Murder in Tarsis Page 3

  “I tried,” she admitted. “It wouldn’t come off.”

  “Many would have removed his finger to get it.”

  Now she looked offended. “What do you take me for?”

  “Let us pass over that question in a delicate silence. Is there someplace where my friend can find relief for his condition?”

  She frowned down at the recumbent form, which was no longer even twitching. “He’s your friend? You could’ve fooled me.”

  “He is now, and I feel the most urgent need to make him well. Answer my question. I will pay you well for your guidance.”

  “I know a healer. He’s a good one. Lives out in the old harbor. And you don’t need to pay me,” she added haughtily. “I can steal what I need.”

  “I did not mean to insult your professional expertise. Here, you carry his weapon belt and helmet. I’ll carry him. Lead the way, but don’t get too far ahead.”

  “You plan to carry him by yourself?” she said skeptically. “He’s half again your size!”

  “People are so easily deceived by appearances.” Nistur stooped and grasped the fallen man by one arm. Straightening, he pulled the mercenary halfway up, then got a shoulder into his midsection. Standing fully, the assassin had the warrior neatly balanced over his shoulder. “For instance, you probably would not have guessed that I am a poet, would you?”

  “Not right off,” the thief admitted.

  As they slowly walked back down the alley toward the harbor, thin clouds began to form and fresh snow began to fall.

  Chapter Two

  “How much farther?” Nistur demanded. He was trying not to display fatigue, but his breath was beginning to wheeze, sending twin jets of steam from his nostrils. The armored man across his shoulder seemed to be growing heavier by the minute.

  “Not far. It’s one of these hulks. Around here somewhere, anyway.”

  With this conditional reassurance, they went on, searching among the grounded ships.

  When the sea had receded from Tarsis many years before, it had left a huge fleet stranded in the harbor. The Cataclysm had struck at the end of the sailing season, when everything from fishing smacks to war galleys had been secured in the docks or riding at anchor. The bulk of them had been trading vessels: fat-bellied ships sporting two or three masts, with capacious hulls and large cabins for passengers, officers, and crews. Most had settled to the sandy harbor bottom on even keels and had gone nowhere since, at least not intact.

  Over the years, many of the ships, especially the smaller ones, had been broken up as a ready source of sawn lumber, others for firewood. A few had rotted and were now nothing but malodorous heaps of wood pulp. But many had been utilized as cheap housing by the poor and the outcast. The Cataclysm had been felt here as a great earthquake, in which thousands had been killed by falling masonry and brick. Many of the survivors never again felt safe in stone houses, and the old ships gave them a sense of safety.

  Most of the hulls so utilized were propped upright with great, slanting timbers. These prevented them from rolling over on their sides. Some had even been built upon, with superstructures using wood cannibalized from other ships, so that they now towered several stories above their former decks, with windows, balconies, and awnings. Some had been painted in bright colors or had the signs of inns, taverns, or shops above doorways carved through their hulls. Most, though, were mere slums, rotting beneath the sun of summer or freezing in the winter, with the wind whistling between timbers from which the pitch and caulk had long since fled.

  The population of the harbor were, technically, Tarsian, but they were not of Tarsis proper. The people of the city did not consider those of the harbor to be true citizens, and the latter did not much care to associate with the former, who were almost as contemptuous of them as they were of foreigners and nonhumans.

  “This is it!” Shellring said triumphantly. The cutpurse stood before the hulk of a tubby merchant vessel of middling size, dwarfed by the huge, long-voyage treasure argosies. Still, to Nistur’s eye it looked snug and well maintained. Like the others, its masts were long since gone, replaced by a single chimney from which smoke ascended invitingly. It was all the more inviting as Nistur grew more tired and colder, and as the snow began to sift down more heavily. Pale yellow light glowed through the leaded glass of the stern-castle windows

  Shellring pounded on a door beside a massive, slanting support timber. “Old man! Let me in!” She pounded again, and after a few moments the door opened, spilling warm yellow light onto the snowy harbor bottom.

  “Who is it? Shellring? Are you in need of help?” Nistur could not see the speaker.

  “Not me. There’s a man here who’s in awful shape. Can you look at him?”

  “I suppose so. Bring him in.” Whoever it was stood aside from the doorway, and the young woman passed through. Stooping and twisting to get his burden through the doorway, Nistur followed. Within, he found himself in a cavernous room that had once been the forward hold of the merchant ship. Riblike timbers curved up the sides, and massive crossbeams loomed overhead. Illumination came from oil lamps burning in sconces attached to the ribs.

