Anthology - Realms of Mystery Part 7

"He had poorer social skills," Pontifax said. "As he did most mornings, Leonska made his way back here with a full wineskin and the single-minded purpose of drinking himself to the brink of unconsciousness." He idly flicked one hand toward the body. "Only today he didn't get a chance to stagger out and pick fights, like he normally did. Not a good soldier in the least-"

"For once you and I are in full agreement, Sir Hydel. No army would have ever taken Leonska on campaign, not even to haul baggage."

Artus and Pontifax turned to the door to find Marrok de Landoine standing there, surveying them with practiced disinterest. "I thought I'd find you here, Cimber. If you are done a.s.sisting Sir Hydel withhis examination, I'd like a word with you."

The n.o.bleman didn't wait for a reply. He hooked Artus's arm with his own and led him out of the Treaty Room, down the narrow hall. Stalwarts deferentially flattened against the paneling or ducked into doorways to let them by.

"I have my pa.s.s," Artus said. He reached up to his breast pocket for the thin leather card that allowed him access to certain areas of the club-the library, game room, and main bar-even though he was not a full member. The gesture was automatic; the pa.s.s was the only topic about which the n.o.bleman had ever addressed Artus directly.

"I'm certain you do," Marrok said. "You consider Uther a friend, do you not?"

"Of course."

"He is in a considerable spot of trouble."

"I know. I ran into him outside the club," Artus noted. "He asked me-"

"Despite what some of the other members think," said Marrok, unaware or unconcerned that he was interrupting Artus, said "I believe him innocent."

"I agree. Uther asked-"

"Earlier you caught me in a very bad temper. We've had our differences in the past, too..."

Artus suppressed a smirk. Marrok had single-handedly blocked his entrance into the society three times in as many years. In the n.o.bleman's eyes, no accomplishment as a scholar, explorer, or historian could compensate for Artus's low birth.

"Yet I have always recognized you as. . . clever." The pause made it obvious that Marrok had to cast his net far for the right word. The phrase that followed made it clear just how far. "In your own way."

The slight was unintentional, though even more annoying for its thoughtlessness. Artus slipped from the n.o.bleman's falsely familiar grasp under the pretext of tightening a boot lace. After that they walked in silence for a time, moving toward the fabulous library at the club's heart.

Finally, Marrok spoke again. It seemed to Artus that the n.o.bleman's superior glow dimmed just a little as he did. "Politics deserve more of your attention," he began obliquely, then checked himself. "No, let me be direct. Some of the more senior members-Hamnet Hawklin foremost among them-have declared Uther guilty. I respect them, yet I also feel they are incorrect in their conclusion. It would be unwise of me to challenge them in any open fashion, but I must also-"

"So long as you're being direct," Artus prompted, "how about skipping to the verse of this song that involves me."

"I wish you to find the killer."

Artus began, for the third time, to tell Marrok he'd already promised Uther to do just that, but decided to see what the n.o.bleman had to say. "I suppose I could try," he offered.

Masking his feelings had never been one of Artus's strong suits. The attempt now only caused Marrok to mistake the explorer's hastily erected facade of guilelessness for actual reluctance.

"You'd do well to play along here, Cimber," the n.o.bleman said. "At least hear me out. You have no idea how disinclined I am to ask for your help."

"Oh, I think I know. But why me?"

"Use a criminal to catch a criminal," Marrok said, and this time the insult was carefully chosen.

"Don't think for an instant the club doesn't know that your father was a highwayman. You lost your position as a court scribe when you got caught breaking him out of jail. We could also discuss that murder charge outstanding against you in Tantras. There's no need for me to go on, is there?"

Anger edged Marrok's words, made them sharp as blades, but he kept his voice tactfully low.

They'd reached the library's antechamber, where a small group of men and women were discussing a recent polar expedition the society had sponsored. Generally, Artus could have strolled through the club with a large spear protruding from his side and not attracted any attention at all. The moment Marrok de Landoine entered a room, he somehow became its focus.

"Here's the fellow to ask now," one of the loiterers announced. "Say, Marrok old man, when will that yeti Philyra bagged on the expedition be ready for display?"Preparing exotic beasts for display seemed to be the one practical skill Marrok de Landoine possessed. He was loathe to discuss the craft. A fact his peers always capitalized upon in the club's near constant public banter. Marrok had never intended to reveal his odd talent to his fellows. But the supposed artists to whom the Stalwarts had entrusted their unusual, often irreplaceable trophies did such a poor job that the n.o.bleman was forced to step forward and save the membership and the library, where such valuable objects were displayed, from further insult.

"Eh?" Marrok said distractedly. "Oh, the yeti. . . any day now."

