Legends of the Riftwar (69 page)

‘Any possibility that you could make another couple of sets?'

Kethol nodded. ‘But–'

The noon bell rang. ‘We'd better get up to the Aerie, and see what Pirojil's found out. Unless you think we'll find any more of these “clues” here, or know somebody that I can try to beat some information out of?'

Kethol shook his head. ‘No.'

‘On your way, then,' Durine said, making a brushing-away motion with his fingers. ‘I've got to use the garderobe, and then I'll be right up.' He raised a cautionary finger. ‘You can tell Pirojil about the brezeneden, but don't talk about the other matter,' he
said. ‘He's got enough on his mind, and we know that there are secret passages up there–the walls may have ears, eh?'

 

Kethol didn't mention the Tsurani scout ploy, but he might as well have done, the moment he explained about the brezeneden.

Pirojil sat back in his chair, his hands folded over his belly, and then nodded.

Very clever
, he mouthed, rather than said. Then, quietly, ‘When we're done here, can you go make another three sets? And how long would it take?'

Durine had asked the same thing. Kethol nodded. ‘Not long. Several hours, probably.'

There was ample wood and leather, among the several score other things that the castle might need during a siege, stored on the racks down in the dungeon, and if he couldn't find suitable thongs he could cut them himself out of a cowhide. The room they shared in the barracks had a hearth, and the teapot would serve to produce steam. Probably they wouldn't be as elegant as those that the Ranger had made, but it could be done. Just a matter of cutting the strips, bending them into shape, and then weaving on the latticework of leather thongs.

‘Why?'

‘For the obvious reason.' Pirojil nodded. ‘I think it might be handy to get out of LaMut before the snow melts, now that it's warming up enough that we can, and–' He waved it away. ‘But I'm letting myself get distracted. What did you see in Lady Mondegreen's room?'

Kethol told him, in as much detail as he could. Pirojil didn't interrupt, except to ask him to clarify a point or two. Not that there was much to clarify: the two dead people were dead; they had been sliced by somebody fast and good; and there was nothing at all that Kethol had found that resembled a clue.

Fantus seemed to enjoy the recitation, though; he had appeared
moments after Kethol had, and Kethol hadn't seen where the firedrake had come from.

Not that it mattered much; Kethol just drew his knife, and scratched at the drake's eye-ridges while he talked, and Fantus arched his neck and preened himself, as usual. A firedrake was actually kind of a pleasant companion, although he had never heard of another tame one. If the three of them ever did manage the Three Swords Inn, he might see if there was a way to catch and tame one.

But thoughts of that long-off day didn't stop his recitation. A knock on the door did.

‘Yes?'

Ereven, the housecarl walked in, bearing a tray. How he had turned the knob with his hands occupied was something that Kethol wondered about, but didn't ask. Every profession was entitled to its little trade secrets, after all.

‘You asked to be served lunch, here, sir?' Ereven asked, only a trace of a sniff suggesting his irritation at these interlopers treating the Swordmaster's rooms as though they were their own.

‘Yes, and I also sent for Mackin–'

‘The dwarf, sir?'

‘Yes, the dwarf. Make sure he finds his way up here, please.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Durine walked in as the housecarl walked out, and sat himself down in a chair next to the hearth. ‘I could get used to these accommodations,' he said. ‘Pity.'

‘Yeah.' Pirojil seemed to force a smile. ‘A real pity, that.' He scooped a meatroll up off the plate and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Very well, I–'

There was another knock on the door, and Mackin walked in without waiting to be given permission to enter. He nodded curtly at Kethol and Durine, then planted himself in front of Pirojil.

‘I take it,' Pirojil said, ‘that the Swordmaster is still downstairs with the rest?'

Mackin nodded. ‘Well, you can see that he isn't here, so that doesn't make you all
that
clever.'

‘No, what makes me clever is that I know that
you
know where he is, or you wouldn't have pushed your way into his quarters without so much as a by-your-leave.' With Pirojil seated, he and the dwarf were almost eye to eye. ‘Milo is still talking with the nobles?'

Mackin nodded. ‘Yeah. He is–last I saw, he was deep in conversation with Folson, who seems to be less indignant about being questioned than the others were. Although nerves are tight. When Milo dropped a wine glass, every last one of the nobles was on his feet, and half the house guard came running.' The dwarf smiled. He was clearly enjoying the nobles' discomfiture.

