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by Geoffrey Hart
Dedication: As always, to my family, for accepting my own particular perversion and leaving me time to write. To Arthur Conan Doyle, for reminding us that eliminating the impossible and accepting the improbable makes for a darn good murder mystery, whatever the genre—though one must implicitly accept a modicum of the impossible if you want to call it a fantasy. To Agatha Christie and all the others who proved that detectives can be eccentric without compromising their effectiveness. And as always, to Mark Baker, Andy Fraser, and Guy Shimwell, for many stories exchanged and improved thereby.
Chapter 1: Walking in a winter wonderland
Chapter 2: Any castle in a storm
Chapter 3: Introductions and broken fasts
Chapter 4: Divers players make themselves known
Chapter 5: Snowbound at the gallery
Chapter 6: Dinner tables and other battlefields
Chapter 7: An interview with the vampire
Chapter 8: A death in the family
Chapter 10: Things found in the larder
Chapter 13: Confrontations can be so unpleasant
Chapter 15: The road goes ever on
My journey began lo! these many years ago, when the Vizard of Vahlt created a legend. The woman of his dreams had a thing for short men, and His Vizardship wisely found a way to accommodate her desires, reasoning it was better to have some of her than none. As Vahlt lived near the Motherlode (may its name be praised wherever Dwarves gather!), he worked with the material at hand. Perhaps he should have called himself the Vizard of Ad Hoc instead, though the mages of that worthy land might have taken offense given subsequent events.
When the banns were posted in the Great Cavern, many Dwarves applied. At first, there was distaste at the notion; none of us much liked the notion of surrendering our freedom to become ornaments in some kept woman’s seraglio. But being pragmatic beings, and Dwarvish women being in short supply, we read to the end of the note. The princely price dangled before anyone who succeeded in their suit raised many eyebrows. I’m sure it raised other things, but you’ll not hear of it from me.
I know what you’ve heard of my people, but don’t believe everything you hear. Though we’ve acquired a reputation as miners, it’s about as reliable a guide to the average Dwarf as your Human reputation as dragon slayers. Maybe you know someone in that line of work—maybe you are someone in that line of work—but I wouldn’t bet the beer money on it. Anyway, the real reason we mine is for the gold, that’s true enough, and what we do with it once we’ve got it is—frankly—none of your damned business. It’s neither as lurid as some have said, nor pure greed, and more than that you’ll not hear from me. The reward notwithstanding, it’s not particularly pleasant work, and Service, our Poet Laureate, had it right when he talked about the little men who moil for gold. We Dwarves are hopeless romantics when it comes to the important things. There’s this shortage of women, you see...
That’s my roundabout way of explaining how I came to be interviewed for the seraglio position. Seven others had already been chosen based on a mystical process known only to Vahlt. I felt the interview was going well, right until the last question. Vahlt asked something about “inter-racial conjugal relations”, which made my hair crawl right down to the last little curlicues at the tips of my beard. To be honest, I’d only half a clue what he meant, so to save face, I stalled. Not effectively, as thickwitted individuals don’t become sorcerers. He explained the notion in terms that would have made a Troll blush. Thinking fast, I replied that I’d have to see what the woman looked like first. As stalls went, it failed abjectly. I should’ve figured he’d have a picture.
“Blanche” had ebony hair that fell to her waist, lips like rose petals, and a figure like an hourglass. The painting probably didn’t do her justice, but even so, I winced. And that fast, I was out the door without so much as a “we’ll call”.
I’m no racist. I’ll freely concede each race has its own concept of beauty—were it not so, there’d be many fewer Elves for us to worry about. But some things a Dwarf shouldn’t do, even for gold. Maybe if she’d had a half-decent mustache...
I hadn’t asked my pit boss for time off, I’d insulted a sorcerer, and—worse still—someone had posted a picture of Blanche throughout the caverns. Bad enough I was out of a job, but now I was also being called a pervert by erstwhile friends. Brief digression: Wonder why you’ve never heard a Dwarf called a pervert? Mostly because it's hard to taunt someone effectively with an axe embedded in your throat. But there's also the ongoing difficulty of finding enough canaries to keep the miners safe and the fact that we’re an extremely pragmatic people. So we don’t suffer perverts for long; they get a short and inglorious career as canaries.
It soon became clear it was time for a road trip if I didn’t want to paint myself yellow and spend the rest of my own short, inglorious career warbling about the air quality in the mines. In fact, it looked increasingly wise to hit the road Real Soon Now and not look back until I’d accumulated enough gold to return in triumph and buy collective amnesia about why I’d left. Before you could say “hi-ho”, hit the road is what I did.
All of which is way of me delaying getting to the point, which is an explanation of why I found myself halfway up a mountain and halfway up to my neck in a colder but less repellant kind of “Snow". By the omens thus far, my feet had led me even farther astray than my mouth.
Odd though it may strike you, despite twenty-some years of my youth spent in a mine, I’m superstitious about the dark. In a mine, you’re safe in the rock’s warm embrace; outdoors, there’s an intolerable weight of sky looming overhead, and, well... The dark and silent woodlands rising about me, the snowclad spruce and fir leaning inward over the road... well, I was cold and hungry to be sure... and yes, a bit spooked. The two crucified thieves I’d passed miles back had left a poor impression, though on the “half full” side of the ledger, it implied the road would be safe for travelers. I nonetheless felt a twinge of professional sympathy. (Yes, I’d found a way to accumulate the necessary wealth to buy my way back into Dwarvish society; no, it’s none of your damn business why I was on the road again without so much as a copper to my name.)
For the hundredth time, I paused to listen, calloused hand resting on the frost-rimed shaft of my battleaxe. The weapon was near as tall as me, with a wickedly curved blade on either side of the shaft, and though I could barely swing the damn thing, let alone wield it with any proficiency, it fit the image we Dwarves have as tough customers. It was useless as a weapon, but discouraged thieves and provided necessary camouflage for my true profession. It was a gamble carrying the thing, but anyone competent enough with their own implements of mayhem to not fear the axe was generally someone I could outwit. More to the point, I wasn’t likely to encounter such an individual here.
Hearing nothing, I knelt for the thousandth time to remove the balls of ice that had collected on my rabbit-fur trousers, which I wore with the fur inside to keep my legs from freezing and shattering like ice. For a side branch of the King’s highway, the road was cared for better than I’d expected, which is to say, poorly but better than not at all. If it hadn’t been so cold, so damp, so near sunset—so ominous—I would’ve been certain I was being followed. As it was, I laughed at my fears. Picturing myself painted yellow and perched in a cage in the mines put things in perspective. I cursed my overactive imagination. And, of course, the peasant who’d assured me it was only a half-day walk to the nearest inn. For him, maybe, with those damnably long Human legs. I scanned the darkening woods again. They remained reassuringly empty.
So off I went once more, stride springy and confident. That lasted all of a mile, at which auspicious moment the sun’s silvery-grey disk vanished behind the clouds moving in from the west and spilling through the pass up ahead. Half a day my hairy Dwarvish posterior! With the light gone, I was once more a small, cold, and—let’s be honest with ourselves—frightened Dwarf. Pride and cussedness were all that kept me from giving in to primal urges and seeking shelter in a warm, defensible hole in the rock. That, and the absence of any such shelter for too many miles during my half-a-damned-day walk. To add insult to injury, the clouds began dropping their burden of snow.
As the heavy flakes thickened in the air, blotting out what light remained, I unslung my axe. The grip’s chill leather immediately froze to the part of my palm that was exposed to permit a better grip through too-light mittens. It stung, but at least I could use the spike on the axe head to grope ahead for obstacles—or worse. Another mile passed, whirling— heart pounding—as I spun to face every half-imagined sound. Then a light touch at my back brought me about, spinning and slashing at the unseen assailant.
Cold, powdery snow coated my arms from the overburdened branch I’d just killed.
A sluggish breeze arose, whirling snow about and down the back of my hood. Outside the rare gaps it tore in the storm, it made vision even worse. I plowed my way back to the center of the road, from which I’d strayed, childish fears banished for a time. Not hunger, though, for I’d long since eaten the last snack I’d brought for this pleasant little stroll. Odd how one can be ruled so by one’s body—give me a full belly and a warm hearth and I’ll face the Dark One herself, but deprive me of those same luxuries and I crumble. That’s likely why so few of us wander the roads. Of course, there’s little gold to be had as a wanderer, whatever the ballads may say. That bard who sings so prettily of the “art” of his music and the difficulty of remembering the old tales probably gets a 10% commission on all the road gear the village general store sells, and a like retainer from any inn he’s been headhunting for. Had I any talent with an instrument, I’d be singing my way across the country instead of working for a living.
Resignedly, I tightened my belt a notch, resettled my pack, and continued onward.
I’d begun to seriously consider eating my moccasins for sustenance by the time the snowfall slackened, and in the hushed silence, I heard the distinctive creak of leather harness and wood. Not bandits, then, for such rarely traveled by wagon. Those who did worked for the authorities, and had no interest in such as me. At least, not unless I’d been more careless than I thought.
Perhaps a hundred steps later, a snow-laden carriage hove into view. I saw it long before the weary, wary driver saw me, which gave me time to prepare. The wagon bore a closed-in cab, with elegant lines despite its mantle of snow, and was drawn by a single decrepit horse. The driver crouched uncomfortably behind the horse, cloaked heavily against the night, and was of moderate build for a man of these parts. I heard a muffled clink of chainmail, and his free hand rested comfortably on a small blanket-covered hump in his lap. I didn’t like the businesslike look on his broad face, nor the way he swept the snow clear of that bundle in his lap, so I hailed him before he could see me and my axe and form the wrong impression.
“Hello the carriage!”
Instantly, a loaded crossbow was in his hands, out from beneath the lap blanket, though the horse kept plodding ahead. Its ears turned in my direction. Warily, the Human craned his neck in all directions, seeking an ambush.
“Hello yourself! Step forward and be recognized, but keep your hands where I can see them.”
Not wishing to provoke him, I reslung my axe and approached, keeping my hands in plain sight. The horse slowed to a halt. It was a brownish gelding, old and covered in half-melted snow. Tired though he was, he snorted a friendly greeting, hoping no doubt for an apple or lump of sugar. I empathized.
The Human relaxed. “Well, now, here’s somewhat of a surprise.” His voice was deep and hearty, clearly amused. “What’s one of the Little Folk doing on this road alone by night?” He slipped his weapon back under the blanket. I stepped closer, smiling reassuringly to put him at his ease, though it was tempting to knock those teeth back down his throat. Little folk! Pah! But there are some advantages to being short enough to be mistaken for a child, and I was none too finicky about reaping those advantages.
“I seem to have underestimated how long it’d take to reach the next inn.”
He grinned back, craggy face surprisingly gentle for an armsman. “You’re not alone in that, I confess.” At that moment, there came a disturbance from the back of the carriage. A soft, pretty voice, plaintive somehow, called out. “Roger, have we arrived?”
Roger leaned back and whispered something I couldn’t catch. But it was not without cause I was reputed to have—some said overly—sharp ears, for I caught some of it. Roger strove to reassure a Lady Elizabeth I was harmless. As he turned back, I took control of the situation. I sneezed loudly and emphatically, and tried to make myself look—would it were possible!—even more miserable. If I’d had a halo, it would have been shining like a beacon in that darkness.
Roger sighed. The conflict between abandoning a helpless waif to the snows to protect his passenger and offering a ride to a stranger was plain on his face. My fate hung in the balance until a rift opened in the clouds, flooding the scene with quicksilver moonlight. Insufficiently far off, a wolf howled, echoed by a cousin, and they sounded every bit as miserable as the rest of us, and hungry enough to eat my axe if that were all that was available. No doubt it sounded more dire to Roger, judging by his face, and I confess, the stories I’d heard of the local wolves gave me little confidence in their charity towards travelers.
“Swift now, little one, climb aboard.”
The phrase little one would have earned him a premature set of dentures under other circumstances—I’m tall for my race, I’ll have you know—but I wasn’t in an ideal position to debate my stature. Instinct told me only the wolves would benefit from excess pride, and between breaths, I clambered into the seat beside Roger.
“Can you drive a carriage, Little One?”
“My friends call me Thomas.” My Dwarvish name was difficult for Humans to pronounce, and I had no desire to tell him what they called me back in the mines, though it would’ve been a tossup between that and Little One for humiliation.
“Roger Dalhousie, Deputy Sheriff. Can you drive?”
“Yes, but poorly. If you’d rather, I’ll cover us with that crossbow.” He looked understandably skeptical, so I went on before he could condescend further. “I can put a bolt through a squirrel’s tail at thirty yards.” In point of fact, I was fairly skilled with a crossbow, as my weapon of choice tended to be damn near anything that kept a foe safely at arm’s length, and preferably farther. But as for the squirrels—well, I’d yet to see one of these apparently mythical creatures during my travels, and had merely lifted a phrase, along with enough coins for a few decent meals, from a woodsman I met several forests back.
Roger appraised me a moment, my dense beard reassuring him I wasn’t as childish as I seemed. For a moment, he took my measure, then nodded and handed me the weapon. “Well enough. Besides, I suppose you’re more likely than I to spot a wolf in this uncertain light. There are more bolts under the seat.” I returned his nod. The snow had mostly stopped, and I could count needles on a spruce with this much light. Roger clucked through his teeth, then shook the reins. The horse started moving, shedding snow.
I watched the horse carefully, noting his lack of concern. That meant the wolves were nowhere near. Were they canny as their reputation suggested, they’d be hiding somewhere warm and dry, sticking their heads out and howling only long enough to keep up appearances. We mortals also have a reputation for cunning, but it wasn’t the wolves who were out here freezing to death on the road, was it?
We traveled in silence, all senses directed outwards towards the menace lurking in the woods. Cold and hungry though I was, I was no longer alone and no longer so worried. After a time, the road’s gentle ascent eased, and as we rounded a shoulder of the mountain, the trees and snow thinned appreciably, though the wind picked up. The tension eased, and Roger chuckled.
“I’m glad you’re along, Thomas, I tell you true. If we’d seen a wolf, I’d have been hard put to keep our doughty steed here under control while still shooting at the benighted creature.”
I grinned back. “True enough. If the horse had bolted, your quarrel with the wolves would have been interesting.” I waited expectantly, got no reaction, sighed inwardly. “How much further must we go?”
“You see that cliff?” He pointed ahead and to the left, where another of those intermittent flashes of moonlight silhouetted the mountain, and I nodded. “That’s the top of the pass. It’s all downhill thereafter, then less than an afternoon into town. But I think we’ll stay at the castle.”
“Not the inn?” If I sounded reluctant, it was because I was—though in truth, certain indefatigable instincts began to awaken, banishing more mundane considerations of food and warmth. A castle held the greater possibility of gain, with less chance of being caught. I paid closer attention.
Roger appeared not to notice the gleam in my eyes. “Yes. The castle’s a deal closer. The host’s said to be a strange one, but the inn you mentioned burned to the ground several years back under mysterious circumstances, so the hospitality’s likely better in the castle.” He laughed loudly. “You must’ve got your information from a homebody.”
“So it seems,” I replied, recalling the peasant’s pride at the breadth of his travels. “Will they put us up in the castle?” A deep tummy rumble punctuated that sentence.
Roger laughed, and clapped me heartily on the shoulder. If I’d been as frail as my size indicated, he might have pitched me from my seat, but as it was, he just bruised his hand; years in the mines puts muscle on one’s frame, and even a small Dwarf possesses a startling amount of brawn. “Aye, Little One, aye. And feed you too I wager.”
I bit my lip, swallowed the epithet as I imagined him swallowing his teeth, and we rode on in a companionable silence.
As we neared the crest of the pass, the castle came into view. The keep, closely warded by a high wall, clung to the rock face, monolithic as the mountain. There was a strong hint of delvings extending into the rock, for the masons’ signature was Dwarvish. Given the Human reputation for unreliable architecture and the keep’s precarious perch, I found that reassuring. Below the keep, the road passed between two rock buttresses separated by a wagon’s width. In some distant day before the kingdom’s unification, the castle had undoubtedly controlled the traffic through the pass, likely a lucrative proposition even this far from civilization.
Now, however, it seemed deserted. The few windows visible through the gusts of snow were black behind shutters, apart from one with a tapestry-diffused glow of light. To Human eyes, the castle must have seemed little more than a dead mass of stone, poised to fall upon the road. Roger seemed undaunted, however, and I felt those tons of stone as a reassuring weight hanging over me. We Dwarves have an inborn ability to appraise stone, and I savored that heaviness the way a Troll savors marrow. Definitely Dwarvish. It would feel just like home, and I suppressed a twinge of homesickness.
Ever higher it rose above us, like an exercise in literary symbolism, and now I could see light from behind the wall, reflecting on the low cloud. Roger reined the horse to a halt as we came opposite the entry. A heavy portcullis grinned toothily at us, and behind it, a short passageway to a ponderous iron-bound wooden door that looked sturdy enough to keep out a hungry Giant. At the back of that murky mouth, a lamp flickered, casting lascivious shadows across the drifted snow. There was a soporific quiet intensified by the clouds above and snow below. Wolf howls sounded from the forest, and I shivered. From somewhere inside, there wafted a scent of warm food, an aroma strong enough to penetrate my frozen nose.
“Hallooo the gate!” Roger’s shout hung between oblivion and echo, suspended on the silence.
After a time, a bass grunt came from behind the door, and a tiny window swung open. Lantern light spread through the opening to limn the snow in gold, blinding us. A deep clicking noise followed, and the night door stood open. In it, backlit by torchlight from the courtyard, stood a man with a massive frame—perhaps a Giant. The grunt came again, a basso profundo that went well with the man’s barrel chest.
Roger glanced my way, amused. “Just like a child’s ghost story, no?” I found his comment inappropriately apt, and shivered in my rabbit-fur cloak. Roger returned his gaze to the gatekeeper. “I’m Roger Dalhousie, Deputy Sheriff to His Majesty, bearing passengers on important business. Please ask your master if he’ll grant us leave to stay the night.”
The doorkeeper crouched to pass through the door, then stepped closer, sinking deep into the drifted snow, but for all that weight, moving so soundlessly I felt a twinge of professional envy. He was truly big: Troll-high even allowing for the exaggerating effects of the poor light. He stood at least one and a half heads taller than Roger and was broader; he would have made five of me even on a full stomach, and six of me at present. If I’d been his height, I might have had broader shoulders, but I wouldn’t have bet on it. For a moment, this behemoth stared piercingly at us from beneath jutting brows, scratching noisily at a flea deep in his beard. Then, without a word, he turned and trudged ponderously into the narrow snowy courtyard behind the wall. He vanished from sight, and I tugged on Roger’s shoulder so I could whisper in his ear.
“If this is one of the servants, I don’t think I want to meet the master.”
Roger frowned at my jest, though it was plain he didn’t disagree. Wolves howled again from downslope, mournful and chilling in their lonely concert. More echoes drifted down from the road ahead. Ears cocked tremulously, the horse backed a step before Roger mastered him. “I fear the alternative’s worse. For the wolves to gather so, they must be far from well-fed—and they’ll be ready to tackle big game.” He left the implication unfinished, not needing to explain that by the usual wolfish standards, I qualified as little more than an appetizer. Nonetheless, it was a dramatic embellishment I considered thoroughly gratuitous. Unwanted, an image swam into my head—a sleigh filled with terrified faces, flying through the snow and flinging off an occasional victim to lighten the load, while gaunt, half-starved wolves ran alongside, fighting for these morsels.
So quietly I almost missed it, the portcullis rose. I felt the hairs rise on my neck before I could convince myself this was nothing more than a tribute to Dwarvish engineering; a Human-engineered portcullis would have squealed like a damned soul. Roger turned the carriage with deft tugs on the reins, and we passed under the wall with nary a scrape. Ahead of us, the full door opened, equally silent. As we rode under the portcullis, I reached out to reassure myself this was all real. My groping fingers brushed cold, dank stone, age-roughened but still stern as ever it was meant to be. Then we were through and into the courtyard, the portcullis descending and the door swinging shut at our backs to lock out the night and the wolves.
There was no sign of the massive servant, but light came from lanterns mounted on either side of the door into the keep. A warm hay smell filled the space between the wall and the keep, along with the less-sweet smell that told of other horses. Our own horse nickered, and was answered. In the scant room available to us, Roger guided the carriage past the front steps and brought it to a gently rocking halt. He set the brake, jumped down, then moved around the other side to open the door for our passenger. By then, however, she’d already descended and stood straight, neck craned as she looked around her.
Roger looked embarrassed by his tardiness. “Madame, will you wait here while I stable the horse?” It was plain this was as much command as query, and that he didn’t want his charge to enter the forbidding keep without him. She nodded, but her hooded features were tilted upward to better study the castle’s dark bulk. Roger led our horse to the stables, leaving us alone.
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, Madame, but we haven’t been introduced.” She completed her leisurely survey of her surroundings, then tilted her face towards me.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Her eyes were unusually widely spaced and despite the poor light, shone the deep blue of an eastern sapphire. Her pallid complexion was attractive, even on a Human; some time had clearly passed since she’d spent time out of doors. Aristocratic, snub-nosed features were gentled by wonder at the castle and a blanket of fat. She stood only a foot taller than me—short for a Human—and even in the dim light, I saw the faint tracing of an attractive mustache. She was surprisingly attractive for a Human. Sadly, I confess that having been so long without the solace of my own kind, I’d occasionally fallen into perversion and found it more attractive than I’d expected.
“I’m Thomas,” I said hastily, lest she note my appraisal. A soft hand reached down absently and idly caressed my cheek, and I blushed to the roots of my beard.
“Lady Elizabeth Winters,” she replied, curtsying gracefully. She dimpled prettily as she brushed some snow off her hood. “I’ve never met one of your kind... a Dwarf, that is.” She gazed at me in frank curiosity from within the hood’s shelter, and clutched the heavy riding blanket closer as a gust of wind swept down the cliff face. I would have admired her sang froid—or was it simply naiveté?—had it not been for the chill in my blood and an overpowering hunger made all the keener by what I could smell from within the keep. A slave to my own body, and too hungry to be shamed by it.
“Might I ask what brings you this far from civilization on such an inhospitable night?”
She paused a while before replying, and I feared I’d offended her. Then she giggled. “Indiscretions.” The gaiety in her voice was warming, and I relaxed a little, waiting for her to continue. “Indiscretions of a most scandalous sort. My Lord and I... well, let me be discreet. Let me just say that I left for reasons of my own health and his reputation. You see, it seems that his wife...”
Throat-clearing from the direction of the stable caused her to trail off with a conspiratorial wink. Roger reappeared, glowering at us in the torchlight. “The blasted horse can wait until I’ve seen you safely inside.”
Crossbow and scabbarded longsword under one arm, he was bent at a sharp angle beneath the weight of a trunk on his back. He muttered something venomous as he mounted the steps to join us, and made no comment as I reached above my head to hammer on the door. The knocker was heavy brass, shaped into an amiable satyr clutching an improbable portion of his anatomy rather smugly in his mouth to form a broad “O” with a bar running through the middle. Definitely Dwarvish work. The knocker was echoed by a far deeper booming from within, comforting in how it broke the keep’s silence. Some of the night’s pressure lifted from my shoulders.
Before the echoes had faded, the door swung noiselessly open, and a gust of warm, delightfully scented air and a wash of brilliant light swept over us. The last of my fears vanished. The entry hall was brightly and warmly lit, lavishly hung with tapestries, and thickly carpeted with clean straw mats. The butler who bowed us in was thin and ascetic, but had a pleasant face. His clothing was well-kept, if old and worn, and he was exceedingly well groomed. I caught a strong whiff of floral perfume as he stood aside.
“Good evening Gentlesirs and Madame. I am Hans, and my master bids you welcome to his humble abode.” His accent was Uropan, from somewhere in the east, and his voice was soft, rich, and cultured. My curiosity stirred. Roger clung possessively to his burden, and Hans, noting its weight, made no effort to take it from him. An eyebrow lifted at the weaponry, but he declined to comment.
“I’m certain you’re all cold and miserable and will want to be shown to your rooms so you can dry yourselves and change into warmer clothing. On the advice of a current guest, we prepared hot water against your arrival, and baths are being drawn as we speak.” Of the three of us, only Lady Elizabeth seemed unsurprised the castle’s occupants were expecting us; she’d evidently been well-pampered by her lord. “When you’ve recovered from your travels, summon me and I’ll introduce you to the other guests.” Without further ado, he led us up a broad staircase that wound upwards to a landing that had been carved into the cliff face. Belatedly feeling guilty, I eased the sword and crossbow out from under Roger’s arm and he grunted his thanks.
At the second-storey landing, we edged past an archaic yet well-polished suit of armor with a dragon-crested, winged helm, and proceeded along a carpeted, well-lit corridor that led into the cliff, paralleling the cliff's face. We passed a door, behind which I heard quiet conversation and the crackle of a fire. More importantly, I caught the aromas of fresh-baked bread and other delicacies. Saliva sprang forth from my mouth and my stomach rumbled insubordinately. Hans led us past several more doors, opening each with large iron keys as he passed.
Roger eased the chest onto the floor of Lady Elizabeth’s room with a relieved grunt and straightened his back, groaning. “There you go, Milady. I’ll be back to check on you as soon as I’ve seen to the horse.”
“There’s no need,” interposed Hans. “Hob will wipe it down and feed it for you.”
Roger and I exchanged glances. We’d been with Hans the entire time since we’d arrived. How had he passed word to this Hob fellow? Unperturbed, Hans handed each of us our key. The key wasn’t, strictly speaking, necessary, but discretion suggested I use it to enter and leave my room. After all, one doesn’t advertise that one’s host has neglected to bolt the pantry if one intends a midnight snack.
In my room, a cheery fire was burning in a small fireplace, warming me already. More Dwarvish work; Humans had never quite mastered the art of heating a room, and their fireplaces lost most of the heat up the chimney. The butler helped me off with my rabbit fur cloak, holding it at arm’s length until I took it from him and slung it over the back of a chair to dry. “Please take your time freshening up, Sir.” I was certain I’d heard him sniff, but chose to ignore it, for I’d already seen the basin of hot water by the fire. “The sitting room where the other guests are awaiting you is the door nearest the suit of armor. This,” he gestured grandly at a thick rope hanging from a hole in the wall beside the door, “will summon assistance. If that’s all for now Sir, I’ll be seeing to the Lady.”
I nodded, and Hans left, pulling the door shut behind him. There was an eerie efficiency in how he anticipated questions before they were asked, leaving no room to insert one’s own voice and create a dialogue. I could’ve sworn he had a smug look on his face as he turned away, as if he’d just won some private game I hadn’t been aware we were playing.
