“I wish you to find the killer.”
Artus began, for the third time, to tell Marrok he’d already promised Uther to do just that, but decided to see what the nobleman had to say. “I suppose I could try,” he offered.
Masking his feelings had never been one of Artus’s strong suits. The attempt now only caused Marrok to mistake the explorer’s hastily erected facade of guilelessness for actual reluctance.
“You’d do well to play along here, Cimber,” the nobleman said. “At least hear me out. You have no idea how disinclined I am to ask for your help.”
“Oh, I think I know. But why me?”
“Use a criminal to catch a criminal,” Marrok said, and this time the insult was carefully chosen. “Don’t think for an instant the club doesn’t know that your father was a highwayman. You lost your position as a court scribe when you got caught breaking him out of jail. We could also discuss that murder charge outstanding against you in Tantras. There’s no need for me to go on, is there?”
Anger edged Marrok’s words, made them sharp as blades, but he kept his voice tactfully low. They’d reached the library’s antechamber, where a small group of men and women were discussing a recent polar expedition the society had sponsored. Generally, Artus could have strolled through the club with a large spear protruding from his side and not attracted any attention at all. The moment Marrok de Landoine entered a room, he somehow became its focus.
“Here’s the fellow to ask now,” one of the loiterers announced. “Say, Marrok old man, when will that yeti Philyra bagged on the expedition be ready for display?”
Preparing exotic beasts for display seemed to be the one practical skill Marrok de Landoine possessed. He was loathe to discuss the craft. A fact his peers always capitalized upon in the club’s near constant public banter. Marrok had never intended to reveal his odd talent to his fellows. But the supposed artists to whom the Stalwarts had entrusted their unusual, often irreplaceable trophies did such a poor job that the nobleman was forced to step forward and save the membership and the library, where such valuable objects were displayed, from further insult.
“Eh?” Marrok said distractedly. “Oh, the yeti… any day now.”
The nobleman turned back to Artus, his own expression not all that far removed from the fearsome hunting snarl of the fabled snow beasts. “Uther is more valuable to the society than you are a detriment,” Marrok growled. “Find the murderer and I’ll… support you for full membership.”
As he turned to go, Marrok worked his mouth soundlessly, as if trying to exorcise the foul taste of the offer he’d just made. The nobleman passed Pontifax on his way out of the antechamber; the mage had obviously followed them from the Treaty Room at a discreet distance. The two exchanged civil, if frigid greetings.
“Marrok canceled the pass I gave you, didn’t he?” Pontifax said without preamble. “I’m sorry, my boy. He’s been in a foul mood ever since his favorite hound died. Kezef, I think he called it, though why anyone would name a pet after a monster like that-”
Artus shook his head, still a bit stunned by Marrok’s offer. “He’s going to support me for membership. If I clear Uther’s name, I’ll be a Stalwart.”
“It’s about time,” Pontifax said. “Assuming we find the killer, of course.”
Artus patted the mage on the back. ‘We will. Look, you follow up on the leads here-the note Guigenor supposedly lost, the dagger, that sort of thing. I’m going to get some communications help.”
“Communications help?” Pontifax repeated, confusion clear on his face. “Who do you need to communicate with that you can’t just chat up all on your own?”
A triumphant gleam flashed in Artus’s brown eyes. “Count Leonska.”
The soul you seek is not recorded in my rolls, said the weird, disembodied head floating above the low altar. The words buzzed in Artus’s mind, swarmed around his thoughts like flies. The sensation was no more peculiar than the specter’s features-or lack thereof. Its smooth gray face was broken only by two bulging yellow eyes.
“How can that be, 0 Scribe of the Dead?” intoned the priest kneeling opposite Artus.
I do not know the reason for it, only the truth of what I tell you.
“But all dead men are your charges. Can you not tell us where the soul of Count Leonska resides?”
There was a pause. Then the two fat tallow candles on the altar began to smoke. The black, oily coils snaked upward, but rose no higher than the specter’s chin. If you insist on badgering me, minion of the Scribbler God, said the Scribe of the Dead menacingly, then I will give my reply in the flesh. The smoke coalesced into a flowing cloak. The phantasmal head began to take on substance.
The priest toppled a candle with a casual stroke of one brown hand. The conjured power lingered for a moment above the altar, black cloak billowing, then slowly faded. Its bulbous yellow eyes disappeared last. Their awful gaze seemed to pierce the small prayer room long after they, too, had vanished.
“And what have we learned from this, Master Cimber?” The priest unrolled his long white sleeves, which had been bunched above his elbows. “Not to bother the seneschal of Hell, I hope.”
Artus uncrossed his legs and lay back on the prayer mat. His hopes of solving the murder quickly had not survived a few hours past leaving the Stalwarts Club. Now, days later, he had begun to wonder if he was in over his head. The ritual to summon Jergal had taken two full days in itself. Before the tenday was out, he might have to start plotting a jailbreak.
‘Well, we know that Leonska isn’t alive,” Artus sighed. “Pontifax checked to be certain. So why hasn’t his soul gone to the Realm of the Dead?”
“Perhaps a mage is concealing it,” the priest noted. “Or Jergal was lying to us. I have not the power or authority to compel one such as him to tell the truth.”
“There’s a first,” Artus said with a chuckle. “Zintermi of Oghma admits to a weakness.”
“All creatures possess weaknesses,” the priest replied as he dutifully collected the components for the conjuring rite. As with everything, Zintermi did this simple task methodically and gracefully. “You, for instance, lack the ability to admit defeat.”
“This is a very important matter,” Artus snapped.
“Any matter you take up becomes ‘very important,’” Zintermi said in the same pedantic tone Artus had found so infuriating as a student in the temple school. “Have you considered the possibility that Uther is guilty?”
“I told you, Guigenor is the murderer. No one’s seen her in days. She’s obviously gone into hiding. And Pontifax and I have gathered enough evidence to convince me she did it.”
“But not enough to convince the authorities,” Zintermi reminded him. “You say that Guigenor was recently seen conversing with members of the consulate of Kozakura, but that is not proof she studied with, or hired, any of their assassins. You have uncovered rumors of a failed romance between the young lady and the count, but these rumors cannot be confirmed and do not necessarily offer motive.”
Artus sat up. “Those suspicions should be enough to redirect the investigation, but Hamnet Hawklin and his allies are pressuring the watch to formally charge Uther and convene a trial. Without some sort of hard evidence against Guigenor-like finding the leather gag or the count’s missing wineskin in her possession, or having Leonska’s spirit identify her as the murderer-they’re going to do just that.”
“Perhaps you are searching for evidence that doesn’t exist.”
“Look,” Artus said irritably, “Guigenor is hiding something. She claims to be from the Dales. She’s not. Pontifax discovered she’s a native of Zhentil Keep, which would explain why the writing on the dagger was Zhentish.” He tapped his chest; beneath his tunic the skin was crisscrossed there with scars-the handiwork of Zhentish torturers. “And if she’s connected to the Keep, she’s trouble.”
Zintermi finally snuffed the remaining ritual candle. The oil lamps on either side of the door kept the room from sinking into total darkness, but shadows ventured out from the corners and slipped across the priest’s face. “There are things in your past you do not claim with pride,” he said. “Can your suspect not be afforded the same luxury? At the very least, Master Cimber, you should be more meticulous, more evenhanded. Might I suggest you delve into Uther’s history with the same eye toward inconsistency?”