‘Did you find anything useful from the captains?'

‘No. Although I don't know what I was supposed to be asking about, other than “did you happen to go slicing a couple of throats last night?” Were you really expecting something?'

Pirojil shook his head. ‘Not really. I've got one more job for you, though. Something I'm sure you can do.'

‘Yes?'

‘Get a shovel, and check the midden heaps under each of the garderobes. You don't have to dig terribly deep.'

‘Is this some sort of joke?' the dwarf was not happy. ‘What am I supposed to be looking for?'

‘What you're supposed to be looking for is a bloody rag, or a kerchief–maybe a shirt. Some piece of cloth with a few long streaks of blood on it.'

‘And you think I'm going to find it there?'

Pirojil shook his head. ‘No, I think you're not going to. But you are going to look, and you're going to be able to say that you
looked. When you finish looking, come back up here and report to me.' He paused a second, then quickly added, ‘And have a bit of a wash, before you do.'

‘And then?'

‘And then, you and Milo are going to back the three of us, when we gather all of the assembled nobles around the table in the Great Hall, and…'

‘And?'

‘And then I expose the murderer,' Pirojil said.

 

Mackin looked as if he wanted to say something, but he just stood staring at Pirojil for a moment, and then grinned. ‘All because there isn't a bloody rag in the middens?'

‘Perhaps,' Pirojil said.

‘You going to tell me about this?'

Pirojil shook his head. ‘No. I'm not even going to tell Kethol and Durine. They find out at the same time you do.'

Another pause. ‘I can live with that, I guess. A shovel, eh?'

‘Go.'

Mackin went. As he neared the door, Pirojil said, ‘And wash off that filth before you come back!'

Over his shoulder, Mackin shouted back, ‘I washed a bit before I reported!' then he disappeared through the door.

Pirojil regarded the dwarf as he left the room and wondered what his definition of ‘washed a bit' entailed. He still looked as if he'd rolled down a coal bin and stank like a sewer. Then with a slight sniff, Pirojil decided he must have washed up some, as he didn't reek any more than usual.

 

Pirojil took another bite of the meatroll, then turned to Durine. ‘I want you and Kethol to head over to our quarters, and work on those…snowshoe devices he talked about. At least three sets–five would be better. My guess is that things are going to be a
little uncomfortable for us, come the morning, and I think we'd best be out of here, pay or no. Agreed?'

‘Shit, yes,' Durine said. ‘Shame to leave any money behind, but…' He reached into his tunic and produced a familiar-looking leather pouch. ‘I collected our pay from the Bursar, anyway, and a little extra for our troubles. Maybe Steven Argent will think that we got shorted a bit, but I'm not disposed to hang around to pick up the change, are you?'

Pirojil's ugly face split into a grin, but Kethol found himself more than vaguely disgusted.

He didn't quite know why. It wouldn't have been the first time, or the fifty-first time, that they had taken money off a dead body. Which was less theft than this was, technically, but it had seemed different. You had to look at the man lying there when you went through his pouch…there was something almost nauseatingly clean about having pilfered it from the Baron's desk.

But a man who made his living as a mercenary soldier couldn't afford compunction, and if Kethol had fallen prey to an awkward sentimentality, he could keep it to himself.

So he just nodded. ‘Sure,' he said.

Durine nodded. ‘One last round of ale at the Broken Tooth tonight?'

Pirojil nodded. ‘Fine with me.'

Kethol shook his head. ‘One last drink, tonight, yes. That's been our tradition every time we leave a place behind us–'

‘Except when we've had to take to our heels,' Pirojil said, nodding in agreement. ‘I'm not a stickler for tradition, though. Still, it seems to have brought us luck before, and I'd be loath to–'

‘There's enough wine left in the last bottle that the Baron and his lady drank for a short toast, and I'd…I'd like to drink to them, in my last night in LaMut. And I'd like the two of you to join me.'

Both of the others stared blankly at him, and finally, Durine spoke. ‘Very well, Kethol. We'll do it your way.' He turned to Pirojil. ‘Just how sure are you?'

Pirojil opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. ‘I'd say the chances of things working out as I think they will are, maybe, sixty-sixty. Less if I talk too much about it, in advance. Even to the two of you.'

‘So?' Durine raised an eyebrow. ‘You shut up, and do what you have to do, and I'll take sixty-sixty on it working,' he said, rising.