Not bothering to lock the door, I walked to the basin of warm water, shedding layers of clothing as I went. I left my soaked moccasins by the fire in a puddle of melting snow, and luxuriated briefly in the feel of thick rug on bare feet. Then, not daring to delay my pleasure any further, I lowered myself into the bath. A delirious time later I emerged from the basin, scrubbed to pinkness, beard oiled, and perfumed to perfection—in short, feeling almost fully myself again. I dressed in fresh clothing from my pack, only briefly contemplating the lush bathrobe that had been provided for my use. It looked lovely, but I suspected it would be far too long. But once more, with eerie prescience, our needs had been anticipated, and it had been adapted to my height, the extra fabric stitched into the lining. The shoulders, however, were too tight, and the seams creaked as I rolled my shoulders. Not so perfect after all, were they? I smiled a tight little smile.
Once dressed, I donned the slippers that had been left on the chair, and looked for a mirror. There was none in evidence, so I combed my curly hair as best I could without one and bent my beard into some semblance of order. I was motivated by images of the fair Elizabeth, as I’m normally less cautious of my appearance. But let that thought lie for the nonce.
As I combed, I took more careful note of my room. The room was immaculately clean, and I suspected that even a tall Human would not have seen dust on the highest surfaces. A thick, soft fur rug covered the floor, and the beautiful quarried stone of the walls was concealed to head height beneath a rich, dark wood of an unfamiliar type. The window was heavily shuttered, and the walls around it dripped condensation—a nicely homely touch, in my estimation—into a shallow gutter, wisely provided for this purpose, that bore it away. Though I heard the wind outside swirling against the shutters, not a breath of it entered the room, which was unusual enough to bear investigation later.
The room was cluttered with a bed, a chest of drawers, a writing desk, and well-stocked bookshelves, plus a small armchair by the fire. Beside the fireplace, a stack of split oak stood in a wrought-iron basket. That was an obvious extravagance given the miles of oak-free pine and fir forest that surrounded the castle; someone had gone to a lot of effort to bring the long-burning wood this high into the mountains from forests far below us. Or perhaps it was mere pragmatism; pine is what the Humans call “walking wood” because of the amount of walking required to keep a pine fire replenished. An ornate, wrought-iron poker stood beside the fire next to a matching pair of tongs. The room would have been on the small side of cozy for a Human, but was ample for me.
The ostentatious display of wealth was promising. My mercenary half began pondering the possibilities, while the sybarite reveled in the afterglow of the unaccustomed luxury of a hot bath.
The huge bed beckoned, large enough to conceal a squad of Dwarves, but my belly, uncommonly patient until now, was making increasingly urgent claims on my attention. I gave my unruly hair one last comb, pocketed my key, and “crossed” myself in a mocking imitation of Human religious practice: lockpick in my hair, another in my belt, and a throwing knife strapped to the outer side of each arm. The latter were a chill, yet comforting presence, given that I had no notion of the situation I’d gotten myself into. I confirmed that a few other choice items were snug in their accustomed places, made a few small arrangements to reveal whether someone had entered the room in my absence, then carefully locked the door behind me. That done, I set off to join the others in the sitting room.
At the door to the sitting room, I looked both ways to ensure I was alone, then pressed my ear to the door. I heard the clink of glass and the crackle of a fire, but no conversation to eavesdrop on. I reached for the handle and the door opened smoothly. The room was every bit as pleasantly appointed as the rooms I’d already seen, but red velvet trimmed with gold draped the walls above head height, above the ubiquitous wooden paneling. The gold gleamed dully in the glow of the fire, made from logs longer than I was tall stacked in a fireplace and burning steadily. A tapestry of skillfully woven landscapes and hunting scenes adorned the walls above sumptuous armchairs and chaises-longues. I made a mental note that there was more here of value than the silverware; furniture is harder to cart away, but easier to fence than more obvious treasures. I’d learned this lesson some years back, having narrowly escaped with both hands intact after walking off with a few easily traceable pretties.
Two men absorbed in a game of chess glanced in my direction before ignoring me. By the fire, a golden-haired minstrel with the look of an Elf sat cross-legged in a chair, tuning a lute and totally absorbed in her task. A black silk ascot about her neck was intricately filigreed in silver thread that caught the light in furtive gleams. Though she was almost painfully unattractive, the covert glances the other males in the room periodically cast towards her suggested I was the only one who shared this opinion. Last of all, a lightly built young man sat brooding in a corner, slippered feet propped on a carved wooden table beside a half-empty bottle of some clear amber liquid. A threadbare brown beard spilled partway down the chest of his dark, unadorned housecoat.
My traveling companions hadn’t yet arrived, and no other guest seemed eager to make my acquaintance. On the table, I saw only the bones of the meal that had been served, and I was not yet so desperate I’d gnaw on leftovers to entertain the others. Salivating, I realized I’d need something to take my mind off the food until more arrived. To distract myself, I moved across the room to where a dartboard hung. I clambered atop a footstool to reach the darts, then paced off an appropriate number of steps before turning to take aim. As several quick tosses quickly revealed, the darts were well-balanced and skillfully fletched—but I was out of practice with weapons so light and distracted by my belly’s ruminations. It took several throws before my skill returned, and I began moving slowly and accurately around the familiar spiral board. I didn’t miss often, and this attracted the drinker’s attention.
He rose and sauntered over, a slight waver in his walk from the drink, watching my throws carefully from beside me before speaking in a surprisingly deep voice. “Not bad, Dwarf, not bad at all. But I’ll wager you’d do less well were there money riding on each throw.”
I turned towards him. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“I didn’t offer it.” He looked me up and down, sharper than he’d at first seemed. “A proposition—since you don’t seem possessed of much in the way of coinage?” I nodded. “Instead, let’s wager names and stories. Should you win, I’ll tell all. Should I win, you will. Do you accept those stakes?”
I nodded. “Name your game.”
“The one you were playing looks simple enough.”
“Roundabout it is, then.” The goal of Roundabout is to move across the dartboard from number to number, consecutively, following the spiraling numbers inwards from the outside of the board until you reach the bullseye. Between the target areas that gain you points, there’s a concentric spiral that counts for naught. If you’re playing against someone, you score points equal to the numbers marked on each target area; when you miss the next number in the sequence, your opponent takes over from that point and follows the remainder of the spiral inward. The numbers go to 25, with the target narrowing progressively as the spiral proceeds towards the center. Apart from skill, there’s strategy involved; given that your opponent begins their tally at the number where you left off, you have to gamble they won’t hit all the higher numbers and beat whatever score you’d accumulated to that point. The spiraling targets played games with your eyes if you followed them inwards too long, and even a skilled player missed eventually, eyes deceived by the spiral. Missing could lose you the game as easily as hitting the exact center of the board before the final throw.
“Who goes first?” I asked, not much liking the confidence in his eyes.
He pulled a gold coin from his pocket and I clamped down hard on my grab it! reflex. Later, I told myself.
“We’ll flip a coin,” he drawled. “Dwarf, and I go; Axe, and you do.” He flipped the coin in a high arc and I picked it nimbly from the air and laid it flat on my forearm. Axe. I handed back the coin.
He seemed confident enough that I paused a moment to ponder strategy. I knew that—at my best—I’d never achieve more than twenty straight throws. I’d need eighteen (for a total of 171 out of 325 points) to win, for a little voice was telling me that my companion wouldn’t miss. Well, forget strategy, then. I was reasonably sure I could do it. I gave him my best confident smile and set about racking up points.
He watched politely as my first dozen throws were right on target: 78 points and counting. Then, just when I was beginning to feel confident I could pull it off, the door opened and the colossal servant entered bearing a tray of food. The aroma hit me like a blow, making my eyes water. Someone was an awfully good cook.
My opponent cocked a sardonic eyebrow and licked his lips. “Pause a moment, friend. I’ll go fetch myself a snack to keep me busy while you’re throwing. It’s beginning to look like eating’s all I’ll get to do this round.” The evil bastard evidently knew something about Dwarves.
In a trice he was back, a large slab of butter melting on a fragrant husk of fresh-baked rye bread. He took a large mouthful, and my stomach grumbled jealously. “May I start now?” I pleaded.
“No hurry,” he replied around another mouthful of bread. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Well, I did try. I made another four shaky throws—136 points—but my fifth wobbled badly and missed by a quarter inch. He grinned sympathetically and fetched the darts for his own turn. I watched, amazed, as he swiftly and methodically picked off all the remaining numbers, winning by an embarrassing 53 points. I’d just been hustled by an expert.
“Well played,” said my opponent, and he patted me on the head as he brushed past on his way back to his chair. “We’ll talk after you’ve had a chance to eat.”
“Too bad,” echoed a soft, melodious voice at my back. I turned to face the minstrel, who at close range appeared more half-Elvish than full-blooded. She stood behind me, arms akimbo, her lute still leaning on the cushions by the fire; it was an Elvish piece that would bring its weight in silver from the Humans of any large city. “I’ve seen Ghusthav run the entire pattern twice, dead drunk, without missing a single throw.” She smiled consolingly, and for a brief moment, I forgot about the food. Up close, Elvish women have an unquestioned magic that can overcome even another race’s aversion to their unpleasant appearance. A sorcerer I once met claimed it was some chemical in their sweat that carried the essence of their magic; that much I could well believe now that I could smell her. Given my almost monomaniacal hunger and the proximity of the food, nothing mundane could have held me there.
“My name’s Cleayne.”
“I’m Thomas.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know me from somewhere?” I’m sure I would have remembered having seen her before—Elves are rarer in the mines than honest men in government. Besides, that charm in her voice and scent made me want to keep her talking.
“I know of you,” she mused, puckering her brow attractively in thought, before a smile grew in her eyes. She brightened again. “Yes, of course! You solved the Lahndane jewel theft—a case that baffled the entire palace guard, not to mention the court sorcerer.” She smiled mischievously. “Though they never found all of the gems, did they?” She ran a delicate hand through her hair, pushing it back behind an ear, and I blushed, trying to look away from her eyes. I’ve done some criminal work since I left the mines—and I mean that in both senses—but my motives were never so pure as I wanted the authorities to believe.
“But I’m being rude,” and with that she stood aside. “You seem half-starved. Come talk after you’ve dined. I have my own hypotheses about the case.” With that, she winked and returned to the fire, graceful as giant mushroom spores on a calm day in a mine’s air shafts. From his perch, the dart player spat loudly and accurately into a spittoon. I shook my head, freeing myself from the enchantment, but now, a different overpowering scent caught my attention. I forgot the Elf and found myself in love, even though I’d not yet met the cook.
I hastened to the table on which Hob had set the food, clambered hastily atop a chair, and got to work. I was well into my second plate by the time Roger entered the room, followed closely by Lady Elizabeth. Roger wore his sword on his left hip, and glared truculently about the room before moving to join me. From the color in his cheeks, he’d been having angry words with his protégé. Elizabeth delicately seated herself, not waiting for me to rise, and began picking fastidiously at the food. She was dressed in a finely embroidered housecoat, and wore a thin-linked gold chain that dropped into her unsubtly emphasized cleavage. Her hair was piled into a tall bun and held in place by a golden ruby-studded comb. My attentions were divided among her, her jewelry, and the food before me, but my loyalties were not for sale even at such great price. I kept eating.
Roger sat, amusing me by how carefully he’d positioned himself to survey everyone in the room, sword projecting behind him past the back of the chair. I didn’t see how he’d managed to sit without knocking anything over with the sword, and I was irked, as I’d always wanted to know how that trick was done. To my further amusement, I observed his gaze returning to linger on Elizabeth, and how color rose once more to his cheeks. Very interesting, that. Though no match for the food just yet, Elizabeth was remarkably attractive in her own right—for a Human.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” commented the lady in question, plainly amused.
I looked up from the ruins of my third plate, ready to attempt a sarcastic riposte, then stopped to choke down my present mouthful, which proved to be a fortunate diversion. Elizabeth brushed her hair backwards, away from her ears, thereby revealing earrings with diamonds the size of my thumbnail. Then, despite myself, my gaze followed the heavy gold choker down her throat to where it nestled in her bosom before hastily averting my eyes. Elizabeth chuckled, not having missed the trajectory of my gaze.
Roger shot me a sour look around a mouthful of food, and returned to his examination of the room’s inhabitants. To keep my mind—and eyes!—on safer subjects, I followed his example. The chess game was progressing well, the two opponents alternating between glares at each other and long musings over the board. The smaller of the two was balding but densely red-bearded, and sat scratching his gleaming scalp in concentration. He was dressed in fine woolens, and occasionally reached down to caress a knobby, silver-capped walking staff. The man opposite him was portly enough for two, cleanshaven, and wore a round woolen cap well down on a high forehead even though the room was warm enough that beads of sweat trickled down his face.
Redbeard lifted a hand from his forehead, made to touch a piece, then changed his mind. Back went the hand to the bald spot—scratch, scratch—then back to the board. Then, abruptly, he spat an expletive and tipped over his king. He rose suddenly, jerkily, grasped his staff, and stalked angrily to the fire, his back to the room and its occupants. The fat man smiled smugly, nodded once over the board, then rose and left the room without a backward glance.
I began to slow my eating, noticing that Elizabeth had already finished and was watching me in bemusement. “When was the last time you ate, Thomas?”
“Just this morning, Fair Lady,” I replied, keeping a straight face at her ill-concealed surprise.
Redbeard left the fire and came to join us. “The Dwarvish folk are famous for their various appetites.” He smiled pleasantly at each of us, and nodded at me as he saw his barb strike home. Then his gaze returned to Elizabeth, and he made no attempt to conceal the lingering once-over he gave her. “Permit me to introduce myself, Dear Lady. Malcolm Tente, Leech and Apothecary, at your service. If I might be so bold, may I invite you to join me over by the fire?” Looking at Roger, whose bristles bristled even more obviously than before, he added hastily, “For some pleasant after-dinner conversation, nought more.” At a look from Elizabeth, Roger subsided with ill grace, and Malcolm offered Elizabeth his arm. She graciously accepted, and strode off without so much as a backward glance.
“Are you two feuding over something?” I had to repeat myself before Roger realized I was talking to him. His scowl faded, replaced by a rueful smile.
“Nay, Thomas, not really. It’s just that...” He paused, ran a hand through his thick hair, and frowned. “Tell me, young sir, do you think she’s being terribly discreet?”
I tried to be discreet myself, as it never hurts to know all the sides of a story first. “About what?” Roger frowned a moment more, then relaxed.
“Let me tell you why we’re here, Thomas.” He took a deep breath, looking around to confirm that no one was listening. “She was my Lord’s mistress for the longest time. You know the type—rich, but bored enough to become adventurous.” He cast a long look at her, and I wondered. There was something else on his face I began to recognize. “Well, the wife at last caught a notion of what was going on, not that she was particularly innocent herself. Sound familiar?” I nodded sympathetically, and sipped our host’s fine wine. It was dark red and full-bodied, with an almost salty aftertaste, but it was an unfamiliar vintage, possibly from some eastern place I’d never visited. If it were worth less than a gold piece a bottle, I’d been too long away from the fences.
“So it was decided it’d be best if she quietly vanished and the rumors ceased. I was told to escort her to another town where she could be happy, safe, and discreet.” He avoided my eyes. “Somewhere no one could tie her to the Baron. I suppose he was generous, as he might have fed her to the dogs to silence her. Some I’ve known would have done that.” He gestured curtly at her, where she was talking with some animation with the doctor. The Elf had moved from the fire and draped herself languorously on a chaise-longue, but now that I could no longer smell her or hear her voice, I saw her once more as the unattractive creature she truly was. It wasn’t hard to switch my scrutiny back to the couple by the fire. But Roger was still speaking, so I forced my eyes away from Elizabeth and returned them to my companion.
“And the low-cut dress and jewelry are discreet, are they?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.” He gulped his wine, refilled the goblet, and lapsed into a moody silence. I could see where his eyes and thoughts were turned, and was increasingly certain there was more to their relationship. I stole a glance into the corner, and saw Ghusthav slumped in his chair, apparently asleep, but then Cleayne beckoned. I politely excused myself, and went to join her. By reflex, I pocketed a single silver spoon, planning to return it later and replace it with something better. The conversation was likely to prove interesting, even if only from self defence, for I needed to know what she knew of my time in Lahndane. Besides (I rationalized uneasily), I’d be able to eavesdrop more easily on Lady Winters. I refilled my wine glass and went to join her.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Cleayne said as I turned a seat to face her.
“The pleasure’s mutual,” I replied with my warmest smile, and her eyes sparkled. Unfortunately, I could smell her again, and that, combined with her voice, mocked my intention to eavesdrop. “I rarely get to talk with one of the Fair Folk.”
“Nor I with such a clever Dwarf, and a master thief to boot.”
I choked on the wine, but managed not to spray it across her. “Let’s not spoil a pleasant moment with innuendo, Cleayne.” I endured the tingle of fear that shot through me, doing my best to keep it from my face. “You’ll find no proof I’ve ever done anything beyond the law, and it’s unwise to make allegations you can’t prove.” I worried for a moment she might have blackmail on her mind.
“Don’t be silly,” she pouted, reading my thoughts. “I was merely admiring your achievement, perhaps in the hope you’d explain how you managed it. Professional courtesy, you might say, and the makings of a fine ballad once properly mythologized.”
I gambled on her double meaning and made the Guild recognition sign, but if she saw it, she didn’t respond. I remembered, with a shudder, how I’d almost had my fingers broken by Guild enforcers before I learned to identify myself to colleagues. Whatever the other benefits of Dwarvish culture, my people are naive when it comes to the ways of the world at large, and life in the mines hardly prepares one for a career in a large Human city. Maybe there really hadn’t been any double meaning and she was only speaking as a performer. “Well,” I said modestly, glowing under her praise, “it was a simple thing once I figured out the only way it could have been done. The who of the matter was—” A resounding slap interrupted me, and ours were not the only eyes that turned towards the fireplace.
Elizabeth had risen to her feet, cheeks flaming and nostrils dilated. An answering red had risen to the cheek of Malcolm Tente, who leapt to his feet and stood awkwardly, pressing a hand against his left cheek, unsure where to turn. Before he had time to decide, Roger crossed the room, seized him by the collar, and lifted him entirely off the ground. Roger continued that motion, propelling Malcolm through an ungentle arc that ended sharply against the panelling beside the fire. Before the unfortunate man’s whoof! of expelled air had finished, it was overlaid by the rasping scrape of Roger’s dagger clearing its scabbard. The blade carved a brilliant arc of reflected light, ending with the unfortunate doctor pinned against the wall with the dagger’s tip at his throat. I made a mental note of the sheriff’s speed in the event we should ever came to a disagreement over the ownership of property or any other matter.
I rose before the matter could get any further out of hand and padded swiftly over to the enraged Human. My throwing knives felt heavy against my wrists, but I let them lie. Malcolm was sputtering an inarticulate mixture of apologies, outrage, and appeals for mercy. Elizabeth continued glaring icily at the soon-to-be ex-apothecary, her features transformed with anger. It was a shame, really, that she hadn’t been born a Dwarf. But I stepped up behind Roger, letting a knife fall into my hand where nobody could see it, and as I lightly touched it to his groin, cleared my throat.
“Don’t let yourself be unmanned by your anger, Roger; I’m sure the fellow has a good explanation for whatever happened.” Roger looked down and paled, and as his grip slackened, his captive, with more courage than I would have wagered he possessed, broke free and took several hasty steps to the side. “Besides, murder would be an insult to our host,” I added, sliding the knife back into its sheath before anyone else saw it. When Roger’s breathing had returned to normal and he seemed once more in control of his emotions, I stepped back and smiled placatingly at the rest of the room’s occupants. Reluctantly, Roger resheathed his dagger, but he didn’t back away from Tente.
I turned to our offended damsel. “Could you tell us what happened, Lady Elizabeth?”
Her reply was frosty enough to chill even the fireside air. “This... cretin... made a highly improper suggestion. Roger acted appropriately.” Her voice had thawed somewhat, and I faced the cretin in question.
“And what’s your side of the story, good Doctor?” I felt a touch of sympathy, as he’d only done what I would have eventually essayed in his place, likely with the same result.
Having regained his composure, not to mention his staff, Malcolm looked down, suspicion and gratitude mingling in his expression. A livid spot on his cheek stood out plainly against his pale complexion; Elizabeth had more muscle to her than met the eye, and there’d be a significant bruise on that pale face by morning. Truly, an attractive woman. “I merely made the suggestion we get to know each other better. This... lady,” he made the word an insult, “misunderstood my intent.” Roger growled and several inches of finely honed steel slid from its resting place. But he held it there as his scowl deepened.
“Very well,” I stated, “it seems clear enough. Let’s not disgrace our host further by escalating the matter. If the good doctor will apologize, then surely...”
“The good doctor has nothing to apologize for,” he interrupted, grasping at his lost dignity.
Roger’s grip tightened on his sword, intending no doubt to clarify the need for an apology, but Malcolm was ready. The smaller man thumped his silver staff on the bare flagstones at his feet and flame burst from its head. Roger gave ground, awe on his face and a little fear. There was a new look of authority on the sorcerer’s face as he spoke. “I’ve said I have nothing to apologize for, and I meant it. Now step aside before I do something I’ll really regret.”
He brushed past Roger and left the room, and none dared stop him. Roger drew Elizabeth aside and began to comfort her, which was rather annoying, as I’d been hoping to make that my job. Ghusthav was picking himself off the floor, where he’d fallen when the commotion surprised him and caused his chair to topple, and I was unsurprised to note how he surreptitiously patted certain areas as he tugged his clothing into place. Our eyes met a moment, and when I gave him the Guild sign, he responded with a proper countersign. That explained his skill with the darts, leastwise. I was about to approach him with some questions, when I felt a gentle touch on my elbow and one less tangible in my nose, and I surrendered to the inevitable, letting Cleayne draw me back to our seats. “You’re not the only one who has more to you than meets the eye,” she said with an arched brow.
“So it seems,” I whispered, and we sat in silence for a time. “I’d be pleased to hear you play your lute, Lady Elf. Your people’s music is reputed to be fine, and perhaps it would soothe the atmosphere, which has grown tense.”
“Yes, but music seems inappropriate.” She scratched the creamy skin beneath her ascot, and a distant look came into her eyes. Then she gazed on me with those mysterious eyes, but said nothing.
“I see there’s more than one sorcerer in this room,” I whispered, feeling a flush that wasn’t due entirely to the wine and the fire’s heat.
“You flatter me,” she responded, placing a warm hand on my cheek. “Would you accompany me somewhere quieter to experience Elvish music?”
“I’ve always been a patron of the arts,” I replied, hating myself for it.
We left the room arm in arm, Ghusthav spitting loudly again behind us, his opinion clear.
I woke later that night as a weight left the bed beside me. My legs were weak, and I felt a pleasant drowsiness, so I let Cleayne go, one eye half-open to watch her as she dressed and left, snugging the door closed behind her. I burrowed deeper beneath the covers, before what passed for my mind reminded me this was her bed and that I’d best leave before anyone found me here. I felt unclean and perverted, but in a good way; Cleayne’s magic lingered in the sweaty sheets, and the distasteful nature of what we’d done would undoubtedly lend a certain spice to the affair after the spell wore off.
The castle was silent as the mines on the morning after the Motherlode festival, and it seemed likely no one else was awake. Now would be an excellent chance to explore the opportunities the situation presented. Groaning in self-pity at depriving myself of the comforts of that scented bed, I rose and wobbled over to my heaped clothing, rubbing at my eyes and chafing myself against the cold; the fire’d gone out, and despite the wood paneling, the stone had sucked most of the heat from the air. I dressed, careful to leave none of my special equipment behind to embarrass me. I decided I liked Elvish music and Elves, and if I kept pragmatically repeating that assertion, I felt sure I’d eventually come to believe it.
I listened at the door, and left once I was certain no one was in the hall. The door closed behind me, and I took a moment to relock it; after all, she’d left it locked, and it would have been discourteous not to leave it the same way. That done, I replaced my tools and moved silently down the corridor in the direction of my room. But on the way, I came across an irregular patch of light seeping from beneath a door. Could this be where Cleayne had gone? Force of habit brought me to kneel by the door, controlling my breathing to better hear what passed within.
At first, I heard only the low murmur of voices. But as my head cleared from its muddled state, I began to pick out words and then sentences. The room’s occupants were the fat chess player and Malcolm, and they seemed agitated.
“And I tell you the evidence is incontrovertible, and I should know. What of the mirrors?”
Malcolm’s voice: “I admit I’ve yet to see one, but that’s hardly damning. So the man isn’t particularly vain. What of it?”
“Then why do we see him only by night?”
“Perhaps he’s an astrologer. I could ask some telling questions and learn that easily enough. Your argument fails to convince.”
“Then there’s the matter of the crucifix. Why should he show such a strong reaction to it? And what of the garlic? I tell you he must be...” At that point, I heard footsteps down the hall, and I moved away quickly. But the gist of the conversation was clear. The fat man seemed convinced that someone showed signs of vampirism. I remembered the two bruises beneath Cleayne’s ascot, the way she’d gasped as I nibbled alongside them. Could the men mean our host? I reached my room, swiftly entered, and shut the door before the person in the hall could become suspicious. I was too slow, however, and a voice called from down the hall.
“Master Thomas, is that you?” The footsteps came nearer, and I stepped back into the hall to meet Hans. “Ah! Is there a problem? Has your fire perhaps gone out?”
“No, thank you Hans. I was merely hungry, and I felt sure I smelt warm food somewhere down the hall.”
“Undoubtedly the Baron’s meal,” he replied imperturbably. “When he works late, he forgets to eat if I don’t remind him.” I pondered that, trying to fit it into the pattern I’d seen so far. Not enough puzzle pieces yet, though my ever-eager—all right, overeager—curiosity was aroused. I’d discovered that my curiosity had attained heights that would have shamed the proverbial cat. Besides, with all other appetites sated for the moment, it was the one that remained unfed.
“Well, Hans, perhaps you could scrounge me some table scraps? I find that I’m ravenous.” And it was true enough, perhaps the result of my unplanned exertions.
“Certainly, Sir, I shall endeavor to do better than that. Make yourself comfortable, and I shall knock when your meal is ready.” He bowed deeply and left.
I ducked into my room, noticing as I did that something was awry. Someone had been here and had searched thoroughly. In fact, not only had they made no effort to conceal their search, but certain carefully arranged items had been just as carelessly left disarranged to make it clear their purpose had been known. I fought down anger, and the brief panic that followed in its wake. A professional job, and they hadn’t cared if I noticed—on the contrary, they’d waved their intrusion in my face. A quick survey of my possessions revealed nothing missing, which was no surprise, as I carried my few important items with me and had little else worthy of a thief’s attention. I sat on my bed, pondering the possibilities, until a knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” I called, and Hans entered with a small tray bearing an assortment of viands. My mouth began watering in anticipation, and too late I realized that my bed was patently unslept in. But if Hans noticed that omission, he was too diplomatic to comment, and he left after wishing me a good night’s rest and a pleasant repast. As I ate, I looked about the room for any evidence my visitor might have left. Nothing presented itself. But when I swept the crumbs from my shirt and lifted the sheets, I found a folded scrap of parchment with my name on it. The hand was delicate, but not enough so to be feminine—or, more specifically, Elvish. Not Cleayne, then. I opened it, read it quickly through, then read it again to be sure I’d missed nothing. All it said was “We must talk. When you’re done with the Elf, come to my room.” There was the Guild chop by way of signature, and directions to a room farther down the hall. Finishing my snack and washing it down with more of that excellent wine, I left my room.
