“You may be refreshed,” Shellring said, yawning once more, “but I’m going to need a nap before I feel like doing any hunting.”
They returned to the hulk to find an unexpected sight: tethered to one of the supporting beams that kept the vessel upright was a horse. They examined the beast with some wonder. It was a shaggy creature, its mane and tail untrimmed, its hooves unshod in the fashion of the nomads. Its saddle, bridle, and other gear were likewise of nomad style.
“A visitor?” Nistur said.
“Probably some barbarian with a sore toe,” Ironwood said. They went inside and climbed the steps to the large cabin. There they found Stunbog seated as they had left him, having apparently progressed about one-fifth of the way through his weighty book of sigils. In a corner of the cabin they were astonished to see Myrsa deep in conversation with a young barbarian whose hair was the same color as her own. The two seemed completely oblivious to the new arrivals. Shellring stared at the young barbarian with her mouth slightly agape.
Nistur looked at Stunbog, raised his eyebrows, and inclined his head toward the pair in an eloquent gesture of inquiry.
“He is her brother,” Stunbog whispered. Nistur and Ironwood joined him at the table. Shellring continued to stare.
“I thought she was alone in this world,” Nistur whispered back.
“Until two hours ago she thought she was. He was a child when she last saw him, and she thought him killed in the same attack that saw her mother slain. It seems the boy was sold to a band of plains nomads and, in time, was adopted by the family that bought him. He is now with the army of Kyaga.” He looked fondly at the two. Every few seconds, Myrsa touched or patted the young man, as if to reassure herself he was real.
“How did he know she was here?” Ironwood asked, suspiciously. “He could be a spy sent by Kyaga.”
“Any fool can see they’re brother and sister,” Nistur said.
“Yes,” Stunbog said, “there’s no doubt of it. He says that, about two years ago, a small band of nomad horse traders lodged with his adoptive tribe. They had recently come from Tarsis, where I had treated a number of them for the black-spotted fever. The traders told the nomads of the healer and his unusual assistant, and several of them remarked that this young man resembled her amazingly. Because of their mixed heritage, their particular combination of features and coloration are quite rare among the barbarians. Since then the young man has longed to visit Tarsis, and his tribe joined the nomad host just today. He wasted no time in seeking me out.”
Nistur brushed away a tear. “This is most touching. Indeed, it is worthy of a few verses.” He reached for a quill and parchment.
Myrsa stood and approached them, her arm tightly around the younger barbarian’s shoulders. “This is Badar, my true brother. I thought him dead, but he is returned to me.” Tears streaked her severe features, and her eyes were red.
“I … pleased to meet my sister’s friends.” Clearly, the young man was not used to speaking the local language, and his accent was even heavier than his sister’s. Although he was clearly younger by a few years, he might otherwise have been Myrsa’s twin. Like her he wore skin clothing, although the cut and embroidery of his garments were those of a different tribe.
“I am Nistur the poet,” said the ex-assassin, offering his hand, “and this is Ironwood the mercenary and this—”
“I’m Sh-Sh-Shellring,” said the thief, her voice so hesitant that for a moment Nistur thought she might be choking. Then his eyes narrowed with wonder. In the uncertain light from the hearth and candles he could not be certain, but she seemed to be blushing! Another wonder to add to those he had recently experienced.
The young barbarian took each hand in turn, solemnly. “You have fought shoulder to shoulder with my sister,” he said slowly. “My sword is at your service.”
“And very honored we are,” Nistur assured him. “But we do not wish to interrupt your reunion. Please continue and pay us no heed while we confer with Stunbog. There will be ample time to socialize later on.” Smiling, the two retired to their corner and resumed their quiet conversation.
“Any luck with the sigil?” Ironwood asked.
“I have pursued a number of leads,” Stunbog said, perplexed, “but I have been able to find nothing like it among the protective sigils.”
“We have just had a most unusual interview,” Nistur said, and proceeded to tell the healer about the events in the bizarre mansion of Councilor Alban.
