Murder in Tarsis

by John Maddox Roberts

  When Ironwood rejoined them, cleaned up and rubbed with liniment, they set about planning in earnest.

  “Shellring tells us that you interpreted those sigils on Shadespeaker’s hands,” Ironwood said to Stunbog.

  “So I did. You recall that I said they were not of a protective nature, but of a deceptive one?”

  “That you did,” the mercenary affirmed.

  “In my book of sigils, just before we were carried off, I found one that was almost an exact match for the one you saw. It is a sigil of changing.”

  “Sigil of changing?” Nistur said. “Might you elucidate?”

  “Certainly. A sigil of changing is a part of a spell that in some way alters the appearance of a person or a thing. It is a superficial spell, mind you. It alters only the appearance, never the substance.”

  “There are many such?” Nistur asked.

  “Oh, a great many. I pored through pages of them before I found the one you saw.”

  “What sort of change does it bring about?” Ironwood asked.

  “It alters the color of the eyes.”

  They stared at him. “Are you sure?” Nistur said.

  Stunbog shrugged. “Unless you remembered the sigil incorrectly.”

  “But how could that protect him from the truth-fiend?” Shellring asked.

  “An excellent question, and one to which I have no immediate answer,” Stunbog told her.

  “Does this mean that Shadespeaker is a wizard in truth?” Nistur asked.

  “Not necessarily. As I have said, this is a very superficial spell. One who is well versed in the Arts can prepare such a spell, of which the sigil is only a part, the rest being a simple incantation, and sell it to a buyer, who may then use it at will. However, this user cannot then transfer it to another. It will work only for that one, and in time it will lose effectiveness. Then he must have it renewed by one who has the true power.”

  Ironwood was brooding deeply. “Eye color,” he said, as if to himself.

  “The man’s eyes were a deep brown, as I recall,” Nistur mused. “Not that it was easy to judge in the dimness of the tent, behind all those strings of amulets and with the surrounding skin smeared with green paint. Why would he change the color of his eyes? Surely such a rogue is beyond common vanity.”

  A young dwarf rushed in and spoke in a low voice with Hotforge. The dwarf leader addressed the little company. “I sent some spies up to sound out the city. We have places where we can overhear without being detected. The nomads are massed for an assault. Within two hours they are to attack. A truce has been called for a conference. The lord and his Inner Council go out to speak with Kyaga and deliver the murderer of the chieftains. Failing that, they have safe conduct back to the city, and the attack commences the moment the gates shut.”

  “Access to cellars is a handy thing,” Nistur noted.

  “It might be a trap,” Ironwood said. “Once they are all in his camp, Kyaga may not let them go. It is a foolish move.”

  “Kyaga swore an oath by the ancestors of all the nomads that his promise of safe conduct is genuine,” Hotforge said.

  “If he swore by ancestors,” Badar said, “he must be true to his oath. If he break it, no chief or warrior follow him.”

  “Since we found no better suspect,” Nistur said, “the lord is going to surrender Councilor Melkar to Kyaga. That will be enough. The man is the only competent soldier in the council. The others count for nothing.”

  “So what are we to do?” Stunbog said.

  “I confess I am stymied,” Nistur admitted. “It chafes me sorely that we have not found the slayer. Councilor Melkar’s fate is unjust, but none of these people seems destined for a good end. They are inveterate schemers and treacherous scoundrels by birthright.”

  “We undertook to uncover the guilty,” Ironwood said with finality, “and that we shall do!”

  They looked at him in wonder. “Hotforge,” the mercenary said, “you’ve told us that you dwarves have tunnels leading under the walls and far out into the countryside. Have you access to the nomads’ camp?”

  “Surely. If you want to go there, I can place you inside Kyaga’s tent, should you wish it.”

  “Excellent!”

  “My friend—” Nistur began, but a swift gesture of Ironwood’s hand cut him off.

  “Give me leave for a moment. Now I must plan like an officer. We are going to confront the lot of them and I must plan each move carefully.”

  “You know who the killer is, then?” Stunbog said hopefully.

  “No, but I can feel him within my grasp.” He held up a broad hand and closed the fingers inward as if crushing something. “It is all here, in what we have learned.”