At the end of the hall, unobserved, I listened at the door. When I heard nothing, I opened it and slipped inside. As I pulled the door shut, Ghusthav’s rough voice welcomed me.
“About time!”
He crossed the floor silently, moved me gently aside, and locked the door at my back. Pushing a thick rug across the slit beneath the door, he reached past me to uncap a bullseye lantern. The room flooded with light. Ghusthav wore a long black nightshirt, and the mostly empty bottle of liquor he’d been drinking earlier in the evening was clutched in one hand. Seating himself on the bed, he waved me to a chair, then chuckled deeply when I paused to sweep it off first.
“If you were that particular about your dirt, you shouldn’t have spent the night with the Elf bitch.”
“I’ll thank you to leave her out of this.” In fact, her spell having worn off, I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable at how she’d extracted everything I’d learned during my time in Lahndane. The delicious feeling of having done something naughty was rapidly becoming self-disgust at having let myself be used. Time and past time to re-engage my mind.
“You said we had to talk. Let’s talk.” I frowned. The rumors of enmity between Elves and Dwarves have always been just that: rumors. Well, apart from the War of the Diplomatic Blunder, when a soused Dwarvish ambassador rashly commented on the relative sexual merits of Elven and Dwarvish women. That would have been bad enough by itself, but could have been ignored had there not been rumors about the source of the ambassador’s knowledge. When the war finally ended, the ambassador was promoted to a new position as chief of mine security, a role he served with distinction for the short time he lasted. But apart from that, the Elves like their forests and longbows and we prefer our caverns and hammers, and that leaves us little in common to fight over. But I was sensitive about the state of Elf–Dwarf relations at that moment, which made my reply testier than it might otherwise have been.
Ghusthav raised an eyebrow. “You needn’t be so touchy.” I rose from the chair, and he held up a hand, palm outward to stop me. “All right. Everyone’s entitled to their perversions; I like a little brandy after dinner, for instance. So let’s put our cards on the table. What are you doing here? Did the Guild send you to watch me?”
I met his gaze, and saw something dark lurking there. No simple thief, this one—more likely from the brotherhood of assassins. A dangerous one to lie to, and I reconsidered asking whether he’d been the one who invaded my room.
“Not at all. I’m here on entirely unofficial business. Leaving the scene of my own past business, if you take my meaning.” He nodded, needing no further explanation. “And what of you? I’m here to escape the storm, that’s all. Have you any business I should know of so I can give you space?”
He thought a moment, avoiding my eyes. He reached for his bottle, held it to his mouth, then threw it away in disgust. It bounced on the thick rug. “Just passing through. Nothing to worry you.”
“Well, if that’s all you’ve got to say then I’ll be leaving.” I didn’t have to feign my yawn.
“No,” he said, “that’s not all. I have some friendly advice for a Guild brother.” He reached for the bottle, then looked surprised to see it rolling slowly to and fro on the floor. He frowned again.
“First, there’s the Elf—and don’t move ’till I’ve spoken my piece.” I settled back, warily eyeing the finger-thin knife that had appeared in his hand. “Like I said, I won’t interfere with another man’s perversions so long as they don’t affect me. But for your own sake, leave her lie. She belongs to our host, and you’re asking for trouble. She’s not worth it.”
I swallowed the insult, and didn’t dispute the point. I’d already seen his skill with thrown objects, and the shamed part of me agreed with him. “Second,” he went on, making the knife disappear, “keep an eye on the fat one—Simon-Ephraim Leitus, or something like. He’s got a bad odor to him, and the look of a fanatic. I’d wager he’s here on Church business when he's not trying to sell his trinkets, and that it has to do with our host. It doesn’t end well when you attract his type’s attention. I’m not sure why he tolerated the sorcerer’s stunt at the chessboard tonight, but he wouldn’t be the first Churchman who parroted the official gospel in public while using a sorcerer when no one was looking.”
“Stunt at the chessboard?”
“You didn’t believe that lackwit won based on his strength of mind, did you?”
I nodded, knowing nothing of the man’s wits but willing to be agreeable. “And what of his business with our host? You know more than you’re telling.”
“Of course. But that’s all I’m saying.” He faked a yawn, poorly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired, and that’s all the talking I desire for tonight. Tomorrow, if you’ll honor your gambling debt, it’s your turn to talk. Unless you want to try the darts again, double or nothing?”
I shook my head. Interview concluded. But now that I’d gotten a feel for the man, I was more wary than scared. “One question. If you wanted to talk, all you had to do was say so. There was no need to go through my stuff. Why bother?”
He looked up. “What makes you think I’d do that? I already knew who you were, and was confident you had nothing worth my time. Go to sleep, Dwarf; you’re imagining things.”
His voice held the ring of truth, and the amount of alcohol he’d consumed reinforced that impression, so I left without pressing the matter further. It would bear thinking on, but for now, what I wanted most was a good night’s sleep.
I climbed onto the chair I’d pushed to the window. Through the narrow gap I was willing to open in the shutters, I saw that it had snowed heavily during the night. Drifted snow half-covered the stable entrance, and heavy, intermittent veils of snow even now ghosted past my window and slowly collapsed in the sheltered lee of the castle walls. I shivered and pulled the shutters closed, wrapping my heavy blanket more tightly about me. The cheery warmth of last night was naught but a memory, and the fire was only coals; though I’d tossed a few logs on the coals, they’d not yet caught, and did little to banish the chill. From what I’d seen, Roger wouldn’t be leaving today, and I didn’t relish the idea of walking through that mess myself without a very compelling reason; the only company I’d have would be the wolves, and I could do without the warm shelter they’d be happy to provide in their bellies. Roger didn’t know it yet, but I’d decided I was leaving with him, even if I had to wait ’till spring to do it. I shuddered again, and set my mind on more pleasant thoughts, like breakfast, Elizabeth, and her valuables.
As the growing fire gradually thawed my nose, the gentle fragrance of traditional delicacies began wafting from somewhere down the hall: fresh bread, preserves, melting butter, and bacon and eggs. There were hints of what could be roast pheasant, suckling boar, and even a trace of venison. There was little doubt of what had woken me from a deep sleep. The seductive comforts of the bed vied for a moment with those of a full belly, but the belly won by a nose. I dressed in the clothing I’d worn last night, paid my devotions to the chamber pot, then hurried on my way. A greater game had begun, but if I wanted a belly of the lesser game, my trail led back to the sitting room.
The only other guest yet awake was Simon, the "trinket" salesman. He looked up at me noncommittally, then brightened suddenly, with the look of a drunken ex-thespian who’d just discovered a captive audience. Nonetheless, the covered pots on the table beckoned, and I approached single-mindedly, albeit with a courteous nod to my companion.
“I bid thee good day, gentle Dwarf. Have a seat, and satisfy the needs of your body, and while you do, let me talk to you of matters of the soul.”
Sitting across from him, I refrained from saying what was on my mind—that he’d chosen one of the few mealtime subjects that could put me off my feed. Still, no need to make an enemy this early in the day, and certainly not on an empty stomach. “And a good day to you too—Simon, is it? I have no objection to your company, since it seems we’re the only ones yet risen.”
Uncomfortable though the situation could become, I was nonetheless curious to separate his wake from the currents I’d begun to see last night. Bracing myself, I leaned forward and began helping myself to the bounty, surreptitiously appraising the Human. He was a truly big man, I saw, and the sheathing of fat concealed large, still-powerful muscles; hauling that bulk around was not a weakling’s task. An ostentatious golden pectoral cross hung prominently on his chest from around a bull’s neck, and a bound Bible lay on the table before him. I was of two minds about the crucifix: on the one hand, it was worth a small fortune if it was as solid as it appeared; on the other, it had the look of a nasty bludgeon, the vertical bar being about the right size for a firm grip. You learn to think of such things if you’ve dealt with the Uropan Church.
“A man after my own heart!” he stated heartily, the warmth in his voice belying the cold appraisal in his eyes. The air was chilly, the morning fire not yet having banished the night’s cold, and he wore the same woolen cap as yesterday upon his head. “The others are obvious decadents, with no taste for a bracing regime of early rising.” He raised an eyebrow as I began shoveling the excellent food into my mouth.
“As you no doubt know, it’s been my privilege to carry the faith to the... to those who lack it,” he finished. “Might I assume that you’re not a member of the Uropan Church?” His gaze became predatory, for his faith was only marginally less common among my race than Elf-loving, and I was the only Dwarf I knew who’d admit to the latter perversion, and then, only because I’d had no say in the matter. But I’d be courting an unpleasant debate if I spoke truth, and there was that profitable summer I’d spent as an altar boy...
“No, Brother, you’d be mistaken.” I wiped egg from my lips with a handkerchief, concealing a grin at his surprise. “In fact, I served an entire year at the Abbey of Saint—” I paused a moment, reflecting, and wiping my mouth to cover my hesitation. After all, he might know the abbey and have an inkling of why I left so suddenly. “—Francis at Montecassino,” I finished, selecting the most distant abbey I’d heard of. He showed no inclination to question me on the Abbot’s health, which was a relief. He hadn’t been there either, though suspicion showed in those hard eyes for a moment. He mustered his resources for another approach.
“Then I need not convince you of the merits of carrying a religious icon wherever you travel. Sainted Christopher, for instance, the patron of travellers. Or do you already carry one?”
I chewed slowly before swallowing, wondering—irreverently, I concede—who the patron of thieves might be. “No, I carry no such aids. Such business strikes me as dangerously near idolatry.” I stabbed another slab of bacon, noting how his face hardened. “Not that I contradict the teachings of His Holiness,” I added hastily; “rather, I speak from my conscience. I’m sure you understand.” He forced his expression to ease, but it clearly took an effort, and displeasure remained in his eyes.
“Quite,” he answered, not understanding at all. “But there are more benefits than one might suspect. The profits from my sales support missionary work among those unfortunate enough not to have heard the teachings of our Lord. You might find that a useful way to spend your life when you return to live among your race.”
With a masterful effort, I suppressed my reaction, barely avoiding choking on my mouthful of bacon; I’d already strayed far closer to canary duty than was comfortable, and there were worse fates than mine security. Simon glanced about, conspiratorially, and missed my internal struggle. He returned his attention to me. “And, of course, an icon serves as an ever-vigilant guard against the Dark One’s machinations.” He crossed himself, leaving me to wonder just which of several dark ones he hoped his icons would be potent against. He gathered himself as if ready to say more, then held his tongue when the door swung open.
Lady Elizabeth entered grandly, pausing only long enough to let a flustered-looking Roger catch up. She took his arm, a mite possessively I noted, and Roger’s face softened. I took that to imply that my quest for the fair Elizabeth was doomed to failure, which was just as well; I’d already sinned enough against Dwarvish propriety during my stay among the Humans, and if I kept straying, all the gold in Uropa wouldn’t buy my re-entry into Dwarvish society. Ignoring us, the two Humans crossed the room to sit together by the fire. Then Roger rose and came toward us. Simon glared brimstone at him the whole way, and I took the momentary silence to savor my breakfast. The brief discussion of theology had brought a bad taste to my mouth, which did scant justice to the excellent repast. Indeed, even if it were to snow for the next month, I could somehow manage to survive here.
With my attention freed from the perils of Uropan theology, and my thoughts increasingly lubricated by the balm of a delightful meal, Simon’s words and the conversation I’d overheard the previous night began to waken a measure of uncertainty. If there was indeed a vampire within these walls, obtaining protection could hardly hurt. I looked around the table, ostentatiously inhaling and savoring the aromas, to confirm my memories from last night. As I’d recalled, there was neither sign nor scent of garlic. This was odd, to say the least, given the herb’s ubiquity in the regional cuisine. I smiled at the vision of me holding a vampire at bay with a Polsh sausage in one hand and a crucifix in the other, and hoped that if anyone noticed, it would be mistaken for pleasure at the food’s quality.
Roger nodded, but his eyes were on the merchant. “Good morning. I see I’m still in time to rescue some food from our Dwarvish friend... though barely. It’s good I’m an early riser.” The sheriff turned his attention to the banquet, heaping his own plate high, then frowning in concentration as he scanned over the choices and began preparing a more meager plate for his companion. Then, turning on his heel with a broad wink, he strode smartly back to where a regal Elizabeth sat feigning indifference. They sat close together on the couch, conversing in whispers.
“Slut!” spat my companion, but not so loudly Roger heard. “Filthy harlot! And him—the sinner!—no better for consorting with her. They’ll both burn for this!”
His vehemence surprised me. After all, their interactions had been obvious enough to those of us with a suspicious mind, but I knew of no reason for his vituperation. I played the ingenue to draw him out. “Your pardon; have I missed something?”
He turned that glare on me, and this time, his eyes and face were in accord. “Missed something? The evidence of their sins lies plain upon them. Even now they mock the Lord with their behavior! Look!”
Not wishing to risk revealing that I’d had similar intentions and an equally guilty past, I looked where he gestured. Roger was just drawing back from what had obviously been a quick kiss, and one of Elizabeth’s hands rested upon his thigh. But Simon was staring at me, demanding an answer. “They do seem somewhat brazen,” I replied meekly, wondering what the Church’s current preferred punishment was for inter-racial conjugal relations.
“Somewhat?” he thundered, slamming a fist on the table and rocking the plates. Roger and his companion glanced towards us, turning away again as the merchant subsided. “Do you mock me? But I should expect no more from a heathen!”
I didn’t bother to correct him, for his behavior had proven instructional and I had high hopes that once his anger passed, he’d feel guilty about his outburst and reveal more. I eased another slab of bread onto my plate beside some butter, and rose to my feet, donning my best image of wounded politeness. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be eating the rest of my breakfast where I can do so in peace.” I sketched a shallow, not-quite-insulting bow and left, ignoring the sulfurous fumings at my back. The door closed at my back, shielding me from his poisonous gaze.
On my way back to my room, I came across Hans as he was leaving Cleayne’s room. He tucked something I couldn’t quite make out into his immaculate waistcoat as he turned to face me. “Good day, Sir. I trust breakfast was to your liking?”
“Yes, though the company could have used improvement.” There was curiosity in his eyes, but he avoided the obvious question. “Speaking of which, is the Lady Cleayne awake?” I nodded my chin in the direction of her room.
His face showed no reaction. “No, Sir, she sleeps. I made sure her fire was going, then left her. She seemed to have had a late night, for she’s usually up by now.” I’d been watching him closely, and saw no evidence of inuendo. “If you have no further need of me sir, there are tasks which await me...”
“No, go ahead—wait!” He paused in mid-step, weight shifting gracefully back onto both feet. “Would it be possible to meet the Baron today? I’d like to thank him for his hospitality.”
“Surely, Sir. But you shall have to wait until tonight to see him, as will our other guests. He was up rather late last night with his work.” The butler bowed again, one eyebrow raised as if he were inviting another interruption, then when I held my tongue, he left, treading softly on the thick carpeting.
I waited, listening carefully until his footsteps faded, then leaned up against Cleayne’s door. It was locked, and not even the sound of quiet breathing came from within—though to be fair, the doors here were thick, and I couldn’t be sure. Listening again to be sure I was alone, I laid my plate carefully on the floor and had my lockpick in hand by the time I’d straightened. I had questions the Elf had deferred last night. In less time than it takes to recount, I was inside, plate and food in hand. I turned from the door, careful not to disturb my breakfast, then paused, taken aback.
Cleayne’s bed was empty!
This bore thinking on, and given that Hans had indeed refreshed the fire, I seated myself on the bed, munching steadily. But no insight came as to where she might be and why the butler had lied. Well, as a colleague once commented, speculation in the absence of facts was profitless. Having finished, I left the room as carefully as I’d entered.
There was still no sound from the hall, and as I’d nothing better to do, I decided to reduce my ignorance. Another locked door closed off the end of the hall, just past Ghusthav’s door, and I wondered where it led. I resolved to find out.
This lock was more difficult than the last one—actually, something of a challenge, and the more so since I’d no desire to leave obvious signs of tampering. But we Dwarves are masters of mechanisms large or small, and it yielded in short order. I stepped through into a small alcove with uncarpeted stone stairs leading upwards, pulling the door shut behind me. Up the stairs I went, reflexively keeping to the outside to minimize any squeaks, though I needn’t have bothered; the stairs were solid stone. At the top, the stairs opened onto a faintly lit corridor, with a door immediately at hand and another at the end of the hall. From beneath the far door came a strong light, but pressing my ear to the nearer door suggested the room was unoccupied. To my pleased surprise, I found the door unlocked. Never having been one to decline so polite an invitation, I entered, taking pains to keep silent as I pulled the door shut.
I found myself in pitch blackness, or so I at first thought, for the corridor light had ruined my dark vision. Nonetheless, as my eyes adjusted, enough light seeped under the door to reveal a bullseye lantern and the dim glow from a pot of coals resting on the stone by the fireplace. I waited a moment more for my eyes to adjust, then tiptoed to the lantern, careful not to trip on any obstacles. I made it across the room handily enough, and unlatched the lantern. I took a thin splint from the jar that’d been provided for that purpose and lit it from the coals, lit the lantern, then swung the shutter most of the way closed, leaving just enough of a gap to see by. Then I dashed to the door and swept a rug up against the gap to block any light from escaping. Now I could relax and open the lantern fully.
To my surprise, I found myself in an artist’s workroom. In one corner stood a large oaken desk, several bound books open upon it and a rack of cased scrolls above. Beside that, shelves bearing jars of what appeared from their smell to be pigments, oil paints, varnishes, paint thinners, and various less-obvious compounds covered a wall. A ceramic container held a double handful of brushes ranging in thickness from impossibly delicate to the width of two fingers. But what caught and held my attention was the sumptuous couch and the easel before it. On that easel stood a partially completed oil painting of a half-naked Elf, instantly recognizable as Cleayne. I felt my gaze drawn irresistibly to that portrait, painted by a hand so accomplished it made her appear seductive even in the absence of her olfactory weaponry. Memories of the previous night brought a warmth to my cheeks, a tautening to the muscles of my groin, and an overwhelming sense of disgust at my weakness.
After some time, I laughed an embarrassed little laugh and stepped forward to examine the painting more closely. Honestly—behaving like a gawky virgin who’d never seen an unclad body before! Carefully, so as not to mar the canvas, I reached out a finger. Some of the paint was still damp, which suggested where Cleayne had spent the night after leaving me. I wiped my finger clean on the rag provided for that purpose, careful to ensure that I’d leave no telltale paint during the rest of my exploration. Tearing my gaze from the painting, I explored the rest of the room. There were several other paintings, some under dustcovers, others complete and hung upon the wall. These were cloaked in shadow, and it was only when I turned the lantern directly upon them that their nature became clear.
While the incomplete painting on the easel only hinted at as yet unexpressed potential, the completed paintings left no doubt. The work of a master, these landscapes were like windows into someone’s dream, and a lovely dream at that. The “Madonna” portrait of the Elf told me the same hand had created these masterpieces. I moved away from the wall, and made my way to the desk, a part of my mind already wondering how I could bring one or more of the paintings with me when I left.
On the desk, an open volume lay next to a nearly empty, overturned bottle of ink. A sheet of parchment had been torn from the book, and had presumably caused the accident, but that sheet was nowhere in evidence. Carefully avoiding the pooled ink, I turned to the previous page. There, in a beautifully calligraphed hand, were written the fragments of a poem in the Human tongue, a language I’ve come to understand passing well after living so long among them. The fragments hinted of the pain of loneliness, and the despair of unrequited love. Not of the same order of mastery as the paintings, and actually rather saccharine, on balance, but competently executed. A fuller picture began to form in my mind. I replaced the page gently, and turned my attention to the desk’s drawers.
There was little of note. A thin silver necklace with a pendant composed of two interlocking triangles. More parchment, several hollow metal cylinders about the right size and with the right sharpened tips to be artificial pens, pricey jars of several colors of ink, and one or two tiny, bound volumes of the same style of poetry. It was all so mundane I almost missed the concealed compartment in the bottom drawer. I released the catch carefully, and to my surprise, found several finely crafted glass bottles, each narrower than my small finger and each containing a golden-brown liquid. The bottles each had a narrow, wax-filled opening at one end and a cork stopper at the other. I carefully extracted the cork from one bottle, sniffed carefully, and wrinkled my nose at the unpleasant pungency. An unwholesome smell, but not wholly unfamiliar; it had some of the unpleasant bitterness of saltpeter, but there was something more complex to the odor. There were enough of the small vials I felt confident one wouldn’t be missed, so carefully resealing the one I held, I placed it in a secure inner pocket and closed its hiding place.
I was tempted to investigate the room further, but a tiny voice whispered in my ear it was time to go. Maybe later I’d have time to return and check for any nooks and crannies I’d missed. After all, my host was by all appearances a wealthy man, and I, a poor, impoverished Dwarf; there had to be gold somewhere. I smiled, memorized my path to the door, then extinguished the lantern, careful not to slosh any oil.
I made my way uneventfully back downstairs, reaching my room scant footsteps ahead of Hans, who bowed politely as he passed and made his way to the stairway I’d just left. With a sigh of relief, I pulled my own door shut and made my way back to bed. The room had grown pleasantly warm, and given that my stomach was full enough to survive the next short while without complaint, I heeded the bed’s siren call. It was a long time to luncheon, my morning so far had given me much to ponder, and I, like a certain infamous courtesan once said, did my best work on my back.
After an indeterminate time spent in contemplation, I rose from my bed, stomach having begun to make its presence felt once more. Thus, I was relieved to hear the urbane voice of Hans farther down the hall, but dismayed to discover that his knock was to alert us to the imminence of supper, not lunch—evidently my nocturnal activities had fatigued me more than I’d thought. Nonetheless, I was out of bed by the time he reached my door, in time to greet him with a deep bow. Unflappable, he returned my bow and proceeded down the hall. I waited in my doorway for Cleayne to appear, and when she did, steeled myself to approach her. I’d managed to avoid thinking of her by concentrating on the various mysteries that had emerged, but as she took my hand, all that was forgotten. I found myself hoping there would be time for music and more after dinner—and hated myself for those thoughts. It struck me that a pungent pomander might provide some protection, and resolved to test that trick later.
“Have you met our host, Thomas?” Her voice raised the fine hairs on the nape of my neck.
“Not yet, but I have high hopes. He seems a fascinating man—fascinating unto the point of mystery.”
“He’s that,” she replied, something indefinable in her voice. “But I suspect what really intrigues you are the rumors.”
I played dumb. “Rumors?”
She laughed. “You needn’t be coy—not after last night.” She ignored the color that sprang to my face and spread down my neck. “If you haven’t heard the rumors of black magic, vampirism, virgin sacrifice, and the like, then you were surprisingly inattentive during your travels. I assure you, that like all rumors, they have only a modicum of truth to them.”
“Imagine my relief.”
She laughed, louder. “Even were it true, you should console yourself: as a male, to which I can attest, you’re no target for a male vampire; as a nonvirgin, to which I can again attest, you’re no target for sacrifice; and as for black magic, you have only mine to fear.” Her callused fingertips, the one imperfection on an otherwise sinfully soft hand, trailed delicately across the nape of my neck.
When had the air grown so hot? As we talked, we’d moved down the hall, past the sitting room and into a portion of the keep I’d failed to notice during my initial passage from the front door. From the smells in the corridor, we were nearing both the kitchen and the stables, though it was the former that most interested me—the more so given how those heavenly scents partially concealed that of the Elf beside me. I was grateful when we arrived at the dining room, for that ended private conversation. Cleayne rested her hand briefly atop my head, caressed my thick thatch of hair for an instant, then strode through the doorway.
I took a deep breath, forced some semblance of calm into my expression, and followed her. We were first to arrive, and that gave me the opportunity to survey the room. The high ceiling was tall enough to be lost in darkness behind chandeliered tapers that shed a warm illumination on the table, but also blocked any view of what lay above them. The darkly paneled walls were bare of ornament to the point of starkness, but the lavishly set table more than compensated for any fault in the decor. Crystal there was in plenty, enough to bring nightmares to a soprano, and the bone-white flatware separating it and casting back glittering reflections of the tapers could have come only from the Sinese ceramics wizards of the far east. Nestled in lacy cotton handkerchiefs, the dull gleam of gold cutlery caught my eye.
This was ostentation beyond my expectations, for though I suspected our host to be as well equipped as any Dwarf to appreciate the finer things in life, the juxtaposition of food and gold bordered on sacramental. Here, there was gold enough to buy me respectability again. For a moment, I grappled with a fantasy of returning with a large wain and carting off everything that wasn’t nailed down; then reality sank in like a cold meat pie lying heavy on my gut. I shook my head, and returned to the present, though not without making a mental note to review the prospects, wain or no wain. The seat assigned to me was clear; it was the one with a pillow that would raise me high enough to eat. As I seated myself beside Cleayne, Roger and Elizabeth entered, holding hands, and sat together near the head of the table without acknowledging our presence. I felt a momentary pang at that lost opportunity—but Cleayne was close enough I could smell her natural perfume, and that left little room for thoughts of another. I regained some semblance of control over my thoughts by setting my mind to wondering whether it would be possible to bottle Elf sweat and sell it to Humans at some enormous price as an aphrodisiac. Belatedly, it struck me that Roger’s infatuation would make it much easier to separate Elizabeth from some of her valuables by eliminating any chance of physical entanglements that might have complicated the issue.
Malcolm and Simon were next to arrive, arguing in intense whispers about something. I was too involved in my mental gymnastics to catch the gist of their conversation, but hazarding a guess, I was prepared to wager they were continuing their earlier discussion on the status of our host’s soul. The ostentatiously large silver crucifix Simon withdrew from a pocket to hang upon his chest confirmed this supposition; furthermore, there was some momentary difficulty with the chain, which snagged upon his ever-present woolen cap as he draped the chain over his head, thereby treating me to a brief glimpse of the bare scalp beneath. A few cogs clicked into place, and my mind threw up the word tonsure for consideration.
Last to enter the room was Ghusthav, and I confess that what with the many thoughts vying for dominance in my poor head, I entirely missed his entry; one moment he was absent, the next he was seated across from me, cleaning his nails with a golden knife from beside his plate. He smirked as our eyes met, then turned to his own inspection of the room.
We sat for a bit in awkward silence, no one wanting to be the first to essay conversation, for some awkwardness lingered after the previous night’s events, and it seemed wiser to say nothing than to start something unpleasant. We were saved from further awkwardness by our host’s arrival.
After so much foreshadowing, I confess to being disappointed. The Baron was short for a Human, not much beyond five feet and a half to the top of his coal-black hair, and slimly built. In contrast, his skin had the pallor of milk after the butter had been skimmed from it, and blue veins made pale traceries across such of his skin as was visible. This otherwise attractive appearance was undermined by the fact that he lacked even the slightest trace of a beard despite the time. His thick vest, elaborately brocaded with gold thread, covered that slim torso to below his waist, and his shirt extended to just beyond his wrists, which were shrouded in its lace frills. What I could see of his hands revealed skin as pale as his face, but the fingers were surprisingly short and blunt, and the hands seemingly strong and powerful.