  “Stabbed in a fight, eh?” The speaker was a man of distinguished years, white of hair and beard. He wore a severely plain, sacklike gown of coarse brown cloth, topped by a cowl and half-cape of matching material.

  “He bears no wound,” Nistur said. “He was stricken a little while ago by some strange malady, and my little friend here tells me that you are skilled in healing.”

  “I have some modest skills in that area,” the old man said. “I am Stunbog, a very humble practitioner of the arts.”

  “The tubby one can pay,” Shellring said, helpfully. “He’s a hired kil—ouch!” Nistur’s hand had clamped on her bony shoulder.

  “I am a poet, Nistur by name, and the friend of this most unfortunate man. Please do what you can to aid him.”

  “I’ll do that, pay or no pay. Myrsa, come take this man to the infirmary and get him out of this lizard skin.”

  A woman came forward from a dim recess of the room. She was much taller than Nistur, with a broad, handsome face flanked by thick braids made up of hair that was oddly mixed, red and gold. She was clearly a barbarian of some sort, he could not name her people, though he considered himself a fair judge of the various nations and tribes of the world. She took the inert man from his shoulder and, even as he was relieved of the weight, he was amazed at the ease with which she handled the stricken warrior. Her powerful, statuesque body was clad in garments of beautifully dressed hides that fit her like a second skin, their intricate embroidered designs almost like tattoos in the lamplight. Bulky as she was, her fur-topped boots made no sound on the wooden flooring as she bore her burden into a small side room and shut the door behind her.

  “I will examine him presently,” said the healer. “Come and warm yourselves while Myrsa gets him ready.”

  The assassin and the thief followed the old man to the after part of the hold, where they ascended a stair to a large room that must once have been the captain’s cabin. It had windows of leaded glass, benches alongside a table of massive wood and, best of all, in one end of the cabin a stout brick fireplace, in which a cheery blaze burned upon ornate andirons.

  In the warmth Nistur doffed hat and cloak, hanging them on pegs that had once held a captain’s sea cloak. Stunbog took a pitcher of hammered copper from the hearth and poured warmed wine into glazed earthenware cups.

  “I thank you most gratefully,” Nistur said as the wine did its work, warming his chilled body and easing the ache in his shoulder. “I do not know what came over my friend. One moment he was fight—he was as lively as you could ask, the next he was trembling and losing the use of his limbs. Then even his voice went. He seems able only to breathe. And his eyes are alert. Clearly, he is conscious.”

  “I see,” Stunbog said. “He showed no sign of infirmity before he was stricken?”

  “Earlier in the evening I detected a slight trembling
in one of his hands,” Nistur said. “And a little later …” He hesitated.

  “Later?” Stunbog urged.

  “Well, this may not be relevant, but we heard a strange sound, rather like thunder, an odd sound in such weather. I saw him looking skyward, and he wore a look of … almost of terror. Surely such a hard-case mercenary could not fear thunder. Perhaps he suffered some sort of delusion, a vision of horror.”

  “A sound like thunder? But you yourself saw nothing?”

  “For a moment I thought …” He paused, as if embarrassed. “Well, no, I really saw nothing.”

  “I see,” said the old man, pondering.

  The barbarian woman came into the cabin. “He’s ready for you now,” she said, her voice so thickly accented that Nistur could barely understand her.

  “I must leave you for a while,” said the healer. “Please, help yourselves to the mulled wine. Myrsa, find them something to eat. People need to fortify themselves on a night like this.”

  The healer left them, and the barbarian woman went forward into another chamber that was, presumably, the kitchen or galley, depending on whether nautical terminology still applied. While Shellring made herself at home, stretching out on a cushioned window seat, Nistur examined his new surroundings with lively interest. His wide travels had given him a great love of novelty, and seldom had he found himself in a more eccentric milieu.

  The air in the cabin was rich with the scent of herbs, for bunches of them hung drying above the little hearth, and similarly fragrant bags dangled from the overhead beams. Books of magical lore lined the shelves, sharing space with instruments of metal, crystal and glass, all of them wrought in arcane designs. There were racks of specimen jars labeled in a number of writing and hieroglyphic systems. The bones of many strange animals were scattered here and there, some of them mounted on armatures to form complete skeletons in lifelike poses. Mortars contained crushed minerals and powdered herbs.

