Legends of the Riftwar (70 page)

‘Dresses himself?'

Pirojil nodded. ‘He can't stalk across the hall in his nightclothes, after all, not with a knife in one hand and a sword in the other–he might need the sword, after all, to kill the guard quickly on his way back to his room, should the guard awaken or be awakened. If, before the murders, he's seen in such a strange condition, it's going to be clear to all that his intentions were bloody, although perhaps not quite clear what those intentions were, and why risk anything prematurely? He's a vile piece of shit, begging the pardon of all but one of you, but he's not an idiot.

‘So, as I was saying, he dresses himself, and takes the opportunity to go over and open the door to Lady Mondegreen's room, perhaps having spent a moment listening outside, for sounds of sleep or–well, or for other sounds.

‘And then he opens the door, sees them asleep on the bed, and steps inside, then closes the door behind him. From this point on, he's committed, and while he's fast with a knife–he's about to demonstrate that as he stands over their bed, he can't quite be sure to slit first one throat and then another without the thrashing about of his first victim awakening his second.

‘So he draws his sword, and holds it back, the point over, perhaps, the eye of his second victim, ready to run the point of
that sword through and into the brain to silence his second victim, if the first one's death is a little more violent and dramatic than he hopes for.

‘But he's lucky, as well as fast and good at what he does, and his knife is very sharp and his hand very steady, and a few seconds later, blood is fountaining from the throats of both Baron Morray and Lady Mondegreen.

‘And now, he's in a rush, and his heart is pounding, thumping in his chest. He's done his deed, and he has to get out, and back to his room.

‘He blows out the lantern–if somebody has heard something and walks in, he wants that somebody to walk into darkness, and his sword point; besides, he wants the room dark when he opens the door, for the obvious reason–and then he's back at the door, pulling it open only a crack to see if the watchman is still asleep, which he is.

‘So he goes down the corridor, with his sword already drawn–remember, the guard could wake up suddenly, even at his quiet footfalls–and back to his room.' Pirojil finally looked up. ‘But I've left something out, haven't I?' he asked, smiling.

He turned to Baron Langahan. ‘Excuse me, my lord, but would you be so kind as to slide over your swordbelt?'

Langahan did just that, with no more than the slightest of hesitations, and with the hint of a scowl.

‘What are you leaving out, Pirojil?' Steven Argent asked.

‘Why, the knife, my lord,' Pirojil said, extracting the knife from Langahan's belt. He held it up. It was a usual sort of belt-knife, its stacked-wood grip fancier than Steven Argent would have preferred, and its single-edged blade gleamed from both polish and oil. ‘When a throat is cut–and I can tell you that I've cut a few throats in my time–blood doesn't just ooze out. It spurts. He would have been lucky if the blood didn't coat the whole blade, and perhaps his hand as well.

‘He could hardly go out into the hall with a blade dripping blood, could he?

‘Now, if he wasn't rushing, he could have spent a few minutes carefully cleaning the knife off–perhaps using the sheet from the bed, or tearing off a piece of the sheet, although that would have made a loud noise.

‘But my friend Kethol examined the room very closely, and he reported that there were no bloody rags left–just some spots on the sheet, where, perhaps, he quickly cleaned his blade as well as he could in a few seconds. Did he stand in the light of the oil lamp and clean the blade carefully, thoroughly, being sure to get at all the cracks, then bring the bloody cloth along with him?' Pirojil shook his head. ‘I don't think so. I don't think that he went across the hall with the knife held behind his back, or along the flat of his arm, either, as that would have indelibly marked his clothes with blood, and with his sword in his right hand, as he crossed the hall. He would want to keep his left hand free.

‘I think he simply made two quick swipes on the bedsheet, in the dark, and then sheathed his knife, and later thoroughly–very thoroughly, my lords–cleaned that knife in his own room, down to the last spot of blood, perhaps burning the rags afterwards, or more likely simply using his water pitcher, and pouring the bloody water down the garderobe–or perhaps even drinking it, as disgusting as it sounds, to hide the evidence.