He flashed us a warm grin, showing no teeth, as he brushed past us to sit at the head of the table, and I confess to feeling relief that no fangs protruded beyond his lower lip. As he sat, his hand lightly brushed Cleayne’s shoulder, and though her face remained politely neutral, she leaned into that caress like a cat being stroked by its master. To my surprise, a slightly unpleasant musk trailed in his wake, and even as I strove to place the familiar odor, I noted from the corner of my eye how Elizabeth’s head snapped around and fixed upon him, and how Roger grasped at her hand again, only to be firmly rebuffed. The frown on his face proved so instructive I almost missed our host’s opening speech.
“Welcome, my guests, and please accept my apologies for absenting myself from your presence these past nights. I have been absorbed in... business.” His voice was surprisingly rich and deep for such a shallow chest, and bore an unmistakable eastern Uropan accent, something not heard much this far west. “I bid particular welcome to our new guests; it’s a pleasure to be given the opportunity to offer shelter from the fierce storm swirling outside.”
Elizabeth spoke. “The pleasure is most assuredly ours, Milord. Seldom have I been offered such hospitality, and I fear I’ve nothing to offer in return.” Roger’s face tightened as his charge again spurned his hand and emerged from beneath the table to push aside a lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead.
Cleayne’s whisper, sotto voce, reached clearly to where I sat. “I’m sure.”
Elizabeth’s eyes blazed, but as she prepared a spirited reply, Roger’s hand emerged from beneath the table to seize her much smaller hand and squeeze it, firmly enough to make her wince. She subsided, glaring her promised retribution at the Elf, who'd affixed an ingenuous look upon her face.
The Baron cocked an eyebrow, his gaze moving between the two women before fixing on me. “And I bid a special welcome to you, Thomas, for it’s rare for one of your folk to be seen by the men of my homeland, even here in the west. If it would be no intrusion on your privacy, I would relish the opportunity to speak with you in private after we’ve eaten.”
“As would I, my host. Please consider me at your disposal.” He nodded graciously, then seized a golden bell I’d noted earlier beside his place setting. It tolled quietly, but Hans had evidently been waiting for just such a cue, for he swept in through the open door before the bell’s echoes faded. Hob followed close behind, but had to bend his knees and angle slightly sideways to fit through the door; in one hand, the giant clutched a soup tureen as if it were a toy, which indeed it seemed in those massive hands, while the other bore a magnum of some wine whose label was illegible from this distance. Hob swept past me like a toppling pine, accompanied by the heavenly aroma of soup and fresh bread.
Hans was as graceful at serving as he’d been at everything else; had he been a warrior, such grace with a sword would have made him a dangerous opponent. In moments, a bowl of thick red soup and a generous loaf of bread sat before me. I had the former in a spoon and the latter raised to my lips when Simon’s voice rang out across the table.
“Surely we will not be eating without saying grace for this bounty?”
Gaze directed carefully away from the merchant, the Baron replied. “If you feel that need, then so be it. Will you do us the honor, Simon?”
The fat man cleared his throat, rising to his feet to better display the crucifix on his chest, and I watched with suddenly intense curiosity—but the Baron showed no signs of pain or horror, only a certain distaste. “Beloved of the Lord, gathered before me, let us pray. Dear Lord, we give thanks for this food Thou hast set before us, and pray that the redness of the soup shall recall to us the sacrifice of Thy blood, and that this bread shall recall the sacrifice of Thine divine flesh, as we commemorate when we share the Eucharist. Amen.”
I was certain I’d heard him emphasize the words blood and flesh, and it puzzled me that Simon would risk such open insults. Elizabeth and Roger echoed the amen, but no one else. Among Humans, it was rare to omit at least an informal response; the Uropan Church had developed some innovative—and invariably fatal—notions of how to deal with pagans, and it had taken several blunt lessons on the field of battle to convince them my people practiced a very different form of blood sacrifice—one that involved axes and hammers. The Church and my people eventually came to a modus vivendi, for both groups were relentlessly pragmatic. Having learned their lesson, the Church largely abandoned trying to save our souls, although the occasional solitary Dwarf that disappeared in Human lands was said by my people—not without a grimace—to have been “saved”. My people have always lived by the maxim “safety in numbers”, and the rare Dwarf who forgot this was not often mourned by his kin.
The soup was odd, but pleasant; I recognized cabbage, onion, tomato, and a few other vegetables, but not the stock. To direct the conversation in a safer direction, I asked the Baron its origin.
“My countrymen call the soup borscht; it’s a traditional delicacy made from sugar beets and various other vegetables, which give it that shocking red color. The richness is from a marrowbone and long, slow cooking.” Simon, who’d refrained from tasting his soup, looked relieved and fell to with the hearty appetite his frame suggested. I’d not really believed the red to be blood, but Cleayne’s earlier remarks had failed to abolish a measure of uncertainty about my host’s nature.
“I must get the recipe for this soup; it’s delicious, and my kin would enjoy it as much as I.” He nodded to Hans, who’d been hovering solicitously, and I saw the butler note my request. I neglected to mention that my kin currently had no desire whatsoever to break bread with me, but it struck me that a recipe was far more portable than the requisite quantities of gold.
Elizabeth, who’d been sipping at her soup, cleared her throat and coughed delicately, in a ladylike manner, to attract our host’s attention. “And where might your homeland be, if I’m not presumptuous for asking? From your accent, it seems you’re not from around here.”
Cleayne inhaled preparatory to responding, undoubtedly in a cutting way, but I elbowed her in the side hard enough to make her wince and glare daggers at me. I smiled my most angelic smile and focused again on our host.
“I come from Romaigne, high in the mountains. As you guessed so perceptively, I am estranged from my people and now live apart.”
Simon had been listening carefully over the edge of his soup bowl. “Ah. Religious differences, perhaps?” He ostentatiously wiped a smear of soup from his crucifix, holding the silver so it caught the light and cast it in our host’s eyes. The Baron winced and looked away again, but let the comment pass unchallenged.
“He wouldn’t be the only one to have had disagreements with the Holy Mother Church,” interposed Malcolm, glaring at the merchant. Simon returned the stare levelly, unperturbed by the venom in the sorcerer’s voice.
Not to be left out, Cleayne put a hand firmly upon my arm beneath the table and added her own thoughts. “For an organization that advocates love for all the children of your God, your employers seem inappropriately inclined to offer sharp rebukes to those who disagree with you.”
Employers? The word tonsure sounded more loudly in my head, and I resolved to take greater care in Simon’s presence—lest I be saved.
Simon, about to snap at the Elf, was forestalled by the Baron. “I’ve found,” he stated firmly, “that discussions of religion and politics ruin one’s digestion and may cause a falling out among companions. For this reason, I ask that you refrain from pursuing the matter further. Please, enjoy your meals instead. We can talk of more serious matters later, over the dessert wine.”
As he spoke, Hans and Hob returned, bearing salvers heaped with steaming food. “I thought you drank no wine?” stated Simon, casting a meaningful glance towards Malcolm.
“That’s true, but although I can’t enjoy its savor myself, I can appreciate the reactions of my guests to a fine Romaigne vintage.”
I missed Simon’s reaction as Hans placed two large sausages on my plate, followed by a dollop of finely ground liver pâté smothered in fried onions, a larger mound of creamy mashed potatoes, and some strange, deep-red tubers that had the look of thick carrots. After filling our plates, Hans effortlessly drew the cork from the large bottle Hob had carried in and walked around the table, filling our glasses with a rich, red wine so thick it swallowed all light that fell upon it. He then vanished as if he’d never been in the room, though he’d undoubtedly only withdrawn to a discreet distance. More bread had appeared before me as if by magic, beside a dish of creamed butter. Our host set a remarkable table, and I was as near to heaven then as I was ever likely to come.
Conversation stopped for a time while we focused our attention on the feast. As my hunger became a distant and petulant echo, I snuck a glance at our host. Vampire he may have been, but he was eating the same food we ate, save only for the wine. He’d taken a larger than normal helping of the red tubers, but so far as I could tell, there was no taste of blood to them—quite the contrary, in fact, for they were sweet and crunchy. Despite the suspicions that had grown from overheard conversations and Cleayne’s teasing, the rumors of vampirism seemed unlikely to prove true—though on the other hand, the only blood I’d ever knowingly tasted had been my own, after an unfortunate disagreement with a fist during my instruction in the ways of civilized debate. The gold tooth that winked whenever I chanced to look in a mirror was a constant reminder that stubborn though we Dwarves were reputed to be, fists were made of sterner stuff.
From further down the table, there came a strong scent of garlic. I looked up from my rapidly emptying plate to see Simon liberally sprinkling his plate from a silver dispenser, which he’d pulled from a pocket, while our host looked on with distaste and held an embroidered handkerchief across his mouth and nose. Noticing this attention, the merchant held the dispenser at arm’s length in the direction of the Baron. “Have some. It’s said to do wonders for the heart and blood.”
“Thank you, no,” the Baron replied, leaning back in his chair to avoid contact with the proffered garlic. “Contrary to what you may have heard, it’s a cliché that eastern Uropans survive on garlic. It offends my dear Cleayne, a good enough reason to not indulge, even were I not allergic to the herb myself.”
Simon shot a triumphant glance at Malcolm, who looked away. “A shame. Perhaps if I placed it in a silver spoon for you?”
The Baron frowned, a touch of color rising to his cheeks. For a moment, he only stared at his tormentor, then abruptly the tension left him in an explosive laugh. “Why, Simon, one would think you were testing me somehow. Surely you don’t suspect some supernatural origin to my likes and dislikes?”
“Let me assure you, he’s fully Human. In every way.” Cleayne smirked at Elizabeth, who gritted her teeth audibly. “Indeed, he’s more a man than many I’ve encountered during my travels.”
“And I imagine you’ve encountered a good many men,” Elizabeth riposted coolly, smiling as the barb sank home. “But tell me, Baron,” she continued before the Elf could respond, “what you suspect Simon to be accusing you of? I saw no harm in his suggestion.”
The Baron smiled warmly, his eyes dipping down the long, smooth curve of her neck towards her swelling bosom. “Perhaps he feels I’m a vampire, my dear.” Cleayne stiffened at the tone in his voice and the trajectory of his gaze. “Garlic is said to be a strong deterrent to those of the fiendish persuasion, as is silver. Then there’s the crucifix the man has been flaunting throughout dinner, undoubtedly in an attempt to distract me from your charms. To no avail, I might add.”
Elizabeth flushed a warm red, and Roger drained his glass of wine in a gulp, thereafter turning his attention so firmly upon his dinner plate I felt a measure of sympathy for his charge once he got her out of this room. Cleayne forestalled the next phase of this flirtation by pushing her chair back so hard it struck the wall before Hans, already en route to intercept it, could intervene. “Please excuse me,” she spat. “I suddenly feel a need for fresh air.” With that, she fled the room before the Baron could draw breath to respond.
Ghusthav chuckled into the sudden silence. “Our good merchant’s precautions seem to have worked well enough on your paramour. Though I’d vow that she, despite her other flaws, is no vampire. Perhaps Simon simply isn’t a good enough member of the Uropan Church to make that crucifix work its magic?”
Malcolm rose abruptly, wiping his mouth upon one of the linen napkins and leaving a surprisingly large red smear. “I thank you for your hospitality, Baron. I don’t mean to seem rude by leaving your table prematurely, but as you know, I’m a physician, and perhaps the good Elf is in need of my services.” He bowed deeply in response to our host’s hesitant nod, then followed the departing Elf. I heard his footsteps dwindling in the distance as he hurried to catch up.
The Baron turned the conversation rather forcefully to more neutral ground, mostly the weather and the prospects of the roads clearing. Simon maintained a resentful silence throughout the hot drinks and spicy cake that appeared once the dinner dishes had been cleared away. There was consensus that it could be days before the storm broke, and still longer before the King’s men came to clear the pass for commercial traffic. Roger attempted to defend the King, and the Baron attended to his words respectfully, though that respect never reached his eyes. Many had little respect for Human royalty, who had a near-Dwarvish reputation for their love of gold and their unwillingness to part with it. Ignoring much of the small talk, I watched Elizabeth closely, observing how she leaned closer to the Baron whenever she spoke, exposing the deep cleft in her bosom and the flush that had crept there from the strong wine. Roger did not fail to notice this, and his sullen silence deepened as he consumed glass after glass of the wine.
After dinner, I thanked the Baron and arranged to talk with him later that evening in his study. He thanked me politely and told me Hans would come at the appointed time. I did my best to ignore the sudden attention from the others. I thanked him again and left to digest the meal in the privacy of my room.
Some time later, as I lay atop my bed juggling the implications of the conversational byplay while wondering how I might smuggle out the cutlery unbeknownst to my host, there came a polite rap on my door and the muffled voice of Hans. “Master Thomas? The Baron will see you now.”
I got to my feet, readjusting my rumpled clothing to conceal various useful devices and adding a few more to account for the present context. It wouldn’t do to visit our host looking like either a slob or an assassin. When I opened the door, Hans was waiting politely, face neutral.
“This way, if you please.” He conducted me along the same path I’d trodden earlier that day, preceding me up the stairs and knocking loudly, thrice, on the door at the top of the stairs.
“Enter!” came the muffled reply.
I bowed my thanks to Hans, who smiled enigmatically and returned soundlessly the way we’d come. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and entered the room. I felt a bit silly because of the silver crucifix, silver-inlaid dagger, and vial of holy water pressing on my chest, but one never knew, and there’d been signs at dinner that could not be ignored without further evidence.
I closed the door behind me, and entered the baron’s study, but this time fully lit and with Cleayne’s portrait veiled behind a paint-spattered cloth. The Baron stood before a fresh canvas, sketching in charcoal. Even from the preliminary lines, I could see the portrait of another woman taking form under his skilled hand; I had my suspicions who that might be, and looked forward to seeing the final product. I cleared my throat. “Would I be mistaken if I said I’d seen your work hanging in the great museums of Paree? Under the nom de pinceau Vladimir?”
The Baron laughed. “You would not be mistaken, for Vladimir is my name, and Tevyas my family. I see you’re well traveled.”
“Better than most,” I admitted, declining to clarify why.
“And not without some appreciation for art.”
“Yes, but from a commercial standpoint as much as an aesthetic one.”
“Ah. You’re a collector, perhaps?”
“After a fashion.” I neglected to mention how I collected, and why it had been unwise to return to Paree after my last visit. “But I’ve not found collecting to be profitable, other than in the aesthetic sense.”
He laughed again, looking on me with a touch of irony in his eyes. “I can understand that. It’s truly said that only the artist doesn’t profit from his works. At least, not in his own lifetime.”
“Yet you don’t seem to be wanting for anything. Even in Paree, I was rarely so lavishly entertained.”
“True, but only a small portion of my wealth comes from my art. A vanishingly small portion, to my great regret. My wealth comes largely from certain sources of income in my ancestral lands and from certain services I perform for the cities on either side of this pass.”
I wondered at his openness, but decided I’d done enough overt prying for the moment. Even the most naïve host would begin to suspect my motives went beyond polite curiosity. “If I might be so bold, would I be correct in assuming I recognize the lady taking form beneath your hand?”
“I wouldn’t venture to inquire as to your familiarity with her, preferring to let such matters lie between the two of you.” He shot me an amused glance. “But you’d be correct if you’ve been assuming that our guest, the Lady Elizabeth, is the subject of this painting. She has agreed to pose later tonight, and perhaps a time or two more during the course of her stay should the storm delay her travel longer.” He cocked an ear towards the roof as if listening to something; I heard nothing. “Yes, I wager I’ll have time to complete the portrait.” Absently, he daubed at the canvas again, refining a curve, then laid down his charcoal stick and wiped his hands on a dirty cloth hanging from the easel.
“But enough of me. I’m being a poor host.” He removed his paint-stained smock and laid it delicately on the floor beside the easel. “Can I get you something to drink. Or eat?” His eyes smiled at the latter, and I smiled back. I found myself liking the man for his lack of pretense.
“For one who claims no knowledge of Dwarves, you’ve characterized me well.”
“True, but remember that an artist must have a keen eye for detail and, more importantly, for essence. Later, if you intend to stay longer, I’d be interested in painting you.” He crossed to a hutch against the rear wall of the study, calling back over his shoulders. “Your face and hands promise many stories.”
From what I’d seen of Cleayne’s painting, admittedly studied in the poor light, he had the twin gifts of noting the telling detail and capturing the subject’s essence, and I decided that I’d not want him reading my stories from seemingly trivial clues; I was all too aware of where that might lead. Uneasily, I changed the subject, unsure that I wanted him to paint my portrait, even if few would ever see what that portrait revealed. “If I do stay, such a painting would be small price indeed for your excellent hospitality. But you expressed polite interest in my folk, and I shall be happy to oblige with such details as are fit for public consumption.”
He turned from the hutch, one hand bearing a crystal decanter of some dark liquid and a matching crystal glass, the other balancing a tray of assorted sweetmeats and cheeses. He set them on small table bracketed by two luxurious armchairs. “Please help yourself. When you’re done, we can resume our conversation.” The Baron moved to the far side of his desk, where he sat with an elaborate quill pen and bottle of ink and began jotting something in the thick, leather-bound book I’d seen previously.
The decanter held a heady, invigorating brandy I’d never encountered before; having slid caressingly down the back of my throat, lighting a gentle fire along the way, it lay there in my belly, gently warming it and preparing it for the cheeses and pastries that soon followed. I’d begun to feel more than a little mellow when I called my host back, stifling a belch while brushing my lips with my sleeve.
“Forgive me, but I fear I’ve left little for you to share.”
“Pay it no mind. My blood does not permit me to indulge in liquor of even the simplest kind, and I ate well enough at dinner.” He appraised me for a moment, as if seeking some hint of Simon’s dark suspicions in my countenance, and I felt my concealed precautions pressing against my skin. When I returned his gaze, unperturbed, he went on. “It pleases me, however, that my guests can savor what I cannot.”
“Savor is the word. I thank you again.” Then, in what poor coin I could muster, I found myself repaying his kindness with a detailed description of my folk. Dwarves have never been particularly reticent about our lives, other than for one odd duck we nicknamed “Bashful” who ended up in service to the wizard of Vahlt. The Baron’s questions, though often pointed, carefully skirted offense, and guided me subtly through a thorough investigation of my people and our subterranean demesnes. Without noticing at first, I provided much personal detail as well, despite efforts to filter my descriptions to remove certain details. Some time later, I wound down my account.
“That’s as much as I can tell you; the rest must be experienced in person. Should I ever be permitted to return to the caverns, I’d be honored if you’d visit me.” The brandy had gone to my head, for I’d not intended to say permitted, and I found it difficult to recall just how thoroughly I’d recounted the reasons for my banishment.
An eyebrow raised fractionally. “It seems we have something in common, for I too am outcast by my people. And I agree: much of what you described could only be appreciated in person. Should you return home, I’d be pleased to accept your hospitality, particularly if I can bring my easel and paints.” He sat back in his chair, stretching.
The brandy had made me bold. “How could you have been cast out by your own people?” Simon’s suspicions returned to my mind, and the Baron sensed what I was thinking.
“You mean, am I really the vampire that Eleitus was implying?”
“Ee-lee-ightus?”
“Simon, the icon merchant. No, friend Dwarf, I’m not what he thinks. My family has always had weak blood, and this led my ancestors to experiment with matters the Church forbids. Oh, there are old tales that deal with replacing our blood with that of unwilling victims, but I cannot testify to the veracity of the blood libel. All I can assert with certainty is that my own thin blood requires me to imbibe noxious herbal potions at frequent intervals, and prohibits me from going abroad in bright sunlight.” At this distance, I noticed the squint lines bracketing his eyes.
“No, I’d not suspected you of vampirism. Simon’s crucifix should have chased you from the room if you’d suffered from that affliction.”
My host grimaced. “I practice an older religion, and the Church’s symbols have no power over me. Unfortunately, that’s part of what led to my banishment.”
I nodded, understanding the eternal tension between the Uropan Church and those who did not cleave to its teachings. What religion and piety had been unable to accomplish, assassination and excommunication often accomplished, and I remained continually alert lest I cross paths with one of the Church’s more unpleasantly enthusiastic agents. Simon, for instance. As I pondered, the Baron rose and returned to the hutch, from which he removed a large pitcher of clear liquid, presumably water, and one of the small vials of powder I’d seen on my earlier visit to his study. While he was mixing the powder into a small glass, there came a knocking.
“Enter, please.”
The door opened, accompanied by a waft of musky perfume, and Lady Elizabeth entered the room on the arm of Hans. If anything, she was even lovelier than before, and the cut of her dress and sultry look in her eye left no doubt as to her intentions. I cleared my throat, and—being more perceptive than a footstool—made my excuses. “Thanks for your time, Baron. I’m afraid I must be going.”
He caught my eye and winked, crossing the room to take my hand as I rose. “No, Thomas, thank you. It was an enlightening conversation. I hope we’ll have a chance for another one before you leave.”
His hand was surprisingly cold, and left a palpable chill. Despite his plausible arguments against vampirism, he left me wondering. His aversion to garlic and alcohol, and the lack of mirrors or icons anywhere in the keep remained suspicious, but there were no “nails in the coffin” that meant certainty; for that matter, there were no coffins.
As I took the final step down the stairs to the main corridor, I heard an intake of breath and the shuffle of rapidly moving feet. I accelerated, eager to see who’d been lurking nearby, and was in time to see a door closing a short distance down the hall. Was that Simon’s room? From my vantage point, there was no way to be sure, and I found myself wishing I’d drunk less or been born with longer legs. One way to find out who’d been spying on us would be to visit the sitting room and count the missing faces. Sadly, it was later than I’d thought, and no one was present. The fire had burned down to cinders and a few dully glowing coals.
I returned to my room to ponder the evening’s events, and as I turned to push my door shut, Malcolm slunk past down the hall. Even in the dim light, my dark-adapted Dwarvish eyes spotted the bruise on his cheek, just beginning to blacken; evidently, the medical profession, though less overtly hazardous than the warrior’s trade I used as my guise when I traveled, was not without its dangers. I locked my door, noting as I did the lack of any signs of new visitors. Either that, or the hypothetical searcher was more accomplished at covert entry. On that cheery note, I tucked myself under thick covers and fell asleep, momentarily regretting that I was the only one there to warm the bed and pondering how to politely request a viewing of Elizabeth’s portrait on the morrow.
The next morning, the wind was howling outside my window. There was little temptation to open the shutters, for if anything, the weather was worsening, and it was cold enough already in my room. One of the less obvious advantages of living hundreds of feet underground for most of one’s life was the natural heat that kept things comfortably warm year-round; sadly, that did not prepare one for the unsheltered surface life. Although there were certain advantages to the Human way of life, it took some effort to remember them when the chamber pot was cold enough to leave frostbite in places best left unbitten. As soon as I freed myself from its chill embrace, I set about rebuilding the fire and summoning Hans to beg a warm bath. While I waited, I flung myself back under the covers to ponder.
Hob returned sooner than I’d expected with a Dwarf-sized caldron of steaming water, which he poured into the basin. Unlike Hans, he didn’t knock before entering, but his deep-set eyes showed a similar lack of emotion as he set the tub on the floor and knelt to check my fire. Even though a Dwarf needed less water than a Human, I raised an eyebrow at the Human’s feat of strength; two strong Dwarves, working together, would have been hard-pressed to lift that much water.
As the door closed behind him, I flung myself into the scented water, not waiting for my clothing to hit the floor. I’d learned from my encounter with the chamber pot.
The water was blissfully warm, and that warmth soon permeated my body. Unfortunately, it also woke my hunger, and that tempted me from the waters sooner than I’d have preferred. Despite the fire, the air was chill, and I was certain I’d seen frost forming on various exposed extremities before I could towel myself dry and cover my nakedness with thick woolens. I once again settled my various gear imperceptibly about me, then hastened to the sitting room, locking the door behind me.
Some saint had thought ahead, and the roaring fire that lit the room had chased away the chill. Moreover, hot water for tea steamed merrily on a brazier by the fire, while chafing dishes kept the food on the table pleasantly warm. With scarcely a glance for the room’s other occupants, I selected a plate from the sideboard and began heaping it with food. Despite the morning’s cold and the lamentable lack of suitable female Dwarvish companionship—no disrespect intended to Cleayne’s indisputable charms—I found myself in a secular heaven.
As my hunger eased, I belatedly examined the room’s other occupants. Cleayne sat by herself in a corner, morosely tuning her lute, staring into an imagined distance. At the opposite end of the room, Simon sat beside a half-full plate, woolen cap still pulled low over his forehead. As I ate, I watched him poking at his food. He was clearly struggling with himself, half-rising several times as our eyes met before sitting again. Evidently, he was seeking the courage to confront me about something. I was enjoying the rich food too much to risk encouraging him, suspicious that whatever he would bring up would leave me without an appetite.
My hunger was nearly sated by the time the merchant took courage—and crucifix—in hand and crossed the room to join me. Repressing a grimace, I smiled a greeting around a mouthful of fluffy pancakes and syrup. “Good morning, brother Simon.” His eyes narrowed momentarily at my choice of words, and while I took the opportunity to claim more pancakes, he replaced his suspicion with a spurious look of goodwill that never reached his eyes.
“Good morning, Thomas.” He paused, licking his lips. “I confess to a near-religious awe at your capacity for even food this good. Are all your appetites so robust?”
Not sure what he was getting at, I deflected his question. “All that are fit for polite conversation.”
That wasn’t what he wanted. “I refer to piety and devotion to those things all good and decent men trust.” His gaze sharpened as he saw my hesitation, and I tried to avoid choking on my mouthful of pancake.
“Which good and decent men would you be talking about? Your kind, my kind, or both?” I doubted he meant alcohol consumption, thievery, fraud, inter-racial conjugal relations, or heretical worship practices, but one never knew and I wanted to be sure what accusation I’d be defending against.
His voice took on a new urgency, though his eyes suggested he considered me a lost cause. “I mean the fight against all things evil, as the good book commands. Can I be any clearer?”
“I take it you mean our supposed vampire host?”
Simon stepped back a pace as if I’d struck him a particularly clever low blow when he’d been expecting a handshake. Several interesting emotions ran across his face in sequence, none of which was amusement. “How can you dismiss my suspicions so casually?”
I was spared the necessity of a reply by a shout of horror from the hall. It was a man’s voice, too deep to be Ghusthav’s or Malcolm’s. Judging by their previous vocal performances, not likely to be Hans or Hob either. Roger?
There was a moment of shocked silence, then I rose and followed him through the door. Cleayne followed us with an oddly apprehensive look on her face. Roger stood there, slumped against the wall as if he’d been nailed there and was only held on his feet by the nails. I had a premonition of what we’d find. Malcolm, the only physician among us, pushed past Roger and entered the room. I looked past the sheriff, but did not enter the room. I’d seen death before, but had no strong desire for another close look just yet.
