Richard Meyers: Murder in Halruaa

The bending tree answered with a groan, and the rain began to slash, slicing down at an angle as the winds added their own moaning voice. Odd, Pryce thought. This was surprisingly chilly weather for early autumn in southern Halruaa. He turned and looked back toward the road he had followed to arrive at this disastrous rendezvous.

Only five minutes or so back to the road, he judged, then another ten or fifteen to reach the Lallor Gate. If he could gain entrance to the city, maybe he could find some simple place that was warm, dry, and affordable, considering the meager savings he had brought with him. Once his wits returned to full strength, he could consider his options.

Why not? he asked himself. Although Gamor was dead, somewhere within the city walls, a cushy job for life awaited him, and if anyone could find it, it was Pryce Covington. That’s what Gamor would have wanted, he thought. After all, that’s why his old tavern mate and short-lived business associate had summoned him in the first place! Surely Gamor would have wanted Pryce to have the occupation of his dreams. Absolutely!

Pryce squared his shoulders and started to march away. He hadn’t gotten ten paces when the wind began to howl with renewed force and it began to rain even harder. He bent his head down and tried to make headway against the raging wind. His pace grew slower, and soon he was panting against the Lallor Wall.

He realized that this sudden storm would give him some sort of respiratory illness if he walked through it for more than five minutes. It seemed yet another oppressive sign, but he vowed that it would not defeat him. Instead, Pryce reluctantly returned to the relative shelter of the tree. He stood beneath its wildly trembling branches, scanning the sky for any sign of a break in the weather.

But every time he thought he saw some sun, Gamor’s body would swing into view. Turkal’s horrible head, now dripping wet, seemed to mock him by sticking out its tongue and making bulging-eyed faces. Pryce turned away, only to find himself staring into the face of the dead stranger. Much to his own surprise,

Covington no longer felt queasy or emotional. Instead, he was suddenly and strangely certain. The face of the unknown dead man presented a hidden problem, and Pryce was determined to solve it. Past experience had taught him how to read faces.

The unknown man’s face held indications of education and intelligence in its muscle patterns. Stupid or ignorant people looked different, even in death. This man’s hairline was high, the hair short and so waxen it was almost clear. The skin was reasonably taut, neither so lined that it silently spoke of manual labor nor so smooth that it told of an idle life. From what Pryce could see, this person had won the biological sweepstakes. The lack of excess fat and strength of the neck spoke of good family stock and an occupation that maintained health.

That information wasn’t enough. Covington was convinced he was missing something obvious, and he knew he would have to investigate further. He knelt by the body and studied it thoughtfully.

Look into the dead man’s eyes, Pryce finally thought, surprising himself. Why the eyes? The eyes are the window of the soul, not to mention the pockets of the face. He would see what lay hidden inside visually, much in the same way he might go through the man’s actual pockets physically. But first he would have to open the man’s closed eyelids.

Covington’s fingers touched the smooth, dry skin. He pressed his thumb lightly on the eyelid, feeling the eye beneath. He realized that he was holding his breath. Then he finally realized what had interested him about the man’s face. His fingers stiffened, motionless, on the dry skin.

Pryce’s head whirled around to look up at Gamor, still swinging in the wind. Rain was streaming from his body. Covington looked down at himself. His own clothes and, more importantly, his own skin were soaked. He looked back at the stranger. The stranger’s head was as dry as a creditor’s smile.

That’s when Pryce Covington finally noticed the cloak.

It was beautiful in a simple, deceptive way. From a distance of even a few feet, it looked so natural it was almost invisible, even though it reached from the top of the seated body’s head to the knees. Pryce could see that the hood, when folded back, would lie flat on the cape, adding to its timeless styling.

The cloak itself was a dusky blend of dark colors, like the sky just after sunset. Pryce could distinguish some blue, some black, and even some purple, interwoven with flecks that could be compared to stars just coming to life as daylight fled. Around the edges, it seemed to turn gray, like the promise of a new world just over the horizon.

The cloak may have been wet, but it was so sturdily stitched that it kept its wearer perfectly dry, unlike the outfits of Pryce and the late Gamor Turkal.

Pryce was surprised by his reaction to what first appeared to be a simple piece of clothing, but that was the kind of response this cloak elicited. Yet this was nothing compared to the clasp that held it in place. The circular clasp, which could not have been more than two and a half inches around at most, was one of the most ornate metalworking jobs Pryce had ever seen. Glimpsed superficially, it looked like a standard circular clasp with some sort of vine design, but upon closer examination, it looked like a cross-section of dense forest… like looking deep into a briar patch.

Pryce ran his finger over the clasp. It felt smooth and cool to the touch. It seemed to draw his finger in an interesting pattern: first down, then around and up to the top left, then back right and down around twice more to the bottom left. Fascinating.

Just as he began to raise his finger from the metal circle, the clasp sprang open and the cloak fell open.

Pryce sprawled backward in surprise, landing on his seat in a mud puddle. He was on his feet immediately, as if he had accidentally sat on a baby. He felt the mud through the thick cloth of his pants and grimaced at the mess. He quickly wiped himself off as best he could and even leaned his bottom out from under the branches to get a quick rinse in the rain.

He really needed the dead man’s cloak, he decided, both to keep dry and to cover any stain that might have been left on his trousers. There’s nothing more impressive to city gatekeepers than a stranger who has seemingly soiled himself.

Later, Pryce would rationalize that his “accident” was what had made him “borrow” the cloak, but secretly he knew that he had wanted it almost as soon as he had examined it. It was as if it had been waiting for him all his life. Still, it took him more than a few moments to convince himself that he should steal from a corpse.

Utter practicality won the day. The corpse didn’t need to stay dry. It made no difference to the corpse. The living had precedence. Right? Right.

Pryce almost shivered with delight as the cloak settled over him. Not only was the rain suddenly shut out, but a wonderful warmth, the deepness of which he hadn’t known on his entire journey, settled over him. What is this marvelous garment made of? he wondered, but any further inquiries were ignored as a new sense of purpose gripped him.

With this cloak to protect him, it was time to move on. A cushy job for life beckoned from somewhere inside the city’s walls, and Pryce Covington didn’t want to miss it. Silently he thanked the cloak’s former owner, then took a resolute stride out from under the oddly shaped tree.

He studiously avoided looking back up at his ex-partner, determining instead to think only of good feelings and the hale and hearty promise made to him. “Come to Lallor, Pryce,” the vision of Gamor had said. “It’s the secret jewel of Halruaa, where every creature of every sort is accepted and feels perfectly at $bme”