At the end of it Stunbog chuckled. “I know most of those wizards. None belong to the Orders of Magic, although they are not total frauds. All of them have certain skills. Alban is a notorious amateur and dabbler. He is intelligent, but he lacks the mental discipline to be a genuine wizard, so he hires second-rate sorcerers to keep him company instead. But if they can set aside their squabbling, they may be able to come up with something. One thing Alban said intrigues me, though.”
“What might that be?” Nistur asked.
“He mentioned a spell of deception, you say?”
“Yes, although he said this was a layman’s term.”
“Certainly. As you may know, sorcerers have a number of specialized languages. I wish he had given you the true name of the spell, although it probably would have been futile. Since you are not trained to the languages of the Arts, the syllables would not have registered themselves upon your memory.”
“What does it signify?” Ironwood asked.
“Perhaps nothing. But, while I can find no protective sigil like the one you saw on the hands of Shadespeaker, I have found some with similar designs on what might be termed spells of changing, and some of these might also be termed spells of deception.”
“Could such a spell have allowed the shaman to deceive the fiend?” Nistur asked.
“I do not see how,” Stunbog admitted. “Truth-fiends are believed to be proof against any spell of deception. But it might have another purpose.” He turned a page and pointed to a design. “Shellring, does this look like the sigil you saw on the shaman’s hand?” He received no response. “Shellring?”
She had been gazing at the two in the corner. Abruptly, her head jerked around. “What?” Stunbog repeated the question. “Oh, well, I don’t know. I …” She trailed off, then pointed to one side of the design. “No, it’s close, but the one I saw didn’t have these little curlicues over here on the right.” She leaned back, and slowly, as if under control of a will not her own, her head turned again, to face the pair in the corner.
The other three looked at her for a while, then at the young barbarian, then at each other. Then they shrugged simultaneously.
“Well,” said Nistur, “we must have a bite to eat, a warming tankard, and then we must be off. Melkar is probably on his way homeward even now.”
“You two go on,” said Shellring. “I think I’ll just stay here. I need some sleep.”
“Yes,” said Nistur, “by all means, have a nap. We can find Melkar’s mansion on our own.” She did not bother to answer.
Once outside the hulk, fed and warmed, Ironwood turned to Nistur and grinned. “Who would have believed our little guttersnipe could be smitten? And by a barbarian at that!”
“The ways of the heart are ever mysterious,” sighed Nistur as he pulled on his gloves. “Even a hardened thief like Shellring is not immune to its vagaries. Badar and she are about of an age, I judge, and he is a most prepossessing young man. You saw how he wrung tears from the stony Myrsa. Perhaps he is one of those destined to melt the hearts of the hardest women.”
“Perhaps you are too much of a poet,” Ironwood said, making tracks in the snow.
After questioning a few tavern keepers and asking directions of the night watch, they found themselves at length in a district of the town not far from the North Gate. This was another area much damaged by the Cataclysm, where the wealthy had taken advantage of the devastation to provide themselves with spacious estates in the otherwise cramped city.
“It must be around her
e somewhere,” Ironwood said, peering through the falling snow. “That watchman said it is the one with gate pillars of green marble, but who can see color in this weather?” The diffuse moonlight gave little clarity to the scene.
“That watchman was half drunk,” Nistur said. “A moment, maybe it is that one.”
He pointed to a low wall interrupted by a pair of tall pillars flanking an iron gate. Spanning the pillars was a high-arched lintel of wrought iron, fancifully worked to represent a pair of stags standing on their hind legs, supporting a globe with their forehooves. Doubtless a family symbol, Nistur thought. Below the arch dangled something, perhaps a lantern.
“It must be,” Ironwood said. “Come on.” They walked to the gate; then they paused beneath it, astonished.
“Councilor Melkar has an odd taste in decoration,” Nistur said. “Unless my eyes deceive me, that is a hanged man.”
Ironwood shrugged his armored shoulders. “Maybe it’s a servant who displeased him. The Tarsian aristocrats are a whimsical lot.”