  “That is a slender reed upon which to lean our hopes,” Nistur said. “Suppose, at the last instant, the solution still eludes you?”

  “You need not come,” Ironwood said. “I’ll go alone if need be.”

  Nistur clapped a hand over his heart. “You wound me deeply, sir! Of course I go where you go.”

  “I’d not miss this,” Stunbog said.

  “And I go with Stunbog,” Myrsa insisted.

  “No,” Ironwood said to her. “I want you and your brother to go into the city and get us some horses. What money have we?” They pooled their coins on the table. “This may be enough for some decent nags. No need for fiery steeds. If you can get only five, Shellring can ride double.”

  Hotforge tossed a bulging leather sack onto the table. “Here. If you are going to buy horses, get good ones. It sounds as if you may soon be on the run. If so, your only hope is sound horseflesh. We have plenty of coin, and not a great deal of use for it.”

  “I thank you,” Ironwood said simply. Then, to the barbarians he said, “Don’t haggle, just overpay if you have to. Every second counts now.”

  Hotforge addressed Stunbog. “I have one more favor to ask of you.”

  “If it is in my power to grant, it is yours.” The two conferred in low voices for a few moments.

  “The gates are closed up tight,” Shellring said. “How do you plan to get away?”

  “I can get you out,” Hotforge said. “We’ll guide you from the horse market. There is a broad underground passage, large enough for horses. It leads to a little rise just south of the city.”

  “Excellent. The rest of us will meet you there, providing we live.”

  Myrsa looked doubtfully to Stunbog, but he nodded. Slowly, she nodded as well. “Be off with you now, my dear,” he said. “We will meet with you soon.” She gestured to Badar, and the two left with Delver and some others leading them. Shellring gazed wistfully after the younger barbarian.

  “No sense wasting time,” Ironwood said, standing. “Let us be off. I want to be there when the two parties meet.”

  Nistur stood as well. “Why not? It will be a deed worthy of a poem. By the way, suppose we fail to satisfy the lord or Kyaga or both?”

  “Then we run for it,” Ironwood answered.

  Nistur laughed. “That should be a short but exciting chase.”

  As the dwarves led them through the vast, gloomy, and seemingly endless tunnels, Stunbog, curious as ever about magical things, queried Ironwood about the black dragon he had slain as a youth. The mercenary gave curt answers, his mind clearly on other things.

  They came to a warren of small tunnels that had once been a part of a dwarven village. Younger dwarves who had been spying from local vantage points reported to Hotforge, and the dwarf leader addressed the little band.

  “We are below a stone outcropping just before the tent of Kyaga. The Lord of Tarsis and his councilors approach.”

  “Then it is time we spoke with these people,” Ironwood said.

  “Yes,” Stunbog agreed. “I want a close look at this conqueror and his shaman.”

  “By all means,” Nistur said.

  Shellring looked wistfully at her seal. “I guess it’s the last time I’ll get to use this.”

  Hotforge led them up a ramp to a
strangely shaped room with irregular walls and ceiling. Dwarves tugged open an equally irregular door to reveal a cleft in a large boulder. The “room” was nothing more than hollowed-out rock.

  “Good fortune, my friends,” said Hotforge. “We will keep this door open for you. When the time comes to flee, do not hesitate.”

  They strode toward the mouth of the cleft, which at this early hour was still in deep shade. Shellring gasped in surprise when they saw that they were in the midst of a great horde of nomads. But nobody was looking their way. Instead, all attention was on the cleared spot before the great tent of Kyaga.

  In that place, Kyaga, backed by his honor guard, awaited the approaching Tarsians. He was mounted on a beautifully caparisoned horse. Beside him, Shadespeaker was mounted on a more somber steed, and behind them was the bronze-masked standard-bearer.

  The approaching cavalcade was all pomp and magnificence. A line of young nobles in gilded armor rode bearing pennoned lances. A hundred paces before the tent, the line divided and wheeled to each side, to reveal the Lord of Tarsis, clad in his parade armor and backed by his Inner Councilors. Rukh, in his ornate half-armor, was backed by his personal guard. Alban was accompanied by his wizardly entourage. Only Councilor Melkar was without escort. He was splendidly mounted, but his hands were bound with chains. In deference to his rank, the chains were golden. To the west, the ramparts of Tarsis were crowded with citizenry gazing on this unprecedented spectacle.

