When Pryce emerged from the trapdoor into the eating and drinking establishment, he found himself beside a thick leg attached to the rest of Azzoparde Schreders's burly body. The proprietor smiled down at him and offered a hand. "Get what you want, Master Blade? Eh, eh?" the friendly barkeep boomed as he lifted Pryce easily from the opening.
"Not yet," Pryce said, dusting himself off, "but I'm working on it"
It was late afternoon, and the crowd was sparse. Pryce looked over the bar to see Berridge Lymwich sitting at a distant table near the door, staring at him from over a glass. But instead of giving him a suspicious look, she had formed her thin lips into a knowing smile. Silently she raised her glass to him.
With one hand, Pryce reached down, took an empty tankard from a holder under the bar, and raised it sardonically to Lymwich in return. As he put it back, he used his other arm to nudge Azzo. The proprietor turned his solid bulk toward Covington with a low, rumbling "Hmmm?"
"Isn't Inquisitrix Lymwich on duty?" he inquired lightly, nodding toward her. Schreders looked over at the thin woman, who was no longer looking in their direction. Instead, she was looking out the front windows at the splendid Lallor afternoon.
Azzo shrugged. "She often comes in after the lunch rush." He smiled at Pryce. "Even inquisitrixes have to eat sometime. Eh, eh?"
Covington was distracted by the passing of Sheyrhen Karkober. He watched her saunter across the floor, then turn to wink at him. Then she placed a bill of fare on a table where the gaunt figure of Asche Hartov sat.
Well, well, well, Pryce thought. All the suspects in easy proximity, perhaps to overhear what Fullmer and I had to say to each other. The shapely serving wench and the lean mine owner spoke to each other for a few moments, then the beautiful blonde waitress walked back to the bar.
Pryce thought she was going to give Azzo the visiting miner's payment, but instead she leaned both elbows on the bar, bent forward to expose a generous portion of cleavage and said, "Mr. Hartov wanted me to say hello to you, Darling."
Pryce cocked his head to one side and was about to inquire whether the "Darling" came from Asche or her, but the waitress had already gone about her business. Meanwhile, however, Covington noticed that Azzo had raised his head and was giving his
serving wench a strange look ... an expression Pryce felt himself mirroring when he saw Dearlyn Ambersong come through the front door, carrying a large book from Geerling's library.
Pryce realized it was later than he thought. They had arranged to meet even before Wotfirr had shown up at the Ambersong residence earlier in the day. Covington quickly and expertly vaulted over the bar, swinging his legs to the side like a gymnast, and landed on the floor just as Dearlyn reached him. She was obviously more impressed with this than she had been by his cartwheels to escape her magically powered bed.
"Did you find out anything?" she asked quietly, her beautiful eyes darting from side to side. He placed a hand on her arm and moved her casually toward a table near the opposite wall.
"Not yet," he replied tightly, annoyed that he couldn't tell her everything without revealing his true identity. "Fullmer and I have a rendezvous later tonight, when I hope to learn something." He pulled out a chair for her, then quickly sat opposite. "Have you seen Gheevy?"
"Yes," she replied. "He came directly from here to our residence, and he was terribly upset. He thought he had failed you."
Pryce quickly shook his head, deciding to concentrate on the problem at hand. "He did his best, poor fellow," Covington quickly assured her, then let the rest of his instructions come out in a hushed rush as he leaned toward her. "Go back and keep him company. I can't risk trying to follow Fullmer, and I think I should remain in a public place until our meeting."
She placed her hands on his. He stared at them, then looked up at her. Her gaze was earnest. "You're the only connection I have to my father now," she said. "Please be careful."
This was too much. Emotions of paternal tenderness rushed up in Pryce's brain, but in order to stay in control, he fought them back. His feelings for her were countered by the knowledge of what he had already done and his own suspicions of how her father might be involved in the murders ... not to mention
who else might be stalking Pryce even as he sat there.
"Of course I'm not going to be careful!" he snapped at her. She blinked at his reply, and then he made a motion to shoo her away with his free hand. His other hand lay beneath the warmth of hers... as long as that lasted. "Away with you, woman!"
Her jaw set, her gaze hardened, and she stood up. She stared at him a moment more, her fists clenching and reclenching. Then she turned purposefully away and left the restaurant.
Pryce sat in the gathering darkness of twilight, a nearby pillar casting a shadow across his face. He left his right hand, the one she had clasped, where it lay and watched her proud, erect figure move past the front window toward the hidden circular iron stairway. Only then did he finish his thought in a whisper.
"There's no need for both of us to be in danger."
For a short time, Pryce read the wisdom of Priest Sante. Then he ate a leisurely dinner, lovingly served by the attentive Karkober. He studied the schedule of the restaurant's employees, taking careful note of when the dwarf chef and human dishwasher took their breaks. Then he sat and watched as the citizens of Lallor came and went, all giving him the respect of his privacy, as he was expected to give them theirs. But Schreders's was a popular place, so it wasn't long before the tables and bar filled up with the most interesting residents the city had to offer, and the noise and smoke got loud and thick.
Only then did Pryce purposefully rise, carry the book to the bar, and lean over between a sumptuously garbed old half-elf scholar and an elegant middle-aged seamstress. "Azzo!" Covington called above the din, gaining the barkeep's attention. Schreders came over immediately. It was, after all, Darlington Blade calling him. "Keep this for safekeeping, would you?" Pryce said, handing him the book. "I have a meeting to attend. I'll be back for it."
Azzo didn't bother to reply. Instead, he took the book and nodded reassuringly. Pryce waited until the barkeep had placed the book in a dry spot under the far side of the bar and was again busy with his patrons before moving quietly and purposefully toward the back of the establishment.
He found the kitchen easily. It was the only door along the back wall. He waited until the cook and dishwasher stepped out for a break before he slipped inside the swinging door. He stood in a well-lit and well-furnished kitchen, especially noting the fine cast-iron stoves and marble sinks. A huge wooden table separated the cooking area from the cleaning area. One side was filled with the freshest fruits, vegetables, and meats, and the other with the cleanest of pans, pots, and plates. Pryce's nostrils filled with the scent of cooking food, still simmering on the fires.
Pryce quickly spotted the back door. That was where deliveries were made, and where Fullmer had set their rendezvous. There was still some time before their meeting, so Covington had a few minutes to carefully search the area.
He opened the back door a crack, looked quickly about, then stepped outside. The night was as pleasant as the day had been. The moon cast a serene silver-blue light over everything, and the elegant foliage seemed to reach up toward the twinkling stars. The air was cool, clean, and filled with the aroma of pollandry blooms.
Pryce surveyed the rendezvous point. It was approximately twenty by thirty feet, surrounded on three sides by a vine-covered stone wall that rose fifty feet up to the roots of the Amber-song residence. To his left, the stone wall was connected to the back wall of the restaurant. But on the right side, there was a long, narrow, twisting alley between the restaurant's wall and the stone. There delivery people could carry fresh food and drink from their carriages to the back door.
Covington thought he heard a rustle behind him. He spun around, but saw no one. The leaves of the flowering vines rustled
in the night wind, but otherwise no person or animal disturbed the calm. Pryce quickly glanced back into the alley. It was the only way Fullmer could arrive. Covington decided to take up a position by the rear door. That way, if Teddington brought "friends," Pryce could easily slip inside.
He made a quick final survey of the area, running his hands along the stone wall to make sure there wasn't another hidden spiral staircase. He was pleased to find there wasn't. Instead, he simply found large, flat, vine-covered stones. Standing with his back to them, he looked at the restaurant's rear door, feeling safer than he had all evening.
With a decisive, flat-palmed slap to the flat rocks of the wall behind him, he took a step forward.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
The flat rock behind him had moved inward.
Goose bumps covered Pryce's skin in a rolling wave, and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight out as he heard the same rustling as before, only this time coming from above him.
He tried to somersault away, but as he began to dive forward, something hard, heavy, and painful smashed into the back of his head. There was sudden, incredible pressure, and then he felt his brain shift, crashing into the inner side of his forehead.
He felt as if Berridge Lymwich had hit him full with her inquisitrix spell. He was blinded by white. Then the white suddenly swirled with gray. Then black dots emerged from the gathering haze, growing larger and larger until the white was gone and the gray was swallowed up.
Then all was black, and blacker still, until he fell into the blackest pit of all.
*****
Pryce Covington knew he wasn't dead when his brain started lecturing him.
Apparently it was its way of dealing with the shock of the attack, once it had determined that the assault was not fatal. Seemingly, from what Pryce was distantly hearing, his subconscious was stunned, both physically and mentally, by the blow to the back of his head.
In a land where magic was extolled, the need to strike someone on the back, side, top, or front of the head seemed so unnecessary—even barbaric—that Pryce's brain couldn't decide whether it was more perplexed than hurt.
Later Pryce would call it a draw. Actually, he would have loved to have been more perplexed than hurt, but a blow to the skull in any form had unavoidable consequences of a physical nature. In a word, pain.
As usual, when self-pity wrestled with purpose, the former almost always won out. As soon as he was conscious enough, Pryce found himself thinking, What did I do to deserve this? through a needle-pricking haze. He was so thankful the light seemed to be turned back on again that his relief nearly forced the pain away... but only for a second. Then his mind sent out a series of lightning bolts of renewed pain.
He had once seen a magical crystal ball with a storm inside it. Through its transparent shell, he could see a small cloud from which many dozens of lightning bolts arced out, dancing all over the inside surface of the orb. Now he could well imagine what that ball would have felt like if it had been lined with nerve endings.
He tried opening one eye. The view wasn't promising. It seemed dark and craggy and hairy. It was also still painful. He squeezed his eye shut again.
Wait a minute, he thought. Hairy? It seemed to be making disconcertingly rabid noises as well.
Pryce's eyes snapped open. Something was bobbing in his vision. It was black and red and orange and furry. There were two fuzzy half-cones on either side of a hairy half-dome, moving
up and down and slavering. Covington dimly remembered seeing that somewhere before____
"Cunningham!" he bellowed. "Get off me, you beast!"
The jackalwere leapt back as Pryce tried to jump up, but the creature knew his surroundings better than the man did. Pryce's head slammed into a low, rocky ledge that laid him back down hard.
Getting hit on the head was bad enough, but hitting himself on the head was even worse. Pryce felt as if he were sinking into the bay beyond the Lalloreef, but he sensed a jackal turtle waiting for him beneath the surface, its slavering maw opening and closing in eager anticipation. Covington clawed back toward the surface, ignoring the millions of mental lightning bolts that danced around him.
"Cunningham!" he cried. "Don't you dare gorge on me!" The sharp yellow teeth of the jackalwere filled his vision like a horizon of tombstones. Pryce cried out in spite of himself, making the creature leap back once more into the surrounding gloom. Covington's cry of surprise turned into a groan of suffering as pain pushed everything else aside. "I—I don't feel well," he managed to understate.
"I have seen you looking better," Cunningham informed him, "if you don't mind my saying so."
Pryce hoped that by concentrating on the jackalwere he could crawl out of the thicket of agony inside his head. "You were going to take a bite out of me, weren't you?"
"Oh, my good sir, no!" The jackalwere sounded mortally offended.
"Yes, you were, and then you were planning on drinking my blood. Right?" "Not at all."
'You're hungry, and you've got a brood to feed." "I'll have you know, sir, that we are subsisting quite well on your kindness."
That reminded Pryce of how he had complicated his own situation in the disposition of the dead bodies, which pained his spirit as well. He groaned again, gripping the sides of his head to keep it from cracking open like an egg. Moving very carefully, he started to get up.
"Be careful, my good man," Cunningham warned, stepping forward to assist him.
"You keep your distance," Covington said sharply.
The jackalwere, now fully returned to his human state, placed a limp hand against his chest. "You injure me, sir."
"Better I injure you verbally than you injure me physically," Pryce countered. "Where am I, anyway?"
Cunningham took the chance of leaning over conspiratorially. "We are beneath the city, sir, in a series of tunnels I've found quite useful."
Pryce glanced around, careful not to move too quickly. It was so dark that he couldn't see much. Cunningham, being part jackal, could probably see as clear as day. "You haven't been using this lair to claim new, uh... meals, have you?"
"Pardon my familiarity, sir," the jackalwere replied haughtily, "but have you lost your senses? You especially should know that a creature of my kind on the streets of Lallor would last about as long as a shard of ice in Zzuntal. I am taking a certain risk just by traveling beneath the streets."
"So why are you?" Pryce asked, hoping to gather enough of his senses to really think by the time the creature finished answering.
'You truly are addled, good sir," the jackal-man decided. "Do you not recall the words you left me with on the evening of our initial meeting? No, I have not forgotten your mercy, sir. Imagine, the great Darlington Blade, wasting compassion on the accursed likes of myself and my progeny!" He seemed positively giddy. Such was the fame of the great Darlington Blade.
"If you are truly grateful," Pryce moaned, massaging his
temples, "call me something other than 'great' Please? Why can't I be the decent Darlington Blade, or the fine Darlington Blade, or the fairly convincing Darlington Blade? Why must I always be 'great'?"
Cunningham shook his head sadly. He answered Pryce's miserable acrimony with honesty. "You brought it upon yourself, sir," he informed him. "Even in the short time that I have been privy to your actions, you have more than lived up to your reputation." He stopped to seriously consider Pryce's declaration. "Perhaps you would consider not being so great all the time," he decided. "I'm sure the populace at large would eventually offer you a more fitting sobriquet"
Pryce stopped rubbing his head long enough to look at the jackalwere out of the corner of his eye. "That was sarcasm, wasn't it?"
The jackalwere merely stood there in his somewhat shabby attire, looking for all the world like a butler who had seen better times. "You have truly great insight, sir, but, no. I am being completely forthcoming in my appreciation."
"Thank you," Pryce said, finally able to sit up. He looked askance at the jackalwere, realizing that a full belly gave the beast a much greater control over his animal nature. Then Pryce attempted to peer into the darkness again. "How long have I been unconscious?"
"I honestly don't know, sir. All I know for sure was when I found you."
Pryce looked at him patiently. "And when was that?"
"Quite some time ago, sir. At least the time it takes for the moon to travel an eighth of the way across the night sky."
Pryce touched his head gingerly, carefully trying to find the wound. "You'd think that being out that long would at least give me some night vision," he complained, then sucked in his breath when his finger found the lump. "Or maybe brain damage."
"Are you all right now, sir?"
Pryce carefully outlined the damage on his head. "Thankfully the philosopher Sante was also something of a healer," he said. "According to him, a blow to the front of the head stuns a person. A blow to the back of the head renders one unconscious. A blow to the side means death." Pryce cautiously noted that his wound was between the back and the side of his cranium. "Apparently my assailant couldn't make up his mind."
Cunningham sighed. "As fascinating as all this is, sir, might I suggest a cessation of examination and an introduction of action? The longer I stay here, the greater chance that someone above will detect my presence."
"Of course, of course." Pryce looked around carefully, but could still see little farther than his hands. "Where are the little ones?"
"With any luck," said the jackalwere, "still safe in their thickets."
"This tunnel goes all the way to the outside of the city wall?" Pryce asked, incredulous.
"It emerges near the Mark of the Question, in fact. From there you have to be quick and cautious to reach cover, but it is a far sight more safe than strolling in view of the gate eye."
"I should think so."
"Come," Cunningham pressed, offering his hand. "I'll take you back to where I found you."
This item of news was even more surprising to Pryce than the offer of a jackalwere's hand. "You mean you didn't find me here?"
"Why, no, of course not. You were far closer to harm's way, I'm told."
'You were told? By whom?"
"Not whom," said the Jackalwere solemnly. "By what." Then he stepped back, and looming into Covington's view were the two most shocking faces he had ever laid eyes on.
The broken one was named Devolawk. "He was named after the creatures he was mingled from," Cunningham said sadly. Pryce, never one to be particularly squeamish about the workings of his planet, studied the unclothed animal man closely. It was still dark in the tunnel, and the great Darlington Blade wouldn't have gasped, grimaced, or scrambled away at the mere sight of a few monsters. Pathetic monsters to be sure, but monsters nonetheless.
Where the "vol" part of his name came from was clear enough. One side of his snout was constantly quivering and had pine-needle-like whiskers. The eye on the same side was small, round, and dark, but could see clearly in the gloom. At least part of this beast was descended... or stolen ... from a vole. The "awk" aspect of his name could be seen in the left side. His snout was actually a beak, and the left eye was large, bluish white, and surrounded by feathers. The thing was also part hawk.
"Devolawk," Pryce mused aloud. "What does the 'De' part stand for?"
The jackalwere seemed about to answer, then slowly closed his mouth and stepped back. The broken one leaned close, and his snout-beak opened. Inside, Pryce could see teeth... broken, rotting, chipped human teeth. "De-e-ead man," came the careful, tortured voice, ending in what sounded like a vole's squeak and a bird's whistle.
"Dead man," Covington breathed, unable to completely cover his distaste. Even so, he leaned closer to survey the poor thing's body. It wasn't even as lucky as the head, which seemed to share its three pieces relatively equally. The body, however, was a riotous mix of the person, animal, and bird it was combined from. Flesh mingled with hide mixed with feathers, sometimes in the space of a finger.
Devolawk was painfully hunched over. The top of his human spine was obviously joined by the bones of a vole. One leg was mostly hawk, while the other was mostly vole and painfully
shorter, ending in an incongruous human foot.
Pryce leaned to the right and looked at the jackalwere. "He was made from a vole, a hawk, and a corpse?"
Before Cunningham could answer, Pryce felt claws and feathers on his arm. The broken one was leaning down, a human cornea gleaming in the bird's eye. "A reeeee-sus-ci-tated corpse," Devolawk wheezed. "I eeeeeven hafffff mem-mor-eeeees, sometiiiimes," it said with unmistakable wistfulness and pain, "but I do not know whooooo from!"
Pryce laid his hand on the mutated arm. Speaking was obviously torture for the thing, and understanding his words wasn't all that pleasurable either. But despite the odd place Pryce found himself in, and the odd companions he was meeting, he recognized the possibility that he might be able to discover more leads and clues from this unusual source. Covington looked deep into the sad, tormented, mangled eyes and wondered how he looked to the animal man.
Animal men ... their very existence screamed of magic gone mad. Back in Merrickarta, Pryce had used what he had heard about these victims as just one more reason magic, and magicians, should not be trusted. Broken ones were once human, but they had been used as living subjects of sorcerous experiments that were disapproved of at best, or openly forbidden at worst. The rumor that many were the result of reincarnation spells seemed validated by Devolawk's strange heredity.
The adventurer and the jackalwere now turned their attention to the other poor monster. If the five-foot-tall Devolawk was a tragedy of magic, the seven-foot-tall mongrelman was a tragedy of nature. No sorcerer had created this misshapen beast. Only powers beyond life could have perpetrated this abomination. He was a combination of more than a dozen genetic types, from bugbears and bullywugs to ogres and ores... with just enough human hormones spooned in to make him rational.
His huge head was part hair, part hide, part scales, part flesh, and part fur. He looked vaguely like an unfinished wall of mortar, wood, and tile. His two eyes were wildly mismatched and accompanied by a stout, animal-like nose and a wide maw made up of at least three dozen different sizes and shapes of teeth.
"Geeeee," he whistled. "Offfff," he grunted. "Freeeee!" he shrieked, the rags that partially covered his flesh shaking. Or at least that's what Pryce thought it said. His animal sounds left much leeway for interpretation and made both Pryce and Cunningham cringe with discomfort.
"He keeps repeating that," Cunningham told Pryce. "I think that is what he wants to be called."
"Gee, off, free?" Pryce echoed. The mongrelman nodded vigorously, reminding Covington of a horse. "Geeoffree," Pryce said again. "Geoffrey! Of course!"
Cunningham smiled in recognition. "You must be correct, sir. He must have seen the name Geoffrey and thought it was pronounced gee, off, free."
Pryce looked back at the rag-covered monster, which loomed large in the relatively cramped space of the cave. "Well, if it's Geoffrey you want, Geoffrey it shall be." The mongrelman lowered his head, shaking, and then, much to Pryce's surprise, his eyes began to tear. "There, there, my fine fellow," Pryce soothed, putting his hand on the thing's shoulder. 'There's no need for that." The mongrelman started, but when Pryce didn't remove his hand, he finally grew still.
Cunningham shook his head. "Mongrelmen are seldom welcomed by humans. Often they are enslaved by scoundrels. Geoffrey must be overcome that you would accept his company so readily." Pryce noted the jackalwere looking off into the darkness. No doubt he was thinking of all the human hatred he must have faced throughout his miserable life.
"Cunningham," Pryce snapped, bringing back the jackalwere's attention. "I'm sure that if you didn't have an inhuman
need to kill people, drink their blood, and eat them, you would have more friends, too."
The human beast blinked, then nodded curtly. "I don't know what it is, sir. Your presence, power, and wisdom must be having—dare I say it?—a civilizing effect on me."
Pryce shook his head in wonder. He was certain that if these three knew he was not who they thought he was, a third of him would already be residing in each of their stomachs. "Be that as it may, or may not, be," he said to the jackalwere, "I need to know where they found me and what they saw. Perhaps we can elicit some sort of translation from their brethren."
"They have no brethren."
"No brethren?" Pryce said incredulously, leaning toward Cunningham. "How is that possible? I've heard that broken ones reside in groups of up to five dozen creatures. The mongrelmen who manage to avoid enslavement even create their own villages and communities."
"But, sir," the jackalwere retorted, "he is enslaved."
"He is?" Pryce marveled. "By whom?"
"The same force that enslaves me," Cunningham declared bitterly. "It lured me here with promises that would fill my heart's desire, then sorely used me for my basest, most antisocial skills."
At least one part of that statement sounded ominously familiar to Covington. He remembered that he himself had been lured to Lallor. "Cunningham!" he barked. "I couldn't ask you this when we last met because of your bloodlust. You said that a misshapen one first enticed you here. Was that Devolawk?"
The jackalwere nodded shamefully, and Pryce's eyes had finally adjusted well enough to the dark to see the affirmation. "Devolawk," he asked the broken one, "who had you lure the jackalwere here?"
The broken one answered painfully and slowly through his rotting human teeth, but it was clear enough for Pryce to understand, despite the vole's hisses and hawk's cries. "Don't...
knowwww. Woke ... from death ... with orders allllready... in myyyyy mind!"