Malcolm knelt by Elizabeth’s body, which lay on the bed with one shapely arm dangling towards the floor, fingernails just brushing the rug. His hand was at her wrist, seeking a pulse. Then he moved his hand to her neck, and withdrew it sharply and stepped back. He raised his hand to eye level, trembling, and there was blood on his fingers. Visibly taking hold of his courage, he knelt once more by the body, stepping aside so we could see what his explorations had discovered: two small, bruised puncture wounds perhaps half a hand apart below the swelling of her neck where it met the line of her jaw. As if on cue, there came a collective gasp from those of us at the doorway, followed by a sob of anguish from Roger.
“A damned vampire!” spat Simon, crossing himself, then doing so again for good measure. He shot me a triumphant glance. “Now will someone believe me?”
“We shouldn’t leap to conclusions. A careful examination would be required to prove the cause of death, even though the evidence appears damning to the untrained eye. She’s obviously been murdered, but suggesting a supernatural agency could be intended to buy the murderer time to escape.”
“Indeed,” Malcolm proclaimed with a distinct wheeze. “There are other, more likely possibilities. Our host’s mistress, for example, had an excellent reason to wish this interloper dead.” There was venom in his voice, and Cleayne’s eyes shot fire at the physician, who cringed, as if fearing a physical blow.
Roger slumped to his knees as if poleaxed. Then, rallying, his chin came up. “You’re equally under suspicion, Tente. Need I remind anyone of the dispute between Malcolm and Elizabeth on the first night of our arrival?” Some steel returned to Roger’s body, and he levered himself upright, watching the smaller man through narrowed eyes.
Suddenly, he lunged. “Bastard!” he spat, his hands reaching for Malcolm’s throat. His hands closed around their target, too fast for Malcolm to invoke any spell, and began squeezing as his victim flailed desperately at the big man, trying vainly to dislodge the crushing grip.
“Help me!” I shouted at Simon, pushing him forward before he could form the resolution to resist me, and together we seized the maddened man, slowly convincing him to relinquish his grip. It was like wrestling with a Troll, but the Sheriff was a good man and in the end, regained enough self-control to relinquish Tente.
When we’d separated the two, Malcolm fell to the ground, prone and gasping. Cleayne glided into the room and touched a soft hand to Roger’s cheek, turning his face towards her; her natural magic calmed him further.
“Rest easy, friend. The good doctor made his suggestion not because he believed it, but rather so we’d understand it wasn’t our host who did this. Nor was it me, for I spent last evening in Thomas’ bed.”
This was news to me, but the heat that sprang to my face gave her claim substance. I nodded, reflecting that we’d need to talk of this later. “Cleayne could not have committed the murder. But despite her reassurance, we must consider our host suspect; his absence casts a shadow upon him.”
Hans’ calm voice made everyone jump, no one having noticed his arrival with Hob. “Forgive me, gentle guests, but there is no cause for suspicion. I’ve informed my master of this tragic occurrence, but he’s exhausted from certain exertions last night and unable to join us.”
“Sated by his unholy feast, you mean!” shot Simon, glowering.
Hans, unperturbed, put a hand behind him to restrain Hob, who’d balled his hands into impossibly large fists and begun to advance. “I don’t believe it to be so, and have known the Baron longer than any of you. But please,” his voice became imploring, “return to the sitting room. I shall array the body properly and see that it remains undisturbed until arrangements can be made for a funeral.”
Reluctantly, we made our way back down the hall. Cleayne’s hand had fallen to Roger’s arm, and she led the shaken man gently away. Simon and I helped the physician to his feet and supported him for several steps until he’d gotten his legs back under him. Hob remained behind, broad back to the door, fists clenching and unclenching in the first signs of passion I’d seen in the man. I felt confident the body would remain undisturbed, and that if anyone tried, we’d soon have two corpses.
In the sitting room, there was silence that might charitably be described as uncomfortable. Though none of us but Roger had known Elizabeth personally, her death dampened our mood more than, say, the news that dinner would be late, sad though that would be. Added to this, no doubt, was the frisson that accompanied our knowledge that, without knowing why she’d been killed, any of us might soon suffer the same fate. Theological considerations aside, I was by no means impatient to explore the afterlife. Moreover, my curiosity had been kindled, and if curiosity killed the cat, that was only because any Dwarves who were present had been distracted by a meal, and therefore slower than the deceased feline. I sat beside Cleayne, who was far enough from everyone else we could talk without being overheard.
“Was I any good last night?”
She looked up, surprised, then smiled blindingly. “You were fantastic.”
I returned her smile, and her magic washed over me in irresistible waves. Nonetheless, the point seemed worth pursuing. “Where were you really last night?”
She looked up, eyes inscrutable, and laid a hand on my cheek. “Not murdering Elizabeth, if that’s what you’re asking.” She could have told me I was really an Elf and I wouldn’t have doubted her word, but in fact, it seemed unlikely that death had occurred during the night; the blood on Malcolm’s hand had been fresh.
“I wasn’t accusing you,” I temporized, though in truth she was as likely a suspect as anyone. “Although I admit that your desire for an alibi piqued my curiosity.”
She smiled. “I didn’t need an alibi, but it felt wisest to provide one. Humans become so irrational in the presence of death.”
I reflected on how Elves, being the next best thing to immortal, placed a low value on the ephemeral lives of Humans. “Dwarves too,” I added. It had always struck me as odd that Humans, with a paradisiacal afterlife guaranteed the virtuous by their Church, feared death so much. Dwarves had no such guarantees; the few Dwarvish theologians that had admitted to such profitless speculation told us we simply returned to the rock from which we’d once sprung. I had no knowledge of Elvish notions of death, and just then, no interest in learning. “In any event,” I lowered my voice conspiratorially, “there’s a more likely suspect than either the Baron or yourself.”
“Malcolm?”
“No!” I chuckled. “Though a sufficiently skilled physician might successfully mimic the effects of vampirism, I was thinking of Ghusthav, who’s disappeared.”
“I hadn’t noticed!” she exclaimed. “He’s always sneaking about, appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye, but now that you mention it, there was no sign of him at breakfast nor at the murder scene. But why should he have an interest in Elizabeth’s death?”
I’d long since been disabused of the notion of honor among thieves; now, self-preservation suggested sharing all incriminating knowledge lest the killer suspect I knew too much to live. “He’s a thief or assassin; the latter, most likely. He confided that he was here for some mission it were best I knew nothing about—” Cleayne cocked an eyebrow at the implications of such a confidence. “—and I recall Elizabeth telling me she was here was to avoid embarrassing her former lover, a noble of some reputation. The easiest way to forestall future embarrassment, not to say extortion, would be to eliminate its source at some suitably distant location.”
Cleayne frowned. “That’s plausible. Humans have no shame greater than being exposed in such things. Foolish, but there you have it. Will you mention the possibility to the others?”
I chose not to point out that she spoke only for herself in matters of shame, as she seemed likely to mistake my meaning. In fact, given that my meaning wasn’t fully clear even to me amidst the muddle of guilt and excitement that her proximity evoked, it was wisest I avoid that unsteady ground entirely. Cleayne noted my delay and frowned.
“Sorry—my thoughts were elsewhere.” I squeezed her hand and smiled warmly, only partially faked, and her distrust eased. “Shall I mention this possibility? Only if pressed. I’ve no desire to make my profession known—nor to offend a murderer, for that matter, Guild loyalties notwithstanding. But since we’re apparently in this together,” I reminded her, squeezing her hand again, “I’ve little fear of confirming what you suspected.” My smile widened, easy to do with her warm body so close, and returned the broach she’d been wearing at her lapel until I removed it. She smiled, pleased that I’d confirmed her suspicions by word and deed, and before I could propose that we carry things further, Malcolm interrupted, voice still hoarse from his recent strangling.
“I’ve never actually encountered a vampire, but there’s little doubt that her blood was drained through two small wounds in her neck. If it wasn’t a vampire, then I could learn leechcraft from the killer. I’ve dismissed Simon’s suspicions about our host to this point, but now I’m unsure.”
Simon cleared his throat. “Had you listened earlier, perhaps the woman would still be alive. Then again, there’s little doubt she was punished for her brazen behavior.” He looked almost smug.
Roger lifted his head, which had been slumping again towards the floor, unseeing. “Have a care, merchant; if you persist in besmirching Elizabeth’s honor, I shall be forced to contest your assertions.” He gathered himself as if to rise, hands crooked uncomfortably as if he meant to repeat his earlier demonstration of strength.
“I think not,” stated Malcolm calmly. With a flick of his wrist, he cast a shower of shimmering dust across Roger and spoke a word. The Sheriff attempted to rise, but instead fell forward onto his knees, then collapsed gracefully onto his face. A throwing knife had fallen into my hand as if by its own volition, but I’d not raised it yet or done anything to alert anyone to its presence. Malcolm held his hands upwards to show us they were empty. “Fear not; I’ve merely placed him in an enchanted sleep. I thought it better to ease his torment, and safer for the rest of us.”
I sheathed my knife without taking my eyes off him. “Agreed on both counts. Now tell me, what do you recommend for our course of action?”
Simon interrupted. “It’s obvious. We must confront the Baron and prove our suspicions, will-he, nil-he. When we’ve determined his guilt, he can be dealt with according to prescribed Church doctrine.”
“Perhaps you hadn’t noticed,” Cleayne said; “there are no Church representatives within a day’s ride.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed at her challenge, but he restrained any hasty response. “You speak truth, but everyone knows what must be done: a stake through the heart, holy wafers in the mouth, sprinkle with holy water...”
“Sounds more like a recipe than a religious ritual,” I stated, prodding him hard to provoke a reaction. Surprisingly, he’d mastered himself, and only his eyes showed anger. “Nonetheless, let us assume you understand what you’re proposing. How would you prove your thesis?”
“Simplicity itself. Vampires cannot endure the light of the sun, and must sleep by day, as our host is no doubt doing. If we can locate his lair, I can use this holy water—” he withdrew a small flagon from a voluminous sleeve “—and sprinkle it upon him. If his flesh burns or he howls in agony, as would any servant of the Dark One, then we’ve proven our case. The rest of the proof should be easy.” His face took on a hungry look.
“Right,” commented Cleayne sourly. “A vampire has the strength of ten, so it should be simple for us to wrestle him to the ground and kill him with a stake... assuming, of course, that giant Hob has nothing to say about our mistreatment of his master. In any event, I suppose you thought to bring a suitable stake—rosewood of course?”
“Naturally,” Simon replied, unperturbed by the sarcasm, and Cleayne sank back against my arm, shocked.
“Then I suggest we set about it at once,” I said.
We rose and, leaving the snoring Roger where he lay, buttocks raised inelegantly in the air, stepped into the corridor. There, we encountered a large obstacle to our plan. Hob, who’d remained guarding the door, had divined something of our intent, and interposed himself. That left no room to pass.
“Stop! My master has requested that he not be disturbed until dinner.”
We exchanged glances, uncertain how to proceed. None of us could pass Hob without mystical assistance, and physical means seemed unlikely to succeed given that Hob was larger than any three of us combined. Though he was unarmed and vulnerable to a low blow, I had no intention of testing that belief until my own life were threatened. I’d agreed to the merchant’s suggestion because I was confident Simon’s accusation was false and that the outcome of his proposed test would disappoint him—or at least I thought I was. A small voice clamored for attention at the back of my thoughts, and the feel of my own crucifix and the flask of holy water beneath my clothing was reassuring for all my nominal confidence. After all, even if the Baron himself were no vampire, Malcolm’s assertions about Elizabeth’s fate suggested there might nonetheless be a real vampire among us.
“Malcolm?” Simon implored.
“Regretfully, I used all the powder on Roger. Perhaps we’d best rethink our strategy.”
“Perhaps it were best if you all returned to your rooms until lunch,” said Hans calmly, and we all jumped at his silent arrival. “There’s little profit in precipitating a confrontation without the facts. My master will join you to defend himself in good time. The alternative to patience is likely to prove unfortunate.”
Hob gave his implication credibility, so I caught Cleayne’s arm and drew her towards my room. The others lingered a little longer before backing down and heading to their own rooms. Once safely behind a locked door, I released my grip on Cleayne, albeit reluctantly.
“What did you make of that?”
She frowned. “I’m more interested in what possessed you to go along with this witch hunt. I can assure you: the Baron’s no vampire.”
I touched the ascot she still wore about her neck. “You seem an unreliable witness.” She slapped at my hand, and I let it fall. “Nonetheless, I believe you. No, my goal in accommodating this idiocy was to prove the rumors false. I’ve a notion to take a closer look at the corpse.” I’d had no such intention originally, but events suggested I needed to learn enough to ensure I wouldn’t share Elizabeth’s fate. I knew how that could be done.
Cleayne took my hand. “Forgive my lack of insight, but how do you plan to do that? Have you some magic to get past Hob?”
“Just these.” I raised my hands, happy to give them something more innocent to do. “There’s a ledge outside my window that should extend past Elizabeth’s room. If you stay here to convince the others we’re both in this room, I’ll have time to do a little investigation.”
“You don’t accept Malcolm’s suggestions?” She seemed unconvinced that I’d accepted her story.
“No. The blood on his hand was fresh, but the body was found long past sunrise. Fresh blood means the murder was recent. It seems unlikely a vampire could have committed the crime under those circumstances. Besides,” I added thoughtfully, savoring her smile, “vampires are reputed to keep their prey alive for as long as possible. A man as smart as our host would not have killed his food source.”
“Then you believe me?”
I rose before she could caress me, as she’d intended. “Conditionally. I’m no expert, but the facts simply don’t fit. I’ve had my doubts, even after talking to our host last night, and it’s possible there really is a vampire among us, but I lack enough information to do more than speculate.” I turned my back on her and brought my chair to the window. “Will you cover me?”
“Definitely. And if you hurry, I’ll warm you again. It will be viciously cold on that ledge.
I shivered, only partly from the cold. “I’ll hurry.”
***
Once outside and clinging precariously to a ledge that ran below the windows, it occurred to me that leaving a potential murderess at my back wasn’t the wisest thing I’d ever done. I was extremely vulnerable should she choose to terminate my investigation before I discovered inconvenient evidence. I shook my head to clear it, and regretted that motion instantly; the courtyard was an uncomfortable distance below me, and my grip far from secure. It was all very well to keep an open mind, at least until all the facts were in, but not so open that one let paranoia enter.
“Cold” was a thoroughly inadequate word for the ledge. The snow still whipped past the keep, and my housewear offered little protection. My fingers were freezing solid, despite the intensity of my grip on the rough stone, and the ice underfoot made travel along the ledge treacherous. Several times I almost slipped, and I blessed the day I’d accepted an offer from the best second-story man in Lahndane to learn proper climbing technique. Even so, anyone but a Dwarf would have fallen.
Eventually, I reached the window I sought, and with a slim blade, I raised the latch on the shutters. Then, before I could enter, the wind seized the shutter and flung me out into space. Only a desperate clutch at the shutter saved me from falling. It would have been awkward had the shutter crashed against the stone wall and brought someone to investigate. Fortunately, I was between it and the wall. That cushioned the impact, and I doubt anyone heard my curses over the storm.
Looking down, I trembled from more than cold. The drop was perhaps a score of feet to the courtyard. Though I’d been assured by my teacher that such drops were survivable, I could not help but notice that he was Human, and would have weighed less in full armor than I did naked. We Dwarves are small but dense, and not naturally creatures of the air. Moreover, it would have been awkward explaining my presence outside after everyone had seen me enter my room. Not for the first time, I considered leaving this sort of work to those better suited to it. But only briefly. My numbed fingers reminded me that they and a wooden contraption were supporting more than two hundred pounds, and would prefer not to do so for much longer.
With laudable agility, I pulled myself up the shutter until I could grip the stone windowsill. As in my room, the shutters had been reinforced with furs and tight-drawn hides to keep out the cold air. Having studied this arrangement in my own room, it was a simple matter to open enough of a gap to gain entry. I was unable to reach the downwind shutter from where I stood, and I hoped the wind noise would conceal the noises made by the flailing shutter.
Elizabeth lay where she’d been found, save only that her dangling arm had been placed solicitously across her breast and she’d been covered with a woolen blanket. Grateful to be out of the wind, my body warmed enough I could move, albeit clumsily, across the floor to the bed.
I folded back the blanket. Elizabeth’s neck was indeed punctured twice a short distance below her jaw. Each of the marks was the size of a plume’s sharpened nib, slightly oblong, and spaced about as far apart as a mid-sized man’s teeth. Apart from a crust of now-dried blood, there was no evidence of a bloody feast, which I imagined—not without a shudder—would have left a considerable mess. I pondered removing the diamond earring that lay untouched against her ear, then thought the better of it. It wasn’t that I had any philosophical objection to robbing the dead; rather, in the present situation, with a strictly limited number of suspects, the likelihood of escaping with it seemed small. But as I gazed with regret upon the jewelry, something else caught my eye.
Elizabeth’s cleavage, prominently displayed in her scanty nightgown, was indeed impressive, and it conspired with her position, the manner in which I’d drawn back her shroud, and my natural prurient tendencies to lead my gaze in that direction. A thin tracery of black lines on her left breast caught my eye, odd runic shapes that led in a gentle curve towards a precise, apparently bloodless incision between two ribs. An assassin couldn’t have made a neater cut, but where was the blood, and why would one have left such writing on their victim? The letters bore no resemblance to the thieves’ cant, and had an uncomfortable feel that made me want to glance over my shoulder to see whether I were being watched. To ease that itch, I did, and saw another interesting thing.
Atop the chest of drawers that stood against the wall opposite the bed, a travel mirror of polished metal stood with a clear view of the entire room. There was no way a murderer could have entered the room secretly and avoided having his image captured in that glass. Another argument against vampirism.
My business in the room was done, but I was loath to return the same way I’d come. Instead, I crossed to the door and knelt to listen carefully and peer beneath the crack between the door and the floor. I saw no shadow to suggest Hob’s enormous feet were still there. As my ears adjusted to the noise of the wind, increased by the open shutter, I began to hear slow, deep breathing. If I read that right, Hob had fallen asleep on guard duty, and if I were willing to risk capture, I could open the door and slip past him. That was no small risk, but better than daring the ledge again.
First, I returned to the window to ensure I’d left no signs of forced entry. I left the skins unsealed against the window, as if they’d been blown open by the wind when the shutter failed, and carefully wiped away the few traces of snow I’d left in places snow would not normally reach. Then I carefully smoothed the blanket back over Elizabeth, regretting lost opportunities. Finally, I returned to the door and listened carefully.
The hall remained silent, save for Hob’s deep breathing, so with heart pounding, I eased the door open and slid out into the hall. Hob sat sprawled against the far wall, chest heaving like the swell of the ocean, eyes closed. Controlling my own breathing, I eased the door shut and re-engaged the lock, hearing it snick smoothly into its socket. I repressed the sigh that wanted to escape, turned, and slipped silently down the corridor to my own room. I was inside before Cleayne, standing tensely by the window, realized I’d returned.
“You startled me!”
“Sorry, it couldn’t be helped. It would have been suicidal to risk that ledge again. You can close the shutters.” She leaned far out into the storm, long, fine hair whirling about her head, and seized the edge of the open shutter, forcing it shut against the howling wind. When it was safely latched in place and the insulating skins restored, she joined me on the bed, shivering. Against my better judgment, I put an arm around her.
“You neglected to make enough noise to convince anyone I was here.”
She shrugged off my arm, her face humorless. “Let them think what they will. What did you find?”
“I can confirm your belief that it was no vampire.” I did not say that it proved the Baron’s innocence, but she relaxed as I told her the details of what I’d found, then paled again when I described the writing.
“What’s wrong?”
“The writing sounds suspiciously like the symbols a sorcerer would use to invoke a spell, and the knife wound, if associated with the writing, could relate to Human sacrifice for some sorcerous purpose. That would explain the lack of blood.”
“Malcolm?”
“He’s the only sorcerer we know between these walls, but he lacks the feel of such power.”
“Feel?”
She pressed against me, shivering. “Human sacrifice is an intensely evil act, whatever religious standards you apply. An Elf can feel a person’s aura, and such evil taints its practitioner. In Malcolm, all I ever felt was lust.”
I turned her face towards mine. “And what do you feel in my aura?”
She smiled. “A certain kinship to the Human.”
Waking up feeling like I’d slept a century, exhausted in every fiber, was becoming a habit. Not an unpleasant one, mind. I rolled over, stretching amidst a chorus of pops and cracks that should have woken anyone within twenty feet. But Cleayne was gone. The fire had gone out and the frosty chamber pot beckoned from across the room, but I resisted its lure. My body was telling me it would only accept so much abuse, and that for the moment, it had reached its limit. Instead, I dressed and headed for warmer climes, the chamber pot tucked under an arm.
Only Simon was present in the sitting room, a familiar sour look nestled comfortably on his broad face. Evidently, someone had come for Roger during the afternoon and removed him to his room, or else he’d woken and gone there himself; a tidy happenstance in either event. I made my way to the fire, beside which I laid the chamber pot to prepare it for future use. Then I hastened to the table, heaped with its usual bounty, and set a comfortable meal; murder or no murder, it wouldn’t do to face a crisis on an empty stomach. With my breakfast in one hand and a large stein of ale in the other, I went to join Simon. It seemed useful to sound him out on my theory, despite the effects on my digestion.
“May I join you?”
He scowled. “The recent death hasn’t affected your appetite.”
I smiled back. “Survival trait. We Dwarves believe one never knows when one’s next meal might arrive, so it’s wise to eat heartily while one can.” I paused to demonstrate the application of this principle. “But since you raised the topic, I’d like to propose a theory of what happened.”
He sat back in his chair, amusement warring with anger. “A theory? The facts of the matter are plain; it was a vampire, and none other than our host.”
I swallowed a large mouthful and washed it down with the accused murderer’s excellent ale. “I understand why you believe so, but the facts don’t fit. For one thing, did you notice the travel mirror in the woman’s room?”
He looked uncomfortable, and reached up to scratch under his woolen cap. I caught a brief, tantalizing glimpse of his hairless scalp, but not enough to reveal anything more interesting. It was unlikely to be a revelation, but something about the cap nagged at me. Why did he wear it at all times? I shrugged, planning to lay my suspicions to rest at the first opportunity.
As I chewed another savory mouthful, Simon answered my question. “The mirror proves nothing. The bloodless corpse might have been carried there by the vampire’s servants after the deed was done.” He crossed himself.
“Then there’s the matter of the neck wound. I saw no blood on her clothes, nor indeed on her neck, and I can’t imagine that having one’s throat torn out is so tidy.”
“Death by vampire is not said to be messy; indeed, some sources claim it to be a gentle death. Moreover, what of the blood on Malcolm’s hand when he tried to find a pulse?”
“Not messy? Your sources have an uncommon aesthetic sense. But that blood puzzles me. There should be no blood left to flow in a corpse, unless death struck just before we arrived.”
“You’re accusing Malcolm?” He frowned, but more in thought than anger.
“Not of the murder. At least not yet. But I suspect part of what we witnessed was staged.”
He nodded slowly. “Very well; continue.”
“Then there’s the matter of something I saw... some writing on the woman’s upper chest.” I watched his reaction, but he had his face well under control.
“You have keen eyes. Or is there more to it?”
I hesitated, on shaky ground. “No, just keen eyes and an enjoyment of the female form.” His scowl deepened, and I went on hastily. “To the point: I suspect magic was involved.”
“Again, you point at Malcolm, even if unintentionally. But, surely, vampires are creatures of evil, and sorcery would not be beyond them?”
“Cleayne swears this isn’t the case.”
“You trust the word of his mistress?”
I swallowed, feeling my carefully constructed logic falling apart. “Very well; my final argument. Is it not said that vampires prefer their victims remain alive for many return visits? Legend says three meals, but legend’s oft wrong. Yet Elizabeth was slain on the first visit.”
He pondered a moment. “There, you approach the truth, but perhaps it had been too long since his last meal and he lost control of his hunger. That happens.” He nodded with his chin at my plate. “Though an accident, it means only that her death occurred earlier than might otherwise have happened.”
Though I was certain he was wrong, I could find no logic to refute him. “Cleayne bears no marks of a vampire, and I can assure you she’s alive.” Before he could attack the source of my knowledge, I hurried on. “Thus, the only alternative is what you’ve already suggested: we must confront the Baron today and prove or disprove your accusation.” Enough uncertainty had risen in me that I now felt a need to prove my assertions. Though I’d never heard of a male vampire who preyed on men, neither had I extensively studied the creatures of darkness—the less I knew, the more comfortable I’d find myself at night, I’d always reasoned. But I felt a qualm: should we demonstrate our host’s guilt to our satisfaction, it would be against his interests to let us leave this place bearing that knowledge.
I’d consumed a sufficient quantity of food and drink that my stomach lay content. Other concerns became more important. “If you’ll excuse me, I feel a need for certain preparations before we summon our host.” I strode over to the fire, where the chamber pot had lost its sheen of frost. “If you’d be so good as to bring the others to my room, I shouldn’t be long.”
I closed the door behind me, cutting off his bemused look, and hastened to my chamber. The upcoming confrontation had made itself felt at a visceral level, and I felt obliged to lighten my load lest I be forced to flee and be caught carrying excess baggage. In the chill safety of my room, I proceeded to eliminate that weight—you should pardon the choice of words—in preparation for what lay ahead.
***
By the time I’d composed myself, Simon had gathered Malcolm and the recovered but groggy Roger and was waiting impatiently outside my door. “Make haste, Dwarf, such tasks are best handled in broad daylight, and the day wanes as we speak.” A feverish excitement lit his eyes, and I was suddenly glad to not be its focus.
Malcolm smiled sympathetically, but Roger only scowled; although he was with us for this confrontation with what appeared to be a shared threat, I had no doubt he bore us all ill will for his humiliating treatment the previous night. He bore his well-used sword naked in one clenched fist, and I made a mental note to restore myself to his good graces before the day ended. Whatever had happened, I was certain the stolid sheriff hadn’t been behind it, and he’d be a powerful ally should the worst happen.
At the door to Elizabeth’s room, Hob sat stiffly with his back to the door, but rose in alarm as he saw us approaching. Before he could regain his feet, Roger’s sword was at his throat, a gesture so deftly performed that only a slight bead of blood appeared where the blade pressed against the giant’s skin. Hob made no attempt to converse, an understandable decision given that any movement of his throat would jeopardize his future ability to speak. Malcolm cautiously approached the servant, then removed a vial from his pocket and dripped some sticky liquid upon the man’s cheek before darting back out of range of a possible blow. With a deep sigh, Hob slid slowly to the floor, Roger’s blade giving ground only reluctantly until he was sure the man was unconscious.
“Just a sleep lotion,” the sorcerer explained, “enough to keep him out of harm’s way for a while.”