Kethol nodded. ‘Me, too.'

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

At least, that was what Steven Argent thought, although he kept his thoughts to himself, as usual.

‘I'll ask you all to take seats at the table, my lords,' Pirojil said. ‘There will be another request in a moment, and I'll ask that everybody bear with me.'

‘If you know something, then out with it, and enough of this shilly-shallying,' Viztria snarled, taking one quick step toward Pirojil.

Steven Argent stepped in front of the Baron. ‘I think, Baron Viztria, that it would be wisest if we all do as Captain Pirojil requests–if only because, at the moment, his request is my order–and until Earl Vandros returns, my orders in this castle are law.'

Viztria looked as if he was going to say something, and Steven Argent hadn't decided how he was going to handle it, but he didn't have to cross that bridge, because the weasel-faced little man just closed his mouth and sat.

The only sound that broke the silence was the crackling of the
logs in the hearth, and the shuffling of chairs as the assembled nobles took their seats at the long table, as Pirojil had directed.

Steven Argent looked from face to face, silently mocking himself for thinking that there would be some sign of guilt written there.

Pirojil seated himself at the head of the table, beckoning to the Swordmaster to take a position to his right. Baron Langahan started to seat himself on Pirojil's left, but the ugly man shook his head. ‘I'd prefer you sit further down, my lord. If you don't mind.'

There was nobody in the Great Hall except for Pirojil and the nobles. His companions were off elsewhere–Pirojil had been vague about that–and the dwarf and the watery-eyed mercenary that Pirojil had pressed into service were down in the dungeon with the captains and those soldiers of the guard with posts inside the castle itself, although the watchmen on the walls had been left in place.

Even the servants had been dismissed and sent to the kitchens under the eye of the housecarl, with orders to keep them there until they were sent for.

Steven Argent didn't know precisely what Pirojil was up to, but whatever it was, he thought it would be a good thing if word of it didn't leak beyond this room until he had had a chance to make up his mind about what needed to be said, and to whom.

‘The next item…' Pirojil turned to Steven Argent. ‘Swordmaster, if you would be kind enough, please draw your sword. I fear there may be an attempt to interrupt me, and I'll trust to your authority and skills to decide both whether that's to be tolerated, and how to handle it.'

‘I'm sure–' Viztria started, but Argent stopped him.

‘I'm sure that I'm perfectly capable of handling any sort of interruption,' Steven Argent said, as he rose and drew his rapier. ‘And if somebody were foolish enough to get out of his chair and
make for Captain Pirojil, I'm also sure that I could cut him down before he took three steps.'

‘Interesting phrase, “cut him down”,' Pirojil said, nodding. ‘Not the easiest thing to do with a rapier–although I've never seen a finer swordsman than yourself, sir, and I've no doubt that you could spit anybody in this room on your blade before he took one step.”

Argent nodded agreement.

‘Thank you, Swordmaster,' Pirojil said, then turned back to the assembled barons. ‘We're going to be a while, and I'd like everybody to make themselves comfortable, although I believe there's one here who won't be able to be comfortable, and for that reason,
I
would be more comfortable if each and every one of you would take off your own swordbelts, and place them on the table in front of you. Right now, if you please–or even if you don't please.'

Several of the barons looked to Steven Argent, but most were already unbuckling their belts, and in a few moments, there were a dozen swordbelts on the rough-hewn surface of the old oaken table.

‘Thank you,' Pirojil said. ‘I'm going to have to spend some time talking–I think you'll all understand why shortly–and things will go faster if I'm not interrupted, although, of course, the Swordmaster is in charge here, and I'm lecturing you only through his sufferance.

‘Let's begin at the end, and skip quickly back to the beginning. The end: last night, somebody murdered Baron Morray and Lady Mondegreen.

‘The beginning: a little more than a week ago, in the wake of some strange accidents that a suspicious man might think constituted a series of attempts at assassination, Earl Vandros of LaMut assigned three mercenaries–myself, and my long-time companions, Durine and Kethol–to watch over the Baron's safety. Which
we did, with nothing unusual happening–except for the ambush in Mondegreen.