Pryce pursed his lips. The poor thing had been created as a slave, with instructions already implanted in its polymorphed brain. But what was the mongrelman's part in all this?
"Cunningham," he continued, "I think I know now who actually enticed you here. But I need to know why. What did you have to do to get this so-called limitless supply of fresh, high-quality human meat?"
The jackalwere hung his head. "I was told ... by the faceless wind ... to find a mongrelman skilled in concealment."
"Ah," Pryce said. Mongrelmen were known for their skills in pickpocketing, mimicry, camouflage, and all the variations thereof.
"It's obvious to me now," Cunningham confessed, "that Geoffrey was brought here to guard these tunnels."
"Why?" Pryce asked the mongrelman. 'What is hidden down here, Geoffrey?"
The mongrelman shook his head vigorously, waving his part hand, part claw, part hoof in a warding-off gesture.
"Geoffrey," Pryce pressed, "are you the one who saved me? Are you the one who found me unconscious?" The mongrelman stared at him, his head and hand movement slowing, then finally stopping. "You can trust me, Geoffrey," Pryce stressed. "I swear on my ... name ... I won't let your enslaver hurt you." He blushed, hoping his quandary wouldn't be too obvious in the darkness, night vision or no night vision.
The mongrelman finally nodded.
"Are you the one who dragged me here? Are you the one who carried me to safety?"
The mongrelman looked up with something approaching hope, then nodded more energetically.
Pryce looked toward the others. "He was concealing me as well. But why? What does he know that we don't?"
Suddenly Devolawk started to speak. "Heeeee knewwwww you. Darliiiiington Blade! Only you ... can heeeeelp us!" The mongrelman nodded again, even more vigorously.
Pryce felt a sudden pang of hopelessness. Now a trio of monsters were looking to him for help, a responsibility Pryce Covington from Merrickarta would have rejected as absurd and impossible from every standpoint.
"Pleeeease!" Devolawk screeched piteously. "I want to fly-yyyyy. I want to sleeeeep! I want to beeeee freeeee!"
Pryce moved quickly to his feet and put his hands on what served as the broken one's shoulders. "Easy, Devolawk. Calm yourself." He found himself standing in the middle of a monster triangle. They hemmed him in from every side.
"Devolawk sleeps in misery," said Cunningham, "in various dark recesses of the tunnels. Geoffrey guards. What, I do not know."
Covington's mind reeled. "It must have been powerful magic indeed to create this poor broken one...." And what was the single most important magical consideration in Lallor at this moment? "Fullmer!" Pryce cried suddenly. His mind had finally cleared enough to remember who he had been supposed to meet when he was knocked out.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" Cunningham inquired. "Is that some sort of magical incantation?"
"In a manner of speaking," Pryce replied. "He's a captain of industry on the pirate seas, remember?"
"The chin-spiked one? But what does he have to do with—"
"Just enough, apparently. He's looking for what everyone around here seems to be looking for."
Cunningham shrugged. "And what would that be, sir?"
Pryce's pointed at the mongrelman. "Unless I miss my guess, it's what he's guarding." The other two monsters looked at the master of concealment.
"Geeeee-off-freeeee!" Devolawk whistled. "Show usssss!"
"Show us what the humans are after," Cunningham repeated urgently. "Now!"
*****
The section of wall the mongrelman led them to was not very impressive in and of itself. In fact, it looked just like any other part of the cave until Pryce noticed a bulge near the floor and another just below the stone ceiling. Covington looked at the mongrelman, who was jabbing his finger repeatedly at a place high on the wall. Cunningham and Devolawk looked at each other in confusion, then looked to Pryce expectantly. The human had no intention of disappointing them.
He stepped up onto the bottom protuberance, which was effectively a cleverly sculpted step designed to appear as a natural part of the rock. Pryce grabbed the top protrusion, which had been chiseled into a seemingly natural rock shape, but was actually a rung that could be held onto easily.
Slowly and carefully Pryce pulled himself up the length of the wall until he found himself looking down a cunningly camouflaged hole cut through the rock. Looking up from the cave floor, it would have been invisible, because its lower lip was carved upward, like a tankard set high in the wall. Until someone looked down at it, there was no hint that the opening was even there. Pryce stared down into the hole until he could see no farther.
He looked down at the mongrelman. "Is this your doing?" The beast shook its hoary head from side to side in reply. Pryce turned to look back down the tube-shaped hole. It couldn't have been more than three inches in circumference and had to be at least three feet deep. Pryce placed his eye directly against the opening.
Pryce could just make out the other side of the tube. It ended inside a larger enclosure, one that did not have a rock floor, but Pryce couldn't tell for sure what it was. He couldn't make out the
details because something was obscuring his vision partway down the rock pipe. There was some sort of grating in the way.
"Cunningham?" Pryce said, lowering himself carefully down to the rock floor. "I wonder if you would do me a small favor."
"Yes, sir, of course. How can I be of service?"
Pryce smiled tightly. "I need you to use your full jackal night vision, but without developing an overwhelming urge to open any of my arteries. Do you think you could do that?"
Cunningham found himself staring at Pryce's neck much the same way he would look at a succulent roast. He grew noticeably pale. Then he swallowed. He looked to the other monsters for support. "I shall endeavor to do my utmost," he promised shakily.
Pryce was fascinated by the change that came over the man-beast after he had lifted himself up to the hole in the wall. Suddenly his skin sprouted red, orange, and black hair, which mingled into a mat of fur from his upper lip to his forehead. His left eye changed with it, turning from a human sphere to an animal's black orb. Its center seemed to glow yellow, and he... it... snarled menacingly.
Pryce stepped back nervously, but when the jackalwere dropped lightly to his feet and turned to face him, his face had transformed back to the innocuous features of the impoverished but cultured traveler. "Most unusual," he commented.
'Yes?"
"There is indeed a chamber of some sort on the other side of the rock tube." 'Yes?"
"But there is also a grating of some sort."
"So far we're in perfect agreement," Pryce said impatiently, "but I thought it was worth risking unleashing your animal side for corroboration." Cunningham looked at him with one eyebrow raised before Pryce exclaimed, "Details, man, details! What does the grating look like?"
'Well, actually, it looks like letters."
Pryce turned to the others. "Now we're getting somewhere. Which letters?"
'They are oddly shaped, sir, like some sort of artistic script. I could make out a U with a line over it... an underlined V... the top half of an 0,... and a P^with rounded bottoms."
"U-V-O-W," Pryce repeated the letters aloud. " You vow'? You vow to do what?"
"Whatever vow it is, sir," interrupted Cunningham, "it certainly seems to be a code of some sort."
"Or a lock ..." Pryce mused, fingering his cloak clasp. "Of course!" he realized. "A key!" He looked down at the clasp, seeing the letters D and B upside down and backward. "In a city of wizards, what sort of entry would you devise to protect your most valuable possessions?"
"One a sorcerer could not circumvent," Cunningham said. "A magical lock."
"Not magical," Pryce insisted, realizing the clasp did not glow as it neared the opening. "No matter how great a magician you are, there will always be a greater one. No, to truly protect your valuables from sorcerers, the lock needs to be mechanical!"
"Mechanical?" Cunningham repeated as if the word was distasteful. "Can you open it, sir?"
Pryce held the cloak clasp between his thumb and index finger. He twisted it this way and that. "Not yet. I don't have all the letters yet. But I think I will, very soon." He turned to the misshapen ones. "I promise," he said, "to do everything in my power to free you from your bondage. You have the word of Darlington Blade." He marveled at the way it was becoming steadily easier to pass himself off as Blade.
The mongrelman tried to smile, his grotesque lips twisting and spasming. The broken one, however, fell to the joints that served as his knees, tumbling off-balance to lean heavily against the cave wall. "The skyyyyy," it choked out. "The eeeeearth... to be reeeeeleeeeased..."
"But I need you to help me," Pryce insisted, cutting off the creature's agonized longing. "Keep our meeting secret from anyone, or anything, you make contact with. Continue to guard this antechamber, but not from me. Can you do that?" The two creatures nodded. "Good. Now, Geoffrey, show me where you found me."
The mongrelman lurched down the cavern, and the others followed.
CHAPTER NINE
Lay Down Your Blade
Pryce Covington wasn't particularly surprised when they returned to the very rock in the wall that had moved just prior to his being knocked unconscious behind Schreders's restaurant. It turned out that the flattened rock was a cleverly designed opening to a cave that ran from behind Schreders At Your Service to a patch of earth between the Lallor Wall and the Mark of the Question.
With a push from the other side, the mongrelman opened the partition, showing Pryce that the flat portal section of the rock was attached to the rest of the stone wall by two cunningly designed hinges, made to look like elongated pebbles. There was just enough room for Pryce to wriggle out.
Pryce quickly surveyed the small area behind the eating and drinking establishment, making sure it was empty and no kitchen staff member was watching before he hastily returned to the small tunnel opening. "I'll be back," he quietly assured Devolawk and the mongrelman. "Don't lose hope. Now, quickly,
hide yourselves and let me speak to the Jackal."
The misshapen creatures moved back, and—eventually, reluctantly—Cunningham appeared at the portal and gazed out at the moonlight of Lallor. Cunningham reacted like an animal seeing the sky for the very first time. "Are—are you mad?" he gasped. "I cannot accept this! The longing!" There was wonder in his expression and tone, but also agony, since he now finally saw the comfort and serenity he had been missing in all his years of wandering and slaughter.
Pryce pushed his head halfway into the opening to block the torturing view. "Be strong, my dangerous aide," he contended. "And above all, don't unleash you magical gaze."
"It. . . would ... serve . . . you . . . right," the jackalwere grunted angrily, only just managing to avoid adding "sir."
"Listen, Cunningham, what I'm about to say is important to us both," Pryce said urgently. He waited until the jackalwere stopped hugging himself and averting his gaze. The half-man, half-beast blinked rapidly, then looked soulfully at Covington. "You may be a monster," Pryce continued evenly, "but what you are doing for those other two is not monstrous."
The jackalwere reacted with surprise and backed away. But he did not run. Instead, he stood in the shadows, halfway between the bowels of the earth and the clear Lallor sky, for quite some time before Covington heard his next quiet words.
"It is my curse to be given human consciousness, sir, a curse my children are blessed with not having. My animal nature needs to feed, and through it I only know the hunger of my body. But my human nature can feel pity and even empathy. Through it, I know the hunger of my mind... and perhaps my soul."
"I have been told that jackalweres have no soul," Pryce said softly.
"Who told you that?"
'Wizards," Pryce said diffidently.
Cunningham's sarcasm had the lightness of morning dew.
"Well, then," he said, "if the wizards say so, it must be true." He was quiet for several moments more. Then: "In the misshapen ones, I see myself. But unlike me, one was not born this way. He was created by human monsters who could pervade this planet ... and that makes me feel rage."
Suddenly his face was back into the moonlight, no more than an inch from Covington's own. But it was not Cunningham's face. It was the face of the orange and black jackal, its eyes burning like the sun. It took everything Pryce was not to hurl himself back from those blazing, but purposefully nonhypnotic, eyes.
"I can do nothing for these creatures," growled the beast, "who are so wretched that even a monster such as I can care for them. But perhaps you can. And for that, and that alone, I will not kill you. I will not feast on your blood. I will not tear you limb from limb and feed you to my cherished children." He suddenly turned away. "Now I, too, must go. My nostrils begin to fill with the stench of Lallor wizards. And if I can smell them..."
The words were already diminishing in the distance, but there were three more to come, which Pryce heard distinctly on the wind: "Remember your promise!"
Pryce slowly closed the rock opening of the tunnel wall. He stood between the wall and the back door of the restaurant, his profile toward both. The throbbing in his head reminded him that, by rights, his attacker should have killed him. Why else would he take the trouble to so crudely strike Pryce on the head? Covington touched the healing lump on his head lightly, and the only real explanation occurred to him.
"By thunder," he whispered in the Lallor night. "I've got it!"
Pryce Covington was awestruck. Later he couldn't recall how long he had stood there thinking. He may have even mumbled. "But it can't be. Not that. No." But every piece he mentally placed into the puzzle fit. The only problem was that there were still several pieces he didn't have yet.
Pryce moved quickly toward the narrow alley opening that led
to the street beyond. He now knew he had to move very quickly, or all might be lost. With a rustle of Darlington Blade's cloak, he was gone into the night.
*****
Gheevy Wotfirr leaned contentedly back in his soft, comfortable chair, his hands warm around a steaming cup of aromatic Toussaintie brew. It had been sweetened by a few drops of Mar-riss insect secretions and was delightfully soothing after a long day of testing and storing liquor in the grotto.
Earlier Matthaunin Witterstaet had stopped by the halfling's burrow in the hill between Azzo's restaurant and the Ambersong residence for what had become their custom: a cup of Toussaintie and a friendly game of Eckhearts. The stooped, sagging old man followed the same routine each night before he retired to his cottage in the northeast shadow of the Lallor Wall.
Yes, Gheevy thought, all in all, a delightful evening of charming companionship and homespun stories.
Gheevy let his eyes roam contentedly about his burrow as he sipped the brew. The burrow's furniture was designed not for fashion but for comfort. Although Wotfirr's hairy bare feet now rested easily on a plush ottoman, his toes tingled with the expectation of eventually placing them on the plush multicolored carpets that covered the floor.
His eyes traveled over the rainbow of colors and shapes that made up his precious collection of liquids from all over Toril. They covered most of the wall space in the burrow and gave it the look of a shimmering glass museum. He had carefully designed the illumination so the soft light refracted comforting colors from the bottles across the entire space.
Yes, the halfling thought, looking down at his soft lounging pants, brocaded vest, mock turtleneck sweater, and plush slippers, it was a wonderful life he had made for himself here in Lai-
lor. One in which comfort was everything and nothing could possibly go wrong...
There was an ominous knock on the door. Gheevy looked up in surprise, wondering who it could be at this time of night. Well, there were only two ways to find out. "Who is it?" he called, eliminating one of the ways.
There was no answer.
Just when he thought he might have imagined the knock, it was repeated, catching the halfling in the middle of turning away. Gheevy whirled around to face the door once more, nearly spilling his brew. "Yes?" he said shakily. There was still no reply.
Wotfirr considered not answering the summons, but his curiosity got the better of him. Besides, Matthaunin might have fallen and hurt himself and was too breathless to reply. The halfling screwed up his courage and crept forward. He gripped the door latch tightly and put his ear against the wood. "Hello?" he inquired.
The third knock made him jerk his head back, causing his hand to spasm and make the latch click up. Holding his breath, he opened the door an inch and carefully moved his head to the opening to peer out cautiously.
A blade shot between the door and the wall, narrowly missing his eye.
Before he could cry out, the door was forced open, a muscular hand was clamped across his lips, and Gheevy was catapulted back into his easy chair.
He landed with a thud, clawing and screeching. But a heavy weight on his legs kept him from escaping, and the hand remained firmly on his jaw, muffling his cries. To his horror, Gheevy heard the front door of his burrow click shut, cutting off any chance of escape.
The halfling's bulging eyes peered over the silencing hand at the face of his attacker... only to see Pryce Covington sitting on
his legs, with the forefinger of his other hand against his lips "Shhhhh," he whispered.
"You—" he started to exclaim, only to have Covington grimace, press his hand more tightly on Gheevy's lips, and jerk his head toward the door.
The halfling's eyes rolled in that direction in time to see Dearlyn Ambersong—dressed in a tight dark sweater, leggings, and boots beneath her Ambersong cloak—turn toward them, clutching her dangerous garden tool in her hands.
"Door secured," she whispered. "All clear."
The halfling finally realized that it had been her stick that shot at his face, keeping him from slamming the door. But as for the rest, he still couldn't make hide nor horsehair of it. He wrenched his eyes back toward Pryce, who leaned down until his face was no more than an inch from the halfling's.
"Take it easy, my friend," Covington whispered. "I couldn't afford to alert Matthaunin Witterstaet as to our presence. He might ask questions I don't want to even try answering at this juncture. Besides," he said with a shrug, "at this point we really can't trust anyone, so.... " He leaned back, cocked his head, and waited until the halfling nodded. Only then did Pryce remove his hand from Gheevy's mouth.
"So you thought you'd give me a heart attack?" Wotfirr sputtered.
Pryce stood up quickly and stepped over the halfling's previously pinioned legs. "I apologize profusely, my dear Gheevy, I truly do," Pryce said, "but time is of the essence."
Wotfirr watched in wonder as Pryce moved to the side of the mage's daughter. The sight of the two working together and the urgency of Covington's words effectively eliminated any anger the halfling still felt. It did not, however, eradicate the remainder of his fear. In fact, a new concern was beginning to grow in him, a concern that made him wonder if there would be more murder to be found in the night. 'What are you doing here?" he asked urgentiy.
Dearlyn moved forward anxiously. "He's bringing me to my father!" she declared.
Gheevy looked up at Pryce in wonder. The man was standing beside a small half-moon-shaped window near the front door of the burrow, surveying the street outside to make sure Matthaunin—or anyone else—was not in the area. He flinched at the sound of Dearlyn's contention. "I only hope it's not too late," he added. He turned to face them both. "I was attacked earlier tonight," he informed the halfling.
"What?" Wotfirr burbled in outrage.
"He wanted to come here directly," Dearlyn told Gheevy, looking at Pryce with concern. "But I insisted on treating his wound."
Pryce touched his head gingerly. "For which, once again, I thank you, but the injury is not as important as why I was attacked."
"And why was that?" Gheevy inquired.
"Whoever assaulted me wanted me to lead him, her, or it to Geerling's workshop."
The halfling sat up straight. The wonders inherent in that statement were almost too much for him to completely comprehend. To the halfling, the man standing before him was a magic-less vagabond who had discovered two corpses and had no idea where Geerling Ambersong's workshop was. But to Dearlyn, the mage's daughter, he was a great wizard and hero who had been given the Ambersong legacy instead of her, and a man who knew all there was to know about the workshop.
Keeping all those characters straight in the space of one burrow was going to take concentration indeed—concentration the addled halfling just couldn't quite muster at the moment.
"Geerling... you know... but who ... why... ?"
Pryce waved his hands in front of his face, seemingly batting away all of Gheevy's sputterings. "We have no time for this," he said. "I think Teddington Fullmer set me up. I think he knocked me out, and I think that even now he's trying to make off with Geerling Ambersong's fortune!"
'Trying... Geerling Ambersong's..." Gheevy echoed. "Then what are you doing here?"
"We need your help, my friend."
"My help?" the halfling marveled. "But—"
"Please!" Pryce pleaded to the low ceiling. "No more questions! Just get on your best grotto-crawling clothes and follow me!"
* * * * *
"So you think the secret workshop is somewhere down here?" the halfling whispered.
The three made their cautious way down the tunnel behind Schreders's restaurant. The halfling held aloft a small illumination orb, which gave off just enough light to keep them from tripping or stumbling into anything. A standard torch would have filled the low, narrow cave with blinding, choking smoke within seconds. The rest of the navigation came from Pryce's memory.
Dearlyn held on to the hem of Darlington's cloak several feet behind them, using her horsehair-topped staff as a walking stick. She was so intent on making her way and so deep in her own thoughts that Gheevy and Pryce could talk quietly at length ... about very uncomfortable things.
"I'm certain of it," Pryce whispered back. "Where else could it be?"
"Is there another entrance on the other side of the workshop somewhere outside the caves?"
Pryce shook his head. "I doubt it. With all the anxious in-quisitrixes and hopeful mages searching everywhere, I think the only way to protect it was to hide it here, literally under their very noses."
"Incredible," Gheevy whispered in wonder. Then his voice grew very quiet. "But with all due respect, why bring her along?"
he said, nodding back toward Dearlyn. "It was either that or steal her cloak." "Steal her cloak?"
"Geerling Ambersong was a clever man. He wanted Darlington Blade and his daughter to work together as a team."
The halfling looked up at Pryce skeptically. "Are you sure?"
Pryce fingered Darlington Blade's cloak clasp, seemingly to relieve some of the tension now that Dearlyn was using it as a leash. "I'm sure of it."
"How can you be?" Gheevy wondered aloud.
Pryce leaned close to whisper his explanation. 'To prevent any other magician from entering his workshop, I believe he secured it with a mechanical lock." He held up two fingers. "With two keys."
'Two? But..." The halfling got no further because Pryce was moving the cloak clasp so that it reflected light from the orb directiy into Gheevy's eyes.
"Are you all right, Blade?" Dearlyn inquired quietly. "I'm not pulling too much, am I?"
Pryce smiled sagely and nodded his head toward the mage's daughter. All the halfling could think of when he looked over at her was her cloak's clasp. What Pryce was suggesting came to Wotfirr in a flash.
"No problem, Miss Ambersong," Covington whispered back to her. "Watch your step." He turned back to gaze into Gheevy's perplexed, apprehensive face.
"Very well, then, but why me?" Gheevy wheezed. "Why am / here?"
Pryce looked pained, and his reply was strained. "Come, come, Gheevy. Think! The mind behind all this is not that of a novice or apprentice. It must be a wizard of high rank."
The truth of that statement dawned in the halfling, and suddenly his expression was infused with fear. What Pryce said next only made it worse.
"Everyone who worked with Geerling is dead. Maybe that's why he refused to teach his daughter ... because he knew that everyone who learned from him would be placed in grave danger."
"But why?" Gheevy moaned quietly.
"I'm not sure. Maybe he took the teachings of Sante too seriously and started dabbling in forbidden arts. Only then, by the time he discovered that he had unleashed forces he couldn't control, he was in too deep. Then all he could do was destroy himself or destroy others to cover his tracks. Who knows? All I do know is that I have to gain entrance to his workshop."
"Blade, you must tell Dearlyn about all this."
Pryce shook his head, happy that the gloom was too thick for her to see his tormented expression. "I can't predict her reaction. The odds are too long."
'Then tell Inquisitrix Lymwich."
"And risk her finding out who I am? No, thank you. She would have me enfeebled, or worse, disintegrated, out of pure spite."
'Then tell some inquisitrix!" Gheevy pleaded passionately. 'We can't face whoever—or whatever—is in that workshop alone!'
Even though she couldn't make out their words, Dearlyn couldn't mistake the anxious tone of their voices any longer. "What's the matter?" she asked. "What are you two talking about?"
