Mary Herbert: Dragon's Bluff

Ulin had never liked chicken and dumpling soup. There was something about the sight of those bits of dough floating in the rich broth, or maybe it was the smell of chicken and herbs that brought back memories of bad colds, bouts of influenza, and a broken arm suffered in childhood—all dosed by his mother with bowls of hot, steaming chicken and dumpling soup. It wasn’t that his mother’s soups were bad. In fact, Usha Majere’s cooking was almost as renowned as her skills in painting portraits. The problem lay in the fact that chicken soup seemed to be the cure-all shared by all the women in his life. Every time he came home to Solace tired, weary, sick, or downhearted, his mother or grandmother served him a bowl of chicken soup. Now his future mother-in-law had taken it upon herself to treat him with soup as well, and like his grandmother and mother, he didn’t have the heart to tell her he didn’t like it.

He sighed and forced himself to take another spoonful.

It had been seven days since he returned from his latest trip, a visit to Palanthas, and he was still bone-tired and depressed. The journey, like others before it, had been a waste of time and served only to strengthen his private misgivings. Since his return he had come to this little house in Solace every evening about this time to meet Lucy, his betrothed, and every time he walked in the door, her mother took one look at his drawn face and thrust another bowl of soup at him. Unfortunately, the soup hadn’t helped much. He still felt as if he had been hollowed out and tossed aside, an empty husk.

He stirred his spoon listlessly through the broth and tried to look anywhere but at the bits of dumpling floating on the surface. The house was quiet at that moment. Lucy’s mother, Ellse, was in the pantry slicing bread and cheese, while her two younger sisters laughed and played outside in the dusting of a late winter snow. Lucy had not yet returned from her work at the refugee school. Ulin slouched in his seat, and his well-cut lips curved in an expression of impatience. He wished Lucy would hurry, so he might have a chance to slip his bowl of soup under the table for her cat. That animal would eat anything.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when the kitchen door blew open, admitting a gust of chill wind and a young woman dressed in a long-sleeved tunic and skirt. A cloak was flung carelessly over one shoulder, and she clutched a piece of paper like a club in her balled fist. Anger radiated from her tense body in palpable waves.

Surprise held Ulin silent. Lucy was not a temperamental person, and he had rarely seen her in this state of rage. Her eyes had turned a deep gray-green like thunderstorm clouds, and her freckles were lost in a flush of scarlet.

A dwarf stamped in behind her and closed the door against the evening wind.

“I can’t believe it!” Lucy cried before Ulin could say a word. “Look at this! Ten years he has been gone, and what do we finally get from the reprobate? A letter notifying us of his death and a request to identify the body! Why can’t he just rot quietly into the ground?”

Ulin blinked as he tried to put the few facts together and figure out what she was talking about.

Lucy slammed the paper on the table, sending ripples through Ulin’s bowl of soup. “Look at this! Go ahead and read it,” she said. He picked it up and smoothed out the crumpled sheet as she plunged on. “He died in Flotsam during the winter,” she informed her mother, who had come to see what the shouting was about. “He’s dead, and we still can’t get rid of him!”

“Who?” Ellse asked worriedly.

“Someone named Kethril Torkay,” Ulin replied, perusing the first part of the letter. A thought clicked in his head and he glanced up at Lucy. “Your father?”

Lucy did not reply, but the drawn lines of dismay on Ellse’s face answered his question. He set the letter aside, hurried to his feet, and helped Ellse into a chair. Since both Torkay women were distracted by the shocking news, he played the part of host, offering a seat to the dwarf and pouring tea for Lucy and her mother. He found a jug of something a little stiffer and fixed a pitcher of hot spiced brandy for the dwarf and himself. He placed a mug of the steaming brew in front of the dwarf and took a deep swallow of his own to rid his mouth of the taste of chicken soup.

The dwarf, bundled against the cold, slowly peeled off a muffler, a thick jacket, and a hood to reveal the dour, un-bearded face of a mature female. “Thank you,” she said gruffly and downed the hot drink in one long gulp.

Ulin poured another drink for her then sat down by his betrothed. He took her hand in his. “Lucy, I’m so sorry.”

Lucy jerked out of her thoughts. “Don’t be. The man was worthless. That part doesn’t bother me.”

Ulin felt perplexed. Lucy had trained with him as a sorceress, and for the past six months, since the destruction of the Academy of Sorcery, she had spent her mornings teaching in a school for refugee children and her evenings working for Ulin’s grandfather and aunt at the Inn of the Last Home. She had grown close to Ulin and his family, and yet, not once could he remember her mentioning her father—until now. He glanced at the dwarf drinking her brandy, her face expressionless.

Lucy’s anger, an emotion she could never hold for long, faded. The young woman leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. “What bothers me is this dwarf wants me to go to Flotsam to identify his body.”

“What?” Ulin and Ellse burst out together.

“That’s absurd,” Ulin snorted. He snatched up the letter and read it this time from start to finish. The words stood out clearly on the coarse paper.

“Who are you?” Ellse finally noticed the dwarf.

“She’s a lawyer,” Lucy replied.

“A what?”

“A magistrate,” Ulin told her. “A scribe of sorts … an official who deals with legal matters such as estates, wills, certificates, deeds, litigation, that sort of thing.”

The dwarf pushed to her feet and bowed. “I am Chalcedony Rockdale. I have been sent by the Flotsam City Council to request a member of the Torkay family accompany me to Flotsam to identify the body.”

Lucy’s mother sniffled into a napkin. “What happened?”

“He was caught in a fire.”

Lucy snorted. “Probably some bar fire.”

Chalcedony did not respond. She watched stonily as Ulin passed the letter to Lucy’s mother.

“If the man is such a rogue, why go all the way to Flotsam just to bury him?” Ulin wanted to know.

“There is the matter of his estate,” Chalcedony responded, her brown eyes assessing him.

“You mean he actually had something?” Lucy asked, her tone skeptical. She stood up and paced a slow circle around the table.

“A fair amount. Enough to help our townspeople with several necessary projects. However, he left no will. Legally, no one can touch his estate until his body is identified and a certificate of death is issued.”

“But why us? He deserted us ten years ago. Surely someone around there knows him better.”

“Not in Flotsam. He spent most of his time in a place called Dead Pirate’s Cove”—Chalcedony curled her lip up in a sneer—“and most of those people are totally untrustworthy. The town council would certainly prefer that Kethril’s money stay in Flotsam, and the only way to ensure that is to have a reliable witness.” She turned to Ellse and tapped a stubby forefinger on the letter still laying on the table. “The council knows it is asking a great deal—”