“Nothing so simple, I’m afraid,” said Nistur. “Notice, for instance, the barbarian clothing.”
They watched in suspense as the cold wind caused the corpse to turn. Then they saw its face.
“Well, well,” Nistur said, aghast. “Here’s someone we know.”
“Aye,” said Ironwood, choking slightly. “Although he’s not looking his best just now.”
Leering down at them, his head at an unnatural angle, was Guklak Horsetamer, chieftain of the Great Ice River nomads.
Chapter Ten
“This presents a problem,” said the Lord of Tarsis. “It is most convenient that you have discovered the murderer, well within the deadline set by Kyaga Strongbow, but it is unsettling that it should be Councilor Melkar. He is the only capable soldier on my Inner Council. Any of the others would have been more acceptable.” He glared at Ironwood and Nistur as if they had failed him personally.
“Surely,” Nistur said, “you can’t believe that Melkar himself killed Guklak.”
“The body was found hanging from the gate of his mansion,” said the lord.
“You might as well suspect Abushmulum the Ninth of killing Yalmuk,” Ironwood said. “After all, the body was discovered on the base of his statue.”
“Councilor Melkar was at his duty post until the third gong of night,” Nistur pointed out. “We found the body within minutes of the time he turned his post over to a subordinate. He scarcely had time to perform the deed, even if he felt like hanging the fellow from his own gate.”
“I must point out,” said the lord, “that a great noble of Tarsis is not without servants. In Melkar’s case, these include a large number of the soldiers he leads and his personal guard. These would be more than willing to exterminate someone like Guklak and provide their master with an unshakable alibi at the same time.”
“But why Guklak?” Ironwood asked. “And how did he get into the city?”
“The walls of Tarsis are far too penetrable,” said the lord. “Besides the repair work that even now progresses, I have decided to take extraordinary measures to improve our security. When I received word of the latest murder, I issued orders to round up malcontents, subversive elements, and suspicious foreigners. They are being arrested and incarcerated even now.”
“I strongly doubt these measures will increase security to any measurable extent,” Nistur said, “nor is it likely to allay the inevitable anger of Kyaga Strongbow.”
“Nonetheless, the Lord of Tarsis must be seen to be taking firm measures. It will impress the citizenry with the seriousness of the situation. In statesmanship, perception is as important as reality.”
“I see,” Nistur replied dubiously.
“Has Kyaga been informed about Guklak Horsetamer yet?” Ironwood asked.
The lord grimaced. “I expect to know momentarily. This time there was no throng of idlers to bear the tale, but the man seems to have abundant sources of information within the walls. I doubt my sweep will have nabbed them all.”
“Your own mercenaries are the most likely source,” Nistur told him. “I must apologize to my friend here, but not all of his professional brethren share his high principles and unshakable sense of honor.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there,” Ironwood admitted. “Some of the soldiers you hired are utter scum. If there’s a bent copper to be made from relaying vital information to the camp outside, they’ll be all too happy to pass it on.”
“I am surrounded by treason at every level,” the lord sighed. “But that is the sad lot of the ruler.”
“What is your decision, my lord?” Nistur asked, fiddling with the feathers in his broad hat. “We must have our orders.”
“Very well. You may continue your investigation. I have Councilor Melkar under house arrest in his mansion. If you cannot turn up a better suspect by Kyaga’s deadline, I will hand him over to the barbarian. You are dismissed.”
They bowed their way from the lord’s chamber and made their way outside. “What sort of sovereign hands over one of his most capable vassals to an enemy, no matter how many barbarians he may have murdered?” Ironwood asked.
“One who is both crafty and insecure,” Nistur answered, redonning his hat to protect his bald pate from the falling snow. “A ruler is always suspicious of his strongest, most cunning subordinates. On the Inner Council, that means the lords Rukh and Melkar. The lord would have preferred Rukh, but this may very well be a convenient way to get rid of a potential rival.”
“Even though the man has never dealt him ill?” Ironwood said, scandalized.