‘Blood is so…so messy, my lords.'

Steven Argent shook his head. ‘But…'

Pirojil took the knife and began to cut away at its sheath. ‘My apologies, Baron Langahan, for ruining your sheath.' He spread the leather out. ‘If it had been Baron Langahan, we would have seen signs of the blood here. In fact, if you look at those brown stains there–'

‘That's an old stain,' Langahan said. ‘Hasn't everybody at some time put away a knife when it wasn't clean?' He shrugged. ‘I can
remember once when I was hunting with the Viceroy, years ago, when we took a boar, and–'

‘Yes, my lord, it is indeed old blood, or at least old something.' Pirojil turned to Viztria. ‘I think I'll ruin your sheath next, my lord. Unless you have some objection?'

For once, Viztria was speechless, but he simply slid his swordbelt across the table, and Pirojil repeated the process.

‘No stains here, my lord. Baron Verheyen next, I think.'

Verheyen snorted as he did the same, and Pirojil cut his sheath open as he had the others.

‘Interesting, Baron Verheyen,' he said, as he spread the leather for all to see. These stains appear rather…fresh.' A sneer curled itself across Pirojil's thick lips. ‘You murdering pig.'

Verheyen was on his feet, snatching the sword from Folson's sheath. ‘You lying sack of–'

‘Stop right there, Verheyen,' Steven Argent commanded. ‘You're under arrest, in the name of the Earl of LaMut.'

Verheyen shook his head, his face red with rage. ‘I'm innocent,' he bellowed. ‘I'm not sure what your man is up to, Argent, but I'll find out after I've stuck him a few times!'

He lunged for Pirojil, who was quickly out of his chair and around the table.

Steven Argent moved between them, and struck the Baron's rapier aside with his own rapier.

Pirojil watched the two men confront one another, waiting for an opportunity to bolt for the door. It wasn't fear that motivated him, but caution, for he had heard Durine's recounting of the practice bout between Argent and Verheyen and knew the Swordmaster would be fortunate to emerge from this conflict alive. Once to the door, Pirojil would shout for guardsmen to overpower the furious baron.

The only problem with the plan was that several barons were standing in a knot between Pirojil and the door. To try to move
around them would bring him within a thrust of Verheyen's sword.

While he pondered his next move, the struggle commenced.

Pirojil was impressed. He had seen many a fight, from barroom to battlement, and with every sort of blade imaginable, but Baron Verheyen was as fast a swordsman as he had ever seen. Pirojil was certain that had
he
stood to face the Baron alone, he'd now be dead upon the floor of the Great Hall. He wasn't even sure he could confront him with Durine and Kethol standing behind him with their swords at the ready.

Argent and Verheyen were now exchanging blows faster than Pirojil thought possible. The look of concentration on the Swordmaster's face revealed the fact that he knew himself over-matched. Yet he continued to press on. He might not be quite as fast as the Baron nor as deft with the blade, but he was far more practised, and experience counted for a great deal when death was on the line.

Back and forth they lunged and parried, yet they hardly moved from their original positions, taking only a step or two in either direction, and Pirojil kept watching for an opportune moment to run to fetch the guards.

Three high attacks from Verheyen were countered by Argent, who riposted twice and found his opponent ready. Then the Swordmaster launched a seemingly frantic attack of his own, only to be repulsed by the nimble footwork of the Baron.

Then Pirojil sensed a change in Argent.

It seemed that the Swordmaster had spotted something that Pirojil hadn't seen. There was a pattern emerging, and suddenly Pirojil forgot about seeking the guardsmen, instead becoming entranced by the display of swordsmanship before him.

Both men were drenched in their own perspiration, despite the cold, and the only sound in the room was the stamp of leather boots upon the cold stone floor, the ring of steel upon steel and
the heavy breathing of the two combatants. Blow, parry, riposte, parry; the contest wore on.

