Murder in Cormyr (4 page)

Shortshanks gave a grunt, and that was good enough for Tobald, who began to speak cheerily to his companion.

“Who’s that with Tobald?” I asked the tailor.

“You don’t know Grodoveth?” he said, and the name rang a bell. “He’s Azoun’s envoy to this region. Brings the king and Sarp Redbeard news of everything between Thunderstone and Wheloon.” Sarp Redbeard of Wheloon was our local lord, if over sixty miles away as the crow flies can still be “local.”

The tailor leaned in closer to me and spoke so softly that I had to struggle to hear in the noisy tavern. “Related to the king, and yet he rides about from one small town to the next like any other low-grade civil servant. Funny one, you ask me. Pretty short, too.”

“He looks quite tall to me,” I said, eyeing Grodoveth.

“Not in stature,” the tailor said wearily, “in temper. The

royal crest had come off his cloak, and he had me sew it back on. This on a Sunday morn and me with a head that feels like an ore’s been waltzing on it all night. So I sewed it a little crooked… just a little… and you’d have thought I had questioned his mother’s honor. He threw the cloak back in my face and started to draw his blade, but I was able to… calm him down.”

“By begging abjectly,” added the chandler.

“Well, he may be short-tempered,” I observed, “but he has good taste in the fairer sex.”

While we were speaking, Grodoveth had gotten up and gone over, Tobald in his wake, to the table at which Mayella and her father were sitting. Tobald was the first to speak, however. “Barthelm! So good to see you this fine evening! And your lovely daughter too! Oh my, what a precious little doggie. I do so love animals, and they love me as well. Hello, my little precious…”

Tobald’s charm must have failed him. As he put out a hand to pat the dog, it gave a surprisingly low growl, pulled back its upper lip, and snapped at him. Only a quick retreat saved the mayor’s fingers from being bitten. He nearly fell over but righted himself, looking truly shocked. “Muzlim,” said the girl, giving the dog a little shake, “what’s wrong with you? The nice man only wanted to pet you.” She looked up at the crestfallen mayor. “I’m sorry, Mayor Tobald, I don’t know what came over him.”

“No, no…” muttered Tobald. “Strange indeed. I usually get on so well with animals.” I had to chuckle. Tobald was a jolly, good enough sort, but seeing the high and mighty get a comeuppance, deserved or not, always tickled me. “I’ll, uh, get our ales, Grodoveth,” the mayor said, retreating to the safety of the bar. Shortshanks may have been as cranky as Muzlim, but at least the dwarf didn’t bite.

Grodoveth remained at Barthelm’s table, though I didn’t hear either the merchant or his daughter invite him to sit. He placed himself across from Mayella, who drew, I fancied, a bit nearer her father as Grodoveth looked at her and gave his impression of a smile. It struck me as more of a smirk.

Their conversation grew quieter than it had been with the garrulous Tobald, and though I couldn’t hear what was said, I assumed that it was displeasing to both Barthelm and his daughter. Mayella smiled uncomfortably at first, then a slight blush colored her cheeks.

Barthelm’s reaction was more violent. His stern expression slowly grew so tense that I could see his jaw muscles tremble. Finally he leaned toward Grodoveth and spoke in a low, intense voice. I couldn’t hear the exact words, but the sibilants hissed at Grodoveth like angry snakes.

The king’s envoy sat back, shrugged, and opened his hands as though he had been misunderstood. Then he gave a gravelly laugh, stood up, nodded in what might have been mock politeness, and rejoined Tobald, who was looking on concerned. I heard the mayor ask Grodoveth what was wrong, but the envoy waved the question away and began drinking his ale.

Barthelm looked angry for a long time, and I thought I could see the glimmer of tears in Mayella’s lovely eyes, but I wasn’t about to go and comfort her. I know a furious father when I see one.

“So what do you think that was all about?” I asked the tailor, who seemed to know everything.

“The only thing hotter than Grodoveth’s temper,” he said, “is his taste for the ladies. And he’s not always the most tactful of men.”

“I’d think,” said the chandler, “that Barthelm would be glad to have one of King Azoun’s relatives paying attention to his daughter, especially since the only chap she seems set on is that roofer’s lad, Rolf.”

“But what if that attention is coarse? And what if that king’s relative was related to the king by marriage?”

“He’s married?” the chandler squeaked.

The tailor nodded sagely. “Grodoveth’s wife is one of Azoun’s cousins.”

