Pytor drew a deep breath. “You did what you had to, Chardan. You’re forgiven, if I have it in my power to forgive.”
The gold cat meowed softly, stretched again and wandered off to lie down in the shade.
Later, after evening service and lighting the night candle, Pytor sat in his room, only now feeling full strength returning after his ordeal. Chardan and his fellow Black-robes had left Two Trees immediately after Chardan had searched Pytor’s mind. Pytor hadn’t even lit the candles after dinner, preferring to remain in the warm darkness, his mind gone a total blank.
Suddenly, clearly as if seen in bright sunlight, he beheld his sister and the six children safely across the border; they had found Najan and the other people who had fled Karse in the face of growing persecution. They were safe! He had wagered mightily and, through what grace he dared not question, they had all won.
:You trusted in your Lord,: the voice inside his head said softly. :And, as such, you were rewarded. Remember—the God loves all his children, for he made them, each and every one.:
He heard a soft meow and turned to see Sunshine standing in a corner of his room. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Though no candle burned, the gold cat stood surrounded by a glory of light, a wondrous golden halo that cast shadows on the walls. And he grew in size, his coat changing to rich cream, and his face, legs and tail darkening to brick red. For a long moment, man and cat stared at each other, and Pytor could have sworn the cat smiled.
And then, so swiftly Pytor could not comprehend it, Sunshine turned away and was gone.
:Vkandis watches over those whose hearts are pure,: the voice said, fading off to a mere whisper. :Never doubt that the Sunlord loves those who love and care for others! For that is why he made us all.:
DEATH IN KEENSPUR HOUSE
by Richard Lee Byers
Richard Lee Byers is the author of twenty-five fantasy and horror novels, including Dissolution, The Rage, The Rite, The Black Bouquet, and The Shattered Mask. His short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. A resident of the Tampa Bay area, the setting for much of his contemporary fiction, he spends much of his leisure time fencing foil, epee, and saber.
THE living eyed me with emotions ranging from hope to dislike. Mouth agape, eyes wide, smallsword still sheathed at his hip, chest hacked to bloody ruin, the corpse stared up at the high ceiling with its painted scene of nymphs and deer. I stooped to see if his eyes still held the image of the man who’d cut him down. They didn’t. That trick has never worked for me, nor, so far as I know, for anyone.
Stout and balding, a man in his middle years like myself, Lord Baltes asked, “Are you learning anything, Master Selden?”
I straightened up. “It’s too early to say.”
Lanky and sharp-featured like so many members of the Keenspurs, Tregan snorted. “Surely it’s clear enough what happened. Venwell had the bad luck to blunder into the thief, who then had to kill him to make his escape.”
“Is that what your magic reveals?” I asked. A talent for wizardry ran in the Keenspur blood, and in addition to serving as his brother Baltes’ lieutenant, Tregan was house mage.
His mouth twisted. “No, actually. The signs are muddled. But it’s common sense, surely.”
“Maybe,” I said, inspecting a floral tapestry spoiled by eight long rust-brown streaks. The murderer had evidently used it to give his weapon a thorough wiping. “I’d like to see the room where the wedding gifts are on display.”
“What will that accomplish?” asked the sorcerer. “The killer took the ruby tiara. It isn’t there for you to examine anymore. We sent for you because Marissa claims you know your way around the stews and thieves’ dens down by Stranger’s Gate. You should be hurrying there—”
“You sent for him because he’s the one who caught the salamander and so kept the city from burning down, and the Greens and Blues from slaughtering one another,” Marissa said. Lithe and long-legged, she’d been the principal sword-teacher to the Green faction as I was for the Blues. “He has a knack for puzzling things out.”
“I hope so.” Baltes waved his hand. “The room is this way.” Tregan, Marissa, and I followed him, and an assortment of his kinsmen and servants traipsed along after us.
