Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

I was still studying the blown-out stone. “How did the sword fight in thousands of battles and change the face of Faerвn if it never drew blood?”

“By singing, it could create mass hallucinations, make a small force seem like an army, make enemies think they were wounded, make them faint, unconscious, believing themselves slain. It won its wars by singing, not by slaying… not by blood.”

“A singing sword,” I said, admiring the weapon. “Perhaps even an operatic sword? This would be quite an item for a person such as you to have. A wonderful prop that could turn a fine actor into a magnificent tenor.”

“He is a magnificent tenor,” the rebec player protested. “He has a beautiful voice. Sing for him, Tonias. Sing for him!”

Tonias patted her hand, defensiveness melting as he comforted her. “It’s no use. He’ll know soon enough.” He lifted his eyes to me, and the fire and irritation were gone, leaving only the red, wounded look of a lost child. “I am a good tenor, yes, but not a great tenor. Not the great tenor Tonias of Selgaunt. That was all an act. It was the sword singing, not me. So, you can see, Ranjir was my career, my life. I’d never have drawn blood with it.”

I nodded, sliding my notebook away. He was telling the truth, I was sure. Otherwise, he was throwing his career away for nothing. “So, you’re finished then, yes?”

Thnias snorted. “I’ll say the belly wound stole my breath. I’ll say I can’t sing four bars straight through. I’ll say something and retire from opera forever.”

I got up to go, still carrying the sword, but turned with one final question. “You said Ranjir was a murder victim. If you didn’t murder the sword, who did?”

The heat returned to his eyes. “V’Torres. He must have found out about the sword, that it sang for me. He must have found out how to kill it, and stabbed me to provoke me into using it on him. He may have attempted to murder me, Quaid, but he succeeded in murdering Ranjir.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why kill the sword?”

“Jealousy, pure and simple. He wanted to destroy my career just like he destroyed his own.”

It all seemed to be falling into place. I headed toward the door. “I’m confiscating the sword till this thing gets cleared up.”

Tonias waved the blade away. “It’s worthless to me, now. Do whatever you want with it.”

“I’d like to show it to V’Torres and see what he has to say.” I motioned to the two city guardsmen. “And I’m going to ask these fellows to stick with you until we’ve got this whole mess sorted out.”

“I understand,” Tonias said snidely, patting his girlfriend’s hand. “After all, somebody’s got to guard me.”

The other tenor’s dressing room was down in the bowels of the opera house-no windows, no silver mirrors, no fainting couch, no Shou Lung carpets. It was a cramped space of drippy brick. Flanked by guards, V’Torres lay on a moldy pallet on the floor. He wore black rags and clutched a metal flask in his hand. His face was grimy with stage makeup, his black hair a tangled mass above dissipated eyes.

The yet-smiling priest met me at the door. “We’ve been doubly blessed today. The Morninglord saw fit to heal this man, as well. He’s lost much blood, but is no longer in danger.”

I raked the bloody sword out toward V’Torres. “We’ll see how long that remains the case. Thanks for your help,” I said by way of dismissal. The priest made a shallow bow and ducked from the mildewy place.

I considered the wounded man, real-life equivalent of the leprous, murderous Garragius. “So, what do you have to say for yourself, stabbing your rival onstage, before thousands of witnesses?”

“I didn’t do it,” he rasped out miserably, and took another bitter swallow.

I nodded. Every man in the dungeons was innocent. “So, your dagger just slipped. Maybe you’d been drinking and started to lose your balance. Maybe the blade couldn’t help hitting the biggest thing around.”

“Not even that,” the man said darkly, coughing as the rot-gut brought tears to his eyes. “I stuck the dagger in the space under his left arm, just as I always do.”

“When you’re seeing double, it’s hard to know which left arm-”

“I’d had nothing to drink before the performance. It was only after… everything that I…”

“Then where did all the blood come from? And how did ten priests get a look at Tonias’s bowel? And why am I here having to talk to you?”

“I didn’t stab him.”

I towered over the supine man. “Tonias thinks you did. Tonias, and me, and the rest of Selgaunt. Not only do I think that, but also that you killed his sword, too… this sword.” I held out the bloody blade.

V’Torres blinked at the gory steel, then screwed his eyes closed in torment. “Ranjir was mine, Quaid. Why would I murder my own sword?”

I was incredulous. I crouched down atop my heels and held the blade on my knees. “Your sword? Then why was it in your rival’s hand?”

“Why, indeed?” V’Torres nodded, eyes still closed. “Back in my heyday, it had been mine. I’d used it just like Tonias did. It was the voice behind my career. But then it got stolen. I was ruined. I refused to perform. Drank heavily. Woke up in a lot of odd places. People came to their own conclusions. But the real end of my career was losing Ranjir.” He took a shuddering breath. “May I see the blade?”

I handed him the blood-stained sword, and V’Torres positioned it on his body, point down like a weapon laid on a corpse. V’Torres’s nostrils flared as he drew in the scent of the metal. Eyes closing tight once again, he smiled in pain. “In my hands again, at last.”

Tonias’s blade? V’Torres’s blade? It made sense. Two great tenors, one great voice. “If it’s yours, why didn’t you try to hunt it down?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last five years? I suspected Tonias at his debut, but couldn’t get close enough to find out. I’d been banned from concert halls, you know. Offstage he kept the sword in a triple-locked iron trunk. I knew for certain it was Ranjir only when we began rehearsals for Terra Incognita. Since then, I’ve been trying to take it back. I even went to the Guild of Thespians, Bards, and Choristers-”

“Why would they help you? You’re a fraud. Tonias is a fraud.”

“Ranjir was just an instrument, like a cittern-that’s what I told them. They turned me down flat. Guild or no guild, I was determined get the sword back. As long as I was alive I wouldn’t give it up. Tonias knew that. He just didn’t know what my blood would do to the sword.”

“He’s the one that told me how the blade died.”

“He’d tried it once before… took a swipe at me. I’d warned him then, but he scoffed. Now he knows the truth.”

Tonias might have known the truth, but I didn’t. The stories of both men were plausible enough, but still stories, still lies.

“You’d stop at nothing to get the sword back,” I said. “I’m sending you off with the city watch, suggesting you be charged with attempted murder.” I took the sword from the tenor and glanced up at the guardsmen. “Shackle him and take him to the dungeons. I’ll be by shortly to explain.”

Even as the men set to work, rolling V’Torres on his side, the tenor said, “And what about Tonias?”

“He’ll be charged with attempted murder, too.”

“And what about Ranjir? Who killed Ranjirr

I turned the crimson blade slowly in my hand. “That, I still don’t know.”

I delivered the bad news to Tonias and his girlfriend and endured a whole new opera of bluster and threats. That was enough. I’d had a bellyful of singers and silk, hubris and hoi polloi. I wanted dark streets and smoking chimneys, stray dogs and the smell of old fish. I wanted some good honest dirt, dirt that called itself dirt and looked dirty. In the end, even gold and diamonds were just dressed-up dirt.