Murder in Cormyr (15 page)

It was extraordinary, I thought, how the swamp muck from Lindavar’s and my clothing had permeated everything else in the clothes pile, even Benelaius’s robe of the night before. But some hard work and elbow grease soon had them spotless, and I threw out the soapy water and rinsed them in fresh.

At last I had the clothes hanging on the line, and bade good-bye to Benelaius and Lindavar, who were now at work in the study, examining, I hoped, the powder I had found. I left them to their task and headed for Ghars.

It was midafternoon when I arrived, and though I hoped that I would be able to speak to everyone I could and return before dark, I doubted it would happen. Benelaius had given

me money for lodging were I too uneasy to return home at night, but Jenkus had outdistanced pursuers before, and there was no reason he could not do so again.

I stopped first at the library, where I asked Mr. Marmwitz if he could recall anyone but Grodoveth looking into the past history of Fastred. “Alas, not for years,” he said, shaking his head. Nonetheless, I looked on the flyleaves of most of the books to see if there was any record of withdrawal in recent months.

Marmwitz was correct. The most recent withdrawal had been eight years before, and the patron had been Mrs. Barnabas Hinkel, who had been dead and in the ground for seven of those years.

Back on the street, I got out my list, concentrating on it and trying to ignore the flood of people listening to Barthelm Meadowbrock’s commands. It was difficult. They were scurrying all about me, hanging banners welcoming the Merchants’ Guild council, putting up garlands and wreaths on the lampposts, washing the windows of all the store fronts, even sweeping the horse dung out of the gutters. Shabby, sleepy little Ghars was undergoing a metamorphosis, but I was paying it no mind.

The first two names on my ghost witness list were easy. Dovo was dead, and the Arabel merchant was probably back in Arabel. I scratched them off. The next was trickier— Mayor Tobald. At this point I figured the last thing he needed was more talk about ghosts.

Looking up the street, I spotted him standing next to Barthelm, disobeying Benelaius’s orders to rest before throwing himself back into the fray. Tobald was looking upward and signaling with his hands, apparently guiding some garland or banner hanger lost in the shuffle. No, it might be best to leave the mayor to his civic pleasures and

go farther down the list.

Diccon Piccard had seen the Dovo-ghost on the twenty-seventh of Kythorn, so I tied up Jenkus and went over to his jewelry shop on Wattle Lane. The heavy wooden door reinforced with steel bands was open, and through it came the sound of the Selgaunt fiddle that Piccard played whenever he was not assisting a customer. I think the tune was either “Warrior’s Woe” or “Red-haired Lad”—most fiddle tunes sound the same to me.

When Diccon Piccard saw me, he called out my name as though he were delighted I was entering his shop, though I had never bought a thing from him and could ill afford to. His smile was as wide as the Dragonmere, and his great bush of hair was blindingly white.

“Jasper, is it not! Benelaius’s man! And a finer man is hard to imagine! Benelaius is very lucky indeed!” Diccon Piccard was a born salesman. I had no doubt that if he used that much oil on people who could afford his wares, the precious jewels practically waltzed out of his shop.

“Greeting, Diccon Piccard,” I said. “You must be prepared for the arrival of the guild leaders, if you have time to play so beautifully.” Actually, he didn’t play all that well, but this flattery stuff becomes mutual pretty quickly.

We went back and forth for a while, and when we touched on the subject of the newest murder (which made him frown for only a second, for he had not known Grodoveth) I was finally able to come to the subject at hand. “Ah, yes, the ghost,” he said with a smile, as though Dovo’s had been a noble jest. “I don’t mind telling you that it gave me a fright, quite a fright it did, even though it was a hoax. When I saw that dreadful apparition, I went shivery all over. We rode away as fast as our horses would take us.”

” We?’” I said. “You weren’t alone?”

He looked guilty, as though he had just betrayed a trust. T, uh… oh bother, I said I wouldn’t tell–-“

“Surely, sir, civic duty is more important than a secret held for a friend. I assure you that no one but my master and I shall know, that is, unless it should prove absolutely necessary to capture the killer.”

“All right then, I was riding back from the Swamp Fox with Barthelm.”

“Barthelm Meadowbrock?”

