Richard Meyers - Murder in Halruaa

To his relief and growing pleasure, the wardrobe he had asked for was laid out on the bed. Before he concerned himself with it, however, Pryce took a moment to survey Lallor, and Lallor Bay, from above. It was indeed a beautiful city… truly the hidden jewel of Halruaa. Its proudly executed design made it a place to fight for, to die for… and apparently to kill for.

There was a knock at the door. Pryce glanced that way and said, “Yes?”

The halfling grotto manager stuck his head inside. “Blade?”

“Gheevy, my friend!” Pryce said with pleasure. “Do come in!” The halfling entered, looking deeply concerned. Pryce laughed. “My dear Wotfirr, don’t worry. I assure you that I will rest on this voyage!”

“It’sit’s not that, Blade. It’s… well, how on Toril will you ever pull this thing off?”

Pryce furrowed his brow and came around the table. “What do you mean, my friend? What’s troubling you?”

The halfling quickly looked to see if there was anyone else in the hall, then closed the door firmly. “It’s like you said when you left the workshop,” he said urgently. “We know now that Geerling, Gamor, and Teddington are dead. But there’s one more person who is dead, and only we two know it!”

Pryce turned his head to one side, as if he heard something off in the distance. “Who?” he wondered.

“You know!”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Pryce said calmly. “Darlington Blade!” Gheevy hissed. “I am Darlington Blade,” Pryce said casually. ‘Yes, but”

Suddenly Pryce held up his hand. “Don’t say it, Gheevy. I know. But if this is going to work, I have to remember one thing: I am Darlington Blade.”

“But you’re not!” the halfling wailed in despair. “And you know it!”

“No, I don’t,” said Pryce flatly, his expression blank. “What?”

“You’re wrong, Gheevy. You were wrong when you said that ‘only we two’ knew one more person was dead, and you’re wrong now.”

Wotfirr looked intrigued. “Whatever do you mean?”

Pryce held up his forefinger. “The murderer also knows it,” he reminded the halfling.

Realization dawned on the halfling’s face, followed by storm clouds of anxiety. “Right. So how can you possibly reveal his identity without condemning yourself?”

Pryce just stared at his associate for a few moments, then turned idly toward the starboard window. He looked out while absentmindedly fingering the heavy wooden table. “An interesting question, that,” he said so quietly that Gheevy barely heard him.”Remember what I told you the most important letter was to a detective?”

“Certainly.” The halfling nodded. ‘Y.”

“Exactly. Why. As in ‘Why has the murderer let me live?’ Or ‘Why hasn’t the murderer exposed me long before now?’ ” He cocked an amused eye at the halfling. “Do you have any answers, Gheevy?”

The halfling looked around the cabin helplessly. “No, none at all.”

“That’s too bad,” Pryce Covington said somberly. “Because I think I do.” He turned away again to see his reflection in the windows of the captain’s cabin. “What if our murderer can’t do either of those things?”

The halfling could only stare at the man who would be Darlington Blade, unable to comprehend.

‘What do you mean?” he asked.

Pryce went on without looking at him. “Give me a moment alone, would you, my friend?” he asked quietly.

Gheevy took a final worried look at the man he had almost exposed, then subsequently risked his life to protect. “Of course,” he said, then left the cabin, carefully and quietly closing the door behind him.

“It’s time to depart!” Berridge Lymwich bellowed from the bow. “Crew members, clear the deck and cast off the lines! Move those people back away from the ship!” The crew rushed to insure that the onlookers were clear of the lines, aided by the inquisitrixes, militiamen, and patrols lining the narrow plateau beneath the Verity.

News of a Mystran temple skyship’s departure, its hold filled with the magical treasures of Geerling Ambersong, apparently traveled fast, and it appeared as if all the citizens of Lallor had turned out to see them off. Every street and yard along the sloping incline from the city wall to Lallor Bay was filled with people, halflings, elves, and half-elves, waving, setting off harmless magic fireworks, shooting magical streamers, and in general giving the Great Mystra Skyship Verity a magnificent send-off.

Berridge Lymwich turned from the railing to see that no passengers were considering anything as rude as getting skysick or as foolish as trying to disembark. After checking for several moments, she seemed satisfied that all of Blade’s suspects were present and accounted for.

Gheevy Wotfirr gave Berridge Lymwich a meaningful look as he passed. The halfling then slipped between the burly Azzo Schreders and the shapely Sheyrhen Karkober at the port bow. The inquisitrix looked down the deck to see that the stooped, jowly Matthaunin Witterstaet stood near Dearlyn Ambersong, both of whom were watched over by the gaunt Asche Hartov, who lived up to his name by appearing positively ashen.

Even though they all acted reluctant to participate in this journey, they wouldn’t have missed the liftoff for, well, all the electrum in Zoundar, Lymwich thought.

At that moment, the Verity started to float skyward.

Renwick Scottpeter handled the carved cylinders like a musical instrument, allowing the levitation fields to be activated at just the right calibration. The liftoff of the big ship never failed to thrill her as it launched into the sea of the sky. She had labored long and vigorously to become a skyship captain, then trained the most capable, prepared, and resolute crew in the realm.

On the bow of the great ship was a beautiful figurehead, shaped by Minsha Tyrpanninq, Talathgard’s finest sculptor. It was an interpretation of Mystra in flight, created entirely of electrum. The goddess’s serene, smiling face looked up at the clouds, and her gown-swathed figure seemed to draw the ship irrevocably up toward the heavens. The Verity lifted forty yards from the ground, then slowly started a drifting turn to the northwest.

Lymwich turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes. She tried to feel the powerful magic emanations that would draw the ship unerringly toward Mount Talath, but a voice broke her concentration.

“Tend to your passengers,” she heard a melodic voice say. Lymwich opened her eyes to see the disapproving gaze of Mystra Superior Wendchrix Turzihubbard, her direct superior and the principal authority at the Lallor Mystran Inquisitrix Castle. “Do not concern yourself with the flight,” the tall, commanding woman in the regal robes said. ‘That is what I, and the others guarding the cargo below, are here for.”

Her words reminded Lymwich once again that she was not only on this boat in a security capacity but also as a prime suspect

“Mark two-five-zero-zero!” the bowman cried, his call being echoed until it reached the captain. “Mark-two-five-zero-zero!” she responded, moving the carved cylinder slightly so the climb was less steep. The heavy ship seemed to move along the calm air currents like a soap bubble, rising in small, smooth fits and starts.

“Mark three-zero-zero-zero!” cried the bowman.

“Mark three-zero-zero-zero!” cried the aftwoman.

“Lock on three-zero-zero-zero!” Scottpeter called. She expertly moved the cylinders until the ship leveled off. Dearlyn watched the captain enviously, thinking that her passion for her work rivaled that of the finest musician. Renwick played the levitation fields of the ship as if she were a conductor directing a symphony.

Dearlyn drank in the view of the skies above and the ground below. If she raised her head and ignored the handsome, shining deck, she could almost believe that she herself was flying. Then she felt a chill from the northwest and quickly hugged her cloak around her.