Then Pirojil saw it. Argent was laying a trap. Each time the two men crossed swords, the blades lingered in contact a tiny bit longer, with a little more pressure upon the opponent's blade. Argent almost fell into a pattern, three high strikes and a low strike, lulling Verheyen into studying it for an opportunity. He changed to two strikes, then three again, causing the Baron to hesitate in his riposte.

Then Argent offered Verheyen the blade. He took a block and pressed forward, and for an instant Verheyen took the blade, resisting the pressure. Then Argent moved left, allowing his blade to fall away and Verheyen found himself over-extended and exposed for just an instant.

And then Steven Argent was standing over a dead man, and Verheyen's blood was running down the length of his sword. The Swordmaster looked down at the dead baron then very slowly and very deliberately he produced a handkerchief from his tunic, and cleaned the blade very carefully before putting it back into its scabbard.

‘You thought it would turn out this way, Pirojil,' Argent said.

The ugly man nodded. ‘It seemed possible. Corner a rat and he'll fight; and I wanted this rat cornered, my lord. He deserved that. And I'd just as soon I not be known as one who killed a nobleman, no matter what the justification or cause. Baron Verheyen has relatives, and he has some friends, I'm told, and I'm sure that some will blame me as much for exposing him as they will blame him for the murders.'

‘So you put me in harm's way to protect you from retribution?'

Pirojil shook his head. ‘To tell the truth, my lord, I wasn't thinking that far down the road.' He shrugged. ‘As to why, well, in the field, I'll put myself and my friends up against almost
anybody–we've done that enough times–but I know I'm no match for a nobleman in a duel, and you were the only man here with a chance to stand against the Baron.' He looked down at the body on the floor and added, ‘I'll tell you it doesn't bother me at all that a murderer met his reward.'

Lord Viztria looked down at Verheyen's still form. Blood was soaking into the thick carpet covering the cold stones. ‘But why?' he asked.

‘My lord?' said Pirojil.

‘Why kill Morray and Lady Mondegreen? Morray had agreed to step aside in Verheyen's favour.'

Pirojil shrugged. ‘Just because Morray said a thing, doesn't mean it's true. Is any agreement made here between the barons binding upon the Earl? Or the Duke of Yabon? Or the King?'

‘Well, no,' said Lord Viztria. ‘But it seemed logical.'

‘A combined Mondegreen and Morray makes the most powerful barony in the duchy,' added Argent. ‘And the very selfless act of stepping aside for the greater good might be just the thing that would cause Earl Vandros to recommend Morray to the Duke as his successor.'

Pirojil said, ‘Seeming to have no reason to murder a rival, Verheyen now could ensure beyond a doubt Morray would not become again a rival for the earldom. He's got no motive, so no one thinks he did it.'

Steven Argent said, ‘It sounds so simple.'

Pirojil arched an eyebrow. ‘Swordmaster, if I may?'

‘May what?'

‘Address the barons, once more, for just another moment?'

Steven Argent nodded. ‘Please.'

Pirojil turned to the others. ‘I just wanted to thank you for your kind attention, and bid you all farewell. As I said, I'm not entirely sure that some won't blame me and my friends for exposing the murderer more than the murderer himself, so we're
withdrawing ourselves from the service of the Earl of LaMut, and we shall be on our way in the morning.'

‘In the snow?' said Lord Viztria, with his usual raised eyebrows and sneer.

‘Snow melts, my lord Viztria. We'll manage.' He turned back to the Swordmaster. ‘May we keep our room in the barracks for the night, my lord? Or should we seek accommodations in town?'

Steven Argent didn't understand.

Why?

These men had proven their worth, under the most trying of circumstances, and he had been about to offer them permanent commissions, subject to the confirmation of the Earl. Maybe they weren't exactly what he thought of as officer material, but competence and loyalty should have a reward.

But, before the barons, with Verheyen lying dead on the floor, he didn't quite know what to say, so he said nothing, and simply nodded.

‘A good day to you all,' the preposterously ugly man said. Then he turned on the balls of his feet and walked out of the hall.

He didn't look back.

It was dark outside.

But that was outside, and they were, thankfully, inside, and the oil lamps made the room comfortably bright.