“Yes. We had gone out there together just to see what the place was like—and I wasn’t impressed. But he didn’t want anyone to know he was out there, for he feared that if Shortshanks found he was patronizing another tavern, the dwarf would not be cooperative in filling Barthelm’s spirits order for the guild meeting. So I let on that I was alone when I saw the ghost… er, Dovo.”

“Perfectly understandable, Diccon Piccard. And I thank you for your honesty.”

“You are quite welcome, Jasper. My honesty also extends to my business dealings, so I trust if you ever require my services, say a fine stone for a beloved young lady, or…” And so it went until I was able to extricate myself.

Elizabeth Clawthorn, known to everyone as Looney Liz, was next on the list, but since she lived just south of Ghars, I decided to make her my last stop on the way home. That meant Lukas Spoondrift was next.

I didn’t look forward to seeing Spoondrift. He was my former employer at the Sheaf of Wheat, and hadn’t taken it very well when I had left his miserable job to go with Benelaius. Add to that fact the certainty that he was going to be as busy as anyone in Ghars getting ready for tomorrow’s guild visit, and I knew I would have a none too happy host for my own call.

Spoondrift was a fat hulk of a man, who ate up much of his own profits. But he could afford it, especially with the income the Merchants’ Guild meeting would bring. Barthelm Meadowbrock was spending a great deal of his own money to host the event, and the guild leaders themselves could be counted on to spend a great deal.

The inn owner was outside, overseeing the unloading of the butcher’s wagon, carefully counting each fowl, fish, beef and lamb quarter as it crossed his kitchen threshold. He stopped and examined some of the butchered beasts, as though he feared spoilage, though Butcher Skedmoor’s reputation was unsullied. The butcher stood by, frowning every time Spoondrift slowed his men in their unloading.

I waited until the last carcass was out of the wagon and the voucher was signed. When Spoondrift started to go back into his kitchen, I left the security of the barrels behind which I’d been standing and walked up to him.

“Mr. Spoondrift,” I said, “could I have a word with you?”

When he saw who I was, his face grew even colder than before. Too much time in the meat lockers, I thought. “A word with me, slop boy?”

“I’m not a slop boy anymore, sir,” I spoke with as much dignity as a former slop boy could muster. “I work for the wizard Benelaius, as you know.”

” ‘As you know,’” he parroted. “Well, don’t we speak high and mighty now. Where’d you get all that education, slop boy?”

“My master has tutored me,” I said, trying to keep my temper. My right buttock will forever bear a scar from one of Spoondrift’s beatings.

“Isn’t that nice,” he said sarcastically, “that some employers have the time to educate their servants. Have no time for such shenanigans myself. I’m running an inn here, not a school.”

I could see the conversation was getting nowhere fast, so I tried to butter up the old weasel. “Nevertheless, I learned a great deal by working here, sir. Invaluable lessons about life.” Like how to avoid working in future for a scum-swilling swine like Spoondrift.

“What do you want?” he barked.

“As you might have heard, I’m trying to aid my master by finding out certain things about the recent murders outside of Ghars.”

“Ah, the slop boy’s become the great Camber Fosrick now, has he?”

I made myself smile. “Hardly that. But I would like to know about your experience when you came across Dovo as the ghost.”

“Look, sonny, if you really want to know who killed Dovo and the envoy, all you’ve got to do is ask me.”

I had no idea things were going to be this easy. “All right,” I said. “Who do you think did it?”

“I don’t think, I know. It was that roofer’s son, that Rolf. He’s got a temper hotter than a midsummer desert at high noon, he’s in love with Barthelm’s daughter, and both Dovo and the envoy made insulting advances to her. Now they’re both dead. And where was he while they were getting murdered, eh? If I were you, Mr. Jasper Fosrick, that’s what I’d be finding out, and not asking a lot of stupid questions about phony ghosts. Now run along and play your little games. I’ve got work to do.” And he went into the inn, slamming shut the kitchen door behind him.

If it was going to be that simple, I was going to be very annoyed. And the thing that galled me was that it could be just that simple. A lad filled with a jealous, killing rage who sets out to avenge his sweetheart’s honor.

Still, Rolf was right-handed, but maybe we were wrong.

Maybe he had come up behind Dovo and Grodoveth. No one kept track of Rolf when he wasn’t working. He could have been out on the swamp road the night Dovo was killed, and he could have followed Grodoveth early that morning to the tomb, and gone away with the treasure. Maybe the thing to do was watch and see if Rolf started buying drinks for the house.