The remaining gifts—begemmed goblets, gold plates and trays, rings, bracelets, armor, glazed jars of spice and unguents, furs, and bolts of velvet and silk—glowed in the candlelight. Relatives, political allies, and trading partners had sent presents from as far away as Errold’s Grove.
I’d walked a warrior’s path my whole life long, first as a mercenary, then, primarily, as a master-of-arms, though I still occasionally rented out my blade if the job didn’t require actually riding off to war. So perhaps it was no surprise a splendidly crafted broadsword, with emeralds gleaming in the hilt and scabbard, caught my eye. I hankered to pick it up and try a cut or two, but that would have been gauche and inappropriate.
So I kept my mind on the task at hand, wandered about, inspected the heaps of gleaming treasure, and tried to think of something useful. “Are we certain,” I asked, “that only the tiara is missing?”
“Yes,” Baltes said.
“I need to confer with my colleague,” I said. “We’ll only be a moment.” Conscious once more of the animus with which so many of Baltes’ people regarded me, I led Marissa into the next room.
“What have you figured out?” she whispered, brushing back a strand of her short black hair.
“Nothing for certain.”
“Curse it, Selden, I’m the one who urged them to send for you. Don’t make me look a fool.”
“Believe me,” I said, “I want to unmask the killer and recover the bauble as much as you do, and not just because Baltes will reward me. To lay the feuds to rest for good.”
For years, the fifty noble houses of Mornedealth had divided themselves into factions of ten. Each of the five disliked the others, but the Greens and Blues, the most powerful, detested one another with extraordinary virulence. When the fire elemental’s depredations fanned their mutual hatred and suspicion, their enmity nearly plunged the city into outright civil war.
Strangely enough, that turned out to be a good thing, because it threw a scare into every noble with a particle of sense. In the aftermath, Pivar, a leader of the Blues, led a campaign to quell the factions. The forthcoming wedding represented the culmination of his efforts. When Baltes, a widower, married Pivar’s youngest daughter Lukinda, it ought to lay the rivalries to rest for good and all.
But only if the wedding came off as planned. On the surface, there was no reason why the murder and burglary, no matter how unfortunate, need prevent it. But my gut warned me that, if left unresolved, such an alarming, inexplicable calamity could bring the old malice and mistrust creeping back.
“So,” said Marissa, “what did you want to talk about?”
“First, tell me about Venwell. Did you train him?”
“Yes.”
“Was he an able, seasoned swordsman?”
“Very much so.”
I sighed. “I was afraid of that. Now I need to know how hard I can push these folk. I have things to say they won’t like. I won’t mean to denigrate their honor, but some may take it that way.”
She snorted. “Wonderful. Because they don’t like you.” Understandably so, I supposed, since for years, I made my living teaching Blues how to kill them. “I don’t know that you dare push them very hard at all.”
“Damn it, I have to do the job they brought me here to do. Will you back me up?”
She made a sour face. “Well, I did get you into this, even if I’m starting to regret it.”
“Let’s rejoin the others.”
“What do you have to tell us?” Baltes asked.
“Milord,” I said, “I’m no sage—far from it—but as Marissa told you, sometimes I have an eye for what’s odd about a particular situation. We have several oddities here. For starters, neither the sentries nor the watchdogs outside det
ected an intruder, nor have we found any sign of forced entry.”
“What of it?” Tregan asked. “As I understand it, there are thieves skillful enough to sneak into any house.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But consider this also. Venwell died of cuts to the chest. He saw his killer. Yet he perished without even trying to draw his blade.”
“Perhaps,” Tregan said, “he froze.”
Marissa shook her head. “No. I schooled him too well.”
“It’s possible,” I said, feeling as if I were about to dive from a cliff, “he knew his slayer. If it was someone he trusted, that would explain why he took no alarm until it was too late, even though the killer had a naked sword in his hand. Similarly, if the culprit was someone who lives here in the mansion—or is currently a guest—he wouldn’t need to sneak past the guards and hounds, or break open a window or door.”
For a moment, everyone just gawked at me. Then a footman said, “But everybody liked Venwell.”