Pryce stopped suddenly, and she nearly bumped into him. He took no pleasure in her proximity, however. "We're getting close, Miss Ambersong," he told her, refusing to acknowledge that he could also be talking about their emotional relationship as well. "And I must have your promise that, no matter what happens, you will put your faith in me."
Her eyes seemed like bottomless pools in the light of the orb. "What... what is it you're not telling me?" she whispered.
Pryce's heart went out to her in her vulnerability and then sank at the depths of his deception. 'There's ... there's more to
this than your father's disappearance. I implore you to be ready for anything. There's..."
But before he could go on, the huge misshapen head of a mongrelman moved into the illumination of the orb.
The halfling let out a shriek, tossed the orb into the air, then leapt behind the woman to cower behind her floor-length cloak. Dearlyn dropped her staff and began a spell. Pryce nimbly caught both the illumination orb and her staff as they fell, then used the pole to give her gesturing hands a sharp slap, disrupting her spell.
She looked up at him in surprise and numbly took back the staff he offered. She looked from it to him to the mongrelman, dumbfounded, then grasped her gardening implement tightly and assumed a defensive position, the tip pointing directly at the monster.
Pryce simply shook his head, daintily gripped the staff in two fingers, and raised it so he could step between Dearlyn and the mongrelman.
"It's all right," he assured the stunned woman. "He's with me."
Dearlyn stared at Pryce in amazement; then her expression changed to awe. Then they both realized that Gheevy was still cowering behind her, muttering.
Pryce quickly knelt down and gripped the halfling's elbow with his free hand.
A mongrelman, beneath our city!" Gheevy was gasping. "He'll bring others of his kind. They'll eat me! Raiders are sure to follow! We must—"
Pryce shook him firmly. "We must stop talking about things we know nothing about," he said pointedly.
The halfling blinked, then looked directly at Covington, but the terror didn't leave his face. "But they—they speak a debased language. They can communicate with other beasts!"
"I know," Pryce said intently. "Are you familiar with this so-called debased language?"
That drew Gheevy up short. "Well, no..."
"Then stop talking your own debased language for a moment, would you? Listen to me, Gheevy. They saved me. They won't hurt you!"
The halfling looked up at Pryce hopefully... until one word Covington had said echoed in Wotfirr's mind." They'?"
He peered out from behind Dearlyn's legs. There, with his halfling vision, he saw in the gloom the hulking mongrelman... and behind it, a creature that was bird, part vole, and part human cadaver. To complete the picture, the tattered traveler who had rendered him unconscious on the road loomed behind them.
He jerked back to face Pryce, shaking uncontrollably. "All I want is the comfort of home!" he cried. "Is that so much to ask?"
"Wotfirr!" Pryce snapped, hitting him on the arm. "And all I want is a cushy job for life!"
The halfling grabbed his arm in pain and looked up at Covington, his eyes narrowing. "Ouch," he said with resentment, rubbing his upper arm.
Pryce sighed. "Gheevy, I've discovered that in Lallor you can't always get what you want. Sometimes you have to fight for it."
"Okay, okay," the halfling complained, still massaging his bruised limb. "Why did you hit me so hard?"
"Sorry," Pryce apologized, handing him the illumination orb. "Here, you'll need this." He started to turn around, but Gheevy urgently gripped his cloak. Pryce turned back with concern.
Wotfirr smiled wanly. "We halflings like our creature comforts and pride ourselves on our honesty," he said quietly, apology evident in his tone. "But we are esteemed for our honor even more."
Pryce put his hand on his friend's shoulder and smiled. "And deservedly so," he replied. "Now take care of that illumination orb, would you?"
Gheevy purposefully thrust the orb out before him. It illuminated the mongrelman, his huge, rag-covered body shielding the cowering form of the broken one behind him.
"It's all right, Geoffrey," Pryce said reassuringly. "I didn't have time to tell them about you."
The mongrelman gibbered and nodded, saliva coursing down his distended, scaly jaw.
Pryce nodded back, then stepped over to take Dearlyn's arm. He almost did a double take when he saw the look of admiration on the woman's face. "You... befriended these creatures?" she asked.
Pryce was pleased at her reaction and turned to smile at his irregular trio of assistants. "It is a distinct privilege for me to introduce you to Geoffrey...." The mongrelman lowered his head sadly, his eyes closing. "Devolawk..." The broken one raised his beak and waved with what served as its arms. "And, of course, Cunningham." The jackalwere, in complete human form, bowed graciously. "Of the three, trust the latter the least." Cunningham snapped back up, a look of exaggerated hurt on his face.
"Blade?" Gheevy said tightly, still holding the orb stiffly out in front of him. "Do we have time for this?"
"I think so," Pryce replied. 'You see, they are my guards. Fullmer, or anyone else, I imagine, couldn't get close to the workshop with them on duty."
"They protected my father?" Dearlyn asked hopefully.
Pryce felt a pang of guilt. "I don't truthfully know, Miss Ambersong. We will have to see. But what I can tell you," he said, and he felt relief to finally get some of the truth off his chest, "is that Cunningham the jackalwere was lured here by the broken one, who is a prime example of magic gone wrong. Once here, the jackalwere was asked in turn by a magical communication to lure a mongrelman who was well versed in concealment."
Dearlyn looked at the trio in confusion. "But why? To conceal what?"
'Your father's workshop, I'm afraid."
She looked at Pryce, her eyes accusatory. "Are you saying my father did this?"
"I don't know," Pryce said quickly.
"You don't know!" she flared. "If not you, who?"
"Dearlyn!" he interrupted sharply. 'This isn't easy for any of us, least of all them." He pointed purposefully at the cursed trio. "We have to get into the workshop," he stressed, "and then maybe we'll discover the truth."
The proud woman stiffened. "Are you telling me you cannot gain entrance by yourself?"
"Yes," he admitted without shame. "That's exactly what I'm telling you. Now you tell me. Is it possible that your father would simply give me the keys to his workshop ... or give a key to us both... that can only be used if we work together?"
Her rising anger suddenly stilled. The realization of her father's true nature—the one she always knew was there and desperately wanted to believe in—overwhelmed her ire and started to bring tears to her eyes.
Pryce turned away from her and gave the mongrelman a simple instruction.
"Lead us to the workshop."
Soon the six of them stood before the concealing wall. To Gheevy and Dearlyn's eyes, it looked like any other section of the cave, but the others knew of the hidden tube through the rock.
Pryce turned to the misshapen ones. "We're going to open the compartment now," he told them. "Hide yourselves. If anything bad happens, I wish you a peaceful, long life."
Dearlyn and Gheevy looked at each other with concern and a little confusion. The mongrelman babbled incoherently, and the broken one pushed his head over the other's shoulder. "Weeeee willll protect you, Blade!" he whistled and burbled. "Weeeee don't wish... to looooose you."
"You cannot—you must not—try to protect me," Pryce told
them with honest appreciation. His Covington side felt a pang of missed opportunity, but his Blade side knew it had to be this way. Besides, any revelation of his Covington nature would put his absolutely vital impersonation at risk. He might gain protection for a few moments, but if any of them even suspected that he wasn't who they said he was, he would be dissected almost immediately. "This road I must walk alone, with only the Ambersong daughter and the primary mage's friend by my side. Our road together— wherever it leads—must take a different route."
The mongrelman made crying sounds and shook, but eventually he shambled away, taking the crestfallen broken one with him. Only Cunningham remained. Pryce stared bravely at him until he realized the jackalwere's expression was not one of respect or admiration, but of hope and hunger.
"Cunningham..." he said warningly.
The jackalwere looked suddenly wounded. "Sir, I assure you ... how could you think... ?"
"Cunningham!" Pryce snapped. Then he leaned in and spoke carefully. "No... after... assault... snacks. You hear me?"
"Quite distinctly, sir." He drew himself up, and Pryce could see that he was essentially dusting off his pride. "Shall I go see to it that the others are safe and well hidden?"
'You shall," Pryce commanded flatly.
"Very good, sir." He leaned to one side and called to the others. "Best of luck, diminutive sir. You too, milady. Enjoy the opening!"
"Get out of here!" But by the time the last word was out of Pryce's mouth, the jackalwere had disappeared into the darkness.
Only then did Gheevy lower the illumination orb from in front of his face. "So," he said with relief. "Where is it?"
"There," said Pryce, motioning with his head toward the wall. He swung his cloak off and started examining how the clasp was attached. "I'll need the clasp from your cloak as well, Dearlyn."
She looked puzzled and began fingering the circular clasp at her neck.
"The clasps serve as individual keys to the Ambersong lodging. I think they are also the keys to the workshop as well, but only if they are used in combination." He looked at her, his expression revealing no chagrin or regret. "When your father left you, he left me as well. I don't know where he is, but I believe that he wanted us to cooperate." At that moment, as if on cue, the clasp popped off into his hand.
"Yes," Dearlyn said quietly, nodding. "That makes sense. It sounds like something Father would do." Then she started to pull off her cloak. Soon Pryce held both clasps in his hand.
"I saw a grating of some sort a couple of feet down the entry tube," Pryce explained. "It had specific markings on it, like a rune or a code of some sort." He turned the clasps this way and that in his palm. "Looking directly at it, it seemed to be four esoterically designed letters, one on top of the other: U, V, 0, and W."
"Use Virtue Open Wall?" Dearlyn said immediately. Both men stared at her. Then they looked at the wall in anticipation. Nothing happened.
"We could play that game all day," Gheevy commented. "Useless Violence Obscures Wonder. Ultimate Victory Or Woe. Untold Victims Obviously Worried—"
Pryce interrupted, making it clear that this game was at an end. "I think it's some kind of a special lock that needs an aligning key." He took Dearlyn's clasp, which had her initials outlined in flower petals, and turned it sideways to the left. The A was now on top, and when it was tipped slightly, an extra flower petal seemed to lengthen the Crosshatch of the A. The D looked like a J7with a line across the top.
"You-vee," Gheevy formed the sound. "But what about the W?"
"I'll give you the 'ow' in a second if you don't keep quiet," Pryce warned, the tension beginning to make him giddy. He held
up Darlington Blade's clasp, turned it sideways and to the left, then all the way around. The D and B created from the thorns became a half oval and a rounded W. "Put them both together—" which he did—"and they spell—" "You-vow," Gheevy said admiringly.
Dearlyn nodded proudly. "Of course my father would want us to work together. It's just like him!"
Pryce looked at her with concern before continuing. "Now to put my theory to the test." He stepped toward the wall, then stopped and turned back. "No one with a thinner arm, I suppose, would be interested?... No, I had better do this myself."
He put the two clasps side by side in his hand, surprised by how naturally they seemed to fit together. The flower petals and the thorns seemed to link together in position, maintaining the oddly designed U-V-O-W'm place. With his other hand, Pryce gripped the lip of the hole he knew was there and started to pull himself up. "Gheevy," he grunted. "I need a solid surface to stand on to position the clasps just right."
The halfling rolled his eyes. It had been an eventful night already, and he was weary... not to mention irritable. "And I suppose you want my back as that solid surface?"
Dearlyn looked down at him with reproach. "Don't be petty," she admonished. "If you won't do it, I will!" She was already on one knee when the halfling stopped her.
"All right, all right. I'll do it. Just wait a moment, would you?" Gheevy got down on all fours and placed his side against the rock wall. "Very well, Blade. Go ahead."
Pryce grabbed the upper rock protrusion, then stepped on Wotfirr's back. "All right?" he inquired, to which the halfling grunted in the affirmative. Covington found himself gritting his teeth. If he was wrong, there was no predicting what might happen. At the very least, he could probably say good-bye to his arm. So, under his breath, he did. Then he cautiously put that selfsame arm down the tube, holding the clasps out before him.
Pryce grimaced, then winked as sweat rolled into his eyes. Soon his arm was completely inside the rock, his muscles straining. "Anything?" Gheevy asked.
"Not... yet," Pryce grunted, but then the top of the clasps touched the grating and were sucked from Covington's fingers with an audible clanking sound.
Pryce leapt down from the wall as if the tube had ejected his arm. As he hit the opposite wall, they all heard a hum, then a grinding of gears.
Pryce rose to his feet, holding on to the opposite wall for support. They all watched, amazed, as a section of the cave wall swung out like a vault door.
The edge of the swinging partition just flicked the end of Pryce's nose, but it swept the kneeling halfling along like a broom sweeping up a particularly annoying dust ball. "Dar-ling-ton!" Gheevy cried in fear. Pryce was grateful that, even in what could have been his last seconds on Toril, the halfling hadn't revealed his true identity.
Just as it seemed that Wotfirr would be crushed against the rock wall, the partition ground to a stop.
The halfling rolled one way and the illumination orb he had been holding rolled another. Dearlyn ran forward to gather Gheevy up in her arms, while Pryce nimbly caught the orb and slipped it into his pocket. Then his eyes widened and he caught his breath. He remained stock still, standing before the opening, taking in the room that was revealed beyond.
Within moments, all three stopped moving, talking, or even breathing as they got their first look at the secret workshop of Geerling Ambersong.
It was a room dug out of the very earth beyond the cave wall, a section of which served as the door. All the furniture was made of stone, the chairs made comfortable with thick, comfortable-looking, ornately decorated pillows. There were stone tables and stone shelves, some attached to the wall and supported by stone
legs and braces, while others seemed to float of their own accord. There was a modicum of solid and liquid refreshment—even some barrels from Schreders—but mostly every surface was covered with spellbooks and magical items. It was what Dearlyn Ambersong had dreamt of all her life. She looked as if she were about to faint.
Large roughly bound volumes featured the engraved A of the Ambersong family on their covers. They were all crammed with different-colored parchment, detailing spells and conjuring not yet imagined. There were models of an Ambersong skyship, hovering in the air near the stone ceiling like heavenly stars. There was even a girdle of priestly might, glowing with unknown power, standing of its own accord on a rock shelf.
There were beakers, bottles and tubes of every color, shape, size, and consistency—some made of glass, some of gems, some of wood, and some of steel. Inside were powders, liquids, beads, and flakes of every imaginable magical necessity. It was all so amazing and impressive that it took several seconds before the three explorers noticed something incongruous on the floor.
Lying on its face, in the middle of the room, was a motionless human body.
CHAPTER TEN
Human Life Is Pryceless
Six eyes settled on the body at the same time. Two mouths below four of the eyes spoke not a word, but Dearlyn broke the stony silence.
"Father?"
No answer.
When the wall had opened, illumination spells had been activated, and a comforting glow bathed everything, including the unmoving figure, in soft light. The figure on the floor was swathed in thick, rich crimson and jade clothing, complete with a full cape, high boots, and a fur-lined cowl. The three onlookers hesitated to enter the workshop for individual reasons. Pryce, for one, couldn't help wondering what magical defenses might lie beyond the open partition.
Then, as if on cue, the cloak clasps popped out of the grate in the wall. Gheevy let out a little cry of surprise as they heard the clasps disconnect and start to roll the rest of the way through the tube. Without thinking, Pryce stepped forward to catch them as
they slipped out of a little round hole in the other side of the open partition.
Dearlyn looked at Pryce anxiously. By way of answering, Pryce tossed one clasp over to her and quickly started to reattach Blade's clasp to his cloak. Dearlyn caught hers in one hand. Gheevy just stood there, nonplussed.
Pryce looked at Gheevy. Gheevy looked at Dearlyn. They all looked back at the body. Then they all took their first tentative steps toward the prone form together.
Only when they were all huddled around the form was there another tentative pause. The woman and the halfling looked directly at Covington—the former with hope and the latter with dread.
Pryce felt compelled to say something, but his brain warned him to keep quiet. There was no way anything he said would have a positive effect... not until he knew whose body this was. Carefully Pryce placed his hand beneath the figure's shoulder and, with a certainty of purpose, pulled.
To his embarrassment, Pryce could hardly move the figure. If this was Dearlyn's father, he had been eating and drinking way too much. Pryce braced himself by laying his other hand flat on the floor then used all his strength to roll the body over.
The three stared down into the face of Teddington Fullmer.
Dearlyn exhaled audibly in relief, then seemed ashamed. Gheevy made a little grunting sound of surprise, then looked away. Only Pryce continued to stare directly at the visage in confusion. It wasn't that he didn't feel relief. On the contrary. In a distant, annoying way, he was glad that the blackmailing blackguard was no longer around to make his life miserable. He would have preferred that he had simply moved miles away of his own accord, but there it was.
'Teddington Fullmer," he said aloud slowly. 'Teddington Fullmer?"
The halfling looked at the woman, then turned to the seemingly
mesmerized Pryce. "What is it, Blade?" Gheevy said with concern.
Pryce looked wonderingly at Wotfirr. "I was attacked earlier tonight," he said thoughtfully. "I thought it was by him." He pointed at Fullmer.
Dearlyn had leaned in to listen to the hushed conversation. "It still could have been," she reminded him.
Gheevy looked worriedly at Pryce, but Covington already knew that he couldn't say everything he was thinking in front of Dearlyn. Silently he pursued the evasive mental clue that was even now trying to form in his brain. "Well, I suppose he could have had accomplices."
"Or maybe he followed you," Dearlyn suggested. "And someone followed him."
The body groaned.
They all leapt back.
"I thought he was dead," Gheevy said in alarm as he cowered on all fours.
Pryce was also on his hands and knees. "I thought so, too," he said truthfully. He looked down at Fullmer carefully, but the body hadn't moved. "No discernible marks that I can see. No signs of violence..."
'There's no look of fear or anger on his face," Dearlyn pointed out. It was true. Fullmer looked positively placid.
The halfling and the impostor stared directly at each other, silently acknowledging that Teddington Fullmer's face looked as composed as Darlington Blade's dead countenance had.
Dearlyn interrupted their moment of realization. "All you can see is his face and hands. What about the rest of him?"
It was true. Pryce had been struck on the head. Maybe Fullmer had been as well, and the thick cowl had soaked up all the blood. "Good point," Covington acknowledged. "We had better do a thorough examination."
"Use your magic," she suggested. Gheevy looked up in a near panic.
"Don't be absurd!" Pryce flared, restraining his own dismay. "Whoever did this—he struggled to find a way out of the sentence, then rushed to finish it with triumphant relief—"is a master magician! He ... or she," he stressed, getting into the spirit of his anti-casual-use-of-magic diatribe, "would be sure to use obscuring spells to make me believe whatever he or she wants me to believe." He grumbled, walking on his knees so he could get closer to Fullmer's head. "Soon you'll be using magic for the simplest of things, and then where will we be?"
"All right, all right," Dearlyn muttered back, walking on her own knees toward Fullmer's head from the opposite direction. "It was only a suggestion." She certainly wasn't going to use her own illicit teachings... not with Gheevy there as a possible witness against her.
The three huddled around Fullmer's head. Pryce wiggled his fingers in preparation. He moved them like spider legs over Fullmer's cranium, preparing to pull back the cowl. "We'll look for any contusions and I'll check for a pulse," he told them.
Nobody argued with him, and they found themselves holding their breath. Pryce carefully gripped the fur cowl and started to pull the material back. As it receded, they all leaned closer until they were no more than six inches from Fullmer's face.
That's when the trader's eyes popped open and he sprang upward with an ear-shattering scream.
The reaction couldn't have been any more severe had someone thrown a basketful of poisonous snakes into the room. Pryce literally did a backward somersault in midair, slapping his hands on the floor and springing—feet first, belly down—over a floating stone tabletop. Gheevy leapt from all fours to the side, slamming into a pillow-cushioned stone chair. And Dearlyn cried out, using her staff as a pole vault to push herself up onto her
feet, then slid back until she hit the side wall.
They gripped whatever they were close to—a table, a chair, and a wall—to keep from fleeing as Fullmer continued to screech, shriek, groan, and gurgle, his feet slapping the floor and his arms swinging wildly. His cowl fell back, and they all could clearly see the deep, wide, awful gash on the side of his head.
Sante says the side means death! Pryce remembered with a sinking sensation.
All three began to realize that something beyond the obvious was terribly wrong. On his feet now, Fullmer wasn't waking up, nor was he fighting an imaginary assailant. He was acting like a marionette controlled by an amateur puppeteer. He was like a newborn hippogriff trying to control its limbs and wings.
"What's the matter with him?" Gheevy called, cowering in the chair.
"I don't know," Pryce said, studying Fullmer carefully. 'Teddington!" he called. 'Teddington! It's me, Pry—, uh, Darlington Blade." He glanced nervously at Dearlyn, but she only had eyes for the lurching trader. "I'm over here, Teddington... Darlington Blade, remember?"
The staggering man showed no specific reaction. Instead, he just kept jerking and jabbering.
"A haunt!" Dearlyn suddenly cried.
"A what?" Pryce couldn't prevent himself from asking.
"A haunt," she repeated more urgently. She looked directly at Pryce. "Don't you feel its presence?"
He looked away from her to stare with calculated determination at Fullmer ... or whoever he now was. "Of course," he snapped with authority, as if grading her. "Good call."
"A haunt?" Gheevy wailed. "What's that?"
'The restless spirit of a person who died leaving some vital task unfinished!" Dearlyn said in a rush.
"So Fullmer still has to be alive," Pryce realized, but barely, by the look of his wound.
"Yes," Dearlyn replied breathlessly. "A haunt can't take over a body of the dead."
"Fullmer!" Pryce cried, knowing they didn't have much time. "What is it? Who is it?"
"The possession must be incomplete," Dearlyn warned. "It's struggling for control of his body!"
"What then? What then?" Gheevy moaned, practically crawling into the chair's pillow.
"It will use the body to complete its task and to gain final release from this world," she shouted over Fullmer's increasing commotion.
Fullmer suddenly took an awkward step toward the chair. Gheevy let out a squawk, and Pryce used the floating tabletop as a bar to swing himself over to where the cowering halfling sat. Covington stood in front of the chair, protecting arms wide, just as Fullmer bent, veered, and finally rose to his full height—to face the woman.
"D-D-D-Dearlyn," it managed to mumble through rubbery lips, "my... my... my... d-d-daughter..."
Pryce leaned back. Gheevy leaned forward. The woman's jaw dropped open.
"F-F-Father?"
"Dearlyn, my child!" the haunt howled, then stumbled back, its arms flailing, until it hit the far wall of the workshop. Glass shattered, dust flew out in a multicolored cloud, and parchment scattered like autumn leaves in a stiff breeze.
"Father!" she cried, leaping toward him. Pryce intercepted her, wrapping his arms around her waist and swinging her back just in time to prevent the clutching fingers of the haunt from closing on her hair.
