The paunchy mage leaned over the body. “And I was rather expecting you to show up. Just the sort of messy business you can’t keep your fingers clean of. They’re blaming Uther, you know.”
“I told him I’d help clear his name.”
Pontifax glanced up. “Good for you! That puts a noble cause behind your meddling.”
Artus took the statement for what it was-gentle ribbing by his most trusted friend. He didn’t reply, didn’t feel the usual need to fire back a cutting response. In comfortable silence, the two set about their work. Pontifax examined the corpse and occasionally murmured observations to be recorded. Artus made a very rough sketch of the body and took down notes.
“What do you make of the dagger?” Pontifax asked after they’d completed their initial examination.
Count Leonska might have died from any of the dozens of deep slashes on his body, face, and hands, but the most obvious and violent wound was caused by the knife protruding from his chest. The blade was hidden in flesh, but the golden handle burned with reflected light from the room’s many candles.
“The markings are Zhentish,” Artus said. “A ritual dagger of some kind?”
Pontifax muttered a vague reply. His white, cloudlike brows had drifted together over his blue eyes. The effect was something like a gathering storm. “The body should be more of a mess,” he said.
Blood lightly spattered the count’s hands and clothes, but most of his wounds were clean. The sole exception was his crimson-smeared mouth. Artus used the dry end of his writing stylus to pull back a swollen lip. Leonska’s teeth were missing. They’d been shattered, many broken right down to the gums.
“What’s this?” Artus murmured. As he leaned close, he felt a shiver of apprehension snake up his spine. It was as if the count’s dead eyes were watching him. Hands trembling just a little, he picked a small, dark shred of material from between two broken teeth. “It’s leather, I think. Part of a gag?”
“That would explain why Leonska didn’t cry out when he was being attacked,” Pontifax replied. The mage nervously paced around the room, his stubby fingers steepled. “Uther heard a ruckus, but no shouts for help. That’s why he didn’t break the door in.”
“Guigenor thinks the count was stumbling around in here, drunk, before she ran off to get the keys. She was screeching at Marrok about her suspicions when I came in.,
“That young woman is one to talk about suspicions,” said Pontifax. “When the watch asked her why she happened to be roaming around back here, she said Leonska had left her a note requesting her presence in the Treaty Room. But she can’t find the note now.
“As for her claim that the count was alive when she heard the noises-nonsense. This murder took a long time to commit. They heard the end of the struggle, not its beginning.”
“Do you think Guigenor had a hand in this?” Artus asked, gesturing to a wall of framed treaties and trade agreements, all of which had been signed in the room. Blood had splashed across each and every one. “What kind of weapon would she have used?”
“I’ve heard of assassinations… the work of men from far eastern Kozakura who call themselves ‘ninjas.’ They sometimes leave behind some strange gore slinging like this,” Pontifax said. “It almost looks like Leonska was stabbed and slashed, then spun quickly so the blood would cake the walls.”
Neither man commented that it would take someone incredibly strong to heft the count’s bulk. The thought had occurred to both-as did the notion that Uther was probably the only person in the club who could do so without the aid of sorcery
Pontifax returned to the table and stared at the open door. “How did the blackguard get out of the room after doing this to Leonska, I wonder. Uther said the noises continued in here until just before Guigenor returned with the keys. The door remained tightly closed and locked until he opened it.”
“You don’t suppose the murderer is still hiding in the room.”
“Already been searched three times. We’ve checked for sliding panels and any of that rot. Nothing. And no magic could possibly work in here.”
Artus prodded a pile of threadbare clothes he’d found in one corner. The moth-eaten cloak, thick gloves, and long, dirt-smeared scarf had been folded and stacked neatly. Atop the pile rested a wide-brimmed hat dyed the black of ravens’ feathers. “All these belonged to Leonska?”
Pontifax nodded. “He was seen bundled up in those rags when he entered the club this morning. It was his usual attire.”
“You wouldn’t think someone with such shabby clothes would bother folding them so neatly.” Artus held up the corner of the rather grotesquely patterned scarf and said, “Poor fashion sense for a count.”
“He had poorer social skills,” Pontifax said. “As he did most mornings, Leonska made his way back here with a full wineskin and the single-minded purpose of drinking himself to the brink of unconsciousness.” He idly flicked one hand toward the body. “Only today he didn’t get a chance to stagger out and pick fights, like he normally did. Not a good soldier in the least-”
“For once you and I are in full agreement, Sir Hydel. No army would have ever taken Leonska on campaign, not even to haul baggage.”
Artus and Pontifax turned to the door to find Marrok de Landoine standing there, surveying them with practiced disinterest. “I thought I’d find you here, Cimber. If you are done assisting Sir Hydel with his examination, I’d like a word with you.”
The nobleman didn’t wait for a reply. He hooked Artus’s arm with his own and led him out of the Treaty Room, down the narrow hall. Stalwarts deferentially flattened against the paneling or ducked into doorways to let them by.
“I have my pass,” Artus said. He reached up to his breast pocket for the thin leather card that allowed him access to certain areas of the club-the library, game room, and main bar-even though he was not a full member. The gesture was automatic; the pass was the only topic about which the nobleman had ever addressed Artus directly.
“I’m certain you do,” Marrok said. “You consider Uther a friend, do you not?”
“Of course.”
“He is in a considerable spot of trouble.”
“I know. I ran into him outside the club,” Artus noted. “He asked me-”
“Despite what some of the other members think,” said Marrok, unaware or unconcerned that he was interrupting Artus, said “I believe him innocent.”
“I agree. Uther asked-”
“Earlier you caught me in a very bad temper. We’ve had our differences in the past, too…”
Artus suppressed a smirk. Marrok had single-handedly blocked his entrance into the society three times in as many years. In the nobleman’s eyes, no accomplishment as a scholar, explorer, or historian could compensate for Artus’s low birth.
“Yet I have always recognized you as… clever.” The pause made it obvious that Marrok had to cast his net far for the right word. The phrase that followed made it clear just how far. “In your own way.”
The slight was unintentional, though even more annoying for its thoughtlessness. Artus slipped from the nobleman’s falsely familiar grasp under the pretext of tightening a boot lace. After that they walked in silence for a time, moving toward the fabulous library at the club’s heart.
Finally, Marrok spoke again. It seemed to Artus that the nobleman’s superior glow dimmed just a little as he did. “Politics deserve more of your attention,” he began obliquely, then checked himself. “No, let me be direct. Some of the more senior members-Hamnet Hawklin foremost among them-have declared Uther guilty. I respect them, yet I also feel they are incorrect in their conclusion. It would be unwise of me to challenge them in any open fashion, but I must also-”
“So long as you’re being direct,” Artus prompted, “how about skipping to the verse of this song that involves me.”