“I fear so. If Melkar is honest as well as brave, he may very well have a loyal following among the members of the Great Council, and those followers might want to see their hero enthroned as Lord of Tarsis. Many a fine general has paid for popularity and acclaim with his head.”
“I am sick of this wretched place!” cried Ironwood. “I want to be away from here. There is treachery in every corner and, if men do not smile, it is because they would not reveal that they have fangs instead of teeth!”
“Why, that is an excellent poetic metaphor,” Nistur said, astonished. “I would not have thought you so gifted. You should—” He broke off as he saw someone rushing at them through the falling snow. “Isn’t that Shellring? And it doesn’t look as if she bears good news.”
“Nistur! Ironwood!” the girl gasped as she came to a skidding halt in front of them. “They’ve taken Stunbog to the prison! And they took Myrsa and her brother, too! Come on, we’ve got to get them out!” She began tugging the two of them in the direction of the Hall of Justice, and so great was her urgent desperation that she actually succeeded in moving them several paces.
“A moment,” Nistur said, disengaging himself. “Before we do anything, we must know what has happened.”
“Aye,” Ironwood said. “There is no rush. We know from experience that one thing people in jail have plenty of is time. Give us the story.”
“It was just at sunup. Stunbog was still at that book, and Myrsa and her brother were still talking, and I’d just nodded off, when there was a pounding at the door below. Myrsa went to answer the door the way she usually does, and we heard a lot of shouting. Then Badar was down the steps with his sword out, and the next thing I knew the place was full of watchmen and mercenaries, with Constable Weite strutting around and ordering them to put irons on everybody. He would’ve arrested me, but this seal is still good for something, at least.” She gasped, having related all this in a single breath.
Ironwood bit off a curse. “It’s the lord’s sweep! I should’ve expected it!”
“What was the charge?” Nistur asked.
“Trafficking with the enemy, Weite said, because Stunbog’s a foreigner and Myrsa’s a barbarian and they were meeting with a man from Kyaga’s army. I tried to explain, but they didn’t want to listen!”
“That was predictable,” Nistur sighed. “Oh, very well, let’s go see if we can straighten th
ings out.”
A few minutes of walking brought them to the little plaza before the Hall of Justice, where a great many watchmen were gathered and a temporary holding pen had been set up to contain the crowd of wretches swept up in the lord’s dragnet. Most of them were bewildered foreigners, some were citizens of a villainous cast, and others looked insane but harmless. Clearly, the arresting officers were showing little discrimination. Flashing their seals in all directions, the three pushed their way toward the entrance.
“No, I can’t let you in!” cried the guard in charge of the door. “The lord’s orders are most specific. While we are processing the prisoners, there are to be no intrusions or visits.”
Ironwood held his seal before the man’s eyes. “Here is the lord’s own seal, which permits us entry everywhere!”
The man shook his head, scattering snow from his hat. “Not this time! For this operation, all lesser judicial powers are suspended by order of the Lord of Tarsis and enforced by Councilor Rukh, who has been placed in charge of the Hall of Justice for the duration.”
“There is nothing so grand as the power of a petty official,” Nistur muttered as they turned away.
“And we’ll do no good by applying to Councilor Rukh,” Ironwood added. “He resents our authority as it is. He’d be just as happy to clap us in irons.”
“I’ve been scanning this crowd,” Shellring said, “and our friends aren’t there. They must already be in the cells.”
“Well, nothing to be done about it now,” Nistur said. “In a few days we may be in a position to get them out.”
“Or else Kyaga will have destroyed the city,” Ironwood said. “In which case it won’t matter.”
“You two give up too easily,” Shellring said with disgust. “Here, give me some money.”
Mystified, Nistur handed over a few coins. Shellring went to one of the watchmen who supervised the crowd of arrestees and whispered in his ear as she slipped some of the money into his belt purse. Moments later, the man left his place in the cordon and passed into the Hall of Justice. After a brief wait, he reemerged from the building and said something to Shellring. She nodded and returned to the other two. Her expression was unwontedly serious.
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