"Wait!" Pryce cried, struggling to hold on to her fighting form.
"He's my father, curse you!" she said, pummeling him on the head and shoulders. She was kind enough to keep her palms open, however.
"Ow! He says he's your father, blast it!" Pryce insisted. "Are you going to—ouch!—run into the arms of everything that calls you 'daughter'?"
She took careful aim and hit him again. "Darlington, he's a haunt! Not a groaning spirit, not a specter, not a ghost—a haunt! What sort of mage are you, anyway?"
He let her go instantly, stung by his own guilt. She turned, but by the time she returned her gaze to Fullmer, her expression wasn't so certain. "Father?" she called with a quaking voice, suddenly keeping her distance. "Father? Is that you?"
The voice that answered was a far-off lament. "Dearlynnnnn____"
"Are you dead, Father?" The sudden realization made her start. She began to cry. "Did someone kill you?"
Fullmer's face was turned away, his arms jerking at his side, his fingers shaking like willow branches in the wind. "Yessssss ..." came the answer.
"Who, Father, who?" Dearlyn asked urgently through her tears. "Who killed you?"
Pryce was beside her now, leaning toward the haunt. So when it suddenly spun around, its arm stiffly out, its accusing finger was pointing almost directly in Pryce's face.
"Darlington Blade..." it cried.
*****
Pryce was fast, but Dearlyn's staff was almost faster. He spun his head toward her, but his vision filled with her look of hatred and revenge before it was replaced by spinning red horsehair and sharpened gardening tools.
Pryce dived backward, just missing the side of the stone seat where Gheevy sat. He executed a quick backflip, but Dearlyn was there, stomping on the hem of his cloak. He wrenched his head back, popping the clasp. The cloak snapped off, and he landed on his knees before her, his arms outstretched.
"I'm not Darlington Bladel" he screamed just as the pole touched his sternum.
The tip of the staff froze a centimeter into his chest. "What did you say?"
"I'm not Darlington Blade!" he repeated, his hands wide, his knees at the edge of the accursed cloak, which she ground under her foot. "Kill me if you must—I won't blame you—but I swear on the memory of my own father, I am not Darlington Blade!"
That stopped her for a moment, but a moment only. Then her expression changed back into one of pure loathing, and her fingers tightened on her staff. 'Why, you—"
"No, mistress!" Gheevy cried, sliding in front of Pryce, his own hands clasped in supplication. "He didn't mean it. I swear, it was an accident!"
"Out of my way, halfling!"
"Miss Ambersong," Wotfirr pleaded, "he is a poor specimen, to be sure, but to his credit, he never told anyone he was Darlington Blade. They simply assumed it!"
"I just borrowed the cloak. I didn't know whose it was—"
"And by the time he found out, it was too late!"
The two babbled quicker and quicker in front of the enraged woman, but they would never know what she would have done, because at that moment the man who had been Teddington Fullmer loomed up behind her.
Gheevy screamed as the haunt slammed down across her shoulders. Dearlyn was dragged down by its weight. They both landed on top of Pryce Covington as Wotfirr scampered away in horror.
Dearlyn struggled to get out from under the flailing body of Teddington Fullmer as Pryce struggled to get out from under them both. But then the haunt's rubbery lips finally spoke directly into the woman's ear.
"... didn't kill me!" the working mouth frothed as Fullmer's mind had to force each word out. "Darlington Blade did not kill me!"
Gheevy cowered in the corner as the haunt continued to hiss directly into Dearlyn's ear. "It wasn't Darlington Blade. It was the one behind him... behind him!"
Then they all heard it—a death rattle, starting high in his throat and dropping into his esophagus. Teddington Fullmer had run out of life. Geerling Ambersong had run out of time.
All they heard now was Dearlyn's angry sobbing as she kicked and punched her way out from beneath the dead weight of the man who had been Pryce's betrayer and the last evidence of her father. Pryce just lay there, exhausted, his arms out, not making a single move to help her.
Finally she clawed her way free to sit beside the corpse, sweating and panting, her purple face swollen with shock, grief, wrath, and confusion. "What," she choked, "was that?"
Pryce raised his head to stare at the finally dead figure with wonder and a strange, sickening feeling of recognition. "A dying clue," he whispered blankly.
He only reacted when Dearlyn suddenly turned to yell directly at him. "You... you... nothing! You are nothing! You know nothing! Nothing!" Then she collapsed on the floor, her face in her hands, sobbing.
All Pryce could do was stare at her, his face twisted with regret and helplessness. Finally the full realization of his responsibility lay across his shoulders with all the weight of the Inquistrix Castle. "I know what I have to do," he finally said, to himself more than anyone. Dearlyn looked up, but tearfully choked back her response. Instead, she hung her head and whimpered in disgust and loss.
Gheevy Wotfirr ran forward, struggling to help Pryce out from beneath the corpse of Teddington Fullmer. "Hush, my friend," the halfling advised. "You are in shock."
But Pryce Covington was too distracted even to recognize the symptoms. As if in a trance, he let the halfling help him up. "A locked room mystery," he whispered, leaning over to Wotfirr so
Dearlyn wouldn't hear. "And a dying clue. It's a triple mystery, with all the trappings of legend. Gheevy!" he gasped in amazement, "after all this time pussyfooting around behind the scenes, here's a murder we can ooenly solve!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blades to Ploughshares
With a thump, Pryce Covington closed the last book of philosophy written by Sante, the renowned priest, healer, and, from what he could read, even judge. A cloud of dust blown from the aged pages settled down on every side of the volume, as well as on Pryce's crossed legs. He was tired but fascinated, saddened but informed, remorseful yet satisfied. With the help of these volumes of ancient instruction, brilliantly translated from archaic languages by Geerling Ambersong himself, Covington had successfully taken hold of the tiger's tail.
Now all he had to do was ride the beast without being eaten alive.
Pryce sat alone in the secret workshop, creating new strategies. For some reason, his original motto repeatedly came back to mind, only this time in a slightly amended form: "Everything to lose; nowhere to run. I will do what must be done."
The halfling grotto manager stuck his head between the stone door and the stationary cave wall. "Blade?" he inquired quietly.
"Yes, Gheevy?"
"Dearlyn is resting back at the Ambersong residence." Pryce sighed. "Good. I'm glad. I hope she'll be able to get some sleep."
"I told her you wished to talk to her later," the halfling reported, "if she's willing to listen."
"Thank you. Did she answer you?"
The halfling pursed his lips and looked down. "No."
Pryce Covington shook his head ruefully. "That's all right, my friend. I don't blame her, really. Is everything else ready?"
The halfling looked up, his expression brightening. "Yes, sir. Everything is ready out here."
"Excellent. Thank you." Pryce carefully placed the last book of the learned priest back on the hovering stone slab next to him, then grabbed the lip of the table and started to pull himself up. He groaned, his elbow and knee joints popping audibly.
The halfling shook his head in bemusement. He had tried to counsel Covington to use this time for rest, but his sage advice had fallen on deaf ears. "You really should get some sleep, you know," he said for the sixth time.
Pryce stretched his arms as high as they could go over his head, letting out an expansive grunt. Then he relaxed. 'Teddington Fullmer is sleeping," he said lightly. "Geerling Ambersong is sleeping. Even Gamor Turkal is sleeping." He walked to the door and started to cross in front of the halfling. "There'll be plenty of time for sleep later," he concluded quietly as he passed.
It was an entirely new world outside the no-longer-secret workshop. The caverns, from the hatchlike entryway behind Schreders At Your Service to the workshop door, had been illuminated by a string of floating light orbs. Lallor militia units in specially designed uniforms stood beside every glowing bulb, hands resting on the hilts of short swords specially designed for all their indoor hacking needs.
Inquisitrixes, in their own uniforms of black and gold, moved about, carefully examining every inch of the caverns. They
sometimes found evidence of magic, over which they tossed crystals or powders and muttered divining spells with accompanying gestures. If there were any other secrets hidden in these caves, these illusion scholars would find them.
Directly in front of Covington lay a naked Teddington Fullmer, floating above the cave floor on a magically enhanced morgue slab. Examining his feet was, surprisingly, Matthaunin Witter-staet, wearing his customary gatekeeper robe. Examining Fullmer's head was Berridge Lymwich, dressed in her full inquisitrix regalia. Pryce approached the latter first.
"I imagine Dearlyn and Gheevy have told you everything they know by now," he said. "Anything I can add?"
"I don't know," she said in her sandy voice without taking her eyes off Fullmer's head wound. "Is there?" She seemed to be angry that he had given her something to do other than covet his status.
Pryce shrugged, refusing to be baited. "Possibly not... but I can tell you what you're thinking." She finally looked at him— first with surprise, then with disbelief, and finally with defiance. She said nothing, but Pryce took her behavior as permission. "You're thinking someone at Schreders's place did this." Mentally he scored himself a point, not because she reacted in surprise, but because she didn't Instead, Lymwich folded her arms and let her eyelids fall to half mast.
"What makes you think that?"
Pryce shrugged, frowning. "It only makes sense. The entrance was right behind the tavern's back door; Azzo was in a position to know almost everything that went on in Lallor; and, besides, who but a non-mage would kill anyone as crudely as this?"
Lymwich kept her arms crossed and exhaled through her nose, like a bull about to charge. Pryce took it as a sign of grudging acceptance. He glanced around at her sister inquisitrixes. "Any luck finding Geerling's haunt?"
Lymwich looked at the other inquisitrixes' progress in the cavern with a certain frustration. "Not a thing," she admitted reluctantly. "Curse it, a haunt must remain within sixty yards of where its body lies! But no matter how we track it—up, down, right, left—nothing! If either the daughter or the halfling had come to me with this story minus your corroboration, I never would have believed it."
"Ah, the joys of reputation," Pryce said. He looked at her with calm self-assurance. "Have you done as I requested?"
She seemed ready to argue, but quickly controlled herself. "What you had your halfling ... associate ... request for you," she corrected him reprovingly. "But," she conceded, "your idea was an expedient one. It met with the approval of my superiors."
Pryce resisted the temptation to rub salt into her wounded ego, so he kept his expression placid and his tongue still. He simply nodded and stepped over to the other side of the slab. He tried to attract the gatekeeper's attention, but the old fellow was too intent on the body. "You're a man of many talents," Pryce finally said idly.
"Hmmmmm?" the gatekeeper said without looking up.
"Gate guard, immigration officer, and now magical examiner."
"Cleric as well," Lymwich elaborated. "Matthaunin is one of our little community's most respected members."
"Outside of your own master, of course," Witterstaet hastily added.
"Really?" Pryce retorted.
"Geerling Ambersong basically gave Witterstaet his choice of responsibilities in our exclusive retreat," Lymwich continued, walking the length of the morgue slab and back again, "and he chose his place at the gate."
"Fresh air," Witterstaet explained, looking at the ceiling of the cavern, "meeting new people, constant intellectual stimulation..."
"But you also double, or should I say triple, as an examiner?" Pryce marveled.
"Matthaunin is also one of the most respected seers of magical presence in the nation," Lymwich said sourly, apparently not reserving her infinite pool of envy to Blade alone.
"Really?" Pryce drawled again, raising one eyebrow practically up into his hairline.
"It has been said, sir," Witterstaet answered modestly, "but, of course, I wouldn't dare test my paltry skills against your own, sir."
"Wouldn't you, now?" Pryce echoed, looking askance at Lymwich, who studiously avoided his gaze. Even so, Pryce quickly redirected their attention, just in case anyone considered pressing the point. "And have you uncovered anything around the body of Teddington Fullmer?"
Once that subject was again broached, Witterstaet seemed to forget all about Blade's fame. "Well, there was a very indistinct shadow, or afterimage—an echo, if you will—of the haunt's previous presence that even I was hard pressed to perceive." He turned toward Pryce for a moment. "But that is just a testament to the skill and power of your master." He turned back to Fullmer's cadaver. "Other than that, there isn't a single iota of magic anywhere in, around, or on the body. Whatever happened to him prior to the haunt's possession, it was done by a person alien to any form of magic."
Before Pryce could consider the ramifications of that statement, the people he had asked to be summoned arrived. Pryce stepped back as burly, bearded tavern owner Azzoparde Schred-ers, blonde and beautiful serving wench Sheyrhen Karkober, and gaunt mine owner Asche Hartov—in the company of several in-quisitrixes and militiamen—made their way down the brightly lit cavern to the section of wall that hid the workshop.
"Cost, what is the meaning of this?" the gaunt mine owner demanded.
"You had to pay these people?" the serving wench asked Hartov incredulously.
Pryce rolled his eyes, then put his hands on his waist and leaned toward the three arrivals. "I told you before, Asche, Cost Privington is a pseudonym... a false identity. My real name is... Darlington Blade." Pryce nodded to himself. He was getting the pause between "is" and "Darlington" down to mere seconds. Maybe if he said it often enough, he'd actually come to believe it
"Harrumph," wheezed Hartov, bending his slight frame. "False identity indeed! Why did you feel the compunction to fool the likes of me?"
"Matters of national security," Pryce said affably, "and that is precisely why I've asked you here today."
"Really?" Karkober breathed, her eyes widening.
"Really." He motioned toward the slab. "First, I believe you all knew Teddington Fullmer?"
They stared at the man. "He doesn't look well," Karkober finally squeaked.
"Not a bit," Schreders agreed vehemently. "This is terrible!"
"Very sound observation," Pryce told them. "Unfortunately, it was the price he paid for finding his heart's desire."
"Is he—" Hartov choked—"dead?"
Pryce sighed and looked evenly at the distraught mine owner. "Be careful what you wish for, Asche. You, too, might get killed for it."
"Killed!" Schreders boomed. 'You mean this was no accident?" Pryce just stared at him.
"But—but—" the tavern owner stammered "—but this is Lallor! Things like this don't happen here. They can't!"
"Did," Pryce said curtly. "Can." He stepped back and pulled at the lip of the mechanical door. The unlocked gears now moved easily, and Pryce soon revealed the room dug out of the area beyond the cavern wall. "Lady and gentlemen, I give you Geerling Ambersong's secret workshop." He let them have a few seconds to take it all in. "Well, I'm not actually going to give it to you, but I will let you touch it. In fact, I'm going to let you carry it—piece
by piece—out of here."
Schreders was the first to comprehend the words through the haze of his amazement. "Eh? Eh? What was that?"
Pryce snapped his fingers until he got the attention of all of them. "I found Teddington Fullmer's dead body in the middle of my teacher's secret workshop," he almost didn't lie. "So this is no longer my classroom; it is a crime scene. Furthermore, the authorities have discovered evidence of additional foul play. I won't bore you with the details, but rest assured that it is absolutely imperative that the priceless legacy of Geerling Ambersong be moved to safekeeping." He smiled and clasped his hands together like a solicitous concierge. "And we need you three to help."
Schreders snapped to attention. "It would be an honor!" he announced. "Thank you, Mr. Blade, for even thinking of us!"
"Not at all," Pryce replied humbly. "It is our duty and responsibility to protect these materials so vital to our nation's security. We can't safeguard them here any longer—even / do not have the energy to cast a protective spell powerful enough to shield my own master's life's work—so we must turn to you for help." He then turned dismissively to Inquisitrix Lymwich. "And get that body out of here. It's blocking the entrance."
*****
Sheyrhen Karkober naturally took up the rear. Some things never change, Pryce thought as he carefully and quietly approached her. Whether in Merrickarta or Lallor, serving wenches usually deferred in the presence of their superiors or customers ... but only in their presence. Left alone to her own devices, Pryce imagined Sheyrhen could juggle wine casks, but when in a mixed group such as this one, she played it safe by allowing the male egos to lift the big packages and lead the way.
Pryce carefully moved alongside her in the cavern, watching
her walk in her tightly laced waitress costume. "Ah," he said casually, "I see you have the girdle of priestly might."
"I beg your pardon!" Sheyrhen said with offense. "I work very hard to maintain my figure."
Pryce slapped himself on the forehead, but kept pace with her. "No, no," he quickly corrected. "Not yours ... his! Geerling Ambersong's." She looked at him blankly. "It's what you're carrying," he said, pointing at the magnificent jewel- and rune-covered vest in her arms.
She looked at it, then at him. Then she dissolved into giggles. "Oh! Oh, of course!"
"It's not an actual girdle of priestly might, of course," Pryce said casually, walking beside her. 'That only appeared after the Time of Troubles. Priests of Mystra took it as a sign that the goddess had regained her power. This is my master's... Geer-ling's ... version of it. It is said to give him greater strength and protection when worn."
"Really?" she said blandly. "How endlessly interesting. Why don't you wear it, then?"
"The power can't be transferred," he told her, taking interest in her disinterest. Was there something she was trying to hide? "In fact," he continued, "it might have a calamitous effect if I were to try it on."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, looking at it now with a certain misgiving and holding it farther away from her. Pryce smiled, noticing how the eyes of each militiaman they passed followed them with only their eyes.
"I'm sure there's no danger to you," Pryce told her, trying to ignore the disconcerting way one militiaman's eyes would stop at the right side of his sockets and the eyes of the one next to him would start. "I totally agree with you. No girdle should mar the perfection of your form."
He watched her reaction carefully. Her eyes shifted toward him with a moment of suspicion, then mutated into a look of
pride and pleasure when she decided he wasn't being vulgar. "Thank you, Mr. Blade." He could see she was still waiting for him to poison the conversation with an ill-chosen, licentious reply.
So he didn't even attempt a "Call me Darling." Instead, he said, 'That was quite a humorous misunderstanding back there." "When?"
"When I approached." "Oh?"
"Yes, and talked about the girdle." "Oh! Oh, yes."
"I actually haven't had a chance to fraternize much. I've been too busy studying. I leave all the socializing to Gamor Turkal."
He might as well have said "Call me Darling," for the reaction he got. Sheyrhen did not show disappointment, but she grew distant without moving a millimeter away from him. "Gamor," she repeated flatly.
'Yes," he said. 'You knew him, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes ... I knew him."
Pryce kept walking beside her, but turned his head toward the ceiling. "Ah, yes, Gamor. He always had an eye for a beautiful wench, serving or otherwise. I always think of them as people first and waitresses second. He always thought of them as ... as—
"As chattel?" Karkober said coldly. He looked at her in surprise. However, she did not avert her gaze or soften her retort. "I'm sorry, Mr. Blade, but I didn't like your... friend ... Gamor Turkal. He never once looked at me with anything approaching humanity. If I wasn't a vessel for his fantasies, I was little more than a piece of furniture bringing him his ale." Only then did she lower her head sadly. "Is that so terrible?"
"No," Pryce assured her, looking calmly ahead. 'That's not nearly as terrible as the other thing we've been doing since I first introduced the subject."
She looked at him with surprise and just a touch of misgiving. "What's that?"
"Speaking of him in the past tense," he revealed with a cheerless smile. "Excuse me, would you?" Pryce hastened his stride to move down the passageway until he approached Azzo Schreders.
Unlike his serving wench, Schreders seemed honestly glad to see him. "Blade! Let me say how honored I am to be chosen to even touch, let alone carry, such valuable magical items. I'll be telling my grandchildren and great-grandchildren about this! Eh, eh?"
"And hopefully even your not-so-great grandchildren, unless they've been sent to bed early," Pryce quipped feebly. Before the barkeep could summon up a forced laugh, Covington continued. "How could I have thought of anyone but the man who makes Lallor run? Everyone knows that if you need refreshment or information, Azzoparde Schreders is at your service."
The man's wordless acknowledgement was lacking a bit of his previous bonhomie. Pryce continued, unabashed. "How did you secure such a superlative establishment in the first place? Prices must have been prohibitive, especially a building with such an extensive liquor grotto. What's your secret, Azzo?"
The man looked stunned by the questions and more than a bit concerned. "Come, come, Azzo," Pryce said with genuine amusement. "You can tell me. After all, I'm the great Darlington Blade."
"Sir," the tavern master started slowly, losing all familiarity and licking his lips, "I wouldn't want to bore you with the details of my education, training, and experience as a manager of eating and drinking establishments."
"Of course not," Pryce agreed. "But I would like to know, in all seriousness, how a man of your education, training, and... what was the third thing again?"
"Experience."
'Yes, thank you. Experience... What was I saying?"
"In all seriousness... a man of my experience..." "Ah, yes! Tell me, Azzo, how could you not know about these caverns?"
Azzo blinked, swallowed, and replied, "I did." "Yes?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Blade, certainly!" Azzo practically burbled in his rush to confess. "I knew about them all along. This area is attached to my grotto by a small opening high on the rear wall. I knew they were here, but as you can see, I would have had to do extensive renovating to make them suitable for my liquor cellar. Besides, I had no idea where they led to and had no desire for all manner of creatures having access to my liquid refreshments. So I placed a large wine cask over the opening to seal it off." His smile was tentative. "I even filled the cask with our least distinctive vintage."
"Really?" Pryce replied with appreciation. "Not much chance of that particular cask being drunk dry, then, eh? Eh?"
Schreders chuckled nervously at Pryce's imitation of his verbal habit. "You'd be surprised," he said with forced friendliness. "Why, it was the favorite brew of many, shall we say, less discerning palates?"
Pryce chuckled back. "Like Gamor Turkal's?"
Schreders stopped chuckling. He even went a little pale. "Why, yes... come to think of it... it's the only thing Gamor ever drank."
Pryce nodded. "How endlessly interesting," he commented, quoting the nervous serving wench. 'Thank you, Azzo. You've told me what I needed to know. Excuse me, won't you?" He quickly bounded over to where Asche Hartov was heading up the retinue. "Ah, Asche, leading the way, I see." The mine owner didn't reply. Pryce tried again. "Spellbooks," he said, glancing at the volumes the man carried.
'You have a solid grasp of the obvious," Hartov said coldly.
"Still angry at me about the false name?"
"Angry? No, not angry. Offended."
"Come now, Asche! You know very well that the nature of our business discussions would have changed had you known I was Darlington Blade!"
"Not at all!"
"Now who's fooling whom?" Pryce exclaimed. "Are you telling me you wouldn't have dropped—or hiked, depending upon your mood—the price if you had known you were negotiating with the great Darlington Blade? That you wouldn't have at least checked your sources and contacts to see what possible edge you could discover? If you even think of telling me that, then you're not the businessman I respect or know."