The n.o.bleman turned back to Artus, his own expression not all that far removed from the fearsome hunting snarl of the fabled snow beasts. "Uther is more valuable to the society than you are a detriment,"

Marrok growled. "Find the murderer and I'll... support you for full membership."

As he turned to go, Marrok worked his mouth soundlessly, as if trying to exorcise the foul taste of the offer he'd just made. The n.o.bleman pa.s.sed Pontifax on his way out of the antechamber; the mage had obviously followed them from the Treaty Room at a discreet distance. The two exchanged civil, if frigid greetings.

"Marrok canceled the pa.s.s I gave you, didn't he?" Pontifax said without preamble. "I'm sorry, my boy. He's been in a foul mood ever since his favorite hound died. Kezef, I think he called it, though why anyone would name a pet after a monster like that-"

Artus shook his head, still a bit stunned by Marrok's offer. "He's going to support me for membership. If I clear Uther's name, I'll be a Stalwart."

"It's about time," Pontifax said. "a.s.suming we find the killer, of course."

Artus patted the mage on the back. 'We will. Look, you follow up on the leads here-the note Guigenor supposedly lost, the dagger, that sort of thing. I'm going to get some communications help."

"Communications help?" Pontifax repeated, confusion clear on his face. "Who do you need to communicate with that you can't just chat up all on your own?"

A triumphant gleam flashed in Artus's brown eyes. "Count Leonska."

The soul you seek is not recorded in my rolls, said the weird, disembodied head floating above the low altar. The words buzzed in Artus's mind, swarmed around his thoughts like flies. The sensation was no more peculiar than the specter's features-or lack thereof. Its smooth gray face was broken only by two bulging yellow eyes.

"How can that be, 0 Scribe of the Dead?" intoned the priest kneeling opposite Artus.

I do not know the reason for it, only the truth of what I tell you.

"But all dead men are your charges. Can you not tell us where the soul of Count Leonska resides?"

There was a pause. Then the two fat tallow candles on the altar began to smoke. The black, oily coils snaked upward, but rose no higher than the specter's chin. If you insist on badgering me, minion of the Scribbler G.o.d, said the Scribe of the Dead menacingly, then I will give my reply in the flesh. The smoke coalesced into a flowing cloak. The phantasmal head began to take on substance.

The priest toppled a candle with a casual stroke of one brown hand. The conjured power lingered for a moment above the altar, black cloak billowing, then slowly faded. Its bulbous yellow eyes disappeared last. Their awful gaze seemed to pierce the small prayer room long after they, too, had vanished.

"And what have we learned from this, Master Cimber?" The priest unrolled his long white sleeves, which had been bunched above his elbows. "Not to bother the seneschal of h.e.l.l, I hope."

Artus uncrossed his legs and lay back on the prayer mat. His hopes of solving the murder quickly had not survived a few hours past leaving the Stalwarts Club. Now, days later, he had begun to wonder if he was in over his head. The ritual to summon Jergal had taken two full days in itself. Before the tenday was out, he might have to start plotting a jailbreak.

'Well, we know that Leonska isn't alive," Artus sighed. "Pontifax checked to be certain. So why hasn't his soul gone to the Realm of the Dead?""Perhaps a mage is concealing it," the priest noted. "Or Jergal was lying to us. I have not the power or authority to compel one such as him to tell the truth."

"There's a first," Artus said with a chuckle. "Zintermi of Oghma admits to a weakness."

"All creatures possess weaknesses," the priest replied as he dutifully collected the components for the conjuring rite. As with everything, Zintermi did this simple task methodically and gracefully. "You, for instance, lack the ability to admit defeat."

"This is a very important matter," Artus snapped.

"Any matter you take up becomes 'very important,'" Zintermi said in the same pedantic tone Artus had found so infuriating as a student in the temple school. "Have you considered the possibility that Uther is guilty?"

"I told you, Guigenor is the murderer. No one's seen her in days. She's obviously gone into hiding.

And Pontifax and I have gathered enough evidence to convince me she did it."

"But not enough to convince the authorities," Zintermi reminded him. "You say that Guigenor was recently seen conversing with members of the consulate of Kozakura, but that is not proof she studied with, or hired, any of their a.s.sa.s.sins. You have uncovered rumors of a failed romance between the young lady and the count, but these rumors cannot be confirmed and do not necessarily offer motive."

Artus sat up. "Those suspicions should be enough to redirect the investigation, but Hamnet Hawklin and his allies are pressuring the watch to formally charge Uther and convene a trial. Without some sort of hard evidence against Guigenor-like finding the leather gag or the count's missing wineskin in her possession, or having Leonska's spirit identify her as the murderer-they're going to do just that."