‘I think that the suspicions were reasonable, but they turned out not to amount to anything. During the war, Baron Morray spent a lot of time in LaMut, and I reckon if somebody here really wanted him dead, he would have been killed then. I don't believe in some conspiracy that not only involves a few abortive attempts here–a pot falling from a window, which could have been caused by the wind; ice on the steps, not uncommon in winter; even the girth of his saddle wearing through–and a Tsurani attack. So I conclude that the attack was unrelated, and the accidents were just, well, accidents. Such things do happen, after all. Although the accidents, and the suspicions that they raised, apparently did give somebody an idea.

‘Somebody very clever, and very fast.'

‘Enough of this, man. If you've something to say, come right out and say it.' Verheyen's lips were white as he leaned forward.

Before Steven Argent could say anything, Pirojil nodded. ‘Oh, I have a great deal to say, my lord, and I can get to it if I'm interrupted less. Be that as it may, this room is filled with clever people, many who might well find themselves better situated with Baron Morray dead.' He turned to Baron Folson. ‘Just as an example, take yourself, my lord. One of your captains–Captain Ben Kelly, I believe is your man?–thinks that you might make a very good Earl for LaMut, once Earl Vandros becomes Duke; and until Baron Morray and Baron Verheyen made a peace between them last night, there still was a chance for you.' He raised a palm to preempt an objection, although Argent noted that Folson just sat silently, and did not object. ‘Which is true enough for Baron Benteen, and the rest of the local land barons, any of whom, I trust, feels that his noble rump would grace the Earl's chair quite adequately–and, perhaps, with good reason in many cases.'

‘That doesn't make me a murderer,' Benteen said.

‘No, my lord, of course it doesn't. It may, however, make you the
beneficiary
of a murder, and it's not unreasonable, it seems to me, to suggest that while many here might have had a reason to murder and not carry out that desire, the murderer certainly did have his reason, and didn't simply wake up in the middle of the night and decide to slit a couple of throats for the simple exercise of it. If I might go on?'

Hearing no objection, Pirojil went on: ‘Baron Verheyen would seem to be the only one of the local barons who has no motive–at least, no longer. After all, as we all know, he and Baron Morray reached an accommodation last night, and I, for one, think that Baron Morray was as good as his word, and would have thrown his full support behind his former enemy, as he had sworn he would.'

Verheyen sat back in his chair and nodded. ‘Yes, he was a man of his word, and that's a fact that none will dispute.'

Pirojil smiled. ‘Which is perhaps more self-serving than generous of you to say, my lord. After all, if you thought that Baron Morray might quietly whisper to the Earl anything other than what he proclaimed in public…well, that could leave you somewhat discommoded, my lord.

‘Or, if you believed that Lady Mondegreen might think that her husband-to-be would be a more suitable choice–let's not ignore that the Baron was found dead in her bed, please–she might have exercised her very considerable powers of persuasion on Earl Vandros, and not to your benefit.' He pursed his lips for a moment. ‘I think that we all can agree that Lady Mondegreen was, among other things, terribly persuasive.'

Steven Argent hoped that the tips of his ears didn't look as hot and red as they felt, but all eyes were on Pirojil, anyway, and not on him.

‘So let's not dismiss you, quite yet, my lord Verheyen, while we turn to the court barons, Barons Viztria and Langahan. Or should
we deal with the Swordmaster first?' He nodded to himself, and turned to Steven Argent. ‘Let's do that. You've all heard the rumours that Steven Argent was having an affair with Lady Mondegreen, and I'll not embarrass the Swordmaster by asking if the rumours were true. A denial might not be believed, under the circumstances, as we could reliably expect someone who murdered to lie; and an acknowledgment would humiliate him. A gentleman, as I understand it, does not speak of these things.'

‘You can't believe the Swordmaster did it, or you're even more a fool than you are a pompous twit,' Viztria snickered. ‘If you think that Steven Argent is the murderer, then you're an ass to leave him as the only armed man in the room.'

Pirojil shrugged. ‘Or I could be attempting to draw him into attacking me, thereby proving his guilt. I'm perfectly capable of that sort of deviousness,' he said, ‘and as to him being the only armed man in the room, I'm not certain that that's true.'

Where it had come from Steven Argent couldn't have said, but Pirojil suddenly had a knife in his hands, and from the looks of it, it was a throwing knife.

