by Unknown
While I had taken no special pains to conceal my identity, I had not expected to be known among the other passengers. Only Murviniel had recognized me, and I now wondered how. Certainly my name was well known among members of the Society, but my image was not so commonly distributed. Even setting aside that question, either Murviniel had identified me to Lady Charikla, or else some other intelligence allowed her to identify me by title.
Lady Neverion anticipated my question. “We were never formally introduced, my dear Count. I glimpsed you once, some years ago, during a procession in Oppara. You cut quite the dashing figure among the Chelish emissaries. I pray you won’t think me forward when I say you appear quite unchanged.”
“My lady is most kind,” I replied with a more courtly bow than I had offered her husband. Menas appeared undisturbed by the attention she shone upon me, but I could not return the compliment, for I had no recollection of the lady. My most recent visit to Oppara had occurred more than forty years earlier, when I served a minor role in a diplomatic gesture following the revolutions in Galt and Andoran. Unless some magic were responsible for preserving her appearance, Charikla must have been little more than a child at the time of my visit. A sudden eructation drew my attention. The sound emanated from my hound. Arnisant gazed up at Charikla’s little dogs, who yipped in fear. With a sign, Radovan directed him to move farther away. Charikla cradled her darlings to her breast.
Before I could frame an apology, Menas spoke again.
“Do be a good fellow and join us for a drink before supper.” He glanced to the side and waved at Pekko as the dwarves completed their latest circuit of the deck. Pekko waved back, but sour-faced Jaska tugged him down the stairs to the cabins. Menas added, “We’ve invited everyone, and I promise I won’t be stingy, even though it’s very expensive stuff.”
Lady Neverion glanced away from her husband’s crass remark. Radovan cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. Even to one raised on the streets of Egorian, the pretensions of this merchant lord were risible.
“I would be honored,” I said.
“And do bring your man,” he added. “I’ve invited that Qadiran girl. What do you think? They’ll add a bit of color.”
Menas grinned, awaiting my approval. His wife’s eyes narrowed as she considered my bodyguard. Radovan smiled without revealing his teeth, but I knew he was stifling the urge to wink at her. That was wise, for Lady Neverion was doubtless unaccustomed to including hellspawn or pickpockets in her social gatherings.
“We should be honored,” I said.
“Don’t bring your hound, of course. My lady wife’s precious little creatures are not among the hors d’oeuvres.” He leaned in to whisper, “Not that I’d mind the quiet afterward!”
Radovan snorted. Charikla turned away, murmuring assurances to her noisy little dogs until Menas offered her his arm and escorted her around the deck.
∗∗∗
We arrived at the Neverions’ cabin twenty minutes after the appointed hour. I wished to observe the dynamics established among the other passengers in my absence. Also, it would not do for a count of Cheliax to stand awaiting the arrival of those of lesser status.
The chamber was larger than I had expected, even considering the high price Captain Qoloth charged his passengers. Not even the enormous master of the ship had any need to stoop beneath the seven-foot ceiling. His evening clothes included a hyena-pelt cape that only exacerbated his resemblance to the hyenafolk.
For the occasion I had chosen an embroidered coat to wear over a linen shirt with laced cuffs. Radovan’s leather garb was barely presentable, but none of my clothing would fit his wide chest. I insisted that he wear a soft gray half-cape I had made for myself in Caliphas.
The Neverions appeared well appointed as usual, all fine furs and tasteful jewelry, the selection of which I attributed to Lady Charikla rather than her husband. Menas laughed as he poured another drink for the jocular Pekko, who held two large wine goblets rather than the dainty sherry crystals held by the other guests. Despite the effort to appear unconcerned, I could see Menas wince slightly as he calculated the cost of every drop he poured for the seemingly insatiable dwarf. The dwarves had donned gray waistcoats over fresh linen shirts, but Pekko had already managed to stain his cuffs while quaffing sherry from both goblets. Judging by his rosy cheeks and the ever-increasing volume of his voice, he had already imbibed plenty, and he had a bottle of his own nestled into one of his trouser pockets.
