take me on as a permanent charge. I need no nursemaid.”
She gave him a sardonic look. “Aye, certainly not. A mighty warrior like you is equal to anything.”
“No need for sarcasm,” said Nistur. “I assure you, we appreciate your concern. This place, I take it, is f
amiliar to you?”
“More than familiar,” she affirmed. “I’ve spent a good part of my life here.”
“Then you’re lucky,” said one of the merchants. “Most places, they cut off hands for repeated stealing.”
“I’m always good for a bribe,” she said. “Guards don’t mistreat a source of steady income.”
“Speaking of which,” said Nistur, “where did you conceal the coin with which you just bribed your way into this cell?”
“There are some things you shouldn’t ask,” she said primly.
* * * * *
The Lord of Tarsis dismounted at the base of the battlemented tower that flanked the northern side of the East Gate. From beyond the gate he could hear the rumble of drums that had been causing near panic in the city all day. During his ride through the city he had been exasperated at the terror in the eyes of the citizenry. People who, the day before, had shown nothing but contempt for the desert barbarians were now upset by a little noise. It was absurd.
As he climbed the winding stairway the thick walls of the tower provided a blessed silence, but it was not to last. When he stepped out onto the parapet that ran atop the gate, the sound roared forth with magnified intensity, seeming to shake the very stones of the wall. Parapet and towers were heavily manned with city guards and, more effectively, with elite mercenaries. They made a brave show, but he was all too aware that large sections of the semiruinous walls were all but unmanned, and even over the thunder of the drums he could hear the higher-pitched hammering of the carpenters and blacksmiths who sought frantically to put the war engines mounted on the wall platforms back into fighting order after years of neglect.
He strode toward the speaking platform erected above the center of the gate, cursing the penny-pinching policies of the merchant-dominated senate that had allowed the defenses of the city to fall into such a state of decrepitude. That he himself had acquiesced in these policies did not in the least detract from his fury.
As he mounted the wooden platform the trumpeters ranged alongside it raised their gleaming instruments and blared out a shrill fanfare that cut through the bass beat of the drums.
Standing thus, in full view of the savage army below, and above the protection of the battlement, the Lord of Tarsis felt utterly exposed. But certain things were expected of one who would rule, and he showed no distress. Besides, certain sharp-eyed men were detailed to scan for incoming missiles, and his bodyguards were ready to yank him to safety at first sign of arrow, bolt, or stone directed toward his person.
Abruptly, the driving rhythm of the drums ceased. There was a stirring in the nomad army below. Flags and standards began to move, and as they did the lord studied the spectacle. There seemed to be at least twice as many warriors, beasts, and tents as there had been but two days before. He surmised that Kyaga had arrived with reinforcements. That was not good.
The nomads were a colorful lot, their animals draped with striped, checked, and particolored bardings in riotous hues. The warriors themselves wore bright robes, their helmets wreathed in scarves, their faces veiled to the eyes as they waved their long, curved swords overhead. Pennons fluttered from their lance tips as well, but the lord was aware that this was but a brave show. Their real weapons, the bows, remained cased on their saddles. When those came out, the show would be over and war would begin in earnest.
Suddenly, as if on a signal, the middle of the nomad army split, men riding to one side or the other, leaving a long, straight corridor with a huge tent at its far end, striped scarlet and black. The riders lining the corridor faced inward and raised their lances high in salute.
The lord saw two figures, rendered tiny by distance, emerge from the tent. They mounted magnificently barded horses and rode toward the gate with the warriors roaring out their salute in a continuous din. As the two drew nearer, the lord recognized one of the riders as Shadespeaker, the shaman. The other, swathed in a fabulous robe of purple silk embroidered with golden thread, his head scarf and veil of the same precious fabric, could be only one man. Behind him rode an ominous figure who wore a full suit of scale armor, not even his eyes to be seen behind a bronze mask. He held a tall standard topped by the skull of a horned beast. Below this hung a banner flanked by white horsetails. The banner bore the figure of a bird of prey clutching a sword in its talons.
The two figures, backed by the standard-bearer, drew rein before the gate. For the space of a dozen heartbeats there was silence.
“I greet you in peace, Kyaga Strongbow,” said the lord, his trained voice carrying easily.
“I do not greet you in peace, Lord of Tarsis!” shouted the purple-robed nomad. “You have murdered my ambassador! This is an offense to me personally, to the nomads of the Plain of Dust, and to the immortal gods! There can be no peace between us until justice is done!”