"Perhaps you are searching for evidence that doesn't exist."

"Look," Artus said irritably, "Guigenor is hiding something. She claims to be from the Dales. She's not. Pontifax discovered she's a native of Zhentil Keep, which would explain why the writing on the dagger was Zhentish." He tapped his chest; beneath his tunic the skin was crisscrossed there with scars-the handiwork of Zhentish torturers. "And if she's connected to the Keep, she's trouble."

Zintermi finally snuffed the remaining ritual candle. The oil lamps on either side of the door kept the room from sinking into total darkness, but shadows ventured out from the corners and slipped across the priest's face. "There are things in your past you do not claim with pride," he said. "Can your suspect not be afforded the same luxury? At the very least, Master Cimber, you should be more meticulous, more evenhanded. Might I suggest you delve into Uther's history with the same eye toward inconsistency?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have often repeated Uther's quips about lawyers.

He is quite critical of anyone who pursues that profession, no? You might be surprised to learn that he was a barrister himself. In fact Uther can claim distant membership in the FitzKevrald clan, which has practiced at the bar in Waterdeep for centuries."

The content of that revelation could not have been described as ominous, but Artus found himself unsettled by it anyway. Zintermi had a way of undermining Artus's most carefully constructed theories, though he didn't seem to gain any undue sense of triumph in doing so. That was his strength as a teacher.

But the reason the explorer sought his advice so often was his practice of suggesting a better, more solid foundation to replace any he shattered.

The wise words Zintermi offered that evening were predictably simple: "Gather facts before you attempt to prove a theory. Observe, then conclude."

Artus had the opportunity to put that advice into practice shortly after departing the temple. Doing so probably saved his life.

For each of the three nights since the murder, Artus had made his way to Marrok de Landoine's estate. The n.o.bleman had instructed the young explorer-there was no hint of a request about it-to provide a regular update on his search for the killer. So after leaving Zintermi, Artus once again trekked to Suzail's most distant outskirts. There, the sprawling grounds of Marrok's ancestral home presented themselves as a last bastion of carefully gardened topiary and well-scrubbed servants before a traveler would find himself surrounded by rough rolling hills and the even rougher farmers, ranchers, and hunters who tore a living from them.As expected, Artus found the main gate unlocked. He trudged wearily up the long gravel carriageway, the crunch of his bootfalls sending alarmed rabbits scurrying for cover. Wan moonlight cast a pall over everything. Artus a.s.sumed the ghostly look of the fruit trees, the harsh hedgerows, and the nearly dark mansion to be the product of his overtaxed and under-rested imagination. The truth of it was, even the city's most drearily practical clerk would have found the grounds strange and unsettling that night.

A dark shape stumbled from behind a tree, then disappeared into the entrance of a hedge maze.

Artus saw the figure for only a moment, but it was clearly female. A poacher, he concluded. They were common enough on estates like Marrok's, where the meticulously mown lawns rendered small game easier targets. This one was clearly drunk, though, far more likely to snare herself than any dinner. Artus felt a pang of sympathy for the poor woman, who very likely had children to feed in some hillside hovel.

That sympathetic inclination was quickly tempered by Zintermi's advice, which had been lingering at the periphery of Artus's thoughts all evening. At first Artus cursed the priest for making him suspicious of a drunken unfortunate. Nevertheless, he found himself observing his surroundings with a more critical eye.

Had he not done so, he might have missed a telltale rustling in the hedges right before the attack.

Artus had a foot on the lowest of the steps leading up to the house's pillared entry when she burst through the bushes like an enraged animal. She seemed oblivious to the scratches gouged into her bare arms by the branches. With both hands she clutched a large ritual knife. She drew the blade up over her head as she charged.

As he spun around to face her, Artus noticed all of these things dimly, just as he realized in a detached way that the woman was no professional a.s.sa.s.sin. The black hood concealing her face might be a favored guise of the ninja, but she was most certainly not one of their highly trained murderers. Her attack was clumsy, her movements graceless and stiff.

Artus easily ducked the blade swipe, then planted a kick in her midsection. He expected to hear her gasp, possibly even see her topple as the air exploded from her lungs. Instead she barely staggered a step before raising her blade again.

Artus drew his own dagger from the sheath in his boot. A gem in the hilt cast pale magical light in a circle just large enough to encompa.s.s both combatants. He sidestepped the woman's second clumsy charge. As she moved past, he brought the rounded end of his knife's handle down atop her skull. The blow didn't faze her at all.