I started toward the group, but then I heard Radovan’s intake of breath. I followed his gaze to the other side of the cabin.
Shadya appeared less a thief and more a lady in loose silken trousers draped as sensuously as a skirt over her long legs. Over a beaded shirt she wore a brilliant azure vest of crushed velvet, its stiff fabric somehow failing to conceal the curves of breasts and hips. Subtle patterns appeared in the fabric as she moved, betraying its fine quality. Either Shadya was an exceptionally successful thief, or else she picked pockets for the thrill of the act.
Radovan straightened. Before he could take a step toward the woman, she lifted her chin and turned away. Radovan jutted his jaw, deterred for now.
“Captain Jeggare?”
Murviniel appeared at my elbow. Alone among the guests, he appeared out of place. His robes were the color of old sailcloth, and his tri-corner hat was unfashionable even in Andoran where it had once been popular. His only ornament was a cheap brass ring on which was stamped the emblem of the Pathfinder Society.
“There’s only one captain on this ship, by Abadar!” Qoloth’s voice thundered across the cabin, but his wide grin belied his threatening tone. He drained his glass and held it out for Menas to refill. The trader obliged, tugging at his tight collar as the captain joined Pekko in guzzling his expensive sherry.
“While we are aboard ship, you must address me as Count Jeggare.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
“‘Excellency’ is the traditional honorific.”
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency.”
Radovan moved away, but not before I saw him roll his eyes.
I waved away Murviniel’s apology. It is acceptable to dispense with formality in the field, but the young elf was not yet a member, only an applicant to the Society.
“How is it that you recognized me?” I asked.
Murviniel lowered his eyes. “The truth is, Your Excellency, you are my idol.”
“Your what?”
“My hero,” he said. “You travel the world and uncover secrets no one else has ever found, even other Pathfinders. My copy of your Bestiary of Garund has fallen to pieces, I have read it so often. I want to be just like you.”
“Your words are…gratifying.” It was now my turn to feel flustered, but before I could recover my composure I saw Menas Neverion pull at his collar again, this time with far more force. The man’s face had turned dark red. His eyes bulged, the veins darkening as they spread toward his iris.
Beside Menas, Pekko peered into his goblets, one after the other, glassy-eyed and seemingly oblivious to the events around him. Charikla recoiled from her husband, her face a mask of revulsion as she realized the extent of his distress. Qoloth squinted suspiciously at the choking merchant before reaching out to steady the man.
“Help him!” cried Charikla. Jaska grabbed Menas and eased the man to the carpet. The others all moved at once, some toward and others away from the fallen merchant. I pushed through the crowd and felt the man’s throat.
“Too late.” I said. “He is already dead.”
Chapter Three: Peach Brandy
My pronouncement of death silenced the room. Everyone else stared as I knelt beside the corpse. I watched for clues in their faces.
Lady Neverion clutched the nearest arm, which happened to belong to Captain Qoloth. The hirsute ship’s master patted the woman’s hands, but his eyes remained locked on the dead man. His grimace deepened into a scowl.
Young Murviniel peered around the captain’s shoul
der with naked curiosity, his brow furrowing as he inspected the dead man’s countenance. Whatever killed Menas Neverion had burst the veins in his eyes and colored his face purple.
Beside the elf, the dwarves gaped at the dead man. Pekko appeared confused, but considering his flushed cheeks and the two goblets in his hands, I concluded he was simply inebriated. He raised a goblet toward his mouth, but Jaska lay a hand on his arm and shook his head until Pekko noticed the sherry glass lying beside the dead man. Pekko set both goblets carefully on a sideboard and wiped his hands on his shirt.
I could not at first see Shadya. She had retreated from the corpse until her back pressed against the ship’s bulkhead. She pressed a fist against her mouth and stared at the floor, in either utter revulsion or else an excellent facsimile of that emotion. When she saw Radovan looking at her, she looked away.
A loud whistle pierced the silence. At Qoloth’s signal, a crewman opened the door.
“Escort this lady to the empty cabin.” The captain drew Charikla Neverion away from the corpse of her husband.
“But sir, it is full of the dwarves’ extra cargo—”
“Then remove it.”