Behind me I heard footsteps, and turned to see Butcher Skedmoor coming up behind me. His men had finished watering their horses, and they were ready to take their wagon back to their shop. “A word, young man,” said the butcher, and I nodded respectfully. “One thing you ought to know before paying out to what old Spoondrift says—he dislikes the lad, y’see. Rolf, I mean. Had a new roof put on part of the inn six months back, waited too long, the old roof leaked and damaged some joists beneath. Young Rolf’s got the wood shingles up on the roof, leaves boxes of them there overnight, and around midnight, crack! Their weight breaks the rotten beams beneath, and the boxes of shingles come crashing through the roof, through the attic floor, and shingles start raining onto the bed of Spoondrift and his missus.

“Well, Spoondrift makes a great stink.” Butcher Skedmoor snickered. “More than usual for the bean-eating old mole. But Rolf says that the wood was already bad, so he can’t be blamed, and Spoondrift says that he shouldn’t’ve had all that weight on the roof, and so it goes. Finally Rolf’s father says they’ll share the cost of rebuilding the floors and roof, but that’s not good enough for Spoondrift, who should’ve had his roof fixed years before. They’re still arguing before the magistrate in Wheloon. Anyways, lad, that’s why you should maybe take that story with a grain of salt—or a box of shingles.”

I thanked the butcher, and he waved a pleasant good-bye as his wagon creaked away. His story didn’t clear Rolf, but at least it gave a reason for Spoondrift’s malevolence.

I sighed and looked at my list. I would get no more out of Lukas Spoondrift. Farmer Bortas was next, but I had already talked to him. Bryn Goldtooth, the halfling, was the last on the list, except for myself, and I headed over to his shop.

Bryn Goldtooth was getting ready to close up for the day. He was not involved in the furious preparations that occupied the other inhabitants of Ghars, since he was not a member of the Merchants Guild. His shop was a buy-and-sell-and-trade place where you either found exactly what you were looking for, or nothing at all. It was a labyrinth of dimly lit narrow aisles, where a stuffed leucrotta head might sit between a pair of gold candlesticks and an assortment of used cranial drills.

And since his stock came from his customers rather than from wholesale merchants, he felt no sense of brotherhood with the guild. Besides, it would have curdled his halfling blood to give money to human merchants and receive nothing in return except an intangible membership.

While I had never patronized Diccon Piccard, I had bought things from Bryn Goldtooth. I think he gave me better prices because I had told him about my halfling blood. No purchase or trade was ever made without his looking up at me, winking, and saying, “We halflings have to stick together, eh?”

But he showed no mercy on full-blooded humans. He lived to out-bargain them, and when one left his shop dejected, having lost the best of a deal, his day was made. Apparently he had had a good day, for he greeted me cheerily and didn’t even look disappointed when I told him I had not come on business but to ask him about his recent experience with Dovo.

He laughed merrily. “I can’t tell you a single thing about that, my boy! When I saw that man standing there with his glowing face and his swinging axe, I wasn’t going to hang around. I just booted Bupkin in the side and we tore off down the road, and I didn’t look back until I was safe in Ghars.”

“That seems to have been the reaction of most people, including me,” I said, unashamed to admit it.

“All but one,” Goldtooth said. “Looney Liz.”

“Elizabeth Clawthorn? I was going to go and visit her.”

“You do that. All us sane people light out, we see a ghost. But old Liz was too crazy to run, she was. Least that’s what she said when she come in here trying to trade a dead cat for a linen tablecloth. Needless to say, I didn’t make the trade. ‘Course maybe she didn’t run because she’s too ancient. Can you imagine that old crone going any faster than her usual creep?”

“Did she see any more than we did?”

‘You ask her about it on your way home. Maybe it was just another one of her stories. She’s a queer one—sometimes she seems as right as rain, and other times you’d swear she’s got a turnip in her head instead of a brain. Speaking of turnips, I took half a bushel in trade today. Now I don’t know if you’re a turnip eatin’ man, but I could make you a deal…”

As it happened, I was not a turnip eating man, and got out after spending only three copper pieces on a two-year-old journal that happened to have an installment of a Camber Fosrick story I had never read. Unfortunately it was the third of four, so I had no idea what came before or how the mystery would end, not unlike my present situation.