It did, however, loosen a coil of hair hidden beneath the hood. The escaped tresses snaked down to her shoulders. For a moment Artus mistook the flame-bright red hair for blood, so striking was its hue.

Then a look of recognition flashed across his face.

"Guigenor!" Artus exclaimed.

The shouted name accomplished what no blow could: the woman stopped her attack. With one hand Guigenor drew off the mask that hid her pale, expressionless features. The fingers of the other hand opened slowly and the knife dropped to the gravel. With its golden handle, engraved with Zhentish markings, the weapon was a twin to the one he'd seen embedded in Count Leonska's chest.

Finally the mansion's main entry flew open. A small mob of servants flooded out with cries of "What's going on there?" and "Be warned, we're armed!" Artus turned his head for just a moment as they clattered down the steps. It was time enough for Guigenor to flee back into the bushes.

Artus might have caught her, but one of Marrok's men tackled him from behind. Before he could even cry out, two others had descended upon him, pinning his arms to the ground, kneeling heavily upon his back. "It's her you want," Artus wheezed into the gravel. "She's a murderer."

"I think we've enough proof of that now," sighed Marrok de Landoine from the top step. "Well, let him up, you buffoons."

Artus accepted a helping hand from a liveried servant.

"Someone should alert the watch," he said to Marrok.

"Already done," the n.o.bleman replied. "I will, of course, sack the dolts who a.s.saulted you."

With an annoyed wave of his hand, Artus dismissed the offer. "Never mind that. We should be worrying about finding Guigenor before she hurts anyone else. She's obviously unbalanced.""No fear," Marrok sniffed. "My men will track her down. In the meantime, why don't you come in.

The watch will want to take your statement when they arrive."

On his previous visits, Artus had been received in the foyer. And while that grand entryway had been constructed to impress-it was as large as the two rooms Artus rented over Razor John's fletcher shop-giving his reports there left him feeling distinctly like a delivery man come to the wrong side of the house. Now Marrok led him down a long, carpeted hall, past ancestral portraits and brightly polished suits of armor, to a large book-lined study. It was all exactly as Artus would have guessed, a page out of the style handbook for old Cormyrean money.

"We should thank Tymora you escaped harm," Marrok noted from behind the generously stocked bar. He sounded a bit disappointed in saying so. "Care for a brandy?"

Artus declined politely. He started to sit on a beautifully upholstered couch, then remembered his roll on the ground and stood up. He might brush himself off, but that would only draw attention to the fact that he had walked through the n.o.bleman's house trailing gravel and dirt. He suddenly wished himself back in the foyer. At least he knew how to act like a delivery man.

A footman arrived and spared Artus the embarra.s.sment of trading small talk with Marrok. "Pardon me, m'lord," he said after rapping lightly on the open door. "They've found the woman."

"Do you have her securely bound?" Marrok asked, dis playing no more real interest in the subject than he might have given his neighbor's dinner menu. "Where was she hiding?"

"No need to bind her, m'lord," the footman replied. "We found her. . ." he paused dramatically". . .

floating in the reflecting pool. Dead. The knife wound from Master Cimber must have killed her."

"I never used the blade on her," Artus said.

"Then it must have been a wound inflicted by one of the men in bringing her to ground," Marrok offered hastily. "Excuse me for just a moment, Cimber. I'd best be certain they do not move the body until the watch arrives."

Marrok put down his brandy snifter and crossed to the door, where he murmured a long string of commands to the cringing footman. Artus wandered across the room to the bookcases. As he might have suspected, he found little of substance, and the few scrolls or folios that were worth their ink seemed untouched, likely unread.

A low whine drew his attention to a door on his left. He paused to listen. When the sound came again, he recognized it for a dog's plaintive cry. Artus tried the k.n.o.b and found it unlocked. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

All manner of strange creatures and even stranger apparatus filled the room beyond. Coiling tubes carried liquids of various colors to and from animal carca.s.ses laid out on metal tables. Jars filled with hearts and brains and other organs crammed shelf after shelf. Mounted heads of a.s.sorted sizes, shapes, and species covered one entire wall, while another displayed neatly sorted saws, blades, and other tools gleaming silver in the candlelight. And in the center of it all stood a yeti, its coat the virgin white of freshly fallen polar snow, its thickly muscled arms raised over its head in perpetual menace. Marrok had preserved the trophy so perfectly that it seemed trapped between life and death.

Something leathery pressed into his palm, and Artus jumped back a step or two. A pathetic-looking hound had nuzzled his hand with its nose. With yellow, gla.s.sy eyes, the dog stared up at the explorer. It whined once more. The cry sounded hollow, as if it came from a very long way off.

"Kezef, back!"