Steve took Sally to Joaquin’s, the only restaurant in town with a three star rating. She was so proud. She was going to try her hand at this. She already had an idea for a fantasy novel.
As he put the pearls around her neck, Steve wondered how good it would be.
RING OF THE RED KNIGHT
I hadn’t liked the old man. Winslow Carvenell was a nuisance. Always measuring the border between our garden plots with a ruler—as though fearful a single tomato of mine might have cast a shadow over his roses. He was the most disagreeable sort of neighbor, and except for our mutual interest in the magical arts there was little in common between us. Neither of us were great enchanters, neither had great wealth. I had made my own through hard work and study, but an accident of birth had made my neighbor poorer than his kin.
But I was grieved when I heard he died and fearful when I heard it was murder. After all, he lived next door.
Shina, his maid, had found him with a cut from ear to ear. Someone had murdered him in his sleep. The maid, being resourceful, had called upon the constable before alarming the neighborhood. I heard of old Winslow’s death from him, but I knew I would hear all the gory details from her—for Shina had once been a love of mine.
Constable Gager arrived just as I was heading off for the Academy where I taught classes in thaumaturgy, beginning philosophy of magic, and magical epistemology. The constable had been a student of mine, years ago. I had failed him because he was too lazy to apply himself. He had improved with the passing of years, but his hatred for me had certainly not diminished. Such is often a teacher’s fate. He was suspicious of the fact that I had heard nothing, and advised me grimly not to leave town.
I was late for class, and some of my students had walked. So I conjured a small pink cloud in my likeness and sent it off to the tavern where they were sure to have gathered. It rounded them up in a few minutes, and I gave a fairly good lecture on beginning invisibility.
Shina was waiting for me when I got home. I had given her the word which unlocked my door when we were an “item” years before.
“It was awful, Robert,” she said. “He was slumped over his writing desk his throat slit from ear to ear. His journal is ruined, who knows how many years of research on his family is gone.”
“Who do you think killed him?”
“Winslow didn’t have an enemy in the world. Oh you and he argued over trifles, and Dieter Betz over at Miracle University argued over how to decipher certain ancient texts, and he’s never been too sweet on his nephew, which is sad since the Count will be paying for his funeral.”
“William pays for everything after all. Did Winslow have anything to bequeath?”
“His books and scrolls will go to the University. William came by and said he’d pay my salary for another month and that I could have any personal effects I wanted.”
“I’m really sorry, Shina, if there’s anything I can do—” That is probably the oldest incantation in mankind’s repertory—its magic had been used up centuries before Atlantis sank beneath the waves. But she put her head on my shoulder and cried softly for a very long time. I saw quite a few silver hairs in her blond hair and wondered how I had become an old scholar. Where was the young wizard I once was? How long had I played the part of aging scholar-mage?
* * * * * * *
The next day Count William paid me a visit. William was Winslow’s nephew. William was the son of Rudolfo, the older of twin brothers. Rudolfo got the title and lands by arriving four minutes before his brother. Winslow got a scholar’s salary and a small house from the university—one of the Count’s favorite charities. William was a good Count, I suppose, he gave great feasts and his costume parties in Carnival season were well known. He dropped by my humble home to borrow texts, commission poetry or merely to give brandies and wines. But I never stood in his presence without knowing to my very bones that I was in front of the man who owned me. It is said the mark of a good ruler is that their presence makes you want to serve, but that a poor ruler merely makes you know that you serve.
Count William asked if I would deliver Winslow’s eulogy. I accepted. He also told me that Constable Gager had a lead on the case. Someone had seen the murderer leaving Winslow’s home.
It would be a grand funeral, promised Count William, he would spare no expense.
I began to work on Winslow’s eulogy. As is always the case when someone dies, I wished that I had paid more attention to him in the living years. His scholarship had been great. I really wished that he had finished his history of his own family.
I was pondering this loss to learning when Shina came running into my yard. I let her in.
“Robert. It wasn’t you, was it? Tell me you didn’t kill him.”
“Of course I didn’t kill him. Why would you think something that crazy?”
She reached out her right hand to me, opening it from the fist it had been. In her palm was the ring of the red knight.
“Have you told anyone?” I asked.
“No. Not yet. If you didn’t do it, someone wants it to look like you did. I found it under the table; I was cleaning up the house. I didn’t know if I should take it to you or to Gager.”
I reached for the ring, but she made the fist again.
“You’ve got to give it to me—so I can figure out what’s going on.”
“What if you did drop it?”
“Shina, you know me.”
“I know. I don’t know. What are the rules for murder and friendship? I don’t know. I should take it to Gager.”
“If you do, you’ll be putting a noose around my neck. Leave it with me for a night, I may be able to get the ring to talk.”
“You’re not that powerful a wizard, Robert, you know that.”
“Sometimes a person can be pretty powerful if his life is in danger.”
She started to release the ring.
“You must promise me,” she said, “that you’ll give me the ring tomorrow. I can say I just found it. I don’t want to be jailed for having interfered with a criminal case.”
“I promise.”
She handed me the ring, a simple circle of red gold with the word “judge” written in the High Speech. She made me promise several more times. She was scared, but I was terrified.
The red knight, Sir Starkad, had been a harsh man. My father, the swineherd, used to say that the best words that could be spoken of a man were “He was tough, but fair.” Starkad would not have needed “fair”—his justice was harsh.
* * * * * * *
Let me tell you about the ring. Last year at Carnival, Count William invited all of us poor teachers to a great costume ball and feast. Now, as you know, a scholar will not pass up a free meal for any reason. I dressed up as Sir Starkad, the founder of the Count’s family. I had a replica of the ring made as a magical focus so that I could conjure up the rest of the costume. I had even won a small prize for best costume (historical).
Winslow, the only person to attend the party without costume, had nothing but bad things to say about my choice. Who was I, a commoner, to wear (even in sport) the arms of a noble family? Count William announced a special prize for his uncle: Best Curmudgeon.
A few months after Carnival, I was looking for the ring. I wanted to melt it down for the gold so I could buy a particularly wonderful set of scrolls from Mordrake. I couldn’t find the ring, and chalked up the loss to my messy bachelor life. I hadn’t thought to tell anyone of my loss. Not that it would matter. The ring at the site of Winslow’s murder could convince any jury. He had complained widely of my presumption in wearing it.