This was not beginning well. “I am willing to overlook your discourtesy. The killing of an envoy is a serious matter. But I assure you that I had no part in it, and that I shall find the murderer or murderers. This misfortune need not interrupt the negotiations between us.”
“Misfortune? You do not yet know the meaning of the word, Lord of Tarsis, but you shall! For this insult, I will level your city to the ground, slay all its inhabitants, plow up the ground, and sow it with salt so that nothing will grow on this site for a hundred years!” At this a ferocious roar of approval went up from the nomad army.
He doesn’t mean it, mused the lord, or he would have attacked at once. Besides, these nomads don’t know how to plow. He is looking for a face-saving solution. It is time to bend a little.
“Such a thing, even if you could accomplish it, is far out of proportion to the matter at hand. What would you have of me, my fellow sovereign?”
“I want the slayers! I want them delivered to me by sunrise five days hence, to be put to death as our customs deem fit.”
This was better. “Rest assured, they shall be found. I shall deliver them to you personally.”
“I will not be gulled!” Kyaga bellowed. “You’ll not hand over some corpses and say that these are the murderers, but they were killed upon arrest!”
“By no means. As many as were involved in the killing will be handed over to you whole and fully able to appreciate whatever means of justice you deal them.”
“Five days, then. After that, prepare for war! Until I have the killers in my hands, no one will leave Tarsis!”
“Very well, but I want safe conduct for my investigating officers to pass through the gates and enter your camp. There they are to have permission to question your people, regardless of rank.”
“Why should I allow that?”
“Because I am not at all convinced that your own people did not murder Yalmuk Bloodarrow! For many days your nomads have been wandering the streets of Tarsis as freely as its citizens. Any one of them might have slain the ambassador.”
“That is absurd!” Kyaga cried in an aggrieved voice. “Nonetheless, no one shall ever have cause to say that Kyaga Strongbow is not both just and gracious. Your officers may come forth, ask any question of anyone of whatever rank, and they will receive honest answers, this I pledge. See that they bear your seal. Any who try to leave the city without one will be slain forthwith.”
“Agreed!” shouted the Lord of Tarsis.
“Five days!” called Kyaga. He whirled his horse and rode back to his tent, closely followed by the shaman and the standard-bearer. Throughout the parley, the shaman had said not a single word.
* * * * *
Once again, the Lord of Tarsis sat with his Inner Council. Their masks annoyed him, because they made it difficult for him to read their expressions. Nevertheless, it did not occur to him to demand that they unmask. One did not trifle with tradition.
“I do not see that any real problem exists here, my lord,” said Councilor Rukh. “Our jails are full of rogues. Select two or three and turn them over to the savages. The simple barbarians will be satisfied, and the felons will not be missed.”
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“I doubt Kyaga will be deceived that easily,” said the lord. “Granted our acquaintance was brief, but he struck me as a shrewd man with the way he blustered for his troops but made it clear to me that he is ready to deal and negotiate.”
“My esteemed peer Rukh is entirely too brutal and unsubtle,” said Councilor Mede, the banker. “Among the populace of Tarsis are a number of quite respectable men who are ruined and deeply in debt to me. Some of them, were I to forgive the debt and in order to save their families, would be willing to confess to the murder. This would be far more convincing than trembling jailbirds.”
“Convincing only until the hot irons were applied,” said the lord. “Then they would break down and the ruse would be discovered.”
“My lord,” said Councilor Melkar, “instead of devising elaborate ruses, does it not make sense to simply find out who murdered the barbarian and turn him—or them—over to Kyaga?”
“That would be desirable,” the lord admitted, “but it presents difficulties. For one, I have no officers who are experienced in investigating such a crime. All they know about is customs-dodgers, tax-withholders, and embezzling officials. If tax rolls and bills are not involved, they are hopeless. Also, high personages may be involved, and such are not usually inclined to answer to anyone, much less a low-ranking official.”
“I would be most pleased to serve in this capacity,” said Rukh smoothly. “Save for yourself, none is higher in rank, and I am quite capable.”
You may also be the killer, thought the lord. “I thank you, but if I were to appoint you as investigator it might be said that we are trying to cover up nefarious doings in the council. I do not wish our reputation for fairness, honesty, and justice to be compromised. No, my lords, I shall find an investigator, someone neutral, without ties of blood or fortune to the great houses of Tarsis. Someone eminently capable.”
Murder in Tarsis Page 7