‘That doesn’t seem to stop him,” I said, “from making suggestions that make maidens blush and fathers bluster. I assume his position and family ties protect him.”

“So far,” the tailor said. ‘Though I’ve heard tell that some indiscretion on his part was what got him booted out of Suzail. By the king himself, yet. Now it’s just a rumor, but I heard that this drab in a Suzail tavern was—”

The no doubt colorful anecdote was abruptly interrupted by the tavern door banging open and the entrance of none other than Dovo, Aunsible Durn’s mighty but moronic assistant. He walked in as though he were the gods’ gift to women everywhere instead of a metal bender with a wife and three children. He grinned at the men and eyed the ladies saucily, and even had the gall to give a big wink to Mayor Tobald, as though they were on the same social level. The mayor looked as angry as his cheerful countenance allowed, and turned his attention back to his ale and Grodoveth.

Dovo bellied up to the bar, ordered a mug of North Brew, and fell into conversation with a few other town rowdies. I noticed, however, that he was not immune to Mayella’s charms, and kept glancing at her as he weaved for his chums some tale of amorous conquest or bullyish retribution. At one point he showed them some small pictures, and from the salacious snickers I assumed they were not miniatures of his kiddies.

After the barmaid, Sunfirth, brought bread and cheese to Barthelm’s table, the old man got up and went to use the necessary room. Dovo didn’t waste a moment. He whirled around and plunked himself down right across from a startled Mayella, whose little dog was so scared by Dovo’s sudden appearance that he hopped up and lay shivering in the girl’s lap.

“Ah,” breathed Dovo, “there’s a lucky little dog. So how are you this evening, milady? Waitin’ for Dovo here to look your way?”

“No sir, I was not.”

“Come on now, a course you were!” And so the conversation went for a minute, until the door opened again, letting in a cool autumn breeze and three roofers, hot and tired after a long day’s work. At their stern was Rolf, who was in the midst of saying, “Ghost my britches! It’s just some boyo having fun, making fools out of everybody. Why, I’ve half a mind to go out to the Vast Swamp myself and—”

But he stopped when he saw the less than encouraging spectacle before him. Rolf had set his cap for Mayella ever since they were children, and as far as I knew, she had returned his affection, though old Dad had his sights set a mite higher for his daughter.

Rolf was a fairly touchy lad to start with, and when he saw Dovo, the local married lecher, seated across from his beloved, he started shaking as though he wanted to leap on Dovo and rend him limb from limb. But instead he went up behind the smith and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Dovo slowly looked at the hand, then up at the face of its owner. “Well well,” he said. “Look who ‘tis—Mister Out-In-The-Sun-So-His-Brains-Fry. Go away, little boy. I nearly got this lass talked into a little love walk, and you’re liable to queer my play.”

That was all it took. With a groan of fury, Rolf yanked his rival backward, tipping his chair over so that it fell with a crash. Dovo’s foot caught the table and pulled that on top of him as well, and Rolf followed with a heedless dive into the whole mess.

Bread, cheese, ale, dishes, mugs, and flesh merged together on the floor as the two men, locked in a ferocious

struggle, rolled back and forth, knocking the legs out from under Shortshanks’s patrons, and tumbling many to the ground. The dwarf came from behind the bar with his twenty-pound oak mallet, a toy with which he had settled many a tavern altercation. But just as he raised it to strike whichever of the two brawlers first came into range, the roar of a single voice froze everyone, including the horizontal combatants.

“STOP!” the voice cried, and when I looked away from the battlers, I saw that Barthelm, who had fathomed everything at a glance, had returned. His was a voice that commanded attention, and Rolf and Dovo looked up for all the world like two mischievous acolytes caught squabbling by their priest. Neither one had a bloody face, though both were coated with ale and bits of cheese and bread.

“Mayella!” Barthelm growled. “Come with me, girl!” She scooted to her father’s side, holding the terrified dog under one arm. He took his daughter’s hand and led her outside, sharply pulling the door shut behind him as if to seal in the scum.

In the silence, all of us scum bits looked at each other uncomfortably until Shortshanks broke the silence. “Who started it, then? Come on, who was it?” he said, brandishing his mallet.

An angry dwarf with a mallet is a power not to be ignored, and more than a few patrons who had seen it all were soon mumbling, “… uh, Rolf… Rolf started it… yeh, Rolf did it….” and other such comments.