We made our way past the unconscious guard and proceeded to the Baron’s study. I made a mental note that Simon seemed to know exactly where we were going, though his earlier exchanges with our host made it unlikely he’d been invited into this part of the castle. My musings on this point were interrupted by Simon’s clearing of his throat.
“You’ll need these, good friends.” From within his cloak, he removed an assortment of religious icons, each on a thick golden chain so it could be worn about one’s neck, leaving both hands free for the business at hand. As the heavy chain bearing an icon settled about my neck, I reflected that I might have overlooked a remarkable source of income—and one far less hazardous to rob than our host.
Simon’s knock reminded me of the considerable muscle beneath those rolls of fat. If indeed I chose to enrich myself at his expense, I would need to be discreet and quick on my feet. We waited, Malcolm nervously fingering the crucifix about his neck, Roger’s fingers clenching and unclenching on the grip of his sword. There was no response, so Simon knocked again, louder this time.
“He appears not to be home,” I observed.
“Or sleeping after his feast,” Simon replied. “Malcolm, the door appears barred from within. Can you force it?”
“I’m afraid not.” There was an awkward silence, all our plans brought to nothing by a single barred door.
“We could knock it down,” offered Roger.
“Unlikely,” I responded. “Didn’t you hear the thump of Simon’s fist?” They looked at me oddly, so I elaborated. “That’s oak, at least three inches thick and reinforced with iron bands. By the sound of it, the frame is braced on the inside by the stone walls.” In truth, I remembered these facts from my previous visit, but it wouldn’t do to admit this. “In short, you’d do better trying to bring the castle down on his head with a sledge.”
Simon frowned. “Trust a Dwarf to understand good workmanship. Very well, it seems we’re stymied.”
I smiled to myself, feeling no compulsion to mention that I could slip the door’s latch in a score of heartbeats were it in my interests to do so. Though I too wanted to discover the truth about our host, the better part of me was relieved at the opportunity to delay a potentially hazardous confrontation. My relief was short-lived.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Roger spoke softly. “Here’s a trick I learned from a thief I apprehended several times without being able to keep him in the lock-up for more than the time it took to leave the room.” From within a well-worn sheath, he withdrew a slim stiletto with a blade as long as my hand. Frowning in concentration, he forced the blade past the edge of the door and slid it up and down, seeking the latch. Though I knew this to be fruitless, I let him continue, not wishing to reveal my knowledge of such matters. I was as surprised as anyone else when there came a loud click and the door slid open a hair.
“It appears the door wasn’t barred after all,” the sheriff commented, replacing his dagger and drawing his sword.
Simon looked surprised before his look of grim determination returned. I stood well back as my larger companions pushed the door and entered. Thus it was that I saw the few pale strands of fabric that had snagged on the bar; had someone attempted to lock the door from the outside, trying to lower the bar in a fabric sling and failing, leaving only these fragments to reveal their attempt? I had little time to ponder the implications, however, for a thick silence had fallen over the others.
“My God!” exclaimed Malcolm, eventually breaking the silence. The study was a shambles, tables upended and books and art supplies scattered across the floor as if there’d been a fierce fight. Over the mess, a thin sheen of blood had settled, pooling here and there to form shallow puddles. But what caught the eye was our former host, who lay spread-eagled across his desk, the shaft of a wooden stake protruding from his chest about where one might expect a heart to be. The reek of death and loosened bowels permeated the room, forcing itself past my nostrils once I was again able to breathe.
“Indeed!” proclaimed Simon, sounding pleased by the discovery.
For my part, I felt a pang of regret at the loss of the man who’d entertained me so lavishly, and who’d engaged my mind so thoroughly during our private conversation. At the same time, I felt a wash of relief that I wouldn’t have to confront a vampire on his home ground, daytime or no. We Dwarves are relentlessly practical creatures, and relief won. As the others approached the corpse, treading carefully to avoid the pools of blood, I slipped past them to the remnants of the portrait the Baron had been working on.
It had indeed been Elizabeth, and he’d taken no artistic licence with her charms. I looked away, and my eye was caught by two of the glass vials I’d seen before, which protruded from beneath the toppled palette and were entirely free of the blood that had been shed so liberally. The paint was dry by then, so I could pocket the vials without being seen. Behind me, the others were busy with their inspection of the corpse, while Simon lectured in a monotone on the art of killing a vampire. The subject might have been of interest under other circumstances, but I was preoccupied. By the time Simon’s monologue ended, I’d pocketed several small items of value that had been scattered across the room, and rejoined my companions without any sign my absence had been noted.
Two other curious things had come to my attention during my inspection of the room: the blood lay beneath several of the overturned items, not atop them, and both of the crystal vials I’d pocketed had been empty. Had there been a fight, culminating in a staking, it was odd how little blood had been spilled upon the wreckage, and equally odd the vials were empty. During my interview with the Baron, he’d taken his medicine from an identical vial, and had returned it to the liquor closet. It appeared the entire scene had been staged, and every bit as carefully as Elizabeth’s murder.
I looked around suspiciously. Roger seemed unaffected by the new death; indeed, I would have described his look as relieved, as if some terrible burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Malcolm, on the other hand, looked appalled and shaken, even though he’d anticipated the possibility of butchering the Baron in his own chambers moments earlier. He snuck a glance at Simon, and I followed his gaze. The merchant had an unhealthy flush on his face and a smug look of triumph—of justice served. Simon met my gaze before I could look away, and there was speculation in those eyes. On a hunch, I spoke softly.
“From what you’ve said, his slayer must have been an expert in the lore of vampires, and no amateur in a fight either. Think you it could have been Hans, the butler? He would have had ample time to acquire the knowledge, and appeared fit enough to accomplish the task.”
The measuring look in Simon’s eyes disappeared, but a new voice entered the discussion. “You do me a disservice, master Dwarf.” We turned as one to see that the butler had entered the room behind us, silently as was his wont. “Though I resented the necessity of remaining in this Godforsaken land to serve my master, I would never have slain him to end my service. Certainly not in this manner.” He pursed his lips in distaste.
“Yet you don’t deny that you’re unmoved by his death.” Simon’s gaze turned predatory.
“Hardly.” The butler’s own gaze sharpened. “Now I’m free to leave this place as soon as the necessary arrangements have been concluded. If one of you is the murderer, I owe you only gratitude.”
We appraised each other openly, none of us comfortable with the knowledge that any one of us could have been the murderer. Then a thought occurred. “Let’s not be overhasty. The four of us came to confront the Baron, with no intention of killing him until his guilt could be proven beyond any possible doubt.” Simon started to speak, but I cut him off with a raised hand. “It should be noted that several of our company are absent: Cleayne, Ghusthav, and Hob. Any of them could have had both motive and skill to perform the deed.”
“I doubt the Elf has the necessary strength,” sneered Malcolm, “but your point remains valid. Either of the others could have killed him.”
I doubted that any of the three save Ghusthav had a motive to murder the Baron, but I kept my doubts to myself. “It seems logical we should confront them and put them to the question.” There were nods of agreement. “Then follow me.”
We left the door open at our backs, descended the staircase, and walked to Ghusthav’s room. There was no answer to our knocks. Instead, the door opened at a light push. The room was empty of any sign the man had ever been there, save only for the faint scent of an unchanged chamber pot whose contents had frozen overnight.
“It seems as if we’ve discovered our murderer,” Malcolm proposed.
“It certainly seems that way,” Simon echoed, “though of course it would be more compelling if we could find the man and persuade him to confess. Let’s find the Elf and discuss where to go from here.”
Cleayne was not in her room, but we found her in the sitting room, warming herself by the fire. I knelt beside her and took her hands in mine, realizing this wouldn’t be easy. She grew alarmed at the look in my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry to bear bad news, but best you hear it from a friend. The Baron’s dead.” Her face went blank with shock, then she threw her arms about my neck and began sobbing, tears flowing down her face and falling on my skin. I discovered that Elvish tears were also a powerful aphrodisiac, and it took all my strength of will not to carry her off to her room to console her. The others maintained a respectful silence until she mastered herself, and I escorted her to a chair large enough for both of us.
Cleayne glanced around at the assembly, her face puffy from crying. “I don’t see Ghusthav. Was it him? If so, can we bring him to justice?”
“He’s fled,” I observed, preparing a barb that I hoped would produce a useful reaction, “but that doesn’t convict him. After all, Simon’s the more likely murderer. We all know his feelings about vampires.”
Simon rose to the bait, and to his feet. “Preposterous! I shall not mourn the fiend—my sorrow, Lady, for your loss—but I was with you most of the time, and in my room with Malcolm for the rest of the time.”
Malcolm nodded. “Since we’re being ridiculous, it might just as well have been Roger, the jealous lover; we’ve already seen his propensity for murderous rage.”
Roger snorted. “Like our merchant friend, I don’t mourn the Baron. But if you think a Sheriff would take the law into his own hands...” He trailed off, amusement plain on his face. “As well accuse the Lady Elf.”
Cleayne smiled harshly at him. “And to bring this full circle, I in turn accuse Thomas.” Her smile broadened at my surprise, but grew no warmer. “I’m not serious, of course, but while we’re making accusations, it’s only fair to point out that any of us except me could have done it.”
Simon’s gaze had grown speculative. “You dismiss that possibility too hastily, Lady Elf. After all, our Dwarvish friend seems to be the only one without a motive for either murder.” He skewered me with his eyes. “Unless you’d grown worried the Elf would return to the Baron once she tired of your attentions?”
I smiled coldly at my accuser, enjoying the mental image of removing that cap from his dead body to see what lay beneath. “In fact, we’ve left one person out of the chain of accusation: Malcolm.” The physician sat bolt upright, eyes suddenly nervous. “After all, who better than a physician to know best how to slay someone and make it look like someone else did it.”
“You accuse me?”
I kept a smile on my face, while I observed his response and coldly noted it for future consideration. “Of course not. I’m merely ensuring that each of us accepts our share of the suspicion. Let me remind you of the elements of any crime: there must be a motive, which each of us save myself has; a method, which is obvious in this case; and an opportunity, which I lack. On the whole, I still lean towards Ghusthav. I never much trusted him.”
There were nods of agreement. Malcolm, relieved, broke the contemplative silence. “So the Baron slew Elizabeth for her blood, and Ghusthav, for reasons yet to be determined, slew the Baron. Now that we’ve solved that problem, we face another: What next?”
Roger cleared his throat. “That seems the easiest of our problems. As a Sheriff, I’m authorized to complete the investigation and file the appropriate report. All that remains is to collect the bodies and bring them down from the mountains for a decent burial.”
“You would bury the Baron in a Uropan Church cemetery?” Simon was plainly outraged.
“I’d not think to question his fate, and neither should you. I’ll leave that to the priests to decide. It’s primarily Elizabeth who concerns me. Of course, measures would have to be taken to protect this keep against any who might take the opportunity to loot it.”
Hans spoke up, and everyone jumped in their seats, having forgotten that he’d accompanied us. “As for that, you can leave it to me. Hob and I will see that the appropriate steps are taken to return the Baron’s goods to Romaigne.”
“That seems fair,” Roger nodded.
“Can we trust them?” Simon wondered. “After all, they were a vampire’s servants; thus, their morals cannot be of the highest standard.”
Hans frowned, the first time he’d expressed strong emotion. “Believe what you will, despite all evidence to the contrary. In any event, if you offer me your cross, I’ll swear whatever oath will satisfy you that we can be trusted to do as I’ve said.”
Simon held out his crucifix, and the butler knelt before him. “As God is my witness, I swear to discharge my duties as butler to the late Baron Tevyas and return his personal possessions to his family.” He relinquished his grip on the icon and got to his feet. “Will that satisfy you?”
“It will satisfy me,” Roger stated.
Hans bowed, a butler once more. “Thank you. I would now ask you, Sherriff, a simple favor: that you watch over the keep until I can return with wagons and men-at-arms to carry away the Baron’s possessions. As soon as the storm breaks, I’ll set about the preparations. In the meantime, my oath of service ended with the Baron’s death. Please make yourselves free of the provisions in the kitchen, but mind your manners otherwise; Hob and I know what treasures there are in this keep, and if any go missing, I’ll ask the Sheriff to take appropriate measures.” With that, he turned silently on his heel and strode out through the door.
It struck me as odd that everyone was taking the murders so well, given how seriously Humans treat their lives. But even so, it was a jarring note. Not so jarring, however, that I’d lost my appetite, and the prospect of Hans leaving and taking the kitchen staff with him struck me as the most immediately serious problem. Forgive me if that sounds callous; in fact, it bothered me more than a little that I still didn’t know who’d done the killing and why. After all, it meant I myself might become a victim. That prospect led me to do what Dwarves always do in times of crisis: secure a source of sustenance.
It was easy enough to find the kitchen, both because of the delightful smells coming from that direction and the fact that apart from the abandoned spaces above us, higher on the cliff, this was the only part of the inhabited area I’d not yet explored. The kitchen was large and spacious, with a huge cast-iron stove squatting over what must have been an open hearth when the keep was built. It must have been assembled from pieces, since there was no way it would have fit through the doorway. On top of the stove, a large tureen of borscht sat steaming happily, and a meat pasty had been set to cool; to further improve my mood, a bread warmer to one side of the main oven emitted promising gusts of yeasty delight. I looked around for the kitchen staff, as I’d been meaning to congratulate them on their heroic efforts on our behalf, but not a soul was present. Curious, but Hans had suggested that we help ourselves, so...
At the far side of the kitchen, where the castle leaned up against the flank of the mountain, there was bare rock and a set of stairs descending into darkness. The cold emanating from those stairs told me where I’d find the drinks, and I headed there first—just to give the delightful kitchen scents time to hone my appetite. There were tapers on a rock shelf by the stairs, so I took one and lit it from the stove to light my way downstairs. At the base of the stairs, which descended more than 20 feet into the native rock, I found the wine cellar—and two wrapped bodies, which I took to be the Baron and Elizabeth.
Though the unexpected sight gave me a shock, I recovered soon enough and bowed to pay them my respects before continuing to the casks of ale and racks of wine. I glanced at the wine, which was faintly calling my name, but bypassed it in favor of the ale; I never knew which wine went best with a savory pasty, and out of respect for my former host, didn’t want to choose the wrong one and appear gauche. So I sidled past the corpses and made my way to the cask of ale, which had called with a more urgent voice. I took a fresh pitcher from the rack beside the cask, noticing as I did that something was odd about the cask.
When I turned the tap, something sticky clung to my hand, and I held my hand up before the candle to see what it was. My first thought was mold, or perhaps tacky residues from the last time the cask had been refilled—as not even Hob could have hauled a cask that large down the stairs full. But on my fingers, I found a reddish smear of fresh blood. I wiped my hand fastidiously on one of the shrouded corpses, then held the candle close to the cask for a better look. A rap on the cask with my fist confirmed what I’d suspected: the cask was hollow for most of its height. Could it conceal a passage?
I’d just begun debating whether to open it when I heard footsteps on the stairs above. Hastily, I grabbed the pitcher and filled it, sniffing approvingly at the yeasty tang. At the sound of a cleared throat, I turned to see Malcolm, standing nervously on the bottommost step with his own candle. I smiled at him. “Can I pour you a pitcher while I’m here?”
“Thank you, Thomas, but I’ll stick with wine. There are fine, rare vintages here I’ll never have a chance to taste after we leave.” He paused, and something in his face changed. “Is something wrong?”
Something must have shown on my face, for he grew suspicious, and glanced past me at the cask. His sorcerer’s staff was suddenly prominent in my thoughts. Thinking quickly, I rapped on the cask again. “Two things, to be honest.”
“And what, pray tell, might those be?”
“First and foremost, this cask is down to its dregs, so it’s fortunate we’ll all be moving on soon. I enjoy a fine wine as much as the next man—provided the next man is a Dwarf—but there’s nothing like strong ale to soothe a thirst.”
Relief washed over the apothecary’s face. “And the second?”
I reached into my pocket and removed one of the crystal vials I’d taken from the Baron’s study. “I found this in the Baron’s study, and took it with me in the hope we’d have time alone so I could ask you what it is.”
His face grew guarded. “You must have noticed the Baron’s pallor?” I nodded. “It’s a herbal concoction I developed that acts as a blood stimulant. It works indifferently well, but better than nothing. I’d hoped to have more time to refine the formula and develop something more efficacious, but...”
I nodded. “Yes, but. Ah well, these things happen.” I pursed my lips. “Might I hold a candle for you while you select your wine?”
Malcolm smiled, but it was a weak effort. “Thank you, but no. You’d best head upstairs while the food’s still warm; I may be a while making my choice.”
I nodded again, keeping the same cheery smile on my face, and turned my back on him, suddenly aware of how exposed that felt. But nothing happened, and I climbed the stairs with my ale and began helping myself to the food. I was pondering how I might get my bounty safely back to the sitting room, when I spotted the serving cart against the far wall. With that in hand, I piled enough food upon several plates that I’d have no need to refill them. It was a measure of how my encounter in the cold room had upset me that I hardly noticed what I was serving myself until I reached the room and began eating.
As I began working on the borscht, I noticed Roger and Simon, neither of whom seemed inclined to converse. Malcolm joined us about the time I’d begun mopping up the last of the soup with the remnants of a loaf of bread, and seemed uninclined to converse, though I noticed him watching me as inconspicuously as he could manage—which wasn’t very. It would have been a companionable silence, had it not been for the sullen suspicion hanging heavy on the air. Midway through the pasty, Roger left. Simon departed about the time my last few morsels of bread had done their duty absorbing the hearty brown gravy. Malcolm was gone by the time the rich honey cake was becoming nothing more than a pleasant memory.
Alone, I felt free to relax. It had been clear that something in the cellar worried Malcolm, and that cast Ghusthav’s disappearance in a more sinister light. I now feared foul play—or, I suppose, fouler play—because his absence implied he might not have been responsible for the Baron’s murder. If that were true, it left the real killer at large and free to kill again. Given that we no longer had an unequivocal motive for the murders, I felt certain he or she would do so. The weight of dinner was suddenly less comforting than it had been only moments earlier.
I got to my feet with a groan, contemplated returning the cart to the kitchen and having another look at the cellar, then thought the better of it; the bodies would keep, as would the secret passage, and if Malcolm had been involved with either, it would be wise to leave things lie until he’d been lulled into believing the concerns I’d expressed in the cellar. In the meantime, perhaps Cleayne had a thing or two to tell me about what happened after she left our communal dinner the previous night.
When I knocked on her door, she was quick to answer, and pulled me into her room fast enough to nearly dislocate my shoulder. “I was wondering when you’d come,” she accused.
“Miss me already?” Despite myself, I reached for her, and fortunately, she took a step back, out of reach, and sat on the bed. When I moved to join her, she waved me to a chair. I raised an eyebrow, which she ignored, then throwing caution to the winds, I told her what I’d discovered. “So it appears that Malcolm is at least as good a suspect as Ghusthav,” I concluded.
“An interesting explanation, if dangerous to prove. He’s a sorcerer, after all. You don’t think it would be best to let matters lie?”
“Now that you mention it...” I had a sudden feeling that now would be a good time to provoke a reaction.
“I don’t like that look. Out with it!”
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but it occurred to me to wonder where you were the night Elizabeth died. You left in a foul temper, and—”
“Surely you don’t think I did it?” Cleayne rose to her feet so rapidly I half expected her heels to lift from the ground, and though she remained grounded, there was something elemental about the fury in her eyes. For a moment, all the Elvish magic in the world ceased to exist, and I felt the ages-old enmity between our races.
I held up a hand hastily. “No. You had a motive, but an opportunity? None that I’m aware of. The method? Well, though you nibble most delightfully, I’m not aware of any punctures in my neck, nor did I notice any carnal attraction to Elizabeth. Quite the contrary.”
She held her fierce stare an instant, then all at once, broke into helpless giggles. As she did, I forced myself to relax, only then realizing how tense I’d grown. For a moment, I’d believed she was about to attack me. When her laughter ran its course, she sobered quickly enough and abruptly sat back on the bed. “I’m sorry. It’s been a difficult time since the Baron’s death.”
I broached the question again, but from a different angle that wouldn’t seem quite so much an attack. “You two were very close, weren’t you?”
“You mean were we lovers, don’t you? Yes, we were.”
“Were, meaning...”
“Well, apart from the obvious, he’d grown distant for several weeks. We hadn’t slept together in that time, let alone... you know.”
I smiled, remembering her scent. “I know.”
She looked away before continuing. “So it was doubly painful when he turned to Elizabeth, who he’d known for such a short time, and continued to shun me.”
“I can imagine you were hurt.” I cringed inside, expecting another explosion.
“Not enough to kill her, much though I wished her dead.” She still hadn’t met my eyes, but her tone was sincere.
“How did you meet the Baron?”
“Much the way you’d expect. I was traveling from town to town, earning my keep by playing my music, all the while collecting local music and imposing my own style.”
“Collecting local lays, as it were.” I instantly regretted those words, but her thoughts were on that first meeting.
“I knew he was half-Elven, like me, at first glance, and—”
“I beg your pardon?” She’d just pulled the rug neatly out from under me.
“Half-Elven, like me. Didn’t you notice?” The surprise in her gaze was genuine, and no less than what must have showed on my face. “It’s why he is—was—so pale and why Malcolm has been working so hard to strengthen him with those herbal concoctions; not all matings between Humans and Elves work out so well as I did.”
I shook my head, disoriented. “I’m sorry, please continue.”
“There’s little more to say. We enchanted each other, and I stayed here far longer than I’d expected.”
I yawned, my digestive processes finally having overcome my willpower. “I’m sorry, I’m more tired than I thought. I’d better turn in.”
“Elsewhere, please.”
I nodded. “I don’t suppose it would be respectful so soon after his death.” I was equal parts relieved and disappointed.
“No, it wouldn’t. You understand?”
I did, and it was one more thing to add to the list of things to think about.
I retired to my room to sleep off my meal, ponder the facts I’d collected, and rest myself for later that evening, for there were certain investigations I felt it necessary to perform—for my peace of mind, and because my curiosity had grown beyond the point where I could let things lie. Before going to bed, I dragged a chair against the door and braced it there so no one could enter without waking me.
I awoke to the familiar cold room. After I’d moved about briskly enough to get both my blood and my thoughts flowing again, I set about preparing for a little burglary. I lightened my load by removing the crucifix and holy water, thought about it for a moment, then returned them to their former places. I was reasonably certain our host had not been a vampire, but not at all sure that a real vampire wasn’t lurking somewhere in the abandoned portions of the keep. I patted myself down one last time to make sure everything was secure and would neither make a noise at an inconvenient moment nor provide visible evidence of its presence. That done, I moved the chair out of the way and walked down the hall to the sitting room.
From the door, I heard a three-way conversation between Roger, Simon, and Malcolm, reviewing the same theories we’d discussed earlier that day, going around in circles. Beneath the conversation, I could hear the faint strains of Cleayne’s lute, playing something atonal and haunting. Good. I’d have some time. Moving a little faster, I made my way to Simon’s room, and after ensuring he’d not left any tricks to reveal my entry, I picked the lock and slid into the room before anyone could wander along the hall. There was no light in the room, but such light as filtered through the shuttered window and beneath the door was adequate for eyes born deep beneath the ground.
The room stank of unwashed Human, compounded of the stale, acrid sweat of an angry or fearful man mingled with the unpleasantness of an unemptied chamber pot. I wrinkled my nose and resolved to breathe only through my mouth while I was here. I had no idea of how long I’d have before the merchant returned, and resolved to pass efficiently through the room. Simon had unpacked his clothing into the chest of drawers, and I went through it swiftly, disturbing nothing and finding nothing; neither was there anything behind the drawers, or affixed to their bottoms. The noisome bed, with sweat-stained sheets and random pieces of greasy-looking hair, proved similarly unproductive, and I wiped my hands upon the blankets afterwards to remove the soil. On the bedside table, there was a partially consumed candle and—somewhat of a rarity in these days—a thick, leather-bound Bible. The book fell open to Exodus 22:18, but apart from that, there was nothing of note.
The only remaining things worthy of inspection were two travel-stained bags and a trunk. I returned to the door to listen and, hearing nothing, I continued my search. One bag was empty, and the other held only a cloak. The chest proved considerably more inspiring, however. Its lock was large and complex, and had a small, clever trap: a tiny needle that emerged right where a careless thief’s finger would rest while picking the lock. Something black and tarry gleamed on the needle—not grease from the mechanism, I’d wager—and I smiled, expecting to find something important.
I wasn’t disappointed.
The chest was fitted well enough to be watertight, and once I had it open, I saw why. The top layer was an unremarkable collection of icons, statuettes of anonymous-looking saints, and crucifixes in materials ranging from wood to gold and in quality from pedestrian to finely crafted. Intermingled were rosaries of a similar quality. I removed the tray that held this material, resisting the temptation to pocket samples that might prove inconvenient if found on me, and beneath it found the real treasure and the reason for the waterproofing: bound bibles, carefully layered to avoid damage, and bundles of dried herbs and divers other powders: garlic, wolfsbane, and things with vaguely familiar smells I couldn’t place. Last but not least, a bundle of seasoned rosewood stakes. Clearly, the man traveled prepared for any supernatural emergency.
On a hunch, I lifted these materials out of the case, setting them in careful order to make it easier to restore them to their original positions, and felt about the bottom of the case until I found the false bottom. I lifted the velvet lining cautiously, wary lest a razor-sharp blade or other trap lay in wait, but the poisoned pin on the main lock had evidently been expected to suffice. Beneath the wood lay the most interesting of the chest’s contents: a tightly wrapped roll of gold coins, and a finger-thin dagger of the sort an assassin might use, bloodstained and never cleaned. I pocketed a few of the coins and rewrapped the remainder with practiced ease while I examined the dagger.
The blade was short enough it could be easily hidden up a sleeve, and bore only token quillons, yet was long enough to reach the heart. It was thin enough to slip easily between ribs or upwards past the diaphragm, and there was an unusually deep blood gutter that both facilitated withdrawal and left room to bear any of several poisons in quantities sufficient to kill the average Human and most Dwarves. The wavy pattern in the metal was familiar: Tolaydo steel, famous both for its quality and for the religious fanatics who lived in the region and who’d given my people such grief before we convinced them we had no intention of being converted, whether by sword or otherwise. There was a faded Latin inscription that seemed to be de haeretico comburendo, but the lettering was faded enough I couldn’t be sure, and in any event, the slogan seemed out of place on a blade.
I frowned in concentration. The blood looked old, but the question was how old? I had no way to tell. A professional soldier or assassin would have taken better care of such a fine weapon, but the nature of Simon’s room suggested such care was foreign to the owner. Even as I pondered this, I began replacing the items in the chest, careful to restore their original order. It was well I’d not hesitated, for I heard an angry conversation begin in the hall, and draw rapidly closer.