“Aye, sir. But where—?”
“I don’t give a damn!” bellowed Qoloth. “Can’t you see the lady is distraught? You can put the cargo on deck or in the bilge for all I care.”
“Wait, wait!” sputtered Jaska. “The contents are fragile. I will go with you.”
Before Qoloth could object, Lady Neverion shrieked.
“Ladybug, no!”
One of the lady’s tiny dogs lapped at the damp spot beside the fallen glass. Radovan scooped up the tiny creature and snagged its mate before it too could sample the spilled sherry. He poured the shivering dogs into Charikla’s arms, and she hugged them to her breast while recoiling from him. To his credit, Radovan pretended not to notice her disdain.
“Lady Neverion certainly seems distraught. But then, when doesn’t she?”
Qoloth’s head wobbled as though he were stifling the urge to shout some more. Instead he simply steered Lady Neverion toward his crewman before waving them and Jaska from the room. As the door closed behind them, Qoloth muttered, “Gold—Fisted Abadar, couldn’t you have given the fat fool his heart attack in Absalom?”
I suppressed the urge to stop Qoloth from letting the others go, as the captain had already cautioned me not to challenge his authority. Even so, I could not stop myself from correcting him. “Lord Neverion did not die of natural causes. He was murdered.”
“Poison?”
I nodded, tugging a handkerchief from my sleeve.
“It was the sherry, wasn’t it?” Pekko slurred. He pressed the backs of his hands against his cheeks and forehead. “Great gods and little fishes, he had only two. I drank four. No, seven!”
I lifted the glass Menas had dropped, careful to shield my bare skin with the handkerchief. In addition to the impression of the dead man’s lips and a few remaining drops of sherry, I perceived a faint discoloration around the outer rim of the glass.
“It would appear you are in no danger,” I assured the dwarf.
Murviniel bent low to examine the glass, placing his face close to mine in a careless gesture of familiarity. His breath smelled of nettle tea as he whispered, “Satyr’s tears.”
The faint blue tint of the otherwise unobtrusive stain led me to the same conclusion. I stood. “You are familiar with poisons?”
Murviniel also stood. “Not poisons especially, no,” he said. “But with herbs in general, yes. I suppose I should have kept quiet.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’ve just made myself a suspect, haven’t I?”
“Everyone is a suspect.”
“I’m not,” said Qoloth. “Murder aboard ship’s bad for business. If Neverion’s death is somehow related to this stolen book of yours, I expect you to sort it out before we reach port.”
“Then you withdraw your objections to my using magic?” Much as I deplore divination spells as a cheat, in this matter I was willing to stoop. Allowing the power of the Lacuna Codex to be unleashed upon the world was too terrible to consider, and it seemed quite possible that I would discover a link between the theft and the murder.
Qoloth barked a dismissive laugh. “When I told you there’s no magic aboard the Sea Lion, I wasn’t objecting. I was stating a fact.”
I should have realized sooner that the Katapeshi’s exorbitant fare included certain amenities not commonly available on other vessels. Many wealthy travelers were happy to pay a premium for protection from magical detection or attack while traversing the Inner Sea. I had simply engaged the first available passage, heedless of the expense.
“You cannot deactivate the effect?”
“I’m a sailor, not a sorcerer,” said Qoloth. I saw no evidence of falsehood in his expression, but he was the bold sort of man to whom big lies come easy.
“Very well,” I said. “In that case, I wish to begin questioning those present. Would you be so good as to have your crew escort the men to their cabins, there to remain until I visit?”
Qoloth narrowed his eyes, perhaps deciding whether my request sounded too much like a command. Now that the captain had endorsed my investigation, it was imperative that I establish some measure of authority without undermining his.
“Good,” he said. “Report to me at eight bells.”
The ship’s cook had struck four bells just before we arrived at the Neverion’s cabin. Informing the captain of my progress less than two hours hence would interrupt what would doubtless prove an arduous inquiry. Nevertheless, if reaffirming Qoloth’s authority in this manner would permit me greater freedom to investigate, I would be content. I bowed my assent.