While he talked, Pryce could see that Hartov was trying to smother a growing smirk, but he managed to contain his acknowledgment of the truth long enough to say, "Respect?"
"Certainly!" Pryce said expansively, putting out his arms. "Everyone from the top of Mount Alue to the tip of Githim knows the name of Asche Hartov, purveyor of high-quality ore." He put his arm around the mine owner's shoulder and spoke directly and quietly into his ear. "In fact, when I saw you in Schreders's tavern the other night, and again the night before that, I couldn't help thinking, Now, what is Asche Hartov doing in Lallor? He doesn't have a vacation home here. And who, in such an exclusive retreat, would be interested in buying ore even Teddington Fullmer wouldn't touch?"
Hartov looked at Pryce's smiling face in surprise, then with a trace of concern.
"Worried that I really am Darlington Blade?" Pryce wondered aloud. "Think I might be able to see right through that thin forehead of yours?" He removed his arm from Asche's shoulder and stepped away. The retinue suddenly stopped, all eyes on the mine owner. The inquisitrixes and militiamen watched intently as Pryce pointed at Hartov.
"Speak now, Asche," Covington demanded, "and speak the truth."
"I—I thought Geerling Ambersong might be interested," the mine owner sputtered, his eyes moving back and forth between Pryce and the inquisitrixes. "I heard he had plans for a skyship. And I knew he would appear for certain at this year's Fall Festival to announce his choice for his successor as primary mage." He stared at Pryce for a moment, then looked straight ahead. "I—I thought I might confer with him there."
"Fascinating," Pryce judged. "And where did you acquire this fountain of information?"
"What?"
"How did you know all this, Asche?"
"I—I told you, Cost... I mean, Darling... I mean, Blade! You know how it is. I heard a rumor...
Pryce smiled but kept him on the hook. "From whom?" "What?"
"Stop stalling for time and answer my questions. Whom did you hear the rumor from?" "From whom? I—I don't—" 'You do!" Pryce bellowed. "Who?"
"Gamor!" Hartov yelled, then stumbled. Pryce caught his arm and steadied him. When he was erect again, he couldn't meet Pryce's eyes. "Gamor Turkal," he said miserably.
"Ah, Gamor Turkal," Covington repeated with a tight smile, turning to the others. "Gamor once: a coincidence. Gamor twice: a pattern. Gamor three times: a connection. Gamor four times: a conspiracy!" He turned to the tavern owner, the serving wench, and the mine owner. "Follow me, you three... now."
Pryce marched up to where Berridge Lymwich and Matthau-nin Witterstaet stood on either side of the cavern opening just behind Schreders's restaurant. The opening in the wall had been widened to make room for the small army of security people who secured the location.
Pryce stood beside the gatekeeper as the three suspects emerged, blinking, into the tiny courtyard outside the restau-
rant's back door. Each gave Covington a different look as he or she passed. Sheyrhen: recrimination and concern. Schreders: confusion and apology. Hartov: nervousness and distress. But before any of them could speak, several militiamen and Inquisitrixes resolutely chaperoned them into the establishment.
That left Covington alone in the courtyard with Matthaunin and Berridge. "Anything?" Pryce asked Witterstaet out the corner of his mouth.
Matthaunin shook his head. "Not an ion of magical ability among the three of them."
"Enough guilt and fear to fill a wine cask, however," Lymwich groused. "Any one of them could have killed Fullmer."
"Let thee without guilt take the first sip," Pryce commented, then turned back to Witterstaet. "Do you have any idea what that means?"
"Not a bit, Mister Blade."
"I was afraid of that." He looked to Lymwich, who was shaking her head in disbelief. "Are we ready for our voyage?" he asked her.
Much to his surprise, she gave him a snappy salute, then motioned toward the back door. "Yes, sir. Right this way, sir."
He marveled that there was a sense of humor, or at least irony, beneath her iron foundation. The thought was pushed aside, however, by a growing sense of excitement. He looked at Matthaunin, who smiled and nodded sagely. "Oh, this will be a real treat, Mr. Blade," the gatekeeper said. "It has been quite some time since these old eyes of mine have witnessed a voyage of the magnitude you have requested."
"And been granted, apparently," Pryce said. "Let's go see the vessel that we'll be using, shall we?" He walked quickly through the kitchen and into the bar, the gatekeeper trailing behind.
Normally when one entered Schreders At Your Service by the rear door, the glory that was Lallor would fill his eyes as he passed the bar and walked into the main room. There, Lallor Bay
would be stretched out before him, beyond the crystal-clear windows that covered the front wall of the restaurant.
Pryce retrieved the book he had left behind the bar and then stepped into the central salon. But this time, he could see almost nothing of Lallor. Although the sun was almost a quarter of the way across the sky, the tables of Schreders were dark and empty. A shadow filled the room, and the bright autumn sunshine was blocked from view. Instead, through the windows, Pryce saw the rich brown beauty of the finest stevlyman wood.
Lymwich and Witterstaet went one way around the tables, and Pryce went the other. They met at the front door and went outside at the same time. The gatekeeper walked to the bow of the huge structure floating outside the restaurant, while Covington moved toward the passenger gangplank at the stern.
Between them, they took in the magnificence of the Great Mystran Skyship Verity.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Too High a Pryce
The skyship was virtually the national symbol of Halruaa. With the exception of fiery Haerlu wine, it was what most people thought of whenever Halruaa was mentioned. Its three towering masts were set in a broad-beamed skyfaring vessel equally at home in the air, on the water, or on land.
Pryce moved through the crowd that was gathering to admire the polished plates along the hull that mimicked the appearance of a dragon turtle. He looked toward Lymwich with an expression that said "nice touch." He looked back toward the hull when he saw she wasn't paying the slightest attention to him. Instead, she was checking an inventory list with the leader of the crew, who knelt in the open door of the hold.
Pryce put his ear close to the thick, shining wood of the hull to listen for the hum of the central silver shaft of levitation and the two golden cylinders of control, one at each end of the ship. The power source had to be recharged once a year by council members. By the powerful sound of the huge ship as it hovered five
feet off the ground and fifteen feet in front of Schreders's door, it must have been recharged very recently.
The ship was luxurious, yet it still had old-fashioned rustic charm. Pryce felt such a sense of welcome that he could hardly wait to get on board. He continued to make his way through the milling crowd of admiring onlookers, Lallor dignitaries, skyship crew members, and security officers.
None gave Darlington Blade the Lallor hello. Instead, they smiled, nodded, and cast approving glances his way. Pryce felt certain that by the time the ship was ready to leave, everyone in Lallor would treat him the same way. Never had Pryce felt such acceptance. These people were not judging his performance. They were really listening. Now, all he had to do was give them something to listen to.
"Who are you?"
Pryce hopped back to avoid bumping into Dearlyn Ambersong. Her eyes were haunted and red-rimmed, with dark circles beneath them. Her skin was pallid. He stopped, leaned toward her, stared, then leaned back again. "You should be on board," he told her quietly.
"Who are you?" she whispered urgently again.
He whispered back. "I'm Darlington Blade."
"No, you're not."
'Yes, I am."
Despite all the people around them, the two felt alone. She blinked and her eyes started to get wet. Then her lips grew thin, tight, and bloodless. As he watched, she somehow regained her composure. "You told me you weren't," she said, a deadly chill in her voice.
'You were going to kill me."
"But if you really were Darlington Blade, I couldn't have killed you!"
Even though her voice had begun to rise, Pryce did not alter his manner, volume, or tone. "Yes, but if I weren't Darlington
Blade, I most certainly would have hurt you."
She blinked, her mouth opening and closing on that conundrum. "But... you said... my father..."
Very carefully, he placed his hand on her arm, hoping he could keep her from falling apart. "Miss Ambersong. Dearlyn. Listen to me. I care for... " He swallowed, unable to finish the sentence after everything he had knowingly, and unknowingly, done to her. "I care what you think of me," he was finally able to say. "Get on board the ship. No matter what you may feel, and no matter what you have suffered, this I can promise you: It will all be over soon. Do as I ask. Please."
She stared at him for a few seconds more, then spun on her heel and hurried up the gangplank. Pryce took a deep breath, fighting off a feeling of shame. He straightened his shoulders and reminded himself that he had a difficult and extremely dangerous job to do. He touched the clasp and moved toward the companionway.
Several people he recognized as elders of the council gave him the highest sign of Lallor approval, "the Halruan Salute"—a nod of the head while pointing at the brain with the forefinger. Pryce was pleased to return the sign, hoping he would be living up to it very soon. He allowed himself a nod, minus the brain-pointing, to various other interested parties, including some junior patrol leaders, the head militiamen, and even a few elves and half-elves whose interest in illusion was so great that they were allowed to study in the city.
Finally Pryce made his way through the excited crowd to a walkway that led up to the deck. At the top of the gantry, a young human crew member was checking the passenger list. "Where is the captain?" Pryce inquired.
The crewman pointed toward the upper deck, where an officious older woman in a handsome sky-blue uniform, complete with golden epaulets and silver buttons, stood beside a pair of carved cylinders. Pryce walked quickly past several other crew
members who were bustling around the deck and hopped up the ladder-like steps to where she stood. He put out his hand as he approached her.
"Permission to sail with you, Captain. I am Darlington Blade."
Without hesitation, the woman took his forearm in her hand and he gripped hers in return. When people rode in a skyship together, they depended on and trusted each other implicitly. "Captain Renwick Scottpeter, Mr. Blade. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"It's a pleasure for me to be finally met." He looked at the blue sky and the gray clouds off in the distance. "Is everything in readiness for our voyage of sanctuary?"
"The inquisitrixes and priestesses of Mount Talath have prepared a beacon queue for us to follow," Captain Scottpeter reported. "Once we reach a certain altitude, we will be irrevocably drawn to the Central Temple of Mystra, where Greila Sontoin awaits us."
Pryce spun his head toward her. "Greila Sontoin herself?" he asked incredulously.
'To receive the life's work of Geerling Ambersong, personally delivered by Darlington Blade? She said, and I quote, that she 'wouldn't miss it for all the electrum in Zoundar.'"
Pryce smiled back with excitement and just a slight case of nausea. Sontoin was said to possess unearthly wisdom. "I am anxious to see how our meeting goes," he said honestly.
"As I am to see what you have planned for our expedition," said the captain, now surveying the horizon. "I'm told you have a most unique... entertainment... prepared."
Pryce grimaced. That would be the way Lymwich would term it. "I wouldn't precisely call it an entertainment, nor would I say I'm exactly prepared. I do hope, however, that you and your crew have also been advised to be prepared... for anything."
The captain nodded. "Please do not concern yourself on that score, Mr. Blade. You can rest assured that we will sail this ship
with infinite pride and determination no matter what occurs."
'Thank you, Captain. Now, is there some place where I can make ready for my presentation?"
She led him to her quarters, which were nestled below the upper deck, looking out the stern. After showing him inside, the captain took her leave. The ceiling was low, but otherwise the room was plush and comfortable. A crimson-covered bed was recessed into the wall toward the bow. A table and chairs were placed below windows that looked out the starboard side. An imposing wooden desk rested below the stern windows.
To his relief and growing pleasure, the wardrobe he had asked for was laid out on the bed. Before he concerned himself with it, however, Pryce took a moment to survey Lallor, and Lallor Bay, from above. It was indeed a beautiful city... truly the hidden jewel of Halruaa. Its proudly executed design made it a place to fight for, to die for... and apparently to kill for.
There was a knock at the door. Pryce glanced that way and said, "Yes?"
The halfling grotto manager stuck his head inside. "Blade?"
"Gheevy, my friend!" Pryce said with pleasure. "Do come in!" The halfling entered, looking deeply concerned. Pryce laughed. "My dear Wotfirr, don't worry. I assure you that I will rest on this voyage!"
"It's—it's not that, Blade. It's... well, how on Toril will you ever pull this thing off?"
Pryce furrowed his brow and came around the table. "What do you mean, my friend? What's troubling you?"
The halfling quickly looked to see if there was anyone else in the hall, then closed the door firmly. "It's like you said when you left the workshop," he said urgently. "We know now that Geerling, Gamor, and Teddington are dead. But there's one more person who is dead, and only we two know it!"
Pryce turned his head to one side, as if he heard something off in the distance. "Who?" he wondered.
"You know!"
"I'm afraid I don't," Pryce said calmly. "Darlington Blade!" Gheevy hissed. "I am Darlington Blade," Pryce said casually. 'Yes, but—"
Suddenly Pryce held up his hand. "Don't say it, Gheevy. I know. But if this is going to work, I have to remember one thing: I am Darlington Blade."
"But you're not!" the halfling wailed in despair. "And you know it!"
"No, I don't," said Pryce flatly, his expression blank. "What?"
"You're wrong, Gheevy. You were wrong when you said that 'only we two' knew one more person was dead, and you're wrong now."
Wotfirr looked intrigued. "Whatever do you mean?"
Pryce held up his forefinger. "The murderer also knows it," he reminded the halfling.
Realization dawned on the halfling's face, followed by storm clouds of anxiety. "Right. So how can you possibly reveal his identity without condemning yourself?"
Pryce just stared at his associate for a few moments, then turned idly toward the starboard window. He looked out while absentmindedly fingering the heavy wooden table. "An interesting question, that," he said so quietly that Gheevy barely heard him."Remember what I told you the most important letter was to a detective?"
"Certainly." The halfling nodded. 'Y."
"Exactly. Why. As in 'Why has the murderer let me live?' Or 'Why hasn't the murderer exposed me long before now?' " He cocked an amused eye at the halfling. "Do you have any answers, Gheevy?"
The halfling looked around the cabin helplessly. "No, none at all."
"That's too bad," Pryce Covington said somberly. "Because I think I do." He turned away again to see his reflection in the windows of the captain's cabin. "What if our murderer can't do either of those things?"
The halfling could only stare at the man who would be Darlington Blade, unable to comprehend.
'What do you mean?" he asked.
Pryce went on without looking at him. "Give me a moment alone, would you, my friend?" he asked quietly.
Gheevy took a final worried look at the man he had almost exposed, then subsequently risked his life to protect. "Of course," he said, then left the cabin, carefully and quietly closing the door behind him.
*****
"It's time to depart!" Berridge Lymwich bellowed from the bow. "Crew members, clear the deck and cast off the lines! Move those people back away from the ship!" The crew rushed to insure that the onlookers were clear of the lines, aided by the inquisitrixes, militiamen, and patrols lining the narrow plateau beneath the Verity.
News of a Mystran temple skyship's departure, its hold filled with the magical treasures of Geerling Ambersong, apparently traveled fast, and it appeared as if all the citizens of Lallor had turned out to see them off. Every street and yard along the sloping incline from the city wall to Lallor Bay was filled with people, halflings, elves, and half-elves, waving, setting off harmless magic fireworks, shooting magical streamers, and in general giving the Great Mystra Skyship Verity a magnificent send-off.
Berridge Lymwich turned from the railing to see that no passengers were considering anything as rude as getting skysick or as foolish as trying to disembark. After checking for several moments, she seemed satisfied that all of Blade's suspects were
present and accounted for.
Gheevy Wotfirr gave Berridge Lymwich a meaningful look as he passed. The halfling then slipped between the burly Azzo Schreders and the shapely Sheyrhen Karkober at the port bow. The inquisitrix looked down the deck to see that the stooped, jowly Matthaunin Witterstaet stood near Dearlyn Ambersong, both of whom were watched over by the gaunt Asche Hartov, who lived up to his name by appearing positively ashen.
Even though they all acted reluctant to participate in this journey, they wouldn't have missed the liftoff for, well, all the elec-trum in Zoundar, Lymwich thought.
At that moment, the Verity started to float skyward.
Renwick Scottpeter handled the carved cylinders like a musical instrument, allowing the levitation fields to be activated at just the right calibration. The liftoff of the big ship never failed to thrill her as it launched into the sea of the sky. She had labored long and vigorously to become a skyship captain, then trained the most capable, prepared, and resolute crew in the realm.
On the bow of the great ship was a beautiful figurehead, shaped by Minsha Tyrpanninq, Talathgard's finest sculptor. It was an interpretation of Mystra in flight, created entirely of elec-trum. The goddess's serene, smiling face looked up at the clouds, and her gown-swathed figure seemed to draw the ship irrevocably up toward the heavens. The Verity lifted forty yards from the ground, then slowly started a drifting turn to the northwest.
Lymwich turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes. She tried to feel the powerful magic emanations that would draw the ship unerringly toward Mount Talath, but a voice broke her concentration.
"Tend to your passengers," she heard a melodic voice say. Lymwich opened her eyes to see the disapproving gaze of Mystra Superior Wendchrix Turzihubbard, her direct superior and the principal authority at the Lallor Mystran Inquisitrix Castle. "Do not concern yourself with the flight," the tall, commanding
woman in the regal robes said. 'That is what I, and the others guarding the cargo below, are here for."
Her words reminded Lymwich once again that she was not only on this boat in a security capacity but also as a prime suspect—
"Mark two-five-zero-zero!" the bowman cried, his call being echoed until it reached the captain. "Mark-two-five-zero-zero!" she responded, moving the carved cylinder slightly so the climb was less steep. The heavy ship seemed to move along the calm air currents like a soap bubble, rising in small, smooth fits and starts.
"Mark three-zero-zero-zero!" cried the bowman.
"Mark three-zero-zero-zero!" cried the aftwoman.
"Lock on three-zero-zero-zero!" Scottpeter called. She expertly moved the cylinders until the ship leveled off. Dearlyn watched the captain enviously, thinking that her passion for her work rivaled that of the finest musician. Renwick played the levitation fields of the ship as if she were a conductor directing a symphony.
Dearlyn drank in the view of the skies above and the ground below. If she raised her head and ignored the handsome, shining deck, she could almost believe that she herself was flying. Then she felt a chill from the northwest and quickly hugged her cloak around her.
Dearlyn stepped down the ladderlike steps to the main deck, where she saw Azzo Schreders with his arm around a shivering Sheyrhen Karkober, while Matthaunin and Asche bundled up their own coats around their throats. Suddenly the three masts grew dark red, and the need to fight the chill was eliminated. Heat magically emanated from the pillars, extending to encompass the entire deck space.
"Navigator!" Scottpeter called from her post.
"Aye, Captain," the female elf answered through an open window behind Renwick.
"Course verified?"
"Course verified, ma'am. Two hundred and fifty miles northwest on an exact line of fifty-four degrees."
"Excellent. Inquisitrix Lymwich?" Scottpeter called.
"Here, Captain!" Berridge shouted back, resisting an urge to sneak a look at her superior's reaction.
"We have reached our cruising altitude. The Verity is at your disposal. Please be kind enough to prepare your passengers."
"Yes, ma'am!" Berridge turned toward the others. "All right, everyone gather around the center mast. The great Darlington Blade requests your attention."
The passengers made their way, some more reluctantly than others, to the area around the central pillar, around whose base was carved a visual history of the ship. Sheyrhen, in particular, marveled at depictions of flying dragons, great storms, and hordes of sky pirates. She turned only when she heard the cabin door behind them slam open. She turned to see what everyone else was already staring at.
Pryce Covington stood at the guidance rod of the ship, dressed in incredibly splendid robes of red and black. Shining from his breast was the Ambersong clasp that marked him as the great Darlington Blade. Completing the picture was the huge, leatherbound book he held in one arm. He stood before them, looking toward their destination as the clouds fittingly darkened overhead.
He opened his mouth and spoke.
"Excuse me for a second, would you?" He ran to close the heavy cabin door. "I wasn't prepared for the wind up here," he apologized to Scottpeter.
The captain laughed quietly. "The wind has a tendency to be rather strong at these heights," she informed him.
Pryce walked quickly back to the banister overlooking the main deck. He placed the spine of the book on the polished railing. " 'When you eliminate the impossible," he called to them, "whatever is left... no matter how improbable ... has to be the
truth.'" Pryce looked up. "This was the teaching that my master lived by." For effect, he let the book fall to the deck with a bang that seemed to echo beyond the gathering clouds.
"But my master is dead," he told them. 'You have known for half a day what I knew even before I set foot in Lallor." They stood and stared at him, waiting for the next revelation. 'You had never seen me before," Pryce continued, leaving the book near the captain and beginning to descend the ladderlike steps to the main deck, "and you never would have seen me at all had my teacher not been murdered. The reason—the only reason—that I came to Lallor was to find the killer."
He looked from one face to the next, registering their expressions of stupefaction, regret, concern, and recrimination. He took his first step among them. "Does this news surprise you?" he asked, putting his arms out wide. 'You all know my reputation: I'm an adventurer. What do I need of an exclusive land of leisure?"
'You—you knew all along?" Lymwich sputtered.
He turned to look directly at her. "I found his body by a tree when I arrived from the north," he said evenly, refusing to even hazard a glance in Gheevy's direction. "Next to the corpse of Gamor Turkal... hanged by the neck from the curve of the Mark of the Question."
That elicited an audible gasp from the thicket of suspects. Pryce set the scene for them, letting Geerling become the second corpse. It was the only way to feel his way through this murderous maze without revealing his actual identity.
"Oh, my deities!" Azzo breathed when Pryce had finished. "Murder? Here in Lallor?" He almost jumped when Covington suddenly lanced a forefinger at him.
"Exactly!" Covington cried. "Murder? In Halruaa? Incredible! Inconceivable. Absurd! What a heartless, wicked, brainless thing to do!" He turned slowly in a full circle, seemingly trying to comprehend the concept. "This is a community of the most successful, most powerful wizards in the nation! Who in his right mind
would murder someone here?
"And not just anyone," Pryce continued, waggling his forefinger. "A primary mage, no less, and his assistant. The assistant?" Pryce shrugged. "Not really a problem. But why hang him at the Question Tree, of all places? Why not just... well... club him and feed him to the jackals in the hills?" As he turned, he couldn't help seeing Gheevy cringe. He didn't let it faze him. If he was to survive this thing, there had to be as much truth as possible mixed in with the rest.
"But a primary mage? What could have possibly convinced an individual to take such a risk? And why leave him at one of the most recognizable landmarks in the area?" He looked into each face for an answer but found none. He turned toward the upper deck. "Captain Scottpeter! Do you know the most important thing to trust in a murder investigation?"
Scottpeter reacted as if Pryce were speaking ancient script, but she understood nevertheless. "No, Mr. Blade," she called back. "I'm happy to tell you that I have never required the knowledge." She glanced at her navigator, who had come out to witness this unique experience. "And I hope to the cloud dragons that I never will," she whispered to her.