  At a sedate walk, the lord approached to within twenty paces of Kyaga Strongbow. There he paused, and all was still.

  “Kyaga Strongbow,” intoned the lord, “in accordance with my pledge, I have brought you the one guilty of murdering your envoy and your subchief. Let this be a settlement of the breach between our peoples. Let us now pledge friendship and resume the negotiations that were so tragically interrupted.”

  For long seconds Kyaga stared at the Tarsian party, his green eyes above the veil centering on the bound but proud Melkar. “There have been two murders,” he cried. “Yet I see only one man in chains. I accept him as the murderer of my chieftain Guklak, for Guklak was found hanging from the gate of his mansion. I am far from satisfied that he slew Yalmuk Bloodarrow.” Behind him the other chieftains raised cries of assent, demanding justice.

  “I have killed no one,” Melkar said with contempt. “But neither of you truly cares who the killer is!”

  “Silence!” barked the lord. “Do not compound your guilt with a futile lie!” There was snarling from the nomad camp, nervous shuffling among the Tarsian party. Despite all pledges, open violence was in the air.

  “Hold!” Ironwood bellowed, striding between the two parties. “This man is innocent! We, the investigators charged in this matter, have determined the truth.”

  All gaped at the strange little group that had sprung from nowhere to stand between the hostile parties. The Lord of Tarsis was first to speak.

  “You! Where did you come from? You were not among my following.”

  “And they did not come past my sentries!” Kyaga said. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Nistur removed his feathered hat and fanned himself nonchalantly. “We, sir, are investigators. Such feats are our stock-in-trade.”

  “No matter!” cried the lord. “I dismissed you from my service when you found that Melkar was the murderer. Go or risk my severe displeasure!”

  “We still wear these,” Ironwood said, holding up his seal, “and this means that we still hold your commission. We were charged to ferret out the truth, and we have done so. Will you hear us?”

  “You are baseborn rogues and frauds!” Kyaga said. “You have no place in dealings between rulers!”

  A man rode forward from the nomad horde. It was the Foul Spring subchief Laghan-of-the-Axe. “I want to hear what they have to say!”

  “Aye!” cried a robed chieftain. “So do I!” There came a roar of assent from the chiefs ranged behind Kyaga. While this was going on, Stunbog studied Kyaga and Shadespeaker, frowning as he looked from one to the other.

  Kyaga’s expression was unreadable behind his veil, but every line of his body revealed agitation. “Very well!” he barked. “Speak your piece and be quick about it! My men are eager for war!”

  “I think,” said Nistur, “that it might be better if all interested parties dismounted and retired to the great Chief Kyaga’s tent. What we have to relate will take some little time, and all should be free from distractions, the better to attend what we say.”

  “This is far beyond my pledge to you, Lord of Tarsis!” cried Kyaga. Then he eyed his restive chieftains. “I will permit it, but do not try my patience.”

  “How do I know that this is not just another trick?” the lord demanded.

  “A moment,” said Stunbog. He went to Councilor Alban’s cluster of wizards and spoke for a while. They dismounted and stood in a circle between the two parties. “We will require a lance,” Stunbog said. The lord pointed to one of his guards and snapped his fingers. The man rode to Stunbog and handed him a twelve-foot lance, which the healer thrust into the ground so that it stood perfectly upright. Alban’s magicians began to chant solemnly.

  “These learned mages are raising a curtain of peace,” Stunbog said. “All here are now bound by it. You see where the sun stands now.” He pointed to the great orb somewhat more than halfway to zenith. “If any violates the peace before the sun is straight overhead, so that the shadow of the spear disappears, the most terrible of divine vengeance will fall upon all who are here today.” He looked at the green-painted man beside Kyaga. “Perhaps the most revered Shadespeaker would care to aid their wizardly labors?”

  Surprised, the man shook his head violently, making his strings of amulets rattle.