“That may be,” I replied, “but a thief still couldn’t afford to let him report that he’d seen him stealing the tiara.”
“Ridiculous,” Tregan spat. “Ours is a wealthy and honorable house. No one here would steal the gift.”
“Not even a servant?” I asked. “Or the least of your kin, perhaps burdened with gambling debts?”
“No,” Tregan said, “I don’t believe it.”
“Have you wondered,” I said, “why the thief took only a single article? A housebreaker could surely have carried away more. But if the murderer never left, if he needed to hide his plunder here in the mansion for the time being, he might have reckoned that the more he stole, the harder it would be to conceal. Or, if he’s a member of the household, it might have shamed him to take more than he reckoned he truly needed.”
Skinny and sharp-nosed like Tregan but younger, a Keenspur named Dremloc stepped forth from the mass of observers and planted himself in front of me. Here it comes, I thought. At least it looked as if he meant to deliver a formal challenge. I had a fair chance of surviving that, as I wouldn’t if he and all his outraged relations simply assailed me in a pack.
“You Blue bastard,” he said. “I say you’re a lia—”
But just before he could articulate that unforgivable word, Marissa sprang between us. She glared into his eyes, and he flinched. Since she’d trained him, he knew how deadly a combatant she was, and accordingly feared her more than he did me.
“Master Selden,” she said, “is under my protection. Is that clear?”
Dremloc scowled, but also inclined his head.
Baltes turned to me. “Do you have more to say?” he asked.
I had a nagging sense that I should. That I’d missed things a sharper eye and brain might have discerned. But it would have only have undermined his confidence in me to say so. “You’ve heard my conjectures, Milord. They point to an obvious course of action. Search the mansion, find the tiara, and hope its hiding place reveals who took it.”
The assembly growled at the prospect of having their quarters and belongings ransacked. Tregan said, “Ridiculous.” Evidently it was a favorite word of his.
“No,” Baltes said, “it isn’t. Master Selden’s guesses are only that, but they seem plausible. We will search the house, if only to lay the suspicions he’s roused to rest, and you, brother, will try once again to locate the tiara with your sorcery.”
We organized ourselves into search parties and formulated a plan. I cast a final admiring glance at the broadsword with the emeralds in its hilt, then set forth with my companions.
The Keenspur mansion was enormous. It took well into the morning to complete our search, and even so, we didn’t look everywhere. Some hiding places simply seemed too unlikely to bother with, and I wasn’t bold enough to suggest that we rummage through Baltes’ or Tregan’s apartments, even if I’d believed it would serve a purpose.
Our mundane search failed to produce the tiara, nor did Tregan’s divinations fare any better. At the end of it all, standing before Baltes, the magician, and their tired, irritated relations and retainers, I did indeed feel “ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry, milord,” I said. “I thought I’d reasoned my way to the truth, or a part of it anyway, but it appears I was mistaken.”
Tregan sneered. “Will you now make inquiries among the robbers and knaves, as we told you to in the first place?”
“Yes, milord.” I certainly had no better plan.
As I walked to the door with as much dignity as I could muster, I heard Dremloc and another young blade muttering in my wake. “This is like sending a weasel to escort the chickens safely into the coop,” my would-be challenger said.
“What do you mean?” his companion asked.
“I don’t claim to understand any of this, why the tiara was taken or Venwell had to die. But you can bet your last copper a Blue is responsible.”
The seed of suspicion was already sprouting.
For the next week, I went about mostly in disguise, in the costumes of other lands or with false whiskers gummed to my chin, prowling all night and sleeping by day. Reasoning it would be difficult for a woman to wear the tiara in Mornedealth, I began my investigations among receivers of stolen goods who specialized in moving them safely out of town. When that availed me nothing, I moved on to the commoner sort of thieves’ market, and bribed whores and tavern keepers to tell if any of the city’s more accomplished housebreakers had lately boasted of a coup, started spending lavishly, or was lying low to avoid hunters like myself. That was of no use either. If any of the city’s rascals had knowledge of the tiara, it would take a shrewder, subtler agent than me to tease out the information.