The sounds from the barracks common room were more muted than usual. Pirojil could just make out the sounds of distant conversation over the rattling of dice.

They gathered around the hearth in their quarters, the bottle of wine from Lady Mondegreen's room on a side table next to Kethol, who was busying himself, weaving leather thongs in and out of each other across a wooden frame.

What few possessions they had seemed to have grown in their time in LaMut, and they had had to procure four extra rucksacks from the castle dungeon in order to keep what they didn't want to throw out. A packhorse would have been good, but Pirojil couldn't quite see how to get a horse on brezeneden.

Durine had been sceptical, and was ready to make another run, throwing out some of their collection, but Kethol had quickly improvised a sort of sled from an old door, some extra strips of wood, and a piece of rope, which should be easy enough to pull
across the snow, until the snow melted, which it showed every sign of doing quickly.

A few days of hobbling along on these awkward-looking brezeneden, and then…

After that, they'd have to procure some horses in the next town, though that might be difficult. Well, if they had to walk all the way to Zun to get mounts, at least they had enough money for it. They could even afford to be a bit picky–

No, any horses would do. They would have to sell them in Ylith anyway, and men who were about to take ship away–far away, as far away as they could get–were hardly in the best bargaining position. They'd need five horses, most likely…

Kethol had already finished another set of brezeneden and was working on one more, when there was a knock at the door. It opened without a word being spoken, and Mackin's improbably broad face peered through.

‘Come in,' Kethol said. ‘We were just talking about you.'

‘Milo says we're going with you,' he said.

‘You're welcome to leave town with us,' Durine said slowly, carefully. ‘Although if you are going to come with the three of us, there're some things we'll have to get straight–'

‘Yeah.' The dwarf's grin broadened, and he stretched out his thick hands and cracked his knuckles. ‘Looking forward to it, I am.'

‘–by talking it out. We settle things by discussion and vote, the three of us, and not by beating each other up. We save that for when we get paid.'

Mackin shrugged. ‘Well, we can talk about it. If it doesn't work out, you three can go your way, and Milo and me, we can go ours. Long as I don't have to keep calling you “captain”, and saying “yes, sir” all the time, that might happen. Or it might not. You never know.'

‘I'm not a captain,' Kethol said. He had been the first to get
out of his grey officer's tabard. It, like the others, still had the rank tabs on the shoulders, but all now lay neatly folded on a chair by the door. ‘Never was much of one.'

‘Me, neither.' Durine nodded. ‘Just three men who kill people for money,' he said, then shrugged his massive shoulders and looked over at Kethol and Pirojil.

Maybe they had enough money now to find a place for the Three Swords Tavern?

Or would it have to be the Five Swords?

Mackin nodded. ‘Then we'll see. We leave at first light?'

‘Wolf's tail,' Pirojil said. That's what they called it down in the Vale, that grey light before dawn that was certainly good enough for their purpose, since leaving was their purpose.

Mackin nodded. ‘Then I'd better get a few pints of ale in me, and get some sleep, eh?'

He left without waiting for an answer.

‘You think it'll work out?' Kethol asked. ‘Why bring in another two?'

‘We can find work for five as easy as three,' Pirojil said. ‘And I think that Milo needs to leave LaMut, for a few reasons. We can talk about those tomorrow, eh?'

Kethol bent back over his work. ‘Fair enough.'

Pirojil wouldn't cut Milo and the dwarf in, not without them buying their share with blood and money over time, but you never did know how much money a mercenary soldier had on him, not unless you searched him very carefully, and it was entirely possible that the other two had enough for their share.

And there had been some blood involved, already, although he didn't even want to think about that, not right now, and wouldn't want to talk about it, ever.

But cutting them in would be something to discuss. Even if it was only a way to avoid discussing other things.

Secrets,
he thought.

Shit.

He and Milo had a secret.

Pirojil had been sure that the murderer was Verheyen, and thought he might be able to corner the Baron, forcing him–he was known to be short of temper–to do something that would reveal his guilt.