‘Be that as it may,' he said, looking down and running the tip of the blade under his thumbnail, as though to clean it, ‘let's not be distracted, and turn to Barons Viztria and Langahan, who have every reason to wish every baron in LaMut discredited–and the Earl himself, for that matter–to further augment the influence and authority of the Viceroy, Guy du Bas-Tyra, at the expense of the Duke of Yabon, who is, by the Viceroy's reckoning, too closely allied with Duke Borric of Crydee, of whom Guy du Bas-Tyra is known to be more than passingly unfond.

‘If one of Earl Vandros's barons is murdered by another baron, under his own roof, and the murderer is never caught, doesn't that argue that he's not competent to be Duke, regardless of whom he marries? It's not unknown for a duke to remove an incompetent baron from office, and while I know that a prince or his
viceroy would be reluctant to remove a duke, it's not at all unlikely that Guy du Bas-Tyra would never permit Earl Vandros of LaMut ever to become Duke Vandros of Yabon, if one of his subordinate barons is believed to have got away with murder, is it?'

Langahan's face was unmoving. ‘Sometime later, Captain Pirojil, you and I may have occasion to discuss your show of disrespect for the Viceroy, who would never countenance such an action.'

Pirojil shrugged, his eyes never leaving the tip of his knife, which was working its way down his fingers. ‘Perhaps he wouldn't. If he knew about it. But he'd be a strange ruler, indeed, who didn't take an opportunity that presented itself to him, wouldn't he?' He looked up. ‘So. We know that everyone in this room has at least some reason to think himself better off with Baron Morray dead, and we don't even have to consider the possibility, for the moment, that the real target was Lady Mondegreen, and that one of her other lovers–if indeed she had other lovers–decided that he'd rather she be dead than warm and alive in another man's bed, eh?'

Argent didn't say anything, didn't do anything.

Yes, his affair with Carla had had its intense moments, but he had always known that he was not the only one, and as fond of her as he was, he had no cause to resent her having chosen Morray, as he had known that she would. He hadn't even been sure that their own relationship would have ended with her marriage to Morray; Carla Mondegreen had had a very Eastern view of the bounds of marriage being more of a guide than a border.

And even if he had missed her, even if he never again smelled her perfume as she lay warm in his arms, even if the image of her in another man's bed had haunted him (though it wouldn't) would he kill her for that?

Never.

‘So let's move along and consider the question of opportunity
and, just for the sake of argument, let's consider that it was the Swordmaster himself who decided to kill the two of them, and stalked down from his quarters in the Aerie, a hidden knife on his person and murder on his mind.

‘It seems a rather strange coincidence that he would see the watchman asleep, doesn't it? Unless, of course, he arranged it himself with the watchman, and this talk of Erlic falling asleep was merely a conspiracy between the two of them. Which wasn't the case.' Pirojil shook his head. ‘My friend Durine is capable of being very persuasive in his own way, and he's certain that Erlic, who now is locked up down in the dungeon, is as shocked as anybody else about these two murders.

‘No. It was the sleeping watchman that turned a desire into an opportunity, and the murderer had to be in a position to see that sleeping watchman, and quickly–very quickly; I'll get to that in a moment–take advantage of that rare opportunity.

‘Steven Argent, maybe? He's in charge of the castle and the entire earldom while Earl Vandros is away, but that doesn't mean that he wouldn't seem out of place prowling the hall outside the guest quarters, for any reason, much less waiting for a once-in-a-lifetime chance to find the watchman asleep.

‘Baron Viztria was quite right–I know it wasn't the Swordmaster, and indeed I'm more than slightly gratified that he is the only other man in the room beside myself with a naked blade in his hand.

‘No, the killer was one of you barons, residing in the guest wing, somebody whose presence in itself would not have drawn any particular attention to him, simply because he–like the rest of you–belonged there.' He nodded. ‘In my own profession, I've always thought it important to take advantage of surprising opportunities, and in a way, I've got to admire how the killer did that. He couldn't be sure that the sleeping watchman would remain asleep, mind you, so he had to be ready to kill him, too
–and quickly, before his outcries could summon anybody, and then disappear back into his own room, only to reappear with the rest of the barons who had gone to bed, apparently every bit as surprised as the rest.' Pirojil looked up. ‘Visualize it yourself, my lords, as I've been spending the afternoon doing. The killer hears Morray in the hall and glances out of the door. He sees the Baron enter the Baroness's chamber. He ponders his choices. He has the two of them alone and vulnerable. He waits. Later that night he looks out of the door again and he notices that the watchman is asleep. Seizing the moment, he quickly dresses himself–'