Meanwhile, Mornedealth commenced a slide back into the hateful, bloody days of yore. Hotheaded young Keenspurs started wearing green tokens, their friends from other houses followed suit, and the fools among the supposedly defunct Blues would have felt cowardly had they not responded by displaying their own colors. Soon the Reds, Yellows, and Blacks took up the old practice, too. From there, it was a short step to insults, mockery, and scuffles in the street.
Baltes, Tregan, Pivar, and other leaders of the noble houses did their best to quash the unrest, and at their behest, the City Guards assisted. Thanks to their efforts, the quarrels among the resurgent Blues and Greens, and members of the lesser factions, ended short of grievous harm to any of the principals. But it was only a matter of time before our luck ran out, and I feared that as soon as it did, the blood-feuds would resume in earnest.
All because of a crime that, on the surface, had nothing to do with the grudges and rivalries of old. It was perverse, mad, yet it was happening.
In due course, I trudged back to Keenspur House to report my lack of progress.
Somewhat to my surprise, when a lackey admitted me to confer with Tregan and Baltes, I found the latter wearing the broadsword from the wedding gifts. It was contrary to custom to put such a present to use prior to the nuptials, but I could understand why he’d succumbed to the temptation.
I explained what I’d accomplished, or rather, what I hadn’t. It didn’t take long, as accounts of failure rarely do, so long as a man resists the urge to make excuses.
“I’m beginning to think,” said Tregan, sneering, “that your success in catching the salamander was a fluke.”
I was starting to wonder myself, but still had enough pride left to resent his contempt. “Should I infer, milord, that your efforts to solve our problem with wizardry have proved as futile as my own?”
The question made him glare.
“Tell me the truth,” Baltes said. “Is there any point in your poking around the slums any further?”
I sighed. “I can’t be certain, but probably not.”
“Then don’t. Tell me what I owe you for your time, and the steward will pay you on your way out.”
Now that—his assumption that I wasn’t merely stymied but defeated—truly stung me, and perhaps it was the injury to my pride that finally g
oaded my brain into squeezing forth some semblance of a fresh idea.
“Please, milord,” I said. “I don’t want your coin, not until I earn it. I have a further course of action to suggest.”
He cocked his head. “What?”
“I’d like to take up residence here from now until the wedding.”
“Why?”
I didn’t know myself, really, but had to improvise some sort of answer. “Maybe if I become more familiar with the murder scene, some new insight will occur to me. Or, failing that, maybe I can at least stop the robber from returning and doing any more harm.”
“Nonsense,” Tregan snapped. “You’re reverting to your first idiot notion, that one of our own family, or loyal retainers, is responsible for the atrocity. You want to spy on us in hope of identifying the culprit.”
“No,” I said, and wasn’t sure if I was lying or not. I was halfway satisfied that none of the household was guilty, yet likewise suspected that some secret awaited discovery within these walls.
“You’re aware,” Baltes said, “that the old folly of Green and Blue has flared up again. I’m struggling to put the fire out, and I fear your presence here will feed it. You surely won’t feel particularly welcome.”
“I can tolerate that,” I said. “Please, milord. I want what you and Lord Pivar want, to put the feuds and factions behind us forever. If there’s even the slightest chance that my presence here will help accomplish that, or simply lead to the apprehension of Venwell’s killer, isn’t it worth a try?”
“Perhaps,” Baltes said. “Stay for the time being, and we’ll see how it goes.”
So began my sojourn in Keenspur House. As the head of the family had warned, few of his kin exerted themselves to show me hospitality. It might have been even more unpleasant if I hadn’t kept to my nocturnal habits, sleeping the mornings away and roaming the mansion late at night, looking for clues that had eluded me before, trying to imagine what had happened on the night of the murder.
Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 10