Richard Meyers - Murder in Halruaa

They had left Lallor under the cover of moonlight and the shadow of ale barrels. “Good friends” Gheevy Wotfirr and Darlington Blade had passed below the eye at the gate, carrying refreshments for their mutual friend and Blade’s teacher, Geerling Ambersong.

“But what if Inquisitrix Lymwich tries to follow us?” Gheevy had worried. “Or tries to get a wizard to track our steps?”

“I’m counting on Blade’s… I mean, my reputation to make her think that any attempt would be futile. If Lallor is truly Halruaa’s exclusive retreat, most of the wizards will be staying at vacation castles. I hope they’re not interested in being bothered. Besides, they would hardly dare to show up the city’s primary mage.”

His reasoning had seemed logical enough, and all went well until they reached the tree. Then the halfling became a trifle unreasonable.

“Do you know who that is?” Wotfirr wheezed, pointing excitedly at the second man.

“Don’t tell me,” Pryce replied sarcastically. “Fm keen to guess.” “It’s Darlington Blade!”

“Shush!” Covington pleaded, then tried to distract the excitable halfling by pointing at the first man. “Do you know who that is?*

To Pryce’s surprise, Wotfirr said matter-of-factly, “Oh, that’s just Gamor Turkal. But what are we going to do about”

“Just Gamor Turkal?” Pryce interrupted. “What’s so unimportant about Gamor Turkal?”

“Well, if you must know,” Wotfirr began hesitantly, ‘Turkal wasn’t exactly well liked around here. No one, myself included, could understand why Mage Ambersong insisted that he be treated with such deference and respect. Turkal certainly didn’t treat anyone else that way.”

Covington nodded with recognition. Given the situation, he could well imagine Gamor acting arrogant. “But he was my partner,” Pryce said somberly. “And when your partner is killed, you’re supposed to do something about it.”

Wotfirr let that sink in for a moment, then replied helplessly, “Okay. What?” It was the halfling’s turn to drop to his haunches and put his head in his hands. “I promised not to turn you in,” he said miserably, “and I can’t, I won’t, have your punishment on my conscience… but, oh, if only the Council of Elders weren’t so intractable in their laws!”

Pryce felt sorry for the little man, so he tried to find a way out for both of them. “Gheevy, I brought you here because I have to know what is possible and what isn’t. Gamor was hanging by his neck from this branch.” He pointed at the bent branch of the tree. “And Darlington Blade was sitting right there, leaning against the trunk.”

“Where?” Gheevy asked.

“Here,” Covington replied, showing him. “Do you think it’s possible that somehow Gamor accidentally killed Darlington

Blade and hanged himself in remorse?” “What?”

“Well, it sort of fits,” Pryce said defensively. “Gamor does some incredibly stupid thing that gets Blade killed, and rather than face the wrath of Geerling Ambersong, he hangs himself.”

“But how does that explain the mage’s disappearance?”

Pryce looked at him blankly for a few seconds, then continued. “All right, how about this? Geerling takes one look at the scene and realizes that Gamor has caused Darlington’s death and has killed himself. The mage is so devastated by the death of his student that he wanders away, overcome with grief. And remember, it was Ambersong himself who insisted that Gamor be treated with respect, so the mage would also feel remorse at his own complicity in the death of his favorite disciple. It would be enough to drive anyone over the edge.”

For a moment, Wotfirr stared with disbelief into Pryce’s hopeful face, and then his expression turned sour. ‘The Council of Elders and the inquisitrixes would never believe that Gamor Turkal could do such a thing.” The halfling shook his head sadly. “Handsome? Yes. Smooth-talking? Yes. But intelligent enough to kill Blade on purpose or stupid enough to kill Blade by accident…?” The halfling looked helplessly up at Pryce. “Besides, where’s your proof? Was there a suicide note? They’re not going to simply accept our word for it, you know.”

Pryce recognized the truth of the halfling’s words. “I could try to find Geerling Ambersong,” he mused. “He couldn’t have gone far…”

“But what if you’re wrong?” Gheevy pointed out. “What if you find him and that’s not what occurred? What happens to you then?”

Covington thought about it and didn’t like the conclusions he reached. As before, the odds were just too great. “Good point,” he said, sitting down disconsolately next to the halfling. He considered his situation for a short time, hardly enjoying the cool, clean night air. “There’re only four things I can do,” he concluded. “One, run and take my chances.”

“You wouldn’t stand a chance,” said Wotfirr ruefully.

‘True,” said Pryce. “There’re only three things I can do. One, find Geerling Ambersong and beg for mercy.”

“Not much hope of that,” said Wotfirr. “On either count, I’m afraid.”

“Also true. So there’re only two things I can do. One, stay and continue the impersonation, hoping nobody finds me out.”

“And Geerling Ambersong never returns,” Wotfirr reminded him.

“And Ambersong never returns.”

“Unlikely,” the halfling commented. “Besides, from what you told me, you nearly were caught twice in the tavern.”

“True again.” Covington sighed. “So there really is only one thing I can do.”

“And what is that?” Wotfirr asked curiously.

“Find some proof,” Pryce said flatly, leaning back against the tree’s tangled network of aboveground roots. Suddenly he froze in place as he spotted something close to the tree trunk. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?” Gheevy inquired, leaning back.

“Look here, Gheevy, in the space between these roots.” Pryce turned over on his hands and knees and gripped a loop of a root that rose from the loose dirt.

“What is it, Blade?” Wotfirr inquired, straining to see what had so interested Covington.

Pryce looked up at the night sky and then down again. “This afternoon’s storm probably washed away any other evidence we might have found, but these roots form what amounts to a tiny protected cave. And look here, in the mud.”

Wotfirr used his halfling sight to good effect, peering among the roots as closely as he could. “It’s a footprint of some kind.” Pryce’s mood lifted. “No,” Gheevy corrected himself, “a paw print of some kind.” Pryce’s mood sank.

“Wait a minute,” Covington said, inspired. ‘What kind of paw print?”

“II can’t quite make it out. I don’t recognize it.”

“Let me see,” Pryce insisted, maneuvering to get a better angle. He held onto the upturned roots like handlebars and stuck his head, upside down, between the roots.

“It’s a footprint and a paw print,” the halfling marveled in Pryce’s ear.

“By all the electrum in Maeru,” the bogus Blade said. “It’s a jackalwere print!”

“What is a jackalwere doing this far south?” Pryce wondered aloud as they made their way northeast from the city.

“How would I know?” Wotfirr complained. “I only said I’d never seen a footprint like that before. I didn’t say I knew anything about the blasted creature’s migratory habits!”

The halfling was worried, and not just because he was carrying Gamor Turkal’s body across his shoulders. The weight was no problemWotfirr was used to hauling heavy kegs of alebut they were moving farther and farther away from the safety of Lal-lor’s walls. “If we must search for this jackalwere lair, must we also carry around this” he paused and cringed at the term he couldn’t avoid using “this dead weight?”