  “Our shaman deals with the spirits of the Plains,” Kyaga said, “not with decadent city wizardry.”

  “A pity,” Stunbog said. “I should have liked to see him at work. Come, my lords, the shadow shortens even as we speak.” His pointing finger indicated the small bar of darkness extending westward from the base of the lance.

  Amid shuffling and muttering, the lords and chieftains dismounted and walked toward the great tent. The companions spoke in low voices as they made their way there.

  “That man beside Kyaga is no shaman,” Stunbog said. “In fact, he is a mute. I know the signs. And there are no sigils painted on his hands.”

  Nistur’s eyebrows went up. “Several have remarked that he never speaks in Kyaga’s presence.”

  Now Ironwood grinned, an expression much like a shark’s. “ ‘False eyes,’ Granny Toadflower said. ‘There is one,’ she said!”

  “I trust her ravings make more sense now?” Nistur queried.

  “Just watch closely and back me,” Ironwood said.

  Inside the tent, the Lord of Tarsis and his councilors ranged themselves along one side, Kyaga and his chieftains on the other. All glared at one another with barely suppressed hostility. Ironwood, Nistur, Shellring, and Stunbog walked into the center.

  “Speak and do not try our patience,” Kyaga commanded.

  “My justice will be terrible if you play us false,” promised the Lord of Tarsis.

  “Have no fear,” said Nistur, gesturing grandly with his hat. “We shall provide you all with an entertainment surpassing your highest expectations. My good companion shall now address you.” He gestured toward the mercenary and whispered, “Make this good!”

  “I am Ironwood the mercenary, special investigator by appointment to the Lord of Tarsis. In seeking out the murderer of Yalmuk Bloodarrow, and later of Guklak, the following are my findings.” He glared around him, the center of all attention. Then he turned to the Tarsian party.

  “My Lord of Tarsis, some days ago you entertained the envoys of Kyaga Strongbow. The chieftain Yalmuk Bloodarrow was to conduct negotiations on behalf of the absent Kyaga Strongbow until Kyaga’s arrival in the nomad camp. Is this not so?”

  “It is so,” the lord affirmed.

  “It
was not so,” said Ironwood. “That was the first of many lies in this web of deception. Kyaga was not absent; he was present the whole time. In fact, he had been in Tarsis for some time before the envoys arrived in the city!”

  At this, an excited babble broke out. “He lies!” Kyaga shouted. Ironwood rounded on him like an angry lion.

  “Hear me, and then call me liar, if you dare!”

  “Go on!” shouted Shatterspear, already weaving with drink at this early hour, but clearly enjoying the spectacle. “I want to hear more!”

  Now Ironwood turned back to the Tarsian side. “And you, Lord of Tarsis, tried to sow dissension between Yalmuk and Shadespeaker, setting them one against the other. You instructed your councilors to entertain the chieftains individually, and to try to subvert their loyalty to Kyaga.”

  The lord spread his hands in an appeal to reason. “It was but diplomacy What responsible ruler does not do these things?”

  “That is a chancy game, for your own lords played you false. But then, all of you were but doing the work of Kyaga Strongbow.”

  “Now you are babbling!” said the lord.

  “Not at all,” Ironwood retorted. “Councilor Rukh”—he pointed toward the man in ornate armor—“told you Guklak was fanatically loyal to Kyaga, did he not?”

  “He did.”

  “Yet when we questioned other chiefs here, we learned Guklak’s loyalty was not strong. In fact, he was ready to sell out. Rukh was holding that back, to use the man for his own advantage. You yourself knew of Yalmuk’s wavering loyalty.”

  “And how does this indicate that Kyaga was in the city when I thought he was far away?” the lord demanded, glaring daggers toward Councilor Rukh, who looked back at him with an expression of bland innocence.

  “To begin with …” Ironwood strode toward Shadespeaker. Before the man could draw back, the mercenary grasped a handful of the dangling amulets and pulled. The broad hat came away, and with it the wig of dangling locks, revealing a man whose real hair was short-cropped, his face smeared with green paint. His brown eyes darted toward Kyaga, bright with fear. “This is no shaman. This is a tongueless slave who wears the shaman’s garb while in public with Kyaga!”