But he hadn't been sure of it, and Pirojil liked a sure thing.

He could blame the Swordmaster for having put them in an impossible position. Or he could blame himself for not trusting his own instincts and reasoning.

Or he could just try to forget about it.

There was another knock on the door and this time whoever it was waited long enough for Durine to say, ‘Come in.'

It was Milo, with an impassive expression on his face, and five small leather pouches held in his cupped hands. ‘The Swordmaster sent me, with your pay.'

‘Our pay?' Kethol looked puzzled. ‘How did they get into the strongroom?'

‘I don't much like asking about strongrooms,' Milo said, grinning for a moment. ‘But as I understand it, Steven Argent took up a collection among the barons, to be repaid when the Earl gets back. Not enough on them to pay everybody off, mind, but enough for the five of us, so let's not let anybody else know about it, eh?' He pocketed the two smaller ones, and handed over the other three. ‘You might want to count the money, and check with him, just in case you think some of it might have fallen out on the way over.'

Durine nodded. ‘We'll certainly count it. Be a shame for us to get off on the wrong foot, and all, since you and the dwarf are going to be travelling with us, I'm told.'

‘Yeah,' Milo said, looking at Pirojil, not at Durine. ‘It would be a shame if there were any misunderstandings, so let's be sure that that doesn't happen.'

‘Easy.' Pirojil raised a hand. ‘We won't have any problems. Or if we do, you just go your way, and we'll just go ours.'

Milo nodded, and left, closing the door behind him.

Kethol laid the final one of the brezeneden on the pile with the others, then stretched. ‘Well, if we're moving out in the morning, let's get some sleep tonight. Bar the door, stand a one in three, or both?'

‘Both,' Durine said.

Pirojil nodded. It only made sense. Word would get around quickly, with the barons all talking to their captains, which meant that they were known to have a fair amount of money on them–although not nearly as much as they actually had–and you could never be sure about thieves and such.

‘I'll take the first one, then wake you,' he said to Durine, who nodded.

Back to normal, at least in that.

‘I dunno.' Kethol looked at the door longingly. ‘I'd sort of like to go up to the Aerie and say goodbye to Fantus.'

Durine laughed. ‘That wouldn't be a good idea. The Swordmaster would probably talk you into the three of us staying on, which would mean, as far as I'm concerned, that it would mean
you
staying on, because I need to get out of here.'

Pirojil nodded. ‘Me, as well. Besides, I've never been very much for goodbyes, and neither have you.'

‘Yeah, but that's with
people
,' Kethol said, as though it made some sort of difference. ‘Dragons are different. In another world, maybe I might have liked to get to know one, you know?'

‘In
this
world, if you walk out, don't come back and tell us we're staying,' Durine said, firmly.

Kethol gave up with a bad imitation of good grace. ‘One more thing…' he said, pouring what remained of the wine in the bottle into their three mugs. He passed out the mugs, and looked expectantly at Pirojil.

‘Your turn, I think,' he said.

‘We all knew the Baron about as well, but Lady Mondegreen seemed to have taken a particular fancy to you,' Pirojil said. She had also played him like a lute, but she had probably liked him, too. And Kethol had certainly taken quite a shine to her, as well. As had Pirojil, in his own way. Just because she scared the shit out of him didn't mean that he hadn't liked her–he just would have preferred to like her from a distance, given her penchant for manipulation, combined with her abilities at manipulation…

Which, in the long run, hadn't made her throat any less resistant to being cut, though.

Kethol thought it over for a moment. ‘Baron Morray and Lady Mondegreen: a true gentleman, and a great lady,' he said, then downed his wine with a quick gulp, as did Durine.

Pirojil sipped at his own wine, making it last.

Not the worst he had ever had, although it was a bit bitter and tannic for his taste. Not that a man in his line of work should be fussy about such things. Still, it might be that the Three Swords–or the Five Swords, now, perhaps–would have a wine cellar, as well as good dwarven ale and a decent human brew, and maybe he ought to acquire some knowledge about such things, even if he probably couldn't ever afford fastidiousness.