Pryce turned from the captain to the others, moving slowly among them. "In a murder investigation, you can't trust your friends...." He looked pointedly at Asche Hartov. "You can't trust your teachers...." He looked at Matthaunin. "You can't
trust the authorities____" He looked at Lymwich. "You can't trust
your sisters...." He looked at Dearlyn. "You can't even trust a lover." He let his last glance rest on Sheyrhen before he walked past them all and talked idly to the sky.
"There is only one thing you can trust," he said. "M.O.M."
'Tour—your mother?" Lymwich stammered incredulously.
"No," Pryce corrected, walking back to them and counting on three fingers as he spoke. "Means. Opportunity. Motive. M.O.M." Before they could react to this, Pryce continued. "Means. Who
had the means to kill Gamor Turkal?" He looked at them. "Anyone of you, I would imagine. He was hanging by his neck from the branch of a tree. He was certainly not a heavy man. Once he was unconscious, I imagine that any one of you could have accomplished the deed."
Each looked suspiciously at the others until Pryce finally let them off the hook. "Ah, but who had the means to kill Geerling Ambersong?" Pryce shook his head sadly. "Now, that's a problem ... especially because even I could discern no obvious cause of death."
"Now, wait a moment," Lymwich interrupted irritably, stepping forward from the crowd. "Wait just a moment! Where are their bodies? Why haven't I—I mean we—been given the opportunity to examine them?"
Pryce caught a glimpse of Gheevy's pale face over Lymwich's shoulder before he plunged on. "The situation necessitated that I take precautions with both corpses, Inquisitrix Lymwich. I had to ensure that materials vital to the safety and welfare of our entire nation did not fall into the wrong hands." He could see Gheevy looking as if he were about to have a seizure, certain that this explanation would never pass muster.
The halfling was nearly right. Berridge went face-to-face with Pryce, seething. "Are you saying you don't trust the disciples of Mystra to—"
"That's enough, Inquisitrix Lymwich!" Mystra Superior Turzi-hubbard snapped. The imperious leader had slid silently behind the smaller woman. "If the great Darlington Blade felt that precautions had to be taken that precluded our authority, then that's good enough for me." But she gave Pryce a piercing parting glance and added pointedly, "For now."
Pryce grinned sheepishly. Even so, he was grateful for the reprieve, as short-term as it might be. "We were talking about means, Inquisitrix Lymwich," he chided. "And the fact that I could find no cause for my master's death."
"Very well," Berridge huffed, straightening her already straight uniform. "Go on."
'Thank you." Pryce turned his attention back to the others. "Any one of us could have killed Gamor Turkal, but why? Why kill anyone? To gain more land? To get more power? These are common motives for killing, but there's a difference between killing in battle and murder. There's killing in Halruaa every day. Ores kill ogres, ogres kill giants, giants kill people, people kill each other—sadly, it's happening all the time.
"But such is the nature of good versus evil," he stressed. "Killing occurs when good people must defend themselves against evil people for the good of the many. Murder happens when the battle between good and evil is lost inside one individual."
He held up his forefinger, then slowly let it curl back into his fist. "The great priest Sante wrote that when a good person is doomed, he closes his door and murders himself. But when an evil person is doomed, he opens his door and murders someone else. That, I'm afraid, is what happened here. Someone had come to the end of his morality. But why? What is the most obvious motive for these murders?" He pointed with both hands to the deck. "We're standing over it. Geerling Ambersong's life's work. Enough magic items and spellbooks to make everyone on board this ship wealthy beyond his grandest dreams."
He pointed at Berridge Lymwich. 'To you, it was an end to your ambitious means." He pointed at Dearlyn Ambersong. 'To you, it was a birthright." He pointed at Matthaunin Witterstaet, Labor's jack-of-all-trades and primary gatekeeper. 'To you, it was a way to become the one thing you could never become while Geerling lived." He used two fingers to point at Azzo Schreders and Sheyrhen Karkober. 'To the two of you, it meant that whatever you wanted, you could have." Finally he pointed at Asche Hartov, mine owner. "And to you, it meant the biggest business deal you could ever hope to make."
The suspects looked from Pryce to each other. They began to mutter, even apologize, when Pryce continued briskly. "So much for motive," he said dismissively. "Now we really separate the insidious from the innocent. Opportunity knocks. And who among you had the opportunity to murder anyone, let alone my master and his assistant?" He considered the nervous group.
"Matthaunin Witterstaet?" he wondered, then shook his head. "It's hard to believe anyone spending twelve hours beneath a watchful eye while studying the means, motive, and opportunities of hundreds of immigrants would have the lime or inclination to confront a mage and kill him.
"Sheyrhen Karkober? Is it possible that someone who appears so guileless and acts so silly is capable of plotting the coldblooded murder of a mage in the middle of a city of mages?" He nodded curtly. "Possible." She gasped. "But not likely," he concluded. She relaxed, but not for long.
"Besides," Pryce continued, "she was too busy hiding her affair with Gamor Turkal from the man who has secretly been her devoted paramour for years."
"Sheyrhen!" the restaurant owner shouted like a wounded bull. "How could you—"
Pryce cut off any further exchange between the two. "Forgive her, Azzoparde," he told him, stepping between the burly bar-keep and the shamed serving wench. "I'm sure Gamor pressured her unmercifully and made many tempting promises of wealth and fame he had no intention of keeping. I'm also sure that it was only one night, and she regretted it so deeply and was so intent on keeping you from being hurt that she allowed herself to become a murder suspect before she would admit the unfortunate truth."
Pryce moved his head so Azzo could see Karkober nodding anxiously, then quickly straightened to lock eyes with the restaurant proprietor. "But you yourself aren't out of the woods yet, Azzoparde Schreders. Although I know that the hours needed to
run a successful tavern are long, you have your own secret, don't you?" He stared at the bearded, burly man until Azzo's gaze wavered. Only then did Pryce shake his head. "You knew, didn't you? Just as Sheyrhen was keeping the secret of her one-night stand, you were keeping your knowledge of it from her, weren't you?" The burly tavern owner said nothing. Instead, he looked sheepishly down at the deck. Karkober ran into his arms.
Pryce stepped back, a small smile crossing his face. "No, although you might have the urge to kill Gamor Turkal for what he did," he told the burly man embracing the beautiful waitress, "I don't think you had the time or inclination to murder a mage."
"How—how did you know?" Azzo wondered.
"You forget," Pryce said with a grin. "I knew Gamor Turkal, too... probably better than all of you put together! And then... I saw the way you looked at Sheyrhen when you thought she had called me 'darling' in the bar last night. The rest was easy." He sniffed modestly.
He turned quickly from the visibly relieved barkeep to the defiant inquisitrix. "Berridge Lymwich," he mused aloud. "She certainly has cunning and desire that know few reins____"He stared
hard at the cold-eyed woman who faced him with her chin thrust forward.
He continued, his tone softening. "But she also has an entire castle of sisters who spend all day and night trying valiantly to teach her... that ambition without wisdom is meaningless."
Lymwich held her defiant pose for a moment more. Then the words made it past her mental defenses, and she blinked. Her stare wavered and she turned quickly to look at her inquisitrix leader.
WendchrixTurzihubbard smiled benevolently and slowly nodded.
As Berridge Lymwich looked down at the deck, her fists clenching and unclenching, Pryce stepped carefully around her
and faced the mine owner. "And now we come to Asche Hartov, visitor to our fair shore____"
"All right, all right!" the gaunt man exploded, surprising everyone, including Covington. "You want to know why I came to Lallor? I'll tell you why. Did I have the opportunity to meet with Geerling Ambersong and Gamor Turkal? Yes, I did, but I didn't kill them! I tell you, I didn't!"
"Wait a minute," Pryce cried, trying to mentally catch up with the mine owner's words. "If you didn't kill them, what did you do, Asche?"
Hartov stared at Pryce, his lips trembling. 'You know, Blade," he whispered, almost blubbering. "Don't you?"
"I only think," Pryce stressed. "You know."
"Yes," Hartov cried, hiding his face in his hands. "I plotted with them—Fullmer and Turkal and 1.1 admit it!"
Pryce hastily looked at Lymwich and Turzihubbard, holding his arm out to keep them back. "To do what, Asche?" he demanded. "Speak now, or they'll disintegrate you. You plotted with them to do what?"
The mine owner's head shot up, tears blinking out of his eyes, remembering where he was... and what powerful people were in attendance. "Not to kill anyone! To steal magic artifacts! We only planned to plunder the secret workshop, I swear!"
"Only to plunder the workshop" Lymwich cried, but a quick look from Pryce shut her up.
"Details," Covington demanded urgently of the mine owner. "In twenty-five words or less."
"Gamor—it was Gamor! He came to me with the idea. Teddington and I met with him several times. Turkal said he could get us inside. Fullmer would transport the material, and I would secrete it in one of my empty mines."
"It would take three people days to empty the workshop!" Dearlyn Ambersong interjected angrily.
"Not all at once!" Hartov babbled. "A bit at a time."
"But then Gamor was gone," Pryce said soothingly. "Wasn't he, Asche?"
"Yes," Hartov said, grabbing that reality like a life preserver. "I looked all over Lallor for him. Fullmer... Fullmer made me stay until we heard from him. Curse him!"
"Ah, yes," said Pryce. 'Teddington Fullmer." He turned away from the shuddering mine owner for the moment and addressed the others. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is as good a time as any to reveal to you a most important principle of detection. The most important letter for a detective is Y. And the most important why at the moment is this: Why hasn't the murderer killed me?"
The question caught everyone off guard for a moment. "Think about it," Pryce suggested. "The murderer was powerful enough to kill Geerling Ambersong, and I am merely his lowly student. Here I am, devoting all my energy to finding my master's killer, and what happens to me?" He looked resolutely at Gheevy. "Nothing. Why?"
It was safe to say that they were all perplexed. Pryce continued. 'When you think about it, there can only be one reason____"
Mystra Superior Wendchrix Turzihubbard wasn't interested in playing guessing games. "And what is that, Mister Blade?" She made it clear by her tone that the answer should be forthcoming immediately.
He looked at her calmly, pausing as thunder rumbled in the distance. "Because the murderer can't."
"Why not?" Turzihubbard retorted evenly.
He looked directly at her, but he spoke to them all. "Because the person who killed my teacher and master, Geerling Ambersong, is also dead."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Blade Straight and True
The sky rumbled once more. Pryce looked up to see storm clouds gathering directly in the ship's path. "Captain!" he called. "Can we avoid the storm?"
"No," Scottpeter called back. "But the beacon from Mount Talath will pull us through. It may be rough, but we'll make it!"
"Fair enough." Pryce turned back to the others. "But it doesn't give us much time."
"Mr. Blade!" Turzihubbard called out. "Explain yourself!"
He looked at her helplessly. 'This is the only thing that makes sense, Mistress Turzihubbard—especially if you follow Sante's teachings, which my master most certainly did. I ask you all to think about who else is dead."
He looked from one to the next as he carefully explained. "Gamor is gone. Geerling is gone. We will never know who killed them unless we solve the mystery of who murdered Teddington Fullmer."
It was silent on deck except for the creaking of stevlyman
wood and an ominous rumbling far off in the sky. Finally Matthaunin Witterstaet managed to choke out a laugh. "My word, Mr. Blade. It sounds rather like the sort of conundrum I set for my immigration test"
Pryce turned to him and smiled. "Yes, Matthaunin, that's true. For instance, why can't a person living in Halarahh be buried west of the River Ghalagar?" They all looked at each other for the answer, but it was forthcoming only from Pryce. "Because he's still living. Remember?" A few of them started to laugh, but Pryce added, "Unlike Teddington Fullmer." That sobered them up again.
"All right," Pryce stated, taking a position in the middle of the deck. 'Think. Remember that most of you were in Schreders's tavern the afternoon I spoke with Fullmer in the grotto. Any one of you could have overheard us planning a meeting for that night. But who is the only one who could have killed him and then, more importantly, placed him in the locked secret workshop?"
Pryce glanced at the clouds, which were boiling and turning black, then moved in among his audience for the intellectual kill. He looked from Witterstaet to Lymwich and back again. "You two told me. How much magic do the people we pressed into moving the contents of the workshop possess?"
"Why, none," said Matthaunin.
"And why would they kill Fullmer, anyway? To get the workshop for themselves?" Pryce waved that thought aside with a look of distaste. "A motive shared by all is no longer really a valid motive. Look for an unusual motive, a motive with a difference. In that motive the truth may lie."
He pointed at the remorseful mine owner. "Would he kill Fullmer in order to get out of their plan to plunder the workshop? I don't think so." He pointed at Azzo and Karkober. 'They were serving food and drink to dozens of people at the time Fullmer was attacked. The kitchen crew will corroborate that they never left the dining area."
"None of them possesses magical abilities," Lymwich spoke up. "And I was keeping my shift in front of the orbs of eyewitness in the Mystran Inquisitrix Castle, along with several of my sister inquisitrixes."
Both Pryce and the Mystra Superior looked at Lymwich in surprise. How dare she interrupt this denouement? But her purpose became clear when she turned to confront Pryce on the skyship deck. "There was only one other person with the necessary magical power," she said accusingly. Lymwich pointed directly at him. "You."
*****
Pryce Covington did not panic at her assertion. He even managed a small smile. "I didn't do it," he said mildly.
"Can you prove it?" Lymwich retorted, feeling a sense of triumph welling up in her. But her sense of accomplishment was short-lived.
"I can," he nodded. "I have a witness."
"Who?" Lymwich asked incredulously.
"Geerling Ambersong."
The suspects sputtered and cried out, and Lymwich even laughed derisively, but the Mystra Superior quieted them all. "The haunt!" she exclaimed.
Pryce nodded. "The haunt," he agreed. "Geerling Ambersong's restless spirit. He told us—Dearlyn, Gheevy, and me— who had killed him."
"He did not!" Dearlyn flared, marching forward. 'That's not true. I told you what happened, Berridge, and the halfling corroborated my story."
For the first time, Lymwich looked indecisive. 'You said Geer-ling's spirit possessed the still-living body of Teddington Fullmer. And when you asked him who he was killed by, he first said Darlington Blade, then paused. Then he said Darlington Blade
wasn't the one who killed him. It was—"
" 'It was the one behind him,' " Pryce finished for her. " 'Behind him.' Interesting choice of words. Not 'the man behind him,' but 'the one behind him.' Behind whom? Geerling Ambersong? Darlington Blade? Me?"
"What is this nonsense?" Dearlyn confronted him before anyone took careful note of his ironic list of suspects. "How can you say that these words prove anything?"
Pryce frowned and shrugged. "Well, perhaps not words, then, Miss Ambersong. What about actions?"
"Actions? What actions?"
"Ah, I see you didn't tell Berridge everything, did you?" He turned toward the halfling. "You remember, don't you, Gheevy? When Geerling was trying to control Fullmer's body, he seemed to point at me. Then when Miss Ambersong tried to kill me, he loomed up behind her—"
"Yes," croaked Gheevy, his voice cracking from so little use. "That's true! He fell on her, saying you had not killed him, that it was the person behind!"
"What are you two going on about?" Dearlyn interrupted angrily. "This is absurd!"
Pryce directed his words at her with quiet conviction. "A haunt's statement is sacrosanct," he informed her. "As are, I imagine, his actions. So I have no choice but to state categorically that you are, and were, 'behind' Darlington Blade metaphorically, physically, and actually quite literally."
Dearlyn looked at Pryce as if he had suddenly turned into a death knight. "You—you can't be serious!"
"I'm sorry, Dearlyn," he apologized sincerely. "But it had to be you. There is no one else."
"B-But why?" she cried. "How can it possibly be me?"
"Because," Pryce said, "you were the only one with the proper magic to accomplish it."
Had they been frozen in time, there would have been no less movement from the others. Only Dearlyn Ambersong's face moved. Her mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Her forehead became a sea of creases. Her eyes wavered and shook, her mind unable to accept the depth of his betrayal.
The sky took that moment to split open with thunder. The sudden sharp crack shook everyone. Karkober even let out a small shriek. Dearlyn may have said, "Do you know what you've done?" but Pryce couldn't be sure.
"Magic?" Lymwich declared. "What magic?"
Pryce didn't take his eyes off Dearlyn Ambersong. "Don't you see? It had to be her. The haunt fell on her. She was the only one with no alibi. She was the only one allowed free, unattended travel throughout the city. She is truly the one 'behind' Darlington Blade—physically in the workshop, but also during her father's entire life."
"She killed her own father?" Matthaunin asked incredulously.
Only then did Pryce take his eyes off her. "No," he explained. "Gamor Turkal killed Geerling Ambersong. She killed Gamor."
*****
It was the inquisitrix's turn to be flabbergasted. "Gamor?" Lymwich exclaimed. "You must be joking!" "Gheevy said you wouldn't believe it," Pryce mused philosophically, "but the one positive thing I remember anyone in Lallor saying about Turkal was that he had an incredible memory. I didn't realize why that stuck in my mind until now. He must have been memorizing everything Geerling had been teaching me."
"Nonsense!" Lymwich cried.
"Unlikely," Witterstaet agreed.
Pryce whirled on Hartov. "Asche! You said Gamor contacted
you. How did he accomplish that?" "What do you mean?"
"Did he send a messenger, come in person, or what?" "Why, no. He came to me... in a vision!" "Like dust taking form in a shaft of light... his face... talking to you?" "Why, yes."
Pryce turned back, his arms out. "You see? Magic. He was using unique Ambersong magic. And he had conceived of a way to steal the Ambersong legacy with the help of people he knew back in Merrickarta, which is where he came from. Only Geerling must have found out. But when he confronted Gamor, just before I arrived for a rendezvous, Gamor surprised him. Even with magical knowledge, the only way someone like Turkal could have killed someone like Geerling was through what is known in the lexicon as 'a lucky shot'"
He turned back to Dearlyn sadly. "But Gamor wasn't the only one taking advantage of Geerling's magical studies, was he? You, too, had been soaking up what you felt was rightfully yours, quite possibly following Gamor, your father, or both to eavesdrop on the lessons in magic. So you were there to witness what Gamor had done, and then you gave him a shot of your own."
"How can you even think that?" Dearlyn cried.
Pryce rolled right on. "But you couldn't just contact the authorities after you killed your father's murderer—not without revealing your own illegal knowledge. Inquisitrix Lymwich would have been overjoyed to enfeeble you for such an offense."
Dearlyn flashed a look of anger at the inquisitrix, who stiffened, then stared back at Pryce with pure hatred. 'You have destroyed me. Don't you know that?" Dearlyn asked.
"As you destroyed Gamor?" he responded. 'You had to make it look like a suicide, so you made it appear that Turkal had hanged himself."
"Blade, really!" a shocked Witterstaet piped in.
"Matthaunin, divide thirty by half and add ten," Pryce snapped with irritation. 'Tell me your answer when this is all over!" Covington quickly returned his attention to Dearlyn Ambersong. "You used your ill-gotten magic to lift Gamor's already dead body, but I'm sure you knotted the rope around his neck yourself!"
"How can you be so sure?" Lymwich growled skeptically.
Pryce looked this way and that, stopping only when he saw Dearlyn's staff leaning against the first mast. He leapt over and grabbed it. "How many times have you thrust this in my face?" he demanded, shaking it at her. "And each time I knew I had seen something that bothered me____"
He grabbed the horsehair covering and pulled it back to reveal the garden implements attached to the end by leather thongs. "Gardening tools indeed! This is nothing more than your way to carry a concealed weapon. But that's not what betrayed you. Each of those tools is tied to the staff by a very interesting knot .. .the exact same knot that attached the rope around Gamor Turkal's neck.1"
Lightning flashed down to strike the central mast, dancing in spider-webbed sparks all the way down to the deck. The thunder that followed a split second later was deafening.
"Captain!" Turzihubbard cried.
"Don't panic!" Scottpeter called back. "The masts act as lightning rods. The entire craft is grounded. We've been through storms like this before. Just a few more minutes and it all should be over."
The others began to look up at the storm clouds nervously. Pryce quickly pressed his advantage. "You always felt that you came second in your father's life," he accused Dearlyn. "You didn't really want his magical artifacts, which is why you never tried to block our moving of the Ambersong legacy to Mount Talath. No, you wanted your father's respect and his love. And ultimately you murdered out of love!"
"But what about Fullmer?" Lymwich called over the continuing thunder. "Wasn't he killed to prevent his robbery of the workshop?"
"Yes," Pryce answered, "but not because his killer wanted the spells for herself. She killed him to protect her family's good name. Had Fullmer, Turkal, and Hartov gotten away with their thievery, the name of Ambersong would have been forever besmirched ... especially if his stolen magic was ever used against Lallor or Halruaa."
"But Fullmer wasn't killed with magic!" Witterstaet said.
"Killed, no," Pryce explained. "But moved into the workshop, yes!" He turned to explain to Turzihubbard. "Sadly, a locked room mystery is essentially pointless in Lallor ... there are too many magicians who can easily accomplish the feat!" He turned back to Dearlyn, pointing her own horsehair staff at her. "You were the only one left besides me with the magical knowledge necessary to circumvent the workshop's special door. You couldn't gain entry yourself, but you could magically move a dying body into the room!"
At that moment, the first fat bead of rain slapped into the deck. A rapid-fire barrage of lightning and thunder sent the suspects scurrying. Pryce stood his ground, however, and shouted the rest over the noise of the storm. "Luckily for you, your father's own haunt overwhelmed any echo of your magic. Even if Witterstaet had perceived its shadow, it's likely that he would have recognized it only as Ambersong magic, not Dearlyn Ambersong magic!"
At the mention of her name, Dearlyn suddenly grabbed the shank of the staff and tore it from Pryce's grip. In a split second, she had it whirled around and pointing directly at Covington's heart.
"Dearlyn Ambersong!" Turzihubbard boomed from the rail as more rain began to smack onto the deck. "Threatening Darlington Blade will gain you nothing!"
"Darlington Blade?" Dearlyn cried as another thunderbolt filled the sky. 'This isn't Darlington Blade! He told me so himself!"
Gheevy gritted his teeth and sucked in his breath, but Pryce held his ground, his palms up in innocent supplication.
