Richard Meyers: Murder in Halruaa

“Make up your mind, Pryce. Do you think I can maintain this connection forever?”

“And do you think I’m going to accept the word of a handful of talking dust? If you’re really Gamor Turkal, you know me better than that!”

“And if you’re truly Pryce Covington, you will meet me at the Mark of the Question,” the face countered, and then it uttered the magic words, the oft-wished-for, never attained, always-sought-after “cushy job for life.” But before Pryce could grill the dusty apparition on the particulars, the face had suddenly disappeared and spread across the hovel floor like gritty glitter.

It wasn’t until he was about fifty miles southwest of Merrickarta that Pryce began to wonder how Gamor had achieved that interesting effect. Turkal had always had a dramatic flair, but hitherto he had shown little interest in magic, although he wasn’t vehemently against it as Pryce was.

‘You know what magic is? Real magic?” he had often lectured Gamor. “I’ll tell you what magic is. It’s a way for powerless people to win arguments.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Certainly,” Pryce said, letting an electrum coin play across his knuckles. “People who feel powerless learn magic in order to lord it over the rest of us.”

“Not like you,” Gamor laughed, noting Pryce’s knack of keeping the coin moving without grasping it.

“My tricks are honest prestidigitation,” Pryce maintained. “Sleight of hand. People who use magic are cheats. They use sleight of mind…”

“What’s with you, Pryce?” his comrade whined. “Was your mother scared by a wizard when you were a baby?”

Pryce’s eyes had narrowed and the smile had left his face suddenly. “Mark my words, Gamor,” he said evenly, suddenly snapping the coin out of the air. “I wouldn’t learn magic if every mage within a day’s ride went down on his knobby knees and begged me.” Then he slowly opened his hand, finger by finger, to reveal that the coin was no longer there.

Gamor had shrugged, unimpressed. “Not much chance of that.” It was true. Although they came into frequent contact with magicians, the young partners were regarded as nothing more than glorified messengers.

“Ah, but what messengers!” Pryce had always countered when a comely maid sneered at his current profession. Pryce had tried many occupations following his father’s departure for places unknown, but none had suited his peculiar temperament.

At the age of eight, he tried his hand at acting, and he was fairly good at it, but he hated having an audience. They were always analyzing his performance rather than accepting his character. They were passing judgment, not really listening. Pryce didn’t know why, but that galled him. At the age of twelve, he had considered trying for a mage apprenticeship, but the very idea gave him gooseflesh.

Finally, at the age of fifteen, he had sat down and tried to think of the perfect jobone that would make use of his youth, his relatively pleasant countenance, his wit, and his ego. Thus was born Pryce Covington, man of service. He set a sign out in the single window of the hovel he had shared with his mother until her recent death:

Nothing too serious, Nothing too fun; I will do

What must be done.

It had started slowly, of course. He had slopped out his share of pigpensboth human and animalbut soon all manner of creatures were calling upon him for all manner of tasks. Whenever anyone needed two extra hands to move a shipment, two extra feet to run an errand, or extra eyes to witness a transaction, an extra nose to sniff out information, and extra ears to objectively consider a problem that had become too subjective, Pryce Covington was there.

Soon he needed more arms, legs, eyes, ears, and an extra nose, which was where his tavern mate Gamor Turkal had come in. Gamor was lazy, but he had a spectacular memory. He was a bit too cagey for his own good, but always looking for an edge had its upside as well.

He was perfect for some jobs Pryce wished to avoid and dreadful for assignments Pryce specialized inin other words, the very definition of a perfect partner: a person with mutually inclusive neuroses who would always make you look good and never threaten your position.

They had made a pretty Skie, not to mention a goodly number of other Halruan coins, but things started to get out of hand when they stumbled upon a new form of highly lucrative assignment. It consisted of running to see if magically transmitted messages sent by mages had arrived without interference from outside sorcerers.

Pryce had insisted on doing all of the initial runs himself and, out of sheer obstinacy, had bartered the fee to a new high. The idea that magic was so vulnerable that he had to “chaperon” it appealed to him immensely, and so he set the price accordingly. If the magicians were going to admit their magic was fallible to someone as common as he, then his silence on the same point was going to cost them!

Even though his services were discreet, word of his abilities as a messenger started to spread, and soon nearly every insecure magician and mage-in-training in the area was offering him sacks of electrum to discreetly make sure that his spells were working. So many assignments were coming in that before long Pryce had to entrust Gamor with some of them.

It had certainly kept Pryce and Gamor hopping, but when they weren’t too exhausted they had more than enough coins to make any evening a night they had a hard time remembering the next morning. Unfortunately Gamor had quickly tired of the shortage of loafing time. One morning he announced his imminent departure for less green pastures, and by that afternoon he was gone.

Pryce was just getting used to his former partner’s traumatic exit when the dust unsettled, in a manner of speaking, and he was summoned to Lallor by the ghostly image of Gamor Turkal.

The first raindrop outside the city wall fell on Pryce’s jacket like a tap on the shoulder from the gods. It effectively brought him out of his reverie of self-pity. He looked up to see storm clouds gathering.

Oh, great, he thought. That’s what I get for placing my faith in anything… or anyone. But even as the thought formed, Pryce chided himself. Gamor’s job offer had been too promising to ignore. So now, whatever it was he had gotten into, he had only himself to blame.

A second raindrop hit him right between the eyes. That did it. His brain immediately clicked into practical mode. The pure, clear rain started tapping him all over his body as he took stock of himself.

His clothes had weathered the long journey from Merrickarta rather well. The light gray tunic, woven from the sturdy silk of worms found only in the dying leaves of fallen trees at the base of Mount Alue, remained soft and warm from his chin to his hips. The dark red vest, made of cloth from the famed dye works of Achelar, added further warmth. The thick black pants and waterproof boots disguised a myriad of stains.

His dark, stylish jacket concealed numerous hidden pockets, from its high collar to its midthigh length. The pockets were filled with his remaining savings. The outfit had served him well throughout the long trip, yet its only reward upon arrival was the promise of a thorough soaking.

Almost as if the forces of nature agreed with his gloomy assessment, a biting, piercing wind suddenly coursed over the lush green incline. Covington shivered as the limb of the tree above him shook, making the lifeless body of Gamor Turkal seem to nod at the miserable, newly-arrived messenger from the north. It was as if Gamor were saying, from beyond the grave, “That’s what you get for seeking a cushy job for life!”

“Don’t gloat,” Pryce muttered, trying vainly to protect his ears with his jacket collar.