Kethol blew out the oil lamps, and he and Durine lay down on their bunks, and were almost instantly asleep.

Pirojil took his chair, and leaned it back against the barred door, and let his eyes sag shut for a moment.

Yes, there would be a lot to think about, and a few things to talk about, eventually. But give it a while. He sipped some more of the wine. Too bitter, really. Maybe there was something about all this that he was missing.

He hadn't missed much, he was sure. Verheyen probably would have got away with the murder, although, in the long run, he wouldn't have ended up as Earl of LaMut, not if the murder had
gone unsolved, and with everybody still under permanent suspicion. It wouldn't have been either of the two Bas-Tyra stalking horses, either, although Guy du Bas-Tyra might have ended up profiting by having some other vassal of his put into the earldom. Vandros would hardly be in a position to resist the pressure from the Viceroy, not under the circumstances.

Pity that he had been right.

He had been hoping that there would have been a sign of fresh blood in Langahan's sheath. Viztria was too much of a popinjay to be a murderer, but Langahan was a quieter sort, and probably more dangerous.

He sipped at some more wine. Not much of it, but he might as well enjoy it.

No, it had been Verheyen. Verheyen had had, in his own way, just as much respect for Lady Mondegreen as Pirojil did. It would have been nice to have had a look at Verheyen's sheath before, but that wouldn't have had the same impact.

Having Milo lift Verheyen's knife, cut his own finger, and rub it on the inside of Verheyen's sheath before replacing the knife had been the right thing to do, and if Pirojil would never know for certain if Milo's blood had covered Lady Mondegreen's and Baron Morray's, he could live with that. Maybe Verheyen had been just a little more fastidious than Pirojil had thought he was.

Maybe not.

Best to make sure that the problem was solved, and he had done that. Steven Argent wouldn't have liked knowing how he had solved it, but…

To hell with him.

Tell a soldier to solve a problem for you, and he would do just that, and he'd do it with steel and blood, and do his best to be sure that it wasn't his blood, and Pirojil's betters were best off not knowing just how he had solved the problem. That was true
for Kethol and Durine, too, at least for now, although he would tell them, eventually, when they were all far enough away.

Far away sounded good.

 

The next thing Pirojil knew, Kethol was shaking him awake, as the grey light of pre-dawn filtered weakly in through the mottled glass of the window.

And as soon as he awoke he knew that he had been horribly wrong.

 

He caught up with the murderer in the kitchen. Even at this hour, it was crowded with cooks and assistants, and the smell of the baking bread was overpowering.

‘Good morning, Ereven,' he said.

‘And a good morning to you, Captain Pirojil,' the housecarl said, his face as glum as usual, no more, and no less. ‘I understand you're leaving–did you want me to pack some provisions for your journey?'

‘No. We're fine.' Pirojil shook his head. ‘No. What I wanted was a few moments of your time–I thought I should say goodbye to you. And I'm not a captain any more, nor would I wish to be.'

Ereven nodded. ‘My time is yours, of course, Captain,' he said. ‘A word about what?'

‘Step outside with me, for just a few moments.'

The parade ground was still packed with snow, but it was starting to melt, and it was slippery beneath their feet.

‘I know,' Pirojil said.

Ereven's expression didn't change. ‘Know what, Captain?'

‘I know that the bottle of wine you gave to Baron Morray was drugged. As was, I assume, poor Erlic's supper.'

‘I don't have any idea what you're talking about, sir.'

‘Oh, I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, Ereven. I could even hazard a guess as to why, rather than how, but the
how is clear enough. And as to the who, I'm tempted to say the people who conspired with the late Baron Verheyen were you
and
your daughter, Emma.'

That got to Ereven. He paled. ‘Captain, I–'

‘But I don't even know if Verheyen was involved, not really. He hated Morray, and he was probably smart enough to see through Lady Mondegreen's negotiated settlement, but was he the murderer, along with you?' Pirojil shrugged. ‘That I don't know. And I want to.