"Come now, Miss Ambersong," Lymwich said, both threateningly and soothingly. "It's too late for wild accusations. They won't help you now."
Dearlyn laughed into the rain, which now pounded the deck like thousands of tiny fists. "No! Nothing will help me now!" she screamed into the wind.
Lymwich took another step toward her, but the deck was getting slippery and the storm was becoming blinding. Dearlyn backed up, keeping the staff between Pryce, who hadn't moved, and Lymwich, who wouldn't stop moving.
"I won't be enfeebled," the daughter of Geerling Ambersong warned. "Not by the likes of you." But she saved her greatest animosity for the man who had accused her. "You!" she said miserably. "So the 'great' Darlington Blade triumphs once more. I'm 'behind' you again, am I? Well, at least this will be the last time!"
Dearlyn hurled her staff with all her might. It sliced through the air, started to curve, then went directly between Lymwich's legs, tripping her. The inquisitrix went down in a heap.
Dearlyn turned and raced toward the bow of the skyship as the Verity entered into the very worst of the storm. Lightning bolts danced around her as rain splashed and thunder rolled. Pryce charged after her, the lightning bolts slashing vengefully across his path.
Dearlyn leapt atop the railing, holding onto the figurehead of Mystra with one hand. She turned to see Pryce diving after her just as a lightning bolt smashed down directly into his chest.
The others gasped and fell back, their hands and arms shielding their eyes. Pryce danced in place, his toes actually leaving the deck as the bolt crackled and coursed... into the cloak clasp.
For a second it was hard to tell whether the bolt was going in or coming out of the sea of brilliant sparks. But then the lightning was gone, and Pryce stood six feet from Dearlyn, completely unscathed. The only evidence of the strike was a small wisp of smoke rising from the cloak clasp.
Covington blinked in surprise as Dearlyn threw her head back, laughing hysterically. 'The great Darlington Blade! Even the gods can't touch him!" Then she looked at him evenly, all hysteria leaving her voice. "I knew there was good reason to hate you."
And with those final words, Dearlyn Ambersong stepped off the rail and disappeared into the clouds below.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Pryce Is Right
'Twenty-five," said Gheevy Wotfirr. "Wrong," said Pryce Covington.
It was a beautiful autumnal afternoon, and they were walking through the rolling green hills southwest of the Lallor Gate. It was in the direction completely opposite from the Mark of the Question Tree. Behind them, beyond the Lallor walls, the Fall Festival was in full swing. Even from here, the two could hear the music and revelry that marked the celebration.
"Divide thirty by half..." Gheevy considered again.
"Yes?"
"And add ten." 'Yes."
'Twenty-five." "No."
"Argh!" Gheevy groaned, balling his little fists. To say that the remainder of the voyage to Mount Talath had been uneventful would be an understatement, considering what
had come before. Incredibly, within minutes of Dearlyn Ambersong's leap, the Verity had cleared the storm clouds, and the rest of the journey was made in blue skies and sunshine.
No one on board, however, was in a mood to appreciate it. Karkober couldn't stop crying, while the rest of the people who had once been suspects either sat in motionless shock or wandered around in a reflective fog. Despite that, the grandeur of Mount Talath was such that even the most aggrieved individual couldn't help but be overwhelmed by its majesty. Then there was the powerful presence of Priestess Greila Sontoin.
Wearing spectacular ceremonial robes, she had swept down a long runway that was swathed in thick blue velvet. There was a big smile on her pale, lined face, but she looked remarkably good for a person rumored to be more than a hundred and twenty-five years old. To the crew's surprise, and Pryce's shock, she opened her arms to welcome the great Darlington Blade, who shyly came forward, falling to his knees before her.
" 'One knee,' " he later told the enraptured crew on the trip back. "She actually whispered to me, 'One knee is all that is required. One knee looks like I'm going to bless you. Two knees and you look like you're going to be sick all over my shoes!'" But no matter how they begged and entreated him, he wouldn't tell them the subject of their short, but extremely private, talk.
"Rest assured that the legacy of Geerling... and Dearlyn... Ambersong is in the best possible hands," he told them. "And that you are all welcome to visit anytime ... and perhaps even enter the Order of Mystra to learn the wisdom of the ages."
That was when Matthaunin Witterstaet finally gave Pryce the answer to his conundrum.
'Think, Gheevy," Pryce insisted, making it to the top of another green, grassy hill beyond the Lallor Gate. "Half. By half. What's half?"
"Of thirty? Fifteen."
"Yes and no. You'll never get anywhere if you don't listen.
Fifteen is half, right? So?"
"So... thirty divided by half is fifteen!"
"No, no! You're not listening to the actual problem!"
They kept going at it until they came to the crest above a low, rolling valley. There, nestled in the gentle slope below, was a small but comfortable-looking abode made of stone, wood, and plaster.
"There it is," Pryce said. 'Teddington Fullmer's cottage." He started down toward it, the wind rippling his clothes and hair, but Gheevy had only one thing on his mind.
"All right, I give up," said the halfling, coming up from behind Pryce. 'You tell me. What's the answer to your conundrum?"
"I'm not telling."
"Oh, come on, Blade!"
"No," Pryce laughed and then began to run. 'You have to get it yourself."
And so it went, until they reached the cottage's unlocked door.
"Half is half," Gheevy was saying as Pryce stepped inside. 'You cut something in half..." Then he, too, stepped inside. All conversation stopped as they looked in awe at the inside of the cottage.
The furniture wasn't much—a simple but comfortable table, utilitarian chairs, a writing desk, and a bed—but all four walls, including the windows, were lined with row upon row of bottles of every shape, size, and color. Light from the windows shone through the bottles, creating a rainbow effect.
This has to be the most complete collection of bottled liquor anywhere in Lallor," Gheevy breathed in wonder. "Maybe in all Halruaa!"
"Well, he was a trader in liquid refreshments," Pryce said, "when he wasn't plotting the theft of magical items, that is."
"So the Mystra Superior told you you could have first pick?" Gheevy asked.
"He's a convicted conspirator," Pryce told the halfling as he
walked slowly around the large single room, "and a murder victim. She said I should at least come out here and see if there was anything of interest for the castle in my capacity as Lallor's new primary mage."
Gheevy laughed in mirth and amazement. "Blade, Blade, Blade. How on Toril are you going to—"
"I haven't officially accepted the post yet," he interrupted.
"But you must!" Gheevy contended. "You've come this far. What else would you do?"
"Hey, I'm Darlington Blade!" Pryce reminded him. "I'm supposed to be a great wandering hero, a legendary traveling adventurer, remember? Besides, I think I'd have more luck playing off my reputation to a new audience every night. I think the element of surprise is kind of lost here____"
"Nonsense!" Gheevy jovially argued. 'You're a part of Lallor history now... and what a history! To these people, a man who has had a private audience with Greila Sontoin can do no wrong." Then his voice became serious. "And, remember, you have friends here, too. Where else, in all of Halruaa, can you say that is true?"
Pryce looked askance at the halfling, one eyebrow raised. "Well, if I'm going to even think about staying here," he exclaimed, "I'll need to know that my friends are smart enough to figure out a simple conundrum!"
"Blade, I tell you I can't—"
"Come, come. I'll make it easy. What do you do when you divide by half?"
"Half of thirty is—"
"No, no, no. Stop thinking that way."
Gheevy Wotfirr grew silent, thinking. Finally he ventured, "Divide thirty by half? Half of thirty is fifteen."
Pryce shook his head with a grin. "Not half of thirty. Just half!" "Half?" Gheevy said in wonder. "Half is... half is—" 'Yes?"
"Half is... zero-point-five." "There!"
"Thirty divided by zero-point-five is... sixty!" "Now add ten."
"Seventy. The answer is seventy!"
"Excellent, my dear Wotfirr," Pryce said proudly. "Elementary numerology."
Gheevy laughed. "Amazing, Blade. How do you do it?"
Pryce waved a hand airily. "It's a gift. Or a curse, depending upon your point of view. After a hard life and a tough job, I've learned that little things are almost always important. Things that don't add up logically or psychologically pinch at my brain."
"I'll tell you one thing," said the halfling, beginning to study Fullmer's collection in earnest. "Your brain is certainly well connected to your mouth. On the skyship? I never saw such a thing. You were so convincing I almost believed you were Darlington Blade!" He laughed in honest appreciation. He only became serious while studying an extremely rare bottle of Jhynissian wine. "Where do you think Geerling Ambersong's body actually is, anyway?"
Pryce's words were quiet and flat. "What? You don't believe me?"
"Come along now, 'Blade,'" Gheevy stressed without interrupting his examination. "We both know who those bodies actually were—"
Pryce's next words succeeded in getting the halfling's attention. "Well, actually, that's not exactly true."
Gheevy looked at his associate in surprise, then tried to smile. "What are you talking about? We both saw Darlington Blade's corpse."
Pryce was standing just inside the door, leaning his back against the wood. "You're not listening again, Gheevy. You said we both knew who those two bodies were. To say that is not true is merely a statement of fact. / only knew who one of those bodies
was. You told me who the other one was."
"Is this ... is this another conundrum?" the halfling asked weakly.
"In a way. Sante wrote, 'Never trust what a person says, only what a person does.' Remember? You told me that yourself. You didn't attribute it to the source, but there you go."
Gheevy stood straight, his shoulders back. "I have been nothing but loyal and straightforward with you!"
"Now, now, my friend, don't get defensive. Sante also wrote, 'Never trust what a person says about another, but always trust that what he says about himself may be just the opposite.'"
"I'm beginning to hate this Sante," the halfling muttered darkly.
"No need, since it seems you have read him yourself. And since Geerling Ambersong had the only complete works that I've ever seen, I wonder how it came about that you know his writings."
"Oh, for Sontoin's sake!" Gheevy erupted in exasperation. "It's only a phrase, Blade! I don't know where I got it. It's such a universal sentiment, I may have made it up. There! I made it up. Are you satisfied?"
"Well, if you want to know the truth... no."
Gheevy stared at him for a few moments, then began to laugh. "Oh, I know what this is all about," he said. 'You're feeling guilty about Dearlyn killing herself, aren't you? So now you're rooting around for some other explanation—any other explanation. You're seeing murderers everywhere, aren't you? All right, then, it's your turn to think. Because really, does it matter whose body it actually was? Gamor killed the real Darlington Blade, Dearlyn or Geerling killed him, then maybe Geerling killed himself, and Dearlyn killed Teddington. Maybe the jackals got Geerling; I don't know. I don't care! The haunt proves that Geerling is dead, so it's over! Everyone got justice, everything is taken care of, so face it. It's over. We've won. You've won! So just let it be, can't you?"
Pryce wasn't impressed. "F, Gheevy." "What?"
'Why? It's the very first, and the very last, question. Why? You want to know the biggest why in this case?"
Gheevy sighed elaborately and rolled his eyes. "All right, Blade, if you must. What is this case's biggest why?"
"I must," Pryce Covington said quietly. "The biggest why is why would a hero as famous as Darlington Blade insist on remaining unseen?"
Gheevy reacted like a talentless entertainer caught in the eye of the Lallor Gate. 'What did you say?"
"It was what was bothering me from the very outset," Pryce explained. "Why would a valiant, celebrated adventurer hide himself from his admirers? Why would a mage as beloved as Geerling Ambersong teach such a heroic figure in secret... secret even from the knowledge of his cherished daughter?"
Gheevy's mouth flopped like a fish in the sand. "But—but you said—"
"My explanation was feeble even to my ears. At last year's Fall Festival, Geerling announced that Darlington Blade would appear this year to take his place as primary mage. I said that I, 'Darlington Blade,' appeared only to find my master's murderer. Of those two sources, who would you believe?"
"But—but we saw Darlington Blade's body!"
No, you saw Darlington Blade's body! I saw the body of a complete and utter stranger! A stranger who I thought had absolutely no reason to shield himself from the eyes of the residents of Lallor. So why? Why had no one—no one alive, that is—seen Darlington Blade except you?"
Gheevy Wotfirr's voice, when he finally replied, sounded different. It was no longer light or helpful or eager or friendly.
Gheevy Wotfirr's voice was now flat and deep and dangerous. "Why don't you tell me?"
Pryce Covington moved his face into a shaft of multicolored light. "Because you are Darlington Blade."
*****
Gheevy Wotfirr didn't laugh. He didn't try to defend himself. He didn't even try to dissuade Pryce of his contention. Instead, he asked for an explanation. "How do you figure that?"
Pryce cleared his throat and leaned against the door. "It's all about fashion, really," he said diffidently. "You know what a fashion plate I am, Gheevy. I want everything to be just so. So it really bothered me that the one thing I couldn't afford to take off or change was this cursed cloak." He fingered the clasp even now. "And while everyone treated me royally, I actually felt a tinge of jealousy that every other cloak in Lallor nearly reached the ground, while mine stopped above my knees."
Gheevy couldn't help shooting a glance at Pryce's legs. Sure enough, the bottom of the cloak ended midway down his legs.
"Think back, Gheevy," Pryce continued. "Even Dearlyn's cloak reached the ground. So why didn't the supposed matching cloak of Darlington Blade also reach the ground ... unless the real Darlington Blade was almost two feet shorter than a normal human?"
Gheevy remained silent, still holding the bottle of Jhynissian wine.
"Remember when I first fell to my knees in front of you, begging you not to give my identity away? That was the only time we ever saw eye to eye. If you wore this cloak," said Pryce, nodding with certainty, "it would reach the ground."
Pryce waited. Gheevy finally spoke. "Is that it? Is that all you've got? The length of cloak hems this season?"
Pryce looked down sadly. "Not quite. You lauded my perfor-
mance on the skyship a few moments back, for which I thank you. I really couldn't have done so well had I not mixed in as much truth as I possibly could. Remember when I said a haunt's words and actions were sacrosanct in the eyes of the law? True. But interpretation is nine-tenths of the law."
"So?" Gheevy challenged. "What you said up there makes sense. Still does. The haunt jumped the wench."
Pryce shook his head again, both at the halfling's attitude and his coarsening language. "You're not asking the right why again, Gheevy. Namely, why would a mage take all the trouble to become a haunt... and then take back his dying clue? You heard him! He actually contradicted himself. He clearly stated that Darlington Blade was the one who murdered him, then a second later added a feeble contradiction. Why, in the name of all the deities in the heavens? Why?"
"And the answer is... ?" Gheevy drawled sarcastically.
"The single best answer I can think of is fear. The same sort of fear you started to show when you thought the haunt would name you. Geerling tried, but he only knew you as Darlington Blade! He wasn't pointing at me. He was pointing at the cloak clasp! Then he realized that if he did name you, you had it in your power to kill his only child ... and whoever this strange fellow was who was now wearing the cloak. So he did what any loving parent would do in the same situation... what he had been doing for his daughter's entire life, in fact. He protected his child, while trying to provide her with a clue to the truth, all while attempting to remain in control of a dying, very recalcitrant body."
Again silence reigned in the cottage until Pryce inquired quietly, 'That's why Teddington Fullmer had to die, wasn't it? Not because he found the secret workshop. He hadn't, until you put his mortally wounded body there. It was because he was foolish enough to broach a confidence in order to gain the upper hand in a business transaction."
Gheevy looked up sharply. It was all the encouragement Pryce
needed. "You had sworn Azzo to secrecy about the length of time you had worked at his tavern, hadn't you? Remember when I confronted him about his secret on the skyship? That's what I was alluding to, Gheevy. And guess what? On the way back from Mount Talath, I took him aside and called him on it. Do you want to know what he said?"
Wotfirr's eyes were mere slits. "I have absolutely no interest in anything that fat, lovesick dog has to say."
"I'm sure the inquisitrixes would," Pryce countered, looking braver than he felt. But his anger drove him on. "He admitted to me that you promised him the finest grotto in Lallor if he maintained that you had been working with him for years. But he had let slip—or Teddington had guessed—that you had only been stocking the liquor for a short time. I was hiding behind the cask when Teddington suggested it. You, of course, denied it with a great show of wounded pride, but you decided then and there to silence him, didn't you?"
When Gheevy didn't answer, Pryce continued on inexorably. "But Fullmer, bless and curse him, told me more than just that. He said that he almost believed for a second that I was Darlington Blade. If only I had understood the subtext of both statements sooner. Namely, in the latter case, that if I could be Darlington Blade, then someone else could be, too. Namely, you."
Silence settled again, like the dissipating dust of Gamor Turkal's magic communications. Gheevy's first words in some time were flat but challenging. "So," he said. "How's your mom?"
"Unfortunately she's dead," Pryce said without pause. "Like almost everyone who truly knows you. But more to the point, opportunity and means were no problem for you, were they? Oh, no, not for the great Darlington Blade!"
"So that only leaves motive, doesn't it? What do you have to say about that, little man from Merrickarta?"
Pryce was cautioned by the obvious warning in the halfling's well-chosen words. The tide was beginning to shift, and the
weight of evidence was growing ever heavier on his shoulders. But he was letting Covington know that he would not bear such overwhelming weight for long. So be it. Pryce had made himself ... and Dearlyn Ambersong... a promise.
He stepped forward, back into the light, returning the challenge directly at the murdering knave. "Don't you wonder what Greila Sontoin and I discussed in our private conversation? Everyone else does. In fact, you gave me a hint that you were interested when we first arrived here."
"All right, I'll give you that," Gheevy conceded. "I thought for certain she would disintegrate you on the spot." He left unsaid that he had hoped for that, but the thought hung in the air anyway.
'Truth be told, so did I," Pryce agreed. "Of course, she knew I wasn't Darlington Blade, but she did know who I was. Not merely my name, but my objective, my goal in life, even my heart's true desire. I laughed off her declaration that I was a man of good intentions and an open heart, but I had to accept what Priestess Sontoin saw in me. I don't desire to brag, but she said, and I quote, You continue to live in my domain for one reason, and one reason only. For if the true spirit of the great Darlington Blade is to truly exist, it will exist in you and you alone.'"
"I think I'm going to cry," Gheevy whined with mock emotion. His next words came in an angry rush. "Are you telling me that she knew all along?"
Pryce was unfazed. "I honestly don't know, but I don't think so. She just knew that I wasn't Blade... that no one truly was the legend... not yet. But more important, Gheevy, do you know the one thing I asked her?"
"I'm not a mind reader or a priestess of unearthly wisdom!" he snarled. "I'm a halfling whose patience is rapidly coming to an end!"
"Then you shall have your answer quickly. I asked her if there was a Mystran spell to detect Derro heritage."
* * * * *
Gheevy growled slowly in the back of his throat, his sharp little teeth beginning to show. "I gather there was such a spell," he said darkly.
"If there wasn't before, you've answered my question now," Pryce assured him, moving toward the door. "All along I had to keep asking myself, 'If all my theories are correct, why is Darlington Blade doing this?' I thought I knew why Geerling Ambersong did it—it's in the teachings of Sante. He wanted to show the Council of Elders how wrong they could be when they restricted the teaching of magic. He thought magic would ultimately elevate all who learned it. That any need to do evil would be eliminated as they gained insight, strength, and wisdom.
"But the big problem was that the council was right! Geerling Ambersong's fatal mistake was to think that Darlington Blade would be his ultimate triumph. Living proof that magnificent magic, kindly and wisely taught, even to a person who had a heritage that wished only to see humans sadistically killed and to pervert knowledge to its own dark desires, would triumph in the end."
Gheevy laughed a derisive laugh. "I just love happy endings, don't you?"
Pryce's skin crawled. Everything he had been concerned about was true. And he was facing a Derro-halfling ... one with the power of Darlington Blade. "The ending to this story is not yet written, my friend," he reminded the killer. "So who will it be written by... Gheevy Wotfirr or Darlington Blade?"
The halfling barked out a final laugh, his look and demeanor entirely changed. He now exuded strength, and there was no uncertainty or kindness in his posture or expression. "It doesn't make any difference!" he cried. 'They are one and the same!" And then he started to unleash the magic Geerling Ambersong had taught him at the cost of the primary mage's own life.
The back wall exploded outward. Bottles and liquid shattered and splashed everywhere. Pryce pulled the cloak over his head and ducked down. Glass sparkled like whirring gems in the light of the exposed window. Gheevy's spell was interrupted, and suddenly the halfling was thrown back—by the power of the mongrelman's onslaught.
"Gurrahh!" Gheevy cried, falling to the floor. He rolled to the opposite wall and came up on one knee as the mongrelman continued to charge. He deflected Geoffrey's attack with a scintillating sphere spell. The energy ball appeared before him and pulsed twice. The lumbering mongrelman dodged as best he could but was caught by the edge of the second pulse. It sent him crashing to the floor, shattering even more bottles, where he lay jerking in place.
"Is that his name?" Pryce demanded, jumping to his feet. "Gurrahh?"
Gheevy looked up, his face twisted in anger and his breath heaving. "I don't know!" he barked. "I don't care. That's what I called him because that was the stupid noise he always made!"
"I called him 'Geoffrey,' because he kept saying 'Gee-off-free,'" Pryce said with regret. "But he wasn't trying to tell me his name, was he? With his tortured, multigenetic throat, he was trying to tell me your name!"
"And as usual, you wouldn't listen!" Gheevy spat back. He slid through the spilled liquor and broken glass and gave the mongrelman a resounding kick on the side of his head. Pryce winced but held his position. An attack now would be sheer suicide. "Curse this useless hunk of hide, Gamor Turkal, and you as well!" Gheevy cried in frustration. "If Turkal had simply done his job without getting any stupid ideas, none of this would have happened!"
Pryce's stratagem worked, in a small way. So intent was
Gheevy on showing off his superiority that he delayed destroying Pryce and underestimated the power of the wretched mongrelman. Gurrahh suddenly rose up, grabbing for Gheevy's legs. The halfling was too quick for the monster, though. Nimbly he hopped up to the open window Gurrahh had jumped through, stamping on the mongrelman's stomach as he went. He spun to leave the two with a killing spell, but instead he took a bottle full in the face.
No one could fault Pryce Covington's deadly accurate throwing skills.
The bottle shattered, and Gheevy flew backward out the window. The mongrelman charged after him as Pryce slipped out the front door and ran around the side. He reached the adjoining field in time to see Gheevy, wet and cut but hardly the worse for wear, a good twenty yards ahead of him and ten yards ahead of the lumbering mongrelman.
No! Pryce thought. He couldn't let the halfling escape now. Then it would only be a waiting game to see when the vengeful creature would torture and finally kill him ... but not before he tortured and killed everyone Covington cared about.
