Филип Этанс - The Death Ray

The duke put out a hand and the wizard sat back, clenching his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter.

“Easy there, Vargussel,” the duke said. “Why don’t we sit a moment and let you rest. If you’re to be of any help to the lord constable, to me, or to anyone—including yourself—you should rest, and perhaps eat.”

“I will,” Vargussel replied, “thank you, sir.”

Well, the old wizard thought, he feels sorry for me. I am a pitiful old man.

He cleared his throat again and once more sat up straight. He turned his attention to Regdar and looked the man up and down. He was huge, a behemoth.

A soldier, indeed.

Vargussel smiled as he took stock of the man’s too-small head, and he made up his mind all at once that the new Lord Constable would be as easy to manipulate as the duke and as unlikely to appear at Vargussel’s door.

“Lord Constable,” Vargussel said, “were you acquainted with any of the young victims?”

“No,” Regdar replied.

Vargussel waited patiently for more, but soon realized that the new lord constable had finished speaking with that one word.

“Have you a plan, then,” the wizard asked, “for your investigation? A strategy for driving this madman—whoever he may be—to the cold light of the duke’s justice?”

Regdar glanced at the duke, then said, “No.”

Vargussel opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Regdar added, “Not yet.”

“Not yet, indeed,” the wizard replied. “Well, all in due time, I’m sure.”

“Regdar has only held the post for five minutes, Vargussel,” the duke said. “I’m sure he’ll make us all proud.”

“You were born a common man, then?” Vargussel asked Regdar, not intentionally ignoring the duke. “Not from the aristocracy, are you?”

“No,” Regdar replied.

“A common foot soldier, then?” Vargussel pressed. “A man with arms like maces, tempered in the blood of the enemies of the duchy, is that it?”

“Vargussel…” the duke started to say.

“I suppose so,” Regdar replied.

“Good for you,” the wizard said. “I’m certain your family has never been more thrilled.”

“I have no family,” Regdar replied.

“Not yet,” added the duke—all too quickly for Vargussel’s tastes.

“Well…I…uh…” Regdar stammered.

“Oh, he’ll have a family all right,” the duke said.

“A young lady, is there, Lord Constable?” Vargussel teased.

“Actually…the lord constable started, but it was the duke who finished for him.

“Let’s just say that my daughter has a way of getting what she wants.”

Vargussel’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. Tingling fingers of cold death worried about his shoulders and spine. His legs trembled, and sweat broke out on his forearms.

“Your daughter?” he managed to say.

The duke chuckled and winked at him, and Vargussel found it difficult to breathe.

“Yes…well…” Vargussel said. “Yes…why not?”

“Why not indeed,” said the duke.

Because I’m going to kill him, Vargussel said only to himself. Because my shield guardian will hold a rod to his head that will blast his soul into shreds. Because he is now on my list. Because she will not have what she wants, but what she needs. Because…

“Yes,” he said aloud, “why not indeed, Your Highness…Lord Constable…why not, indeed.”

Naull found it difficult to keep up with Regdar and the tall, skinny man who owned the Thrush and the Jay. The skinny man was walking faster than most people ran. If Naull could spare the energy to look at him, she fully expected Regdar to be sweating and panting from the exertion. He’d insisted on wearing his heavy, cumbersome armor and he clanked his way up the stairs like a steel golem.

She wanted to be angry with him, but she was also smart enough to identify jealousy, even in herself. So he was the Lord Constable—so what? It meant nothing, except that he was a member of the aristocracy and would never be able to marry her, though he could marry the duke’s daughter. That would make him the duke, eventually, and Naull one of his subjects.

To Carceri with it, she thought. I am jealous.

When the tall, skinny man stopped at one of the wide double doors in the hall at the top of the stairs, Naull wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and took a deep breath.

“Please tell me this is it,” she said, making a show of shaking her tired legs.

Regdar smiled at her in that endearing way he had. She suppressed the urge to slap his face and instead turned her attention to the inn’s owner.

“Yes, madam,” he said, “this is the…unfortunate room.”

Naull ignored the sarcastic tone she was sure she heard in his use of the word “madam,” and she waited patiently for him to finish unlocking the doors.

“Leave us here,” Regdar told the proprietor. “We’ll come find you when we’re finished.”

The tall, skinny man raised one tall, skinny eyebrow and looked down his tall, skinny nose judgmentally at Regdar. He swung the doors open and stepped out of the way, clicked his heels on the marble floor, and tipped his head in a cursory bow.

Regdar walked into the room and Naull followed, but not before she smiled graciously at the man and said, “Thank you, sir. Do let us know if any more murders occur while we’re here.”

The man’s face blanched and Naull closed the doors behind her.

The room was as opulent as the one Naull shared with Regdar. The massive bed was draped in the finest silk and wool, and the marble floor was covered with exotic rugs that might have been woven by elves. The furniture was quite old but in impeccable repair. The air smelled of lavender from the scented candles burning in gold sconces. Lingering just at the edge of Naull’s senses, though, was another scent. It was the odor of something burned, the scent of a lightning-struck tree…something like that.

Regdar strode purposefully to a small table set for two. On the duke’s orders, the body had been taken away but nothing else had been touched. The remains of a light supper from the night before was congealing on plates of the finest porcelain, and the dregs of a bottle of vintage elven dew wine stained a pair of crystal glasses.

“Our friend had a guest?” Naull asked.

Regdar nodded and said, “A young elf he was…seeing, I guess. The duke asked me not to be too specific about that in public. I guess it would cause some kind of scandal.”

“Why?” Naull asked. “The sons of the rich and famous aren’t supposed to date elves?”

Regdar actually blushed and looked down, pretending to examine the fine linen tablecloth.

“What?” Naull asked.

Regdar cleared his throat and said, “In the army, it’s more common than you…well, anyway…we’re not supposed to ask…”

When Naull realized what he was saying, she nodded vigorously and felt her cheeks flush.

“I get it,” she said. “Well, that’s hardly a crime—wouldn’t draw a death sentence anyway. Are the rich and famous of New Koratia so uptight that they’d kill one of their prodigal sons just for dallying with other prodigal sons?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Regdar said. “I don’t think so, but we shouldn’t discount it as a possibility. These people are very sensitive when it comes to children, bloodlines, and all that.”

“Really?” Naull asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do tell me more, Lord Constable. Your own bloodline, for instance. Is it clear of all such impropriety?”

Regdar looked at her with narrowed eyes, seemed to think about it for a second, then sighed and said, “That’s not fair, Naull.”

“Well,” Naull replied, “If you say so, milord.”