Roger’s deep voice was clear even through the door, and he spoke accusingly, though I couldn’t make out the words, preoccupied as I was with restoring the chest. Simon’s voice, equally distinctive, was mocking and cynical, and he replied to Roger’s accusations at some length, until he was interrupted by a thunderous boom! against the room’s door. Roger had evidently lost his temper, and flung the merchant against the door. My hands moved faster, finishing just as a second boom! announced Roger’s rebuttal to whatever Simon had been preparing to say. I finished restoring the chest, sealed it again and relocked it, narrowly avoiding the poisoned pin, and flung myself beneath the bed. I’d been inexcusably sloppy in not checking beforehand, but the fates had smiled on me, for this bed, like my own, was raised well off the floor to protect its occupants from the chill stone. I came to rest against the wall, and disciplined my breathing.
A key clicked in the lock, and the door sprang open, Simon half falling through it. “Keep your hands off me, Sheriff, or your master will hear of your behavior, and more damning things too.”
I peered cautiously through a rip in the hanging blankets just as Roger’s hand shot through the opening and caught Simon by the throat, cutting off whatever else the man might have said. “Accuse me of killing the Baron if you feel you must, and I will suffer those accusations in silence ’til I rebut them before my master. But accuse me once more of behaving improperly with Lady Elizabeth, or slander her memory once more, and I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Do we understand each other?”
Simon swung the door hard against the Sheriff’s arm in reply, and with a howl, Roger released his grip and withdrew his arm. The door slammed closed, and I heard the latch fall. A body crashed against the door once, twice, then there was silence. After a moment, there came the sounds of movement and muttered curses. Simon strode to the fireplace and rooted among the ashes until he found a coal, then light washed over the room as a candle flared. He replaced the candle in its holder. That was followed by the sound and stench of the chamber pot being used. I was grateful—not for the first time—that I’d learned to breathe shallowly.
As I controlled my breathing and focused on my ears, trying to ignore the chill seeping into my bones from the stone, Simon fell to his knees beside the bed, and it was all I could do to suppress the panic that surged in me; I nonetheless controlled myself and lay still. I relaxed only when Simon’s voice began intoning the sonorous Latin of one of the interminable prayers members of the Uropan Church spent all their time inventing. This went on for long enough I was shivering from cold by the time he finished. Eventually, with a creaking and popping of his knee joints, he got to his feet and blew out the candle. I slid towards the open edge of the bed and braced myself, and sure enough, his considerable weight fell upon the bed. Flat as I was, the underside of the frame didn’t strike me as it gave under that weight, but it was a near thing.
After a time, I heard ragged snoring, and when I was certain the snores were real, I carefully slid from beneath the bed and padded towards the door. I leaned against the door, pressing it against the jamb to loosen the bolt and latch in its mounting, and after listening to be sure nobody was in the corridor, carefully opened the door. As I eased it open, I pulled a thin metal strip from my sleeve and used it to hold the latch up as I pulled the door shut behind me. That done, I let the metal slip downwards until the latch engaged, then tugged the door towards me to ensure the latch was securely in place.
Then I took a deep breath and moved towards the kitchen, needing both a snack to soothe myself after the close call and an alibi lest anyone had been seeking me. I also had a notion to examine the corpses more closely now that I’d found the dagger, for it was possible I’d found an explanation for events. The remains of the pasty had been left to cool, and I helped myself to what was left, which was every bit as savory cold as it had been warm. I found no sign of any kitchen servants, which struck me as increasingly curious with each passing moment, but that was a mystery for another time. I licked my fingers clean of gravy, then dried my hands on my pants. Taking a clean ale stein from a shelf, I lit a candle from the glowing coals in the stove and made my way downstairs into the cold cellar.
To fortify myself for what lay ahead, I poured myself a drink from the ale cask. This time, there was no sign of any blood on the tap, suggesting someone had removed the evidence of some crime as yet undiscovered. As I drank, I unwrapped the two bodies, beginning with Elizabeth. A careful examination confirmed my suspicions: Simon’s dagger would fit the wound in her side. I gave a satisfied grunt, and had another drink as I rewrapped the corpse.
Next, I turned my attention to the Baron, who I’d not yet had a chance to examine. There was the expected wound from the rosewood stake, but at the edges of that wound, I found clean separation of the flesh rather than jagged tears, as if the stake had only expanded a previous wound created by something narrow and sharp. Though this was hardly proof, it was possible the same dagger had been responsible for his death. I was about to rewrap the body when I noticed a series of small matching scars running down both of the man’s arms. There were dozens of these wounds that ran along the major veins, each wound about the size of a plume’s nib and most long-since healed. I refilled my stein and had another drink before covering our former host. Curious: why kill the man with a dagger, then conceal the wound, when no attempt had been made to conceal the cause of Elizabeth’s death? What were the mysterious pinprick wounds along his arms?
I refilled my stein one last time and, motivated by the curiosity that had dogged me since my initial discovery, set about examining the cask. It didn’t take long before I found the trigger that released the front of the cask. It swung open, groaning, and as I’d anticipated, revealed a large empty space and a floor that covered the bottom of the cask, which held the ale. However, it also revealed a bound body, slumped against the wall of the cask.
I entered swiftly, grateful that because of my short stature, there was no need to hunch over as a Human would have done. As I drew closer, the figure before me gave a mighty twitch and looked up. Ghusthav stared up at me, panic in his eyes, and he moaned through his gag. I worked at the knot, his movements becoming ever more violent as I struggled to remove the gag, until I had to force him roughly against the wall to hold him still. I drew a knife from my arm sheath and slit the gag, drawing blood when he tossed his head again.
“Hold still, damn you—unless you want your throat slit.” Ghusthav spat the loosened gag from his mouth, and desperately croaked something. “What? Say it again!”
He swallowed painfully, licked his lips and tried again. “ ’ware!”
I hesitated a moment too long. At the far end of the cask, a pale light sprang up from the darkness where it opened into a chamber, and the silhouette of a Human appeared, backlit so I couldn’t make out its face. Even as I got to my feet, ready to defend myself, the figure’s arm shot forward, and there came a soundless impact within my head. The last thing I recall was falling across something soft and yielding and screaming.
I awoke, stiff and cold in every limb, with an uncomfortable hollowness in my head and a foul taste in my mouth. All at once, Ghusthav’s warning came back, and as I regained control of my limbs, I found myself bound hand and foot. My head continued to clear, and I discovered the wretched taste came from a thick rag that had been forced between my teeth. I opened my eyes, bracing for pain, but there was none; indeed, I felt none of the usual symptoms of being struck on the head, which in the past have ranged from a throbbing lump the size of a testicle to a mass of clotted blood. Just what had felled me remained a mystery, but I was far too uncomfortable to worry about that particular problem for the moment.
I tested my bonds, and found them amateurishly applied, but whatever the bards may claim in their exaggerated tales, even poorly applied bonds are impossible to escape if they’re tight enough. Mine were tight enough to numb my fingers. However, my mysterious assailant had neglected to search me, and had missed my assorted tools. Of these, the most useful were the brace of throwing knives at my wrists. I was cold enough to drop the first one at my feet, cursing ineffectively around the gag; a free mouth is really the sine qua non for cursing with any style. But eventually I managed to grip the knife’s twin firmly between my feet, after which it was short work to cut the ropes and free myself.
I spat out the gag, retching at the taste and hoping it was not the same one that had been used on Ghusthav, who was no longer to be seen. Only the faintest trace of light came from the cellar side of the cask, and nothing at all from the far side, and a Human would not have seen even that much. Nonetheless, it seemed certain I was alone, though how long that might last, I couldn’t say. I chafed the feeling back into my arms and legs, recovered my knives, and looked for a way out.
It was harder to open the cask from inside, but I managed. Pushing the door shut behind me, I staggered up the stairs into the kitchen’s blessed warmth. I’d have hugged the stove, save only that Roger was there before me, warming something in a black iron pot. He started in surprise as I came up behind him, raised an eyebrow, and held his silence as I pushed him aside and got as close to the stove as safety permitted. He reached over the top of my head and took the pot from the stove, then poured its contents into two large mugs, one of which he thrust into my hands. I sipped tentatively, then more eagerly when I discovered it to be brandy. When some color had returned to my complexion, he cleared his throat.
“Not that I mean to pry, friend Thomas, but you seem to have spent a rough evening.”
I tried my voice, pleased to discover it working again. “You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you.”
His eyebrow rose again. “Do tell.”
“Well, to begin: I found our missing friend Ghusthav, then misplaced him again.”
“A man is a large thing to misplace.”
“Well, someone rendered me unconscious and bound me while I was attempting to free him. When I woke, he was gone.”
“And yet somehow you freed yourself from your bonds where our departed friend couldn’t?” A surprisingly gentle hand descended on my head, probed delicately for a wound, then withdrew.
I nodded, figuring that changing the topic was safer than answering. “Small hands; large ropes. And no, there’s no bump; I already checked, and no, I have no idea why I lost consciousness without a blow. In any event, I need you to come with me. I’ve a hunch I know where Ghusthav is, and that he can answer many questions if he’s still alive. Are you game to follow?”
“I’m certainly game if it’ll help us find Elizabeth’s killer. Lead on.” He drained his remaining brandy in a single gulp, then unsheathed his sword. I set aside my mug, replaced it with a candle that I lit from the stove, and led the way down.
As it turned out, I was right on the first count and wrong on the second. Roger followed me downstairs, maintaining a discreet silence as we passed the two wrapped bodies. I opened the door in the cask, and led him through the passageway. At the far end, we found Ghusthav, but he was in no condition to say anything.
I stepped down from the cask, skin crawling and careful to avoid the pools of blood that gleamed slickly in the candlelight. Roger’s gasp as he followed was justified. The assassin had been tied across a pentagram, and judging from the pattern of cuts across his body and the symbols drawn in blood, he’d been sacrificed as part of a sorcerous ritual. It had taken some time, judging by the amount of blood and the evidence the dead man had fouled himself repeatedly before he died. I moved closer. The pentagram had been carved into the floor, suggesting that sorcery was nothing new thing here. Ignoring for the moment the repulsive nature of what had been done to him, I examined the scene closely in search of clues.
The first thing that struck me was the absence of an altar. In its place, there was an iron brazier large enough to have comfortably heated the chamber, and a thick pile of woven mats long enough to sleep on, an impression confirmed by the pillow at one end of the mats. Beside the mats stood a low table, with pale rings on the smooth, dark wood that suggested the presence of a sweating bottle; the table also supported a half dozen candles as thick as my biceps, burned down to a height of about a foot. Despite being unlit, their wicks gave off a strange and mildly intoxicating scent powerful enough to overcome the stench of death.
I repressed a shudder at an old memory, though its originator was long dead, and continued my inspection. Rather than gutters to carry away the spilled blood, there were deeply incised symbols that twined unpleasantly about the periphery of the pentagram and strongly resembled those I’d discovered on Elizabeth; as before, watching the symbols too closely made me intensely uncomfortable, and I kept glancing over my shoulder, certain that someone other than Roger was watching. Last of all, whatever instruments had been used to mutilate the assassin were nowhere in evidence, a puzzling absence given how foolish it would have been to carry them on one’s person; the odor of blood alone would have given the killer away.
“Evil magic,” Roger pronounced the obvious, a quaver in his voice.
“That would explain how someone rendered me unconscious without touching me.”
“The Baron?”
“Impossible. He’s as dead as dead gets.”
Roger tore his eyes away from the corpse and shot me a hard look. “You know this, do you? You have depths that don’t emerge under casual inspection, small friend. But leave that aside for the moment. Is it not said of vampires that they are dead and merely mock the appearance of life? If that’s the case, you could have been fooled.”
“I don’t believe our host was ever a vampire. Apart from reasons I’m not comfortable revealing, there’s strong evidence to the contrary. First and foremost, Simon’s best efforts to harm him with garlic, silver, and religious icons all proved fruitless. Second, if you know any way the Baron could have unwrapped his burial cloths, slain Ghusthav, then rewrapped himself, I’m willing to hear them.” Roger grunted reluctant acceptance of my logic, and I went on.
“This suggests two possibilities. First, someone’s here we haven’t met—someone who’s stalking us and picking victims at his leisure. Second, the only known wizard in our small company has—to borrow your phrase—levels to him that don’t emerge under casual inspection.”
“I follow your reasoning thus far.”
“Then follow me a step further: I think we need to search Malcolm’s room for clues.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“I’m glad you agree, for it’s not a task I’d want to undertake alone. Will you help?”
“Breaking into his room isn’t something I can easily condone.” Roger smiled. “But of course if you were to do so without my knowledge, there’s little I could say or do about it. I have a sudden desire to talk with Malcolm, purely to be social. If you choose to be elsewhere, that’s no business of ours.”
I returned his smile. “I wish you pleasant discourse. In the meantime, I feel a pressing need to return to my room.”
We left, careful to leave no clues we’d been there.
Malcolm and Simon were playing chess when we entered the sitting room, and Roger hooked a footstool over with one foot and sat down to watch. I stood on the opposite side of the board for a few moments, yawning with increasing frequency until Simon shot me a dire look. Malcolm showed no reaction to my presence, suggesting mastery of his emotions—or, to be fair, innocence. Stifling another yawn, I headed towards the door, trying to give the impression of someone exhausted enough to be stumbling along on instinct rather than with serious purpose. It worked, for they ignored me.
Once in the hallway, I banished all pretense of drowsiness and made straight for Malcolm’s room. I hesitated briefly over the lock, remembering the man was, after all, a sorcerer, and hoping he’d not placed any mystical protections on his room.
Happily, there was no trap of any sort, and the well lubricated lock let me into the room with only a modicum of coaxing. Once inside, I examined the room much as I’d examined Simon’s room earlier. Unlike the merchant, Malcolm was fastidiously clean. His room was pleasant and smelled faintly of lavender from a large pomander that hung from a bedpost. There were two trunks, one of which stood open to reveal neatly folded clothing and a variety of perfumes and lotions. Atop the pile, there was a large leather-bound book with a stained cover. Not without some trepidation, I opened it, and discovered it to be full of a bewildering variety of illustrations of unclad Human females, many engaged in fascinating activities or displayed in anatomically improbable positions. I put the book down with a smile.
The second trunk was locked with a mechanism so simple in appearance I immediately suspected a trap. The fact that the key was lying on the night table by the bed was even more troubling. Nonetheless, search though I tried, I found no evidence of a trap. That didn’t reassure me in the least, and I sat upon the bed to ponder the situation. After a few moments, as time continued slipping away, I decided there was little point being here if I wasn’t willing to look in the one place that might conceal incriminating evidence. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I knelt once more before the trunk and released the lock with the key.
Nothing happened, so I exhaled more loudly than I’d intended, and lifted the lid. That was when I sprang the trap, for as the lid opened, a sickly yellow light seeped from the trunk and flowed along my arms. I’d already begun moving back, but that light caught me as firmly as a straightjacket I’d once spent an uncomfortable afternoon trying to escape. Strain as I might, my limbs refused to obey, and I crouched there, frozen in an awkward pose, halfway crouched and halfway turned towards the door. Getting caught this way was bad enough, but it was made worse by the spell, which only prevented conscious movement. The strain in my muscles from holding this awkward position was increasing by the moment. If Malcolm didn’t come soon, I’d be in agony.
An unfortunate span of time passed before Malcolm returned, accompanied by Simon. There was a coldly satisfied look on Malcolm’s face that changed to predatory pleasure as he took in the scene. Simon entered bearing the jovial look of one who’d just won the chess match, but his face changed to stunned surprise when he recognized me.
“Well, friend Thomas. Fancy meeting you here. It would seem you’ve mistaken your room.”
I would have smiled, save for the agony that coursed through my legs and back and the fact that any such motion would have required conscious control over my muscles. I found, however, I could speak after a fashion, and that concentrating hard enough to do so took my mind off the pain. “Indeed. I’d be obliged if you’d help me find my way back.” It was lame at best, but I was in no condition for clever repartee.
Simon scowled nastily. “It appears my suspicions of your profession were correct. And you accused me of being unduly suspicious, Malcolm!”
“Nay, Simon, I merely felt you were being uncharitable to our Dwarvish friend. Even so, given the evidence, I’d accuse the Dwarf of nothing more sinister than prudent snooping. After all, until we find Ghusthav, there’s a possibility the murderer still walks among us.”
“And he thought the murderer would be hiding in your trunk? Your logic’s faulty as your chess.” Simon’s vindictive gaze was so fully upon me he missed the contempt that crossed the mage’s face.
“Be that as it may, we speculate without facts, and I propose that we find some upon which to base our speculations.” Malcolm walked in front of me and slammed the chest shut—not affecting the spell in the least—then began running his hands over my clothing. As he found each concealed item, he turned and deposited it atop the trunk. In short order, there was an embarrassingly large collection.
It was growing increasingly difficult to ignore the pain in my muscles. “Forgive my interruption, gentlemen, but I wonder if you might honor a small request.”
“Why, of course,” Malcolm smiled disarmingly, his hands efficiently continuing their work.
“Could you perhaps do something about my posture? My muscles are trying to tear themselves free from my bones.”
“And fitting justice it would be if they did,” Simon spat.
“Peace, friend,” Malcolm replied calmly. “Are we not civilized men? We’ve caught him before he could do any harm, and his crime is, after all, not great, so why cause needless suffering?” He obligingly laid me on my back, staring up at the ceiling, and the tearing pain as my muscles relaxed was almost worse than what came before. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision, but after a time, all that remained was an ache that waxed and waned unpredictably.
When my vision cleared, Simon was standing over me holding a throwing knife and one of my lockpicks. “He’s a thief, all right—or worse, an assassin.”
Malcolm shook his head sadly. “So it seems. Though he’s found scant treasure.”
He restlessly turned one of the glass vials I’d found over and over in his hands. “You seem familiar with those vials,” I suggested, seeking to regain some control of the situation.
Malcolm laughed, and his voice assumed a lecturing tone. “And well I should, for it was I who invented them. You already know I’m an apothecary, but what you don’t know is that I’ve been testing various concoctions in an effort to compensate for the Baron’s thin blood. After some experimentation, I thought I finally had a formulation that would strengthen him better than what he was using before my arrival, and with fewer and less severe side-effects. Among other things, his previous, rather amateurish efforts cost him too much time sleeping, and he found increasingly that bright lights hurt his eyes. While I’ve not cured the latter effect, I’ve weakened it. Moreover, I’ve developed a means of administering the infusion directly into his blood using a hollow needle. That greatly improves the treatment’s efficacy. I plan to make my fortune selling these needles to physicians throughout Uropa.”
Fascinating though this lecture was, I found Simon’s reaction more interesting still. Though he’d watched with mild curiosity and a tinge of contempt while the sorcerer discussed the Baron’s medical history, he gasped and grew pale as its implications sank in. I almost saw the cogs turning in his head, then all at once, he calmed and color returned to his face.
“We’ve established that he’s a thief, and the vials you’ve found confirm he’d looted the Baron’s study. Do you think he killed the Baron to provide the time he needed for looting?”
Malcolm’s face grew pensive, then relaxed, as if a burden had lifted. “I suspect you’re right. Undoubtedly he killed our host during their meeting after dinner. That would have been shortly after I gave the Baron his post-dinner dose of the new drugs. He obviously found the poor man in the weakened state that persists for some time until the drugs take effect, surprised him, and killed him with a stake stolen from your room.”
I’d lain there silently while they discussed this, recognizing it would be futile to defend myself and valuing the opportunity to observe the two men. Malcolm’s comments brought back the impression I’d had that the Baron had been drugged and unable to resist his murderer, but that clashed with the suggestion the drugs had been administered shortly after dinner. Then there was the clear evidence the study had been searched violently after the murder to give the impression of struggle followed by robbery. How the contradictory evidence could be reconciled wasn’t yet clear.
Now that their purpose had been explained, the hollow iron “pen nibs” I’d found in the Baron’s desk seemed less sinister, and explained the marks I’d observed on his arms. But they also seemed likely to be the cause of the puncture wounds on Elizabeth’s neck. If both had been drugged, by someone as yet unknown, it explained why neither victim had struggled while they were being killed.
I felt an increasing need to interpose a few words on my own behalf, so I cleared my throat. “If I might?” Simon glared at me, but Malcolm nodded politely. “Is it possible that one of the side-effects of your drug concoction might have been—” I rolled my eyes suggestively “—a certain inability to... well, to be delicate, an inability to perform the act of love?”
Malcolm made no attempt to conceal his startlement, and took a moment to compose himself. Evidently, I’d scored a hit. “No, that was one of the unfortunate side-effects of the Baron’s original formulations. My concoction largely eliminated that—ahem—difficulty. And how might it be that you knew of this side-effect? I can’t imagine the Baron mentioning it to anyone not in his direct confidence.”
I did my best to appear shamefaced. “Well, I did some experimentation of my own and—well, let’s just say I tried the old version of the drug.” Given what Cleayne told me of the timing of the Baron’s loss of interest in her, combined with the fact the Baron would not have been using the old drugs after Malcolm’s new ones became available, it was obvious Malcolm was lying. In fact, I’d have wagered heavily he’d been intentionally drugging the Baron to estrange him from Cleayne and thereby leave an opening for himself.
Simon spat noisily upon the floor. Malcolm glared at him until the other man made desultory efforts to clean up the offending sputum with his boot. Then, after taking a moment to digest my statements, he burst out laughing, much to the merchant’s distaste. “I think the moral of this particular story is that you should leave experimentation with drugs to an expert.”
“I can’t dispute that verdict,” I added, suitably penitent. “Nonetheless, I dispute your other conclusion. I didn’t kill the Baron. He was alive and well when I left him, and Elizabeth’s visit to the study coincided with my departure. Hans can confirm that.”
Simon’s face went blank and Malcolm frowned as I cast doubt on their carefully developed conclusions. Malcolm’s frown deepened, and he touched my forehead ungently and spoke a few harsh words into the silence. Something changed in the nature of the spell, and though I’d intended to follow up on that small victory, I found I could no longer talk.
“I think we’ve heard enough from you, thief.” The sorcerer gathered several of the items he’d taken from me during his search. As he moved to show them to Simon, I caught a glimpse of what he was displaying. “Despite his protestations, I think the tools of thievery condemn him; add to this the empty medicine vials and these needles, and I think we have a convincing case that we’ve captured the murderer. Somehow he divined the use of the needles, and used them to drug the two victims.”
“Agreed.” Simon’s voice was distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “I propose that we gather our surviving company to hold a trial. Our esteemed Sheriff can then carry out the sentence.”
“An excellent suggestion. You collect the others, and I’ll bring our captive to the sitting room.” With that, he bent to touch my forehead with his free hand. “Arise, Dwarf, and walk with me.”
To my horror, I found myself rising, muscles screaming in protest after their abuse, but I followed meekly behind the sorcerer, like a lamb to the slaughter.
Malcolm propped me comfortably enough in a chair, and began pacing while he awaited the arrival of the others. As he did, I struggled to overcome the effects of the spell that bound me, and met with not the slightest success. If it hadn’t been for the breathing discipline I’d long ago mastered, I would have succumbed to panic. The case against me was convincing, though hardly damning—providing that I had a chance to speak on my behalf and that Hans would confirm what I said.
Roger arrived with Simon, frowning mistrustfully at his companion, and showed surprise when he saw me sitting motionless and unable to acknowledge his presence. The frown deepened, and though I’d hoped to count him an ally, the suspicion growing in his eyes told me that I’d earned another enemy. Hans entered the room a few moments later, accompanied by Hob, who eyed the sorcerer with a sufficiently threatening look that Malcolm gave ground. Cleayne was last to arrive, and taking in the situation at a glance, she moved swiftly to sit beside me. Her eyes widened as she realized what had been done to me, and she shot Malcolm a look of such hatred it would have earned her a spell of her own had he noticed; fortunately, his eyes were on Hob, who posed the greater threat.
Now that everyone was present, Malcolm cleared his throat. “I’ve called you together to report that we’ve found the murderer. Though we’d all agreed the most likely suspect was Ghusthav, we’d never explained his motives to our satisfaction. In fact, the reason is that Ghusthav was not the murderer. Thomas was.”
Cleayne gasped, but Hans remained imperturbable, and caught Hob by the arm when the big man seemed ready to advance on me. I could feel the sweat springing out on my forehead as the sorcerer went on. “I know how surprising this must seem, but we caught the Dwarf red-handed with evidence of his crimes. These vials—” he held them up for all to see “—contain a powerful drug that I’ve been using to strengthen the Baron. And these needles are the means by which they are administered. It’s an invention I’ve been working on for...”
“Enough about you,” Roger interrupted. “Stick to the facts.”
Malcolm began to protest, then seeing the look on the Sheriff’s face, wisely changed his mind. “One side-effect of the drugs is that they leave the patient drowsy for a time after they’re administered. I believe that Thomas administered the drug, then while the victims were drowsy and unable to defend themselves, killed and robbed them. The final clue that theft was his motive is that he carried these tools with him.” Malcolm threw my lockpicks onto the footstool before me. “We’ve already discussed how he did it. Now we know why.”
All eyes in the room were upon me save one pair. Cleayne rose and spoke angrily at Malcolm. “You’ve done a fine job of presenting your case, save for one thing: you’ve left out how Thomas could drug the two. In at least the Baron’s case, and probably that of Elizabeth, Thomas couldn’t have been responsible—for he was with me when both murders were committed. He’d have been too weak in the knees to stagger from our bed, let alone to kill anyone. Moreover, I think it telling that he hasn’t been permitted to speak in his own defence.”
Simon’s expression froze between disgust at my purported behavior, and discomfort, for back in Malcolm’s room, he’d been taken aback at the vehemence of my denial. “Though I feel only abhorrence at what passed between the Elf and the Dwarf, I must agree that we owe him an opportunity to defend himself.
“The Elf speaks truth, Malcolm.” Roger’s expression softened. “Let him speak so we can determine whether you’ve got the story right.”
Caught unprepared, Malcolm had no choice but to give in. With a scowl that did not bode well for me, he gestured dismissively in my direction and I slumped in the chair as control of my muscles returned in a rush. Half-sobbing in pain, I took a moment to master myself before mustering my defence.
“Thank you. In fact, I could not have killed the Baron, for he was alive and well when I left him. Hans can testify that when he brought Elizabeth to the Baron’s study, our host was in perfect health. Though I might have come back later and attempted the murder Malcolm accuses me of, Cleayne can assure you I was with her at the time.” Both nodded confirmation, and a faint smile returned to Roger’s face.
That encouragement gave me strength for the more difficult part of my defence. I began deceptively easily, to put the murderer at his ease. “In fact, whoever planted the evidence of thievery on me succeeded in deceiving Malcolm in all respects save one: where are the things I purportedly stole from the victims? Both had enough jewelry upon them to make me comfortable indeed had I but the wit to take it. I think you’ll find that both victims still have their personal possessions, and you’ll find nothing in my quarters other than what I came by honestly.”
Hans showed confusion on his face. “I can confirm this. When I brought both victims to the cold cellar, Elizabeth still wore her earrings, a finger ring, and a necklace; similarly, my master still bore his signet and various other personal effects.”
I nodded my thanks, and turned my gaze on Malcolm, who’d grown visibly more nervous as my logic unfolded. “Fortunately, while I was held imprisoned by your spell, I had time to think about what must have happened, and I believe I know the true murderer.” The sorcerer paled slightly, but staggered with relief when I completed my thought. “It was Simon.”