Pryce ran as fast as he could, even moving ahead of the mongrelman, but Gheevy was faster. The halfling obviously had the same thought as Covington and was probably even now plotting the first sadistic move of an endless vengeance. To his horror, Pryce heard Gheevy laugh; then the halfling put on more speed, moving farther and farther ahead of the tiring human.
A furry blur sped past Pryce at a pace that outclassed even Wotfirr. In a matter of moments, the jackalwere was upon the halfling, snarling and tearing at his clothes. Pryce dived at the hairy, rolling, clawing bundle but was hurled back by a sudden circlet of pure white energy.
"Cunningham!" he screamed. Pryce could see the human-sized jackal within the circle, contorting in the air and howling unnaturally. Then the circle winked out, and the jackalwere
crumpled to the ground in a twisted heap.
Pryce vaulted to his feet and sprinted forward just in time to see the halfling's back at the very crest of the hill. As he ran, Pryce could see more and more of the ground beyond the top of the mound. To his amazement, he noted that the halfling was no longer running. In fact, he was just standing there, looking down at a patch of brown stevlyman and white bevittle trees.
Standing in front of the small forest was Devolawk, the broken one. Beside him, her arm around what constituted the tormented creature's shoulders, was Dearlyn Ambersong.
*****
"I saw you die!" the halfling screeched.
"You saw me fall," she corrected vehemently. "In Halruaa, there's quite a difference."
Pryce took a quick glance back at Cunningham. He lay in a charred circle of ground, his fur burned and his skin flayed, yet the suffering jackalwere still moved. Pryce returned his attention to the guilty party. "I saw to it that another levitation field was created beneath the ship," he called to the halfling, keeping his distance. 'The Mystrans collected her in a ship that flew below ours."
"They caught you?" the halfling sputtered, finally at a loss. "But why the charade?"
"I had to keep you at bay until the Ambersong legacy was safe," Pryce explained tightly. "I also had to be sure. And I had to give the inquisitrixes a solution that wouldn't threaten Dearlyn or me in the future!"
Wotfirr turned on Pryce with rancor. "Threaten? What do you mean by that?"
'You helped me, Gheevy," Pryce revealed. "By deceiving you, I was able to concoct a plan in which I would keep the inquisitrixes from finding out about Dearlyn's magical abilities by accus-
ing her of it—in a melodrama designed to trap you!"
"Trap?" the halfling blurted. "You mean the authorities still don't realize that she has... that you aren't... ?"
Pryce merely smiled and nodded knowingly. "You tricked me," the vengeful little thing seethed. 'You! The dupe! The gull! Once I discovered that Gamor had contacted you, I decided that you should be the one to take the blame for the deaths. But then you had to take the cloak—the cloak that would mark Geerling Ambersong as a fraud and a fool—and set off this farce of mistaken identities!"
"My father?" Dearlyn choked. "A fraud?"
The halfling whirled on her. "My plan was perfect. Lymwich would find your father dead, in a youthful form, wearing the Darlington Blade cloak. What else could she think? Only that your father was trying to hold on to his power by using a youth spell and pretending he was a vital new mage named Darlington Blade! They would assume that the doddering old idiot made a mistake and died in the process." The halfling grinned wickedly at her. "My killing spell was designed to leave behind that echo for Witterstaet to find ... the masterful spell I murdered Geerling Ambersong with!"
He turned so quickly and his expression was so evil that Pryce actually took a step back. "But this incredible idiot had to come along and ruin it all! I swore I would play him like the puppet he was and lead him to inexorable destruction. And so I still will." He looked back at Dearlyn with a wicked sneer, pointing at Pryce with a clawing finger. "Don't you know how he lied and used you? Don't you know what he did to your father?" He pointed at the tremoring jackalwere. "He fed him to that!"
Dearlyn bit her lip, her eyes wavering. But then her shoulders straightened and she stared straight back at the depraved halfling. "He didn't want to do any of it," she said shakily.
"Nonsense!" Wotfirr roared. "All he cared about was staying alive!"
"No," she answered, her voice gaining strength. "Maybe to begin with... maybe at the start, yes." She looked at Pryce with sadness, and then something else. Something brave, even kind. "But not afterward," she maintained. "I know that for a fact" She turned to look haughtily upon her father's murderer. "You told me so yourself, halfling. In the secret workshop. 'He didn't mean it... it was an accident!'"
"Bah!" Gheevy raged. "Maybe you won't accept it, but I'm sure I'll be able to convince a certain inquisitrix that—"
"Face it, Gheevy," Pryce interrupted. "It's over. We know the whole story, and the inquisitrixes know enough not to believe you. Gamor got you enough parts to test your evil magic on and create poor Devolawk. But when none of your forbidden magic turned out well enough, you altered your plans and used a jackalwere to find Gurrahh for you so you could secure the workshop. But Gamor even ruined that for you, by trying to double-cross you with his partners and steal it on his own."
"Gamor, that idiot!" Gheevy exploded. "I promised him the workshop when I was done with it, but he couldn't wait!"
"So he had to die, didn't he?"
"You all do!" Gheevy finally screamed, his little body shaking. "Stinking humans... always think you're so great... and you are the worst of them!" He pointed a trembling hand at Pryce. 'You're everything I hate about your kind! Smug, arrogant, stupid... think you're so smart and funny... but you're nothing... nothing!"
"You've hurt enough people, dark one," Dearlyn said. "Have you forgotten who you're dealing with? One who could arrange the Verity melodrama? One who confers with high priestesses of unearthly wisdom? You're not dealing with a petty outsider any longer. Now you're dealing with the great Darlington Blade."
Gheevy grabbed his head, arched his back, and shrieked to the treetops. "Imbecile! I'm the great Darlington Blade!" Then he unleashed his rage at the man who had ruined all his plans.
The clearing between the hilltop and the wood suddenly exploded in streams of lightning, balls of thunder, and sparks of power. Pryce dived to the side, curling into the tall grass as the mongrelman jumped forward, deflecting the nerve dance meant for Covington. The beast twisted and jerked in place as Dearlyn Ambersong hurled her staff.
Gheevy used a rapid reflexive response spell to grab the staff out of the air and hurl it back at Dearlyn. Devolawk twisted in front of her, taking the brunt of the blow as Pryce charged the halfling. But Gheevy's magic was too fast and too powerful. The halfling created a ring of disintegration and sent a six-inch circlet of annihilating matter directly at Pryce's head.
Dearlyn immediately effected a spell, raising her arm and crying "Versus petrification!" Another circlet appeared from her palm and shot over to swallow Gheevy's bead of destruction. Pryce ducked in time to feel the warring spells just barely pass over his neck.
"Blast you!" Gheevy cried. "Blast you both to the bowels of Hades!" He yanked a small, pale item from his pocket and held it up to the autumn sun.
"By Zalathorm, no!" Dearlyn cried.
"Mycontril's Last Resort," Gheevy gloated. "Nothing you can do can stop this spell. You will be eradicated in a culmination of all Ambersong magic energy!"
Pryce recognized the spell and the item. To destroy everything in a thirty-foot radius, using the power of all the remaining spells in a caster's memory, required diamond dust worth five thousand gold pieces, a pure platinum ring ... and the finger bone of an archmage.
It was Geerling's finger.
"Gheevy, no!" Pryce cried. 'You'll be hurt, too!" "But I'll survive," the enraged halfling shrieked. "Unlike all of you. All that matters is that you will finally be gone... forever!" He started the spell, nature itself reacting to the tear in reality.
The branches and tall grass bent in a powerful wind as dark storm clouds gathered above the halfling.
Pryce looked about wildly. Cunningham and Gurrahh were still down. Dearlyn was too close. There was no way any of them could get clear of the devastation in time. There was no way to escape, to stop him, or to distract him, except—
The voice of Geerling Ambersong sounded on the howling wind. "Darlington Blade!"
Dearlyn looked around wildly. "Father?..."
"Darlington Blade!"
The voice was so unearthly and so real that even Gheevy froze in his casting. "M-Master?" he stuttered despite himself.
"Darlington Blade," Geerling Ambersong called.
A fingered wing touched Dearlyn's arm and moved her aside. Devolawk, the broken one, trudged forward, his snout-beak all the way open, his corpse teeth and mangled lips making the sounds. "Darlington Blade... you must not do this____"
"The haunt," Pryce whispered.
The spirit of Geerling Ambersong was back. It was near because of Cunningham. The Haunt had been traveling with the jackalwere because of Pryce's horrible previous payment to the jackals in exchange for his first clues.
"M-Master?" Gheevy repeated, startled, but then restarted his spell. "No, not my master! / am the master here! You fool, thinking your magic could cure me. There is nothing to cure! You deserved to die! All humans deserve to die!"
"No, Darlington, no!" the haunt cried, his winged arms held high.
Pryce looked from the halfling to the woman to the broken one. All three began to move at once. Each was starting a spell, but unless Pryce did something, the halfling would finish first... and then they all would be finished.
Pryce Covington went up on one leg, curled one arm, tightened his fist, and swung his arm under and around. "Gheevy!" he
cried. "Crystal Orb!"
The halfling glanced over without slowing his movements. "Idiot! You have no magic!" But then he saw a small glowing ball shoot from Pryce's sleeve and speed toward his face. Gheevy immediately lost his stance, lost his movements, and stumbled over the necessary spell words.
The illumination ball—the one Pryce palmed when Gheevy had dropped it after the outside wall of the workshop first swung open—bounced harmlessly off Wotfirr's upraised arm.
The halfling stared incredulously down at it, then looked up, openmouthed, at a grinning Pryce. "Well, what do you know?" Covington said pointedly. 'You're right."
That's when the combined might of the Ambersong father and daughter erupted from the forest and smashed into the infuriated halfling.
Dearlyn's entire arms were consumed by a fiery white, which sped across the fifteen feet separating her from Wotfirr, but even those beams of destruction couldn't rival the power displayed by Devolawk. From every finger, every claw, and from under every feather came a bolt, stream, circlet, orb, or blast. They sliced, stabbed, encircled, grabbed, and smashed into Gheevy, making the halfling dance wildly in place, as if the deities themselves had each taken a limb and shook it.
Through this wash of color and power came Dearlyn's beams, which crashed into the halfling like the waves of a tsunami, engulfing him.
Pryce fell back, shielding his eyes, and quickly crawled over to where the mongrelman and Cunningham lay. In seconds, it was over. Darlington Blade was dead. Long live Darlington Blade.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Blade to Rest
All that was left was to bury the dead.
The mongrelman rose slowly. The jackalwere did not.
"Cunningham," Pryce said sadly, leaning over the torn creature. As he looked down at the burned figure, who was caught between his human and animal state, he found that he had a lump in his throat.
"Ah," the jackalwere managed to croak. "My dear fellow... please, do not mourn for the likes of me____"
But Pryce would not leave it at that. "Though you are a monster," he said softly, "this is not a monstrous thing you have done."
The jackalwere managed a feeble laugh. "Oh, I know you, my good man. You would have been foolish enough to release me... to let me go with my children ... but I ask you—you whom I would call my friend—how many innocent travelers would have been condemned to death by your kind action?"
He raised a paw that was partly a hand and touched Pryce's
face. "Stupid, ignorant, unaware travelers to be sure," he said, "but innocent nonetheless."
Pryce chuckled painfully, blinking away moisture. "Travel well, you whom I would call my friend. Run fast in the sleep that knows only peace."
Cunningham smiled. "I will watch over my children from that place," he promised. "And every moment I will bless the fact that they have no human consciousness ... to make them do anything so foolish as to care." Then he was gone.
Pryce stood and turned to the mongrelman, who was weeping openly and unashamedly. Pryce put his arm around the thing, and they walked toward the wood. They stopped only to look down at the charred, curled remains of what had once been Gheevy Wotfirr ... and perhaps even Darlington Blade. There was really nothing left. Even now the wind was blowing what ashes there were in every different direction.
Pryce moved on to where Dearlyn held the crumpled Devolawk in her arms. "It was too much for him," she said.
"His internal organs must be as piecemeal as his exterior," Pryce realized. 'The strain must have almost torn him apart." He knelt down beside the creature that was part vole, part hawk, and part resurrected corpse. "Devolawk? Is there anything we can do?"
The human part of his eyelids fluttered while the hawk parts cleared and slid back. He tried to open his snout-bill, but could only burble one word. "Fly?"
Pryce put his hand on where the creature's torn and twisted heart must be. "Yes, you will fly again, and rest in the earth. Soon. No more pain, my friend."
Incredibly the broken one shifted in Dearlyn's arms, one appendage straining for the sky, the other gripping the ground. "Freeeee!" he wailed before gladly dying.
Dearlyn looked up at Pryce and the mongrelman. Then she cradled the pathetic, but somehow noble, form of the dead bro-
ken one, lowered her head, and cried for him ... as well as for her father.
*****
"His fear in the workshop made me wonder all the more," Pryce said as he walked deeper into the caverns beneath the city. "Then I remembered that he hid behind Dearlyn's cloak and held the illumination orb directly in front of his face. I realized later that his action would have kept you from seeing his face and trying once again to tell me what I had so patently ignored earlier."
The mongrelman grunted, bumping Pryce with what served as his hip. It was his way of saying 'That's all right"—a method that had often come into play on the long trip back to the hidden caverns near the Question Tree. It was easier for the mongrelman to do that than to try to talk.
They reached a fork in the caves, a place where in one direction lay the entry behind Schreders At Your Service. And in the other direction? Only the mongrelman knew.
"Gurrahh?" Pryce asked. "Are you sure that's an accurate pronunciation of your real name? Or are you trying to tell me something else I'm ignoring?"
"Grrrraughh!" the mongrelman replied, nodding its huge head. "Gurauggh."
'Take all the time you need," Pryce advised, listening intently. "It's no trouble. Believe me, I know what it's like to have everyone get your name wrong!"
The mongrelman made the noise again and again until Pryce said "Gurauggh." Then the beast nodded avidly. "Gurauggh," Pryce said again, locking the pronunciation into his brain. "It's that extra g that does it, eh?" The mongrelman lifted his hand and pushed his lip back to create a lopsided smile.
Pryce laughed in honest appreciation. "So, Gurauggh, will you look for more of your kind? Return from whence you came?"
The mongrelman glanced at both tunnel openings, then looked back at Pryce with a helpless shrug.
Covington leaned in and spoke with conviction. "You could come with me, you know... back into the light. We have much to learn from each other. I want to know your language so I never make such an egregious mistake again." The mongrelman looked at him doubtfully. "This is indeed a shining region, Gurauggh," Pryce assured him, "truly the hidden jewel of Halruaa, where all creatures can be accepted and at home, if they are willing to try."
Even a twisted, horrible, resentful creature who was plotting a terrible revenge against a society that wasn't even given a chance to accept him.
One glistening tear was the answer to Covington's invitation. He listened carefully as the poor thing shambled into the darkness of the other tunnel. He waited until the mongrelman was completely out of sight, then turned to go.
"I... will... re... mem... ber," he heard from the blackness.
"As I will remember you," he quietly promised.
*****
"So, Darlington Blade," a patiently waiting Berridge Lymwich said as he stepped out of the renovated cave entrance behind Schreders's restaurant. She handed him a brew and raised a tankard of her own. "I hope this strange welcome won't chase you away from Lallor."
"You mean this one right now," a surprised—not altogether pleased—Pryce asked, looking dubiously at the liquid, "or discovering that Gheevy Wotfirr was plotting against me and my master?"
The inquisitrix laughed, a bit stridently, but continued, all hale and hearty. "Well, everything's been put to right. Don't you worry on that score. The Mystra Superior herself did the incan-
tations over the halfling's remains. And, while I'm still a bit perplexed as to why you needed to confront him alone when all of Lallor was at your service, Priestess Sontoin herself assures us that if you say it's in the interest of national security, then it is. So"—she raised her glass to him—"here's to proving yourself... with a vengeance!"
Pryce tapped the bottom of his glass against the top of her proffered one, then waited until she finished drinking before handing back his untouched brew. "Have another," he suggested. "On me." Then he quickly slipped out of the alley to the street, leaving a repentant, anxious, and apprehensive inquisitrix with her hands full.
*****
Dearlyn Ambersong stood before the fireplace when he entered the Ambersong dwelling. She had built a fire and wore an amazing scarlet and jade gown of velvet, with a golden-laced bodice. Her hair hung free, and the heat from the flames made it shimmy like a Halabar dancer.
He looked quickly around to spot her red horsehair staff and was relieved to see it in the corner, far from her grip. "Good evening, Miss Ambersong," he said tentatively, feeling the residence welcoming him, but wondering about the feelings of his host.
She stood, one arm on the mantelpiece, looking deep into the fire. "Good evening," she replied, pointedly not concluding the greeting with a name. She didn't look up from the fascination of the flames even as he moved to the center of the room. He grew still when she spoke again. "You know," she said, her voice throaty, "I really didn't know what I was going to do until you actually accused me on the skyship."
"I figured," he said quietly, moving toward the chair she had once knocked him into.
"Of course, I hardly believed you when you told me your plan in the workshop while the halfling was doing your bidding with the inquisitrixes."
"I could see that," he told her. "I hated to do it so soon after— after all that had happened, but there was no other time."
She still didn't look up from the fire. "I think I hated you then ... for your deceptions and lies and machinations... but I could still see your passion and, more importantly, your compassion. You were as trapped in this plot as I was. More so, in fact, because it was truly your life at stake." Finally she looked up at him, his eyes filling with hers.
"I knew I had to take a leap of faith," she said, almost smiling, "both to trust you... and to jump from the ship."
"Which you did," he said, overcome with her courage, understanding, and beauty. "Magnificently. Both, I mean. Trusting and jumping."
She stepped forward, turning her extraordinarily intelligent and insightful face up to him. "I almost didn't," she revealed. "But only when you were struck by lightning. I thought... I was afraid you might be dead."
He smiled kindly at her, fingering the cloak clasp. 'Your father saw to it that I wasn't. He was looking out for me ... for both of us."
Tears began to move down both her smooth, clear cheeks. "As ... as Devolawk lay in my arms... before you came over to us... my father spoke to me."
Pryce stood straight, his face showing concern, but only for her feelings.
"He swore you were a good man. He said he loved me. Then he was gone."
She lowered her head and closed her eyes, although the tears were flowing freely now. When she opened her eyes again, he was holding her. She wrapped her own arms around him and held on for dear life.
"Even Greila Sontoin herself said I should trust you," she said as she rested her head against his chest. 'That you had a clear eye, good intentions, and a sharp wit." His cloak clasp was right against her ear. She looked up at him. "But who are you, really?" she asked with emotion.
Pryce opened his mouth to speak but could say nothing. He was born with the name Pryce Covington, but he really wasn't that person anymore. But neither was he the real Darlington Blade. But then again, who was? The person Geerling Ambersong wanted the halfling to be, or the truly evil halfling himself? Or was it the legend Gamor Turkal had created in Lallor... the man who Greila Sontoin wanted him to be?
Finally he looked down at her, seeing his reflection in her eyes. That gave him all the strength he needed. "We cannot see our own faces," he said, paraphrasing the first words he had ever spoken to her. "So I am truly whoever you see."
She kissed him, holding the back of his head and filling his mind with an ardor that reduced the kiss of Chimera in the Mys-tran castle to what it had truly been... an illusion.
"Thank you," she finally said softly. "Thank you for avenging my father's death and making things right... Darling."
He smiled down at her, happier than he had ever been in his life. "You're welcome," he said. "Dear."
They stood that way for a long time, until the blazing fire diminished to a slow and steady heat.
'You know," she finally said, "there are still many mysteries in this city ... mysteries that may require the clear eye and the sharp wit of a man with good intentions... but also the magic of the Ambersongs."
"That's true," he admitted. "But you are not a man of good intentions."
She laughed. "And you," she reminded him, "are no Ambersong magician." Pryce considered the odds. Without her, his lack of magical
knowledge would soon become apparent. But without him, her magical knowledge would soon be discovered, melodrama or no melodrama.
He could make a show of teaching her, he supposed, but that would take time... time to enjoy the plush surroundings and infinite respect of Lallor. It certainly seemed like a cushy job... if not for life, then near enough.
Then he considered Dearlyn Ambersong. She was indeed cushy, certainly courageous, and most definitely interesting... but he had better watch out for the sharp edges of her magic and her gardening implements.
Mustering all his wit and strength, he finally came up with a totally logical reply: a massive, spine-stretching yawn.
"My goodness," she said, letting him go and stepping back. "Have you slept at all since your arrival in Lallor?"
"Well, actually," he drawled slowly, "except for some time unconscious from a head wound... no."
"You must be exhausted!" she exclaimed, hurriedly moving toward the sleeping quarters and beckoning him to follow.
Pryce stood in the main room dreamily. He suddenly realized that he had been called a good man by no less a source than Hal-ruaa's highest priestess and even the haunt of Labor's primary mage. And at this point, he would accept being a good man over being a great Blade. While he might have quibbled with everyone's Pryce estimate in the past, he now had to admit he had reason to be pleased.
After all, he had actually resolved a puzzle that was unique in the history of the mystery. A murder conundrum in which the victim, the killer, and the detective were all the same man.
He had solved his own murder in Halruaa, as it were.
Pryce wandered slowly over to the sleeping quarters, taking off his cloak as he went. He leaned on the door and watched Dearlyn turn back the bedcovers.
'This is only temporary, of course," she said to him quickly.
"You'll have your own room soon." He resisted the temptation to express his disappointment, but she continued regardless. "Father would have wanted it that way. To tell you the truth, I miss having someone to cook for... it's sometimes so sad to cook for one. And I can help you understand father's work, and we can oversee the inventory of father's workshop, and—"
Darlington Blade drowsily put his forefinger to his lips with one hand and waved her back with the other. "Moot," he said, trudging forward. "All moot until I awake. Besides," he concluded, standing beside her radiance amidst the most wonderful house he had ever known, "I still have to see whether or not this is all really a dream."
Dearlyn Ambersong smiled widely at him, anchoring him with a look that promised many interesting moments. "No," she said. "It's no dream. But thanks to you, at least the nightmare is over."
He wavered in place for a moment, then gave the bed a sleepy smile.'Ah, well," he said, "that's just the Pryce you have to pay."
He was happily asleep even before she gently covered him with Darlington Blade's cloak.