As the others departed, Qoloth whistled up another pair of sailors to remove Neverion’s body to the cold locker. As the corpse vanished from sight, Shadya spoke. “Please, Captain. Don’t leave me alone with them.”
Qoloth paused at the door. He followed Shadya’s gaze to Radovan, who offered him the little smile and a parody of a naval salute.
“Allow me to apologize for the manner in which my associate retrieved my purse,” I began. “I assure you that my inquiry will remain strictly verbal.” While my apology was sincere, it also served to remind Qoloth of the circumstances preceding Radovan’s frisking. Shadya had already proven herself less than trustworthy.
Qoloth summoned another sailor to stand watch inside the room. There was little harm in that, I thought, so long as Shadya revealed nothing I wished to keep from the captain’s ears. He did not seem a likely candidate for the theft, but for the murder I knew I must not discount anyone.
The moment the door closed behind Qoloth, Radovan said, “Knock it off, sister. You’re not fooling anyone with the delicate routine. The captain’s this close to letting us toss your room. I wonder what we’ll find tucked beneath your mattress.”
Rather than intercede, I awaited her response. My bodyguard had chosen the proper tack. My courtesy had granted Shadya an undue sense of security. Radovan, in his coarse manner, had disrupted her cool facade.
She hesitated, but her countenance still betrayed more shock than umbrage. Unless I misread her, she was truly surprised by Neverion’s death.
“I didn’t know the man,” she said. “His wife has a few tempting jewels, I admit, but there was nothing for me in his death.”
“You did not partake of the sherry,” I said.
She hesitated, and in her eyes I saw that she was considering her answer. “I almost did,” she said. “I arrived shortly before you. When I went to greet our hosts, that woman threw me such an icy glare that I thought better of it.”
All too well I understood my peers’ ability to shun undesirables with a glance. So did Radovan, who had experienced such snubs far more often than I.
“Very well.” I signaled the sailor to open the cabin door.
“That’s it?” Shadya sounded almost disappointed.
“That is all for no
w.” I bowed.
Radovan and I navigated the narrow passage to Murviniel’s berth, passing a lone sailor who stood watch over the passenger cabins. Inwardly I approved of the captain’s caution, but I wondered how well the crewman could overhear conversations within the cabins. Judging from the sound of movement inside Murviniel’s cabin, I expected the guard could hear anything spoken above a whisper.
The elf spoke before I could greet him. “Lord Neverion served the sherry himself. I didn’t notice anyone else handling the glasses, but I think one of the crew set up their sideboard. I don’t know which one, but of course the captain would.”
While pretending to listen, I observed Murviniel’s quarters. He had strewn his personal belongings haphazardly throughout the small cabin. I lifted a battered volume of spells from the bed. “You study magic?”
“Yes,” said the elf. “My brother gave me his first spellbook. I’m not much past the cantrips, I’m afraid.”
“The Society can always use another practitioner of the arcane.”
Among the other swollen and dog-eared books that had escaped Murviniel’s backpack, I spied a copy of my own Bestiary of Garund and thought of his earlier fawning. Had he left it out in an obsequious gesture?
Radovan recognized the book and understood the meaning of its presence. He rubbed his eye in a rude gesture to indicate what he thought of Murviniel’s ploy. It was only a matter of time before the elf solicited my support in his application to the Pathfinder Society.
“What else can I tell you?” Murviniel said, apparently oblivious to the communication that passed between Radovan and me. “I arrived after the dwarves, but before everyone else. No one was talking of anything but the motion of the ship and the favorable wind. The Qadiran girl and the dwarf Jaska did not drink the sherry, but everyone else did. The other dwarf was already half in his cups before he arrived. He and Neverion acted like old friends, but I could have sworn they had never met before boarding the ship.”
“What herbs do you carry in that pack of yours?”
“Ah,” said the elf. His eyes brightened, the opposite of the usual reaction to my changing the subject. “I thought you might ask, so I emptied my pack. Here, you can see them all. Not much here, just these two pouches for tea. I’m not a practicing herbalist. I’ve mostly just read a few books.”