With his free hand Shortshanks grasped Rolf by the ear and pulled on it until the roofer was standing up, though bent over at the waist, for the dwarf still held his ear. “Out with you,” Shortshanks said, and with no more explanation than that he led Rolf to the door, yanked it open, and twisted

Rolf’s ear like he was cracking a whip, so that the lad was flung outside.

Shortshanks slammed the door shut and swung round, glowering at his clientele. “No more trouble tonight,” he said, “from anybody.” His words were not loud, but we all decided to follow the command implicitly.

The first to speak was Dovo, who was brushing himself off. “I thank you for your wise justice, brother Shortshanks, and to show my appreciation, I should like to buy a drink for all here!” Shortshanks’s eyebrows went up, as close to a smile as he got. Then Dovo added, “Although I don’t know how so many people are going to get more than a few drops of a single drink….” and started laughing. Shortshanks frowned again, and he curtly ordered Sunfirth to clean up the mess and charge it to Rolf’s account.

The girl did as she was told, and recorded the damages in the large account book kept just behind the bar. I felt sorry for her, having to clean up after idiots every night. And speaking of idiots, Dovo remained on the scene, wiping the mess off himself with a bar towel, assuming, no doubt, that his wife would get his clothes clean.

I sat for another half hour, chatting and listening to the drivel that passes for conversation among those slowly getting drunk. Now and then I fancied that I was the great Camber Fosrick, sitting disguised as a wizard’s servant in some back-alley watering hole where the vermin of crime met to hatch their dastardly plots. Such a fantasy was difficult to maintain, what with the talk of barley yields and rainfall (or lack thereof), but it got me through the dull patches.

And I was glad I lingered, for at about nine o’clock, in through the door walked one of the most prime specimens of womanhood that I have ever seen.

Her perfect if stern face was framed by red hair, cropped off just beneath the woman’s chin, leaving her neck bare. She wore a broadbelt that supported a steel bustier, mail leggings, and a leather skirt that was open in front almost to her generous hips.

From the broadbelt hung an assortment of bladed weapons, all of which legally bore peacestrings upon their hilt, though I suspected these symbols of nonaggression would not have prevented the woman from drawing any of her blades efficiently. Although the armor and weaponry was daunting, they did not manage to hide a glorious face and, shall we say, a healthy body that now positioned itself at the dark end of the bar.

“Who,” I asked the all-knowing tailor, “is that?”

“Must be Kendra,” he said quietly. “An adventuress.” I had heard of her. But her reputation, though impressive, had not nearly done her justice. “Heard she was coming to the Vast Swamp,” the tailor went on. “Supposed to be looking for

treasure there.”

Her looks alone were treasure enough for a hundred men, I thought, but I kept my opinion to myself. Others were not so tactful. It came as no surprise to me when Dovo lumbered up to Kendra and sat down next to the woman. “Buy you an ale, missy?”

I hope I’m never looked at that coldly by a woman. If Dovo had been any other man, his blood would have frozen, and once it thawed he’d have been on his merry way. But his skull was as thick as his muscles, and he merely leered in response to her sneer. “And what are you?” she said, examining his stained clothing. “Slop boy?”

He colored then, and drew himself up. “Slop boy, is it? Not hardly, missy!”

“Nay indeed!” shouted a tavern wag, safely from a dark corner. “A nail gatherer!”

“A fire stoker!” cried another, given the anonymity of the mob and the tavern’s darkness.

“A smith!” insisted Dovo.

“A smith’s assistant!” cried the first voice.

“Then,” said Kendra with a voice that would have frosted over Anauroch, “I’ll know who to come to when I want my horse’s spit licked off its bridle.”

It wasn’t the most eloquent insult I’d ever heard, but it got under Dovo’s skin. “Watch yourself, missy!” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “There’s more to me than you might think—much more.”

Kendra glanced down, then looked away disinterestedly. “I doubt it.”

He grabbed her arm then and started to whirl her about, but as quick as a snake she pulled out a dagger and pressed it against his throat. “I don’t like being touched,” she said. “Especially not by a smith’s assistant. Barkeep!” she said to

Shortshanks. “Why don’t you toss this bat’s dropping out of your establishment?”

Shortshanks had already come up with that idea on his own. He laid a smart rap behind Dovo’s knee with his mallet, and the man nearly fell. “Out!” the dwarf bellowed, and Kendra added to the command by flinging Dovo toward the door.