Simon rose to his feet in outrage. “What, me? How could you accuse a man of God of such a thing?”
I smiled coldly. He’d confirmed his occupation. “Based on the fact that your ill intent towards our host was obvious to all. You were convinced he was a vampire, and no evidence to the contrary would sway you. So you killed him based on what you saw as your religious duty. Then, when it appeared Elizabeth had been preyed on by the Baron and was thus condemned to become a vampire herself, you slew her too.”
Roger growled incoherently, rose, and clapped hand to his sword. With surprising courage, Simon ignored the Sheriff. “Then how did I accomplish the murders?”
“The rosewood stake speaks for itself, for each of us saw you bearing one just like it when we went to confront the Baron and accuse him of vampirism. As for Elizabeth, I inspected her corpse, and I found an obvious knife wound in her chest. I believe you’ll find the murder weapon in Simon’s travel trunk.”
Simon suddenly grew more confident. “You have permission to search my quarters. You’ll find nothing.” With a scowl, he flung the key to his room at me, and Cleayne snatched it out of the air. More gently, he tossed her a small key. “For my chest.”
“I’ll be back momentarily.”
“Bide a moment!” She paused and looked back at me. “Simon, are there any traps she should be aware of?” That was all I felt I could say in warning without giving away that I’d already searched his room.
“What are you accusing me of?”
“It’s well known that traveling merchants protect their wares aggressively.”
“There are no traps so long as she uses the key.” Cleayne frowned, then left the room.
There was silence, every face a study in emotion. Simon showed outraged innocence, but with an unmistakable tinge of underlying fear; Roger and Hob showed frustrated anger, the latter combined with the desire to reach out and hurt someone; Malcolm’s face had gone wholly beyond his control, displaying emotions ranging from consternation to careful consideration of the changed facts, to something I didn’t recognize; and Hans, as usual, was placidity incarnate.
Cleayne returned shortly. In one hand she clutched the assassin’s dagger I’d found earlier, and her face was flushed with excitement. I smiled approvingly. “I believe you’ll find that this blade matches Elizabeth’s death wound exactly.”
Simon paled at the unexpected sight of the dagger, and tried to bolt. Roger had been ready for this moment and moved to restrain him, but Simon used his concealed muscle well and shouldered the bigger man aside. He’d passed the reeling Sheriff and was well on his way to the door when Hob rose up before him like a mountain, and seized him in two hands that, from my perspective, seemed large enough to immobilize a bull. Whether or not they were truly that large, they proved sufficient to immobilize Simon. After a brief struggle, he went limp in the huge servant’s arms.
Roger took the dagger from Cleayne, held it up to the light, and examined it closely. When he came across the Latin inscription, he grunted in satisfaction. “And here lies the most damning evidence of all: the inscription on this dagger proves Simon to be a member of an outlawed sect of the Uropan Church, the Lord’s Executioners, who are rumored to charged with murdering the Church’s enemies whenever convenient. If that’s true, then there will be matching evidence on his person.”
Without awaiting more prompting, Cleayne snatched away Simon’s ever-present wool cap, and gasped. With the cap no longer in place, Simon’s tonsure was plain for all to see. At the Elf’s bidding, Hob forced the man to his knees, so we could see the tattoo on his scalp. I approached, and saw that the tattoo matched the inscription on the dagger.
Roger smiled coldly, and the prisoner cringed. “This proves you to be a defrocked priest, an assassin, and by no means the simple traveler in holy icons you pretended to be.”
From his kneeling position, Simon rallied, defiance plain. “I confess that as you suspect, I’m an Executioner, and those who sent me knew this keep to be ruled by a vampire who’d been driven from his native land by the outraged peasantry. I was here to kill him; indeed, I was not to return without doing so.”
“Yet our master was no vampire.” Hob’s deep voice filled the room.
“Those who served him would be quick to claim that, but I know what I saw. I did find the Baron weak and helpless, and slew him while he could not resist me. Imprison me if you will, but know you that the Church will release me soon as they learn their work has been done.”
“I’d not count on that, were I you,” Roger observed. “The Church is weaker here than in the larger cities of the west. You may find yourself beyond their protection.”
Simon returned the Sheriff’s gaze with equanimity. “Then at least I will have done the Lord’s work, and whatever happens to my mortal body, my immortal soul will be safe. And I can die secure in the knowledge that I’ve saved other souls from the terrible curse of the vampire.”
“And what of Elizabeth? Do you admit that too?” Roger’s voice was dangerous in its calm.
“That I did not do, despite the Dwarf’s elegant logic. And in this you must believe me. Why would I admit to killing the Baron but not the woman? I freely admit my responsibility for the Baron’s death, but I never laid hand on the woman. The slut certainly deserved to die, but though I don’t mourn her, it was not me who killed her.”
Roger’s control abruptly broke, and with an inarticulate howl, he sprang across the room and delivered a blow with his fist that snapped the unfortunate cleric’s head backwards. “Whatever the truth of your claim, I warned you I’d not stand by again and let you slander a good woman.” He retreated a step, rubbing his knuckles and wincing, as Simon’s head fell bonelessly forward, only Hob’s grip keeping the man from toppling.
Malcolm cleared his throat. “Of course we believe him. After all, a man proven by his own admission to be a clever and capable liar, also a defrocked cleric and an assassin, can be trusted to tell the full truth. These are sterling character references.”
Roger smiled at the sarcasm in the sorcerer’s voice. “Hob, do me the favor of confining our former friend to his room. Remove anything he might use to escape, and keep the door open so you can observe him at all times.” The giant servant nodded, his face grim, and removed the unconscious cleric from the room as easily as if he’d been removing a tea tray.
Roger met my eyes, and I nodded. Then he returned his gaze to Malcolm. “One thing remains. There’s still the matter of Ghusthav’s disappearance, and I’m sad to say that Thomas and I found what was left of the man. He too had been murdered, and from the evidence, a sorcerer must have been involved.”
Malcolm blanched at the accusation in the Sheriff’s voice, then he rallied. “And you accuse me? I deny that vehemently. I suggest that Simon committed that murder too, since if the body were found, it would direct attention either against the Baron or against me. I have nothing to hide, and give you permission to search my room for any evidence of the crime—indeed, I command that you do so.”
Roger met the mage’s defiant glare calmly enough. “Rest assured, we shall. Cleayne, you Elves are said to have a talent where sorcery is concerned. Do you feel confident you could safely search Malcolm’s quarters?”
“It would pose no risk. I’ll do as you suggest.”
Malcolm threw his key to Cleayne, and showed no apprehension as she left the room, though I’d been certain I’d see at least some evidence of guilt in his eyes. It was possible I was wrong, and it wouldn’t be the first time, so I was willing to give some credit to the mage’s defence. An expectant silence fell once more upon the room.
Cleayne returned an unexpectedly long time later, disappointment in her eyes. “I found nothing.”
“As I said.” Malcom’s voice was triumphant.
“Then I believe we’ve tied up all loose ends,” Roger proclaimed. “It’s late, and it’s been a stressful day for everyone. I’ll take turns watching Simon so Hob can get some rest. If the pass is clear in the morning, I’ll take our murderer back to the King, along with the bodies.”
I awoke next morning to silence—not the absolute silence of a block of stone fresh-fallen from its mother rock and waiting to be squared, but rather the silence of a stone keep, with each hewn stone or mass of untouched rock popping and murmuring to its neighbors as it adjusted its position in response to minute changes in temperature and pressure. It took a moment for my waking mind to recognize the change, and when I did, I sat bolt upright.
The wind had stopped.
Blankets clutched tight around me, I made my way to the window. The floor wasn’t so cold as it’d been in days past, and I noted from the corner of my eye—with considerable relief—that the chamber pot lacked its familiar crown of frost. Thus emboldened, I clambered onto my chair to release the hide barrier that kept the window airtight, and carefully unlatched the shutters. The shutters swung open into the gentle, cold light of a perfect winter morning, the air crisp and free of the slightest trace of wind or snow. I took a deep breath, and regretted it: not remotely so warm as I’d hoped. I peered down over the walls at the pass, which I was able to see clearly for the first time since I’d begun my trek several days ago.
To either side, sheer cliffs rose hundreds of feet overhead and stretched a like distance until a turn in the pass cut off their full extent. The trail beyond the walls turned out—to my surprise—to be a broad road, free of all obstacles, even of boulders fallen from the cliffs. And—miracle of miracles!—the road seemed clear enough for travel, as I could see the ground free of snow in places. Evidently, the winds had scoured the road free of snow and left it passable.
After performing my standard morning rituals, I made my way to the kitchen to procure some breakfast. The low buzz of conversation from the sitting room was a welcome sign that now, the murderer safely in custody, things were returning to normal. With a touch more spring in my step than formerly, I made myself a full breakfast from the cold leavings of the previous day’s feast, and returned to join them.
Malcolm was first to greet me. “Thomas! Come join us.”
“You’re in a suspiciously fine mood.” I took a long sip of my ale, and filled my mouth with some still-fresh bread and butter.
“And well I should be. I’ve offered to stay and take over the castle from Hans and Hob, and as there are no other likely owners, they’ve accepted my offer—conditional, of course, on our host’s relatives accepting the price I’ve proposed.”
“Well, good for you. I trust this arrangement will meet with no protests from the nobility on either side of the pass?”
The mage’s eyes blazed with energy. “Let them protest! This keep is a find for a sorcerer—why it positively reeks of magical energies. They’d be ill-advised to press me here once I’ve made myself at home. Why, even controlling the local weather is not beyond me! A push here, a nudge there...”
Roger laughed aloud. “So it’s you we have to thank for the clearing of the roads, is it?”
Malcolm sobered abruptly, his eyes focused warily on the big Sheriff, then he relaxed and forced a smile. “There’s much you mundanes fail to understand of the mystical ways of a sorcerer.”
I laughed at his pretension. “In any event, the roads are free again; I saw it myself from my window. I take it that means we’ll be parting company today, Roger?”
The Sheriff nodded reluctantly. “You’ve been a pleasant companion, small one, but I’ll be returning the way we came to take Simon to justice and the three corpses to the cemetery. You’d be welcome to accompany me, but I had the impression you were headed in the opposite direction. With a certain urgency.”
I nodded, mouth too full for a reply, but when I’d swallowed enough to breathe again, I was able to answer him. “That’s correct. Moreover, I’ve a mind to wait a bit longer and travel with Cleayne. She’s good company, and I’d feel more comfortable knowing she’d not have to travel on her own.”
Malcolm winked broadly. “And, of course, there would be other comforts from her company.”
Cleayne cleared her throat, eyes flashing. “I’ll thank you two gentlemen—if you meet even the admittedly low local standards for gentlemen—to remember that you’re discussing me. Much though I appreciate Thomas’ offer, I’ve been on my own before, and for longer than either of you two have been out of diapers.”
I recalled belatedly that even half-Elves lived a very long time, and realized I had no idea how old she was. “Forgive us, Milady. With the release of tension, I suspect we’ve all grown a bit giddy.”
She settled back into her chair, only partially mollified, and I turned my attention to Hans, who’d been keeping his traditional resolute silence while observing the byplay. “And what of you two?” I gestured to Hob, looming over us all at the butler’s back.
Hans held a silent debate with himself for a moment, then the butler’s mask dropped for the first time and he smiled—stiffly, but still a genuine smile. “Hob and I plan to open a restaurant in the first large town that will welcome us. I’ve been cooking for the Baron for years, and—”
I rose to my feet in such a rush, I almost spilled my breakfast upon the floor. “You are the cook? Hans, I wish I’d known earlier—I’d have kissed you!”
“Thus confirming certain rumors of the depraved tastes of the Dwarvish people,” Cleayne muttered, sotto voce, and there was general laughter.
I seated myself and nodded, acknowledging her point. “Touché!”
Laughing, Roger rose and headed for the door, with Hob following. “Well, much though I’ve enjoyed this, I’ve got a ways to go before I sleep, a murderer to lash to our carriage, and at this time of year, the snow can return as easily as it’s departed. The Lord’s blessing on the lot of you, and if you should happen to be passing through the Kingdom, be sure to look me up. The drinks will be on me!”
I leaned across to Hans. “Where’s your man-mountain friend going?”
“He’s going to help the Sheriff load his wagon with the two bodies and Simon.”
“Ah. Well, I must say, Hans, it’s been a pleasure knowing you. I don’t think I’ve ever dined so well, even when I was in Paree.”
The former butler’s eyes lit up. “You’re not just saying so? Then perhaps Paree would be a suitable destination once we’ve settled the Baron’s affairs.”
“Why aim lower? The Franks appreciate good food, and...” My voice trailed off as Cleayne rose and headed for the door. “Excuse me a moment.”
I laid my plate on the floor before me, and caught the Elf before she reached the door. “Cleayne!” She turned, an eyebrow raised. “Am I forgiven?”
Her smile was frosty, but her eyes sparkled rather than blazing. “Conditionally.”
Her perfume began working its magic on me again, and I took a step back. “Good. Then I’ve a favor I need to ask.”
“I did say conditionally.”
“It’s important. There’s something I need to check downstairs, in the wine cellar.”
“Let me guess... in addition to being the only Dwarvish Elf-lover, you’re also the only Dwarf who's afraid of the dark?”
I grimaced. “No, something altogether more sinister.” I paused a moment, letting her curiosity build so I could surprise her and wipe some of that smugness from her face. “We found a secret passage behind the large ale cask, and behind it, a sorcerous chamber. That’s where we found Ghusthav’s body. He’d been sacrificed in some dark ceremony.”
If I’d expected to surprise her, she surprised me instead; her only reaction was dismay. “Sacrificed? That’s really too much.” Tears began to form in her eyes, and I took another step back; her scent had grown almost overpowering.
“Steady now. If it’s any consolation, he wasn’t a particularly nice man, and there may have been some poetic justice in the manner of his death.”
The tears trickled more obviously down her cheeks, and I made myself breathe shallowly. “It’s no consolation... I’ll tell you why later. In any event, I know the chamber you’re describing. What do you want me to do?”
I blinked. She knew about the chamber? “Um. Give me some time.” Hans walked past in the direction of the Baron’s part of the keep, smiling a little less stiffly now. “Then come down and check on me—but bring a weapon. In all likelihood, I’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen with a pitcher of ale, but a small voice in the back of my head is telling me we’re not out of the mountains just yet.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think someone might waylay you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not fully convinced Malcolm’s as innocent as he seems.”
“Ah.” The tears had stopped flowing, and she licked her lips. “All right. I’ll give you time.”
“With a weapon,” I reminded her.
“You mean poor, defenceless little me?”
I smiled back at her. “The same. Purely for distraction value, of course.”
She closed the distance between us and trailed a soft hand down my cheek. “You’re distracted enough as it is, Dwarf. But I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to you owing me your life for the second time in as many days.”
I watched her departing gracefully down the hall towards her room, then shook myself. Enough clarity returned I was able to make my way downstairs for that one last look I’d promised myself. I still wasn’t sure precisely what I was looking for, but the more I’d thought about it, the less I trusted Malcolm. I made my way through the cask and into the sorcerer’s room, and stood with a candle chasing the darkness. I saw nothing beyond what I’d already noted, so I lit the larger scented candles for more light, then set my own candle down. I’d forgotten how powerful their scent was likely to be, and it was dizzying in that enclosed space.
I hesitated, reconsidering the wisdom of keeping them lit, then decided I could manage for some time yet, but that I couldn’t do without the additional light they provided. It was as I turned towards the doorway that a familiar, sickly yellow glow flowed out of the darkness to surround me, and again, I found myself immobilized. I wasn’t surprized when Malcolm stepped from the darkness, a predatory smile on his face.
“It seems my prudence has been repaid a second time. Curiosity, ’tis said, killed the cat, and this time, it seems certain to kill the Dwarf.”
He’d left me the power of speech, and I used it to buy time. “So it was you who sedated Elizabeth and killed her through whatever dark sorcery you were planning?”
Malcolm’s smile broadened. “Clever, aren’t you? But not entirely correct. I had no intention of killing the woman at all; I just needed a moderately large quantity of blood for certain sorcerous purposes. She was alive when I returned her to her room, though she’d have been unable to exert herself for several days.”
“You expect me to believe you?”
The smile broadened. “She was no virgin, let me assure you, and it was fortunate I didn’t need a virgin for my spells.” Revulsion must have shown in my face, for his smile vanished. “That shocks you? Let me shock you further: with the Baron out of the way, I had other plans for her once I’d drugged her enough to reduce her resistance. I’d tried with your Elf friend, you see, but she has an unfortunate resistance to my magic, and I suspect I’d have killed her if I persisted.
“In any event, Ghusthav proved that any living soul, no matter how tarnished, will do for a summoning. Even yours. I’d originally intended to keep your Elf here when everyone else left and use her for my next sacrifice, but you’ll do nicely. There will be women aplenty I can strand here with my storms, and some will be more amenable to my persuasions.”
The sorcerer gestured with one hand, and a leather bag appeared out of nowhere. He released the drawstring, and withdrew a gleaming flensing knife, stained darkly with what I assumed was Ghusthav’s blood. Pleased though I was to have discovered the murderer and the murder weapon, that pleasure was tempered by the likelihood I would soon have firsthand proof of his guilt.
Malcolm’s predatory grin reappeared. “To be honest, I’ll feel a lot safer once she’s gone.”
Cleayne stepped from the cask, her long knife gleaming in the candlelight. “Wise man,” she exclaimed as she plunged the knife home beneath his chin and into his brain, bone crunching from the force of the blow. She released her blade, and the former sorcerer slumped to the ground, dead before his body hit the floor. As his blood ran out to merge with that of the dead assassin, the Elf kicked him viciously in the side, then spat on the corpse. “Bastard! Profaner of sacred places!” She kicked him again, harder.
I cleared my throat. “Your timing was impeccable. Only one more favor, and then I’ll be eternally in your debt.”
Cleayne looked up, the vicious anger on her face chilling even though I knew I wasn’t its target. “Yes?”
“The sorcerer’s spell seems not to have died with him. I’d be grateful if you knew something about dispelling it so I might leave this place.”
The Elf stooped to reclaim her knife, wiping it harshly on Malcolm’s cloak and then making it disappear. Without a word, she bent to kiss me. When my head cleared, I found myself able to move again.
“I think I’ll have to arrange ensorcelment more often!”
She stepped back, evading my sluggish attempt to draw her near. “Take shallow breaths and get over it.”
I complied, returning my arms to my sides. “Not to seem ungrateful, but am I correct that you’ve been here before?”
“Yes. It’s no accident there was a sorcerous workroom in this keep. The Baron, being half-Elven, had some minor sorcerous talents, and was experimenting with using them to strengthen himself. I, of course, was eager to help, since the rituals were Tantric in origin and involved rather pleasurable combinations of the male and female active principles.”
Still under the influence of that kiss and the dizzying scent of the candles, I blushed at her matter-of-fact tone. “Then before I lose what self-control remains, I suggest we leave... fast. Among other things, we’ll want to send this last corpse along with Roger.”
Amusement in her eyes, Cleayne turned gracefully and preceded me up the stairs. I followed at a safe distance.
***
It took little effort to persuade Roger and the others of Malcolm’s role, particularly once we’d shown them the leather bag and matched the various unpleasant devices we found within it to the wounds on Ghusthav. The Sheriff clapped me on the shoulder with a certain amount of respectful affection after he’d loaded the final body onto the carriage, then rode off down the pass, whistling some cheerful Human tune that made Cleayne smile knowingly, his breath steaming in the still-cold air, which had warmed only slightly as the sun cleared the clifftops.
When his song faded, leaving only the sound of wind on stone, my rescuer and I made our way back into the keep to gather our belongings, obtain enough provisions to get us to the next town, and say our farewells to Hans and Hob. We left well before noon, and strode along in companionable silence until our exertions raised enough of an appetite to prompt a halt. We’d made good progress downhill, and the air was appreciably warmer, enough so we could relax and enjoy our meal.
Cleayne was first to break the silence. “Where will you go now, Thomas?”
I snorted. “The first order of business will be to find a job, since my funds are uncomfortably low.”
She returned my snort, measuring me with her eyes. “You’d find it easier if we stayed together a while. Even though you owe me a living, as it were, I suspect there are other reasons to keep you around.”
I considered her offer. She wasn’t really that unattractive once you got used to her thinness and lack of facial hair, and if you got close enough to catch a whiff of her, even that didn’t much matter. But I sensed a subtext, and supposed that in broad daylight, with me fully alert and with plenty of room to maneuver, this was the safest time to broach the subject. “I’ve never thanked you fully for your role in my continued existence—”
“Twice-continued existence, I remind you: once by getting them to let you speak to defend yourself, and once by not letting you be sacrificed to what was almost certainly some extremely unpleasant demon.”
“—but how long would I live to enjoy your company?”
Her mouth fell open, then she closed it. “Your continued existence should answer that question. But now that you’ve figured things out—and given your reputation, I expected you would—that changes things.”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out. You were the obvious suspect for Elizabeth’s murder. The absence of any blood from the knife wound meant Elizabeth was already dead, or at least close enough that she might as well have been. I’d wager you stabbed her with this,” I concluded, holding up the stiletto I’d taken from Cleayne while we talked. “How did it find its way into Simon’s chest?”
She smiled appreciatively as her hand went reflexively to her sleeve and found the weapon missing. “I planted it there, as you well know. You’re right: she wasn’t really dead, though I thought she was. She was in some form of near-death sleep, which is why she didn’t bleed when I stabbed her. I felt no magic, so it must have been one of Malcolm’s drugs, combined with blood loss.”
“So you didn’t use Malcolm’s needles to drug Elizabeth? You certainly had access to them.”
She frowned. “No, that wasn’t me. I imagine it was the Baron, for he was fond of chemical stimulants to enhance our lovemaking. Although they worked after a fashion if you swallowed them, he found the large vein in the neck easiest for administering them, and the effects were more intense.”
“Until Malcolm drugged the Baron to keep him from your arms.” She looked surprised. “Oh, he hadn’t lost interest in you; far from it. Malcolm implied that he’d added something—presumably saltpeter—to the Baron’s medication to kill his desire for you, hoping you’d turn to him for solace.”
She rose to her feet with an explosive curse. “Bastard! My only regret is that I killed him so swiftly. If I’d known, he’d have suffered a long, long, time, let me assure you.”
“If that’s expected to reassure me, you’ve misjudged me.” She glared, then after a moment, smiled reluctantly. “Actually, given Malcolm’s intentions for her, I suppose you were just anticipating. She was already dead in a very real sense, for he’d used her once to summon something foul, and it’s my understanding that such beings acquire a craving for a person’s blood once they’ve tasted it. In any event, you’ll never come to justice for her death.”
“If I’d wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” The look on her face left me in no doubt of that.
“Likewise, in return. After all, if I’d had any doubts about you, I’d have explained them to Roger and had him cart you away with Simon and the corpses.” I handed back her weapon, hilt first, and she took it hesitantly. Then, with unsurprising dexterity, she made it vanish. “Besides, you knew I was lying about the money.”
Cleayne nodded. “You did a creditable job hiding it, but to Elvish ears you make distinct metallic noises when you walk. And I know for a fact you’re not that lumpy under those disreputable rabbit furs. You know, I suppose, that they don’t remove the hands of thieves in these parts?”
“No. These lands are new to me.”
“Then you’ll do better with me than without me.”
I returned her smile. “You know, I've come to believe I might.”
She leaned across and kissed me softly on the lips. I steeled myself for the thrust of her dagger, and when it didn’t come, relaxed and enjoyed the kiss. After all, we were far enough from the lands of my people that nobody would ever hear of what passed between us. And right about then, I wasn’t sure I much cared if they did.
This story is an old one that fermented for many years until it became passable wine rather than just spoiled grapes. The writing process was interesting because it started with an image similar to the one that began Chords, though it was based on a very different model: both stories begin with someone hiking through a mountain pass, but this time Thomas is cowering like a mouse as an owl passes overhead, whereas in Chords, Bram is fearlessly embarking on a new future. The genesis of Blood was very different; it came from a Karl Edward Wagner story (Raven’s Eyrie) about his immortal sorcerer–warrior, Kane, and the story was inspired by the sense of being locked into a constrained space while trying to solve the puzzle at the heart of the story. If you haven’t read Wagner, his books are well worth hunting down; he’s a superb craftsman and the Kane stories are atmospheric and memorable. The central conceit of my story is based on Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, though I’ve never read the novel nor have I seen any movie based on it. All I knew of the story was that a bunch of people are trapped in a remote location, dying one by one at the hands of a mysterious killer. That was enough to give me the pattern for my story.
Another contrast with Chords is that the feeling that accompanied the source image for this story was entirely different: where Chords begins with a sense of melancholy mingled with hope, Blood in the Snow begins with the image of someone small and powerless, caught in an unpleasant situation and forced to bull through it based on courage, perseverance, and judicious application of his wits. It shares some kinship of spirit with my novel Jester, a story about a Human with dwarfism who has similar disempowerment but an entirely different challenge to overcome.
The story’s world is inspired by late-Medieval central Europe, a couple centuries after the so-called “dark ages” ended, in an area similar to the mountains between Grenoble and Italy. Apart from that, it bears no resemblance to reality; the Dwarves and Elves should be a strong clue that it’s not intended as an alternate history. This “Uropan” context exists solely to provide the story’s background atmosphere, since everyone is familiar to some degree with how this historical period is portrayed in fiction, and I took shameless advantage of the emotional resonance conveyed by the many cultural tropes associated with Transylvania: deep, dark woods, and hidden mysteries in mountain fastnesses. The deliberate absence of anything resembling historical allusions should also make it clear this isn’t intended as an alternate history of the real world.
Language is always an issue when you set a story in faux-medieval times. Although I aimed for an ornate and slightly antique style, I made no attempt to be authentically medieval; the sole goal was to create something that supported a pastiche of the modern detective novel, complete with the endearing femme fatale. As a result, I made the translator's choice of translating from what would have been authentic medieval discourse into something more appropriate for the intended tone. For a more authentic take on the medieval murder mystery, Edith Pargeter's Brother Cadfael mysteries are a good place to start. The medieval folk would have had similar categories of imagery, discourse, cultural references, and the like, but the details would have been radically different in many ways. Thus, it's clearly authorial malfeasance to allow modern language and anachronisms to creep into the story as I've done, but hopefully it's a malfeasance that can be justified by my goals for the story.
Thomas started life as a hobbit, but there was too much resonance with the Harvard Lampoon’s Bored of the Rings for that choice to satisfy me. A Dwarf was the next best choice, and fell neatly into the Brothers Grimm folklore associated with this ill-defined “somewhere in central Europe” milieu, so a Dwarf Thomas he became. Cleayne is, of course, the stereotypical femme fatale of the noir detective genre, transposed into a fantastic milieu. Though she’s hardly a feminist icon, she has the same agency and brains as many of her spiritual kin, which almost excuses the cliché.
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