Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

There was an audible gasp from the others. Sirc’al was the first to recover and gave vent to a burst of foul oaths invoking Umberlee and the blackest inhabitants of the deep. “A Konigheimer, by all the fiends!”

Avarilous smiled and mopped the sweat from his brow, using the scarf he had wrenched away from the disguised slaver.

The watch commander’s eyebrows were wrinkled in thought. “But wait a minute! Why in the name of the gods would Komgheim and Doegan want to break up the pact. They were the ones signing it.”

“Not signing it,” patiently corrected Avarilous. “Negotiating about signing it.” He sighed. “As long as discussions dragged on, both the Konigheim Council and the mageking benefited. Meanwhile both secretly planned to sabotage negotiations at the last minute. Each planned a murder of a member of its own delegation in a public place on neutral ground, so the other could be accused not only of murdering an innocent delegate, but so that the Free Cities could be drawn into the conflict on the side of whichever party’s delegate was killed.

“For that reason I’m quite sure Kreelan, as an agent of the mage-king, had orders to murder a Doegan delegate. Spielt, working for the Konigheim Council, was supposed to kill one of their representatives.” He sighed again. “It seems a bit ironic, really.”

He paused and the stillness seemed to grow thicker in the heavy night air. The landlord, long forgotten where he lay against the wall, stirred and bumped against a metal cup, knocking it over. The dull metal thump sounded loud.

Sirc’al, looking thoroughly confused, broke the silence. “So who was murdered? A Doeganer, or a Konigheimer?”

Avarilous turned and regarded the corpse with a touch of regret. “Well, now, that’s the odd thing. Neither.”

“Neither?” The overwrought commander was practically screaming. “How can you possibly say that? Both these scum provoked the fight in order to gain cover for their planned assassinations-I can work that out, thank you very much! One of them was successful before the other, both prepared to flee. Now you say neither completed his mission?”

Avarilous walked over to the fountain. Setting down his tankard, he reached in and, with an expression of distaste, grasped the corpse by the scruff of its jerkin. With a sudden heave he brought it out, dripping, onto the flag-stones. He cautiously turned it over with his foot so they could all see the face. Water ran from the fat seams, from the mouth and nose, and merged with the smeared blood on his cut throat. From the inside of his sodden clothing a small scarlet viper emerged, hissed angrily at the merchant, and wriggled quickly into the bushes.

One of the watch behind Sirc’al started and cried out, “Sir, that’s Sergeant Vilyous. Him that’s on the north gate. I spoke to him there yesterday.”

The commander’s eyes widened..“Vilyous! Whoever helped him out of this world did us all a favor. He’ll not be missed.” He chuckled and spoke to Spielt and Kreelan. “A fine pair of assassins you turned out to be! Couldn’t even kill one of the men you were aiming for.”

Spielt giggled. “Yes, Kreelan. I imagine if you get out of this, you’ll have a pretty time trying to explain things to the squid-master of Eldrinparr. He’ll turn you into fish bait.”

Kreelan scowled. “Come off it, Spielt! You bungled this completely. I wonder to what slave pit they send assassins who kill the wrong man.”

There was a moment of painful silence. The watchman holding the blade to Spielt’s throat gave a slight murmur of one whose arm muscles are beginning to ache intolerably. The sword in his hand shook, drawing a thin line of blood on Spielt’s neck muscles.

Sirc’al broke the pause. “Do you two mean to tell me,” he said ominously, “that neither of you killed this lout?”

Spielt said cautiously, “I mean to tell you that I didn’t.”

“Liar,” snarled Kreelan. “I never touched the fellow. I saw him fall while you were near him. Since I thought you were working for Doegan as well, I assumed you’d completed the mission and we should get out.”

“Wait a minute,” sputtered Spielt. “I thought you were employed by Konigheim.”

There was another silence while everyone digested the import of these words. It was broken by Avarilous casually moving toward the wooden doors that led outside, still holding a nearly full tankard of ale. Spielt’s eyes followed him. “There!” he shrieked. “There, commander! There’s the murderer!”

Slowly Sirc’al’s eyes swung toward Avarilous. “Who in the nine hells are you?

The merchant looked at him apologetically. “The Ulgarthan government rather prefers to see the political situation in the Five Kingdoms remain the same,” he observed. “I came here to make sure the balance was preserved. And the man was extremely rude to me when I entered the city.”

He turned to go.

“Hoy!” cried a half-dozen voices simultaneously.

Avarilous turned back toward the yard. At the same instant, his left foot kicked back against one of the doors, slamming it as hard as he could.

The terrific crash precipitated a flurry of action within the courtyard. The watchman’s sword arm jerked violently, and his blade slid into Spielt’s neck. The blond man fell to the ground, writhing in his death throes. Almost at the same instant there was a dull twang, and a crossbow quarrel suddenly protruded from the back of Kreelan’s head. He staggered forward against the commander. Two of the watchmen whipped crossbows from beneath their dark robes and fired at the balcony where Raeglaran was standing. There was a cry and a crash of rending wood as Raeglaran’s lifeless body plummeted to the floor of the inn.

Kreelan’s nerveless fingers jerked in a dying reflex, flipping the glass baIl upward. The commander snatched it out of the air. “Thank the-” he started to say, then watched in horror as the ball slipped from his sweaty grasp.

Sirc’al screamed in frustration and anguish. Then he felt a sudden blow to the back of his knees and unexpectedly sat down in the chair thrust beneath him. The glass ball landed on his lap, unbroken, and his hands clasped round it. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

There was a quiet cough behind him, and he looked around to see who had saved him.

Necht, Avarilous’s driver, stared at him with his hands still outthrust. Avarilous himself stood before the door watching calmly the havoc he had wrought. In the silence that followed, the merchant stepped carefully back into the courtyard and strolled over to the still recumbent landlord.

“Daltrice,” he observed calmly, “I do have time for one short drink. And I think you owe me something.” He picked up a tankard and drained it. At the same time, he bent and effortlessly jerked a heavy purse from the landlord’s belt. He scattered its coins on the polished bar top and, swiftly flicking his forefinger, counted out one hundred and forty pieces. No one moved as he scooped them up and dropped them in his own pocket. Jingling slightly, he put down his drink and moved toward the door.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said to the landlord. “I won’t be back again. Urgent business elsewhere. New accounts to service. You know how it is.” He grinned, beckoned to Necht, and was gone.

Lynaelle awoke suddenly to find herself face to face with a cocked crossbow. Hurlonn Davenwiss was at the other end, aiming it at her with a snarl on his face. Hurlonn was a generally sour fellow who had lost his wife two winters ago in an orc raid. “Get up, you ungrateful wench!” he yelled at her, even as she noticed others looming over her bed. The girl blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep, even as the sheets were yanked back and she was dragged to her feet. Teress Turigoode’s husband Shastin was there, and behind him Gorlin the hunter stood, a long dagger in his belt, a lantern in one hand, and a coil of rope in the other.