  “A humble healer indeed,” Nistur murmured. On a bulkhead he spied a circular looking glass, and in this he examined himself. Lifting his neatly trimmed beard, he craned his neck in order to view the exposed flesh at this awkward angle. Just beneath his jaw he could see that the skin had been marked as by a fresh brand, although there was no sensation of pain, and even the previous numbness was fading. A pattern of bright, interlacing red stripes clearly defined the Knot of Thanalus, about the size of a thumbprint. With a sigh he looked away from his reflection. How long was he to be bound by this spell?

  The barbarian woman returned. “Here,” she said. “Don’t starve to death.” She set down a platter that held flat loaves, cheese, dried fruit, and finger-sized salted fish. It was humble fare, but at this time of year fresh food was to be found only in the houses of the wealthy.

  Shellring transferred her spare frame from the window seat to the table bench and began, without preamble, to stuff her mouth. Nistur sat and began to eat with more decorum but just as heartily. His situation was, at the moment, precarious in the extreme, and he knew well that it behooved one caught in such circumstances to lay in a good store of fuel when the opportunity presented itself, for who knew when he would once again have a chance to eat?

  “Will you not join us?” he said to the barbarian woman.

  “Not hungry,” she said, her tone indicating that no hunger, however urgent, would impel her to sit at the same table with him. Nistur was certain he had given the woman no cause for offense, but he had met with unearned hostility before in his eventful life, and he was fully prepared to cope with rejection in a manner befitting a poet and philosopher. He helped himself to some more of the fish.

  “Oh, unbend a little, Myrsa,” said Shellring. “He’s not such a bad sort. He caught me getting away with his purse and didn’t even give me a kick.” She laid a slice of cheese on a thick slab of bread and bit into it.

  “If you say so, little one.” To Nistur’s astonishment, the big woman ruffled Shellring’s stubbly hair affectionately. There was no affection at all in the look she bent upon him.

  “I do not believe I can quite place your people,” Nistur said to her. “Those designs embroidered on your tunic are similar to some mountain folks’ work I have seen, yet the cut of your leggings is that of the ice people. In either case, you seem to be far from home.”

  “Who told you I have a home?” she said. She turned and stalked away, displaying a soaring eagle embroidered across her broad back.

  “Not a friendly one, is she?” Nistur said when she had gone forward.

  “Don’t mind her. She hates everybody except for Stunbog, and sometimes me. Even I have to watch out when she’s in a bad mood.”

  “Barbarians have a reputation for ferocity,” he observed, “but seldom is it so freely bestowed. Usually they reserve their hostility for hereditary enemies, and show only varying degrees of contempt for the rest.”

  “I don’t think she has a real tribe,” Shellring said. “Sort of a loner, like me.”

  This seemed strange to Nistur, for he knew barbarians and all other primitive peoples were fiercely attached to their tribes, clans, and other family groups. Outcasts usually pined away and died upon long separation from their people. Most barbarians thought awful wounds and death to be trifling matters, whereas outlawry and exile were punishments too terrible to contemplate. If this woman was an exile, he reflected, it could well account for her ill temper.

  A few minutes later they were rejoined by the healer. The old man poured himself a cup of the mulled wine, then sat at the table, removing a pair of round-lensed spectacles.

  “Your friend is in no danger at the moment. He will recover from this attack within a few days. But his affliction is mortal and will kill him within a year or two.” Having delivered this dismal news, he drank with some satisfaction.

  “What is the nature of his ailment?” Nistur asked. “I have been acquainted with him only a brief while, and I have never seen quite such a seizure, either in him or in anyone else.”

  “I think he is a bold, reckless, and extremely unlucky man,” said the healer.

  “His boldness one may infer from his profession,” Nistur affirmed. “One seldom encounters mercenaries of a retiring disposition. Recklessness and ill luck are more difficult to discern, barring long observation of a man’s behavior.”

  “I know he is bold and reckless because he once fought a black dragon,” said Stunbog. “He is unlucky because it bit him.”

  “Bitten by a dragon?” Nistur marveled. “I would think, under the circumstances, that surviving such a mishap indicates a luck surpassing expectation.”

  Stunbog shook his head. “No, despite their fearsome snouts and fangs, many dragons are inefficient biters, more dependant on their terrible breath and snatching claws. It was an immature specimen, and its venom had not attained full potency or the man would have died instantly. Instead, he was smitten with a returning paralysis. It has progressed to the point that an attack renders his limbs completely useless. In time the paralysis will spread to his heart and lungs and he will die.”

  “How do you know the dragon was black?” Nistur asked.

  “This property of the venom of the young black dragon has been noted in the literature I’ve read about the creatures. Also, he is wearing its hide.”

  “He might’ve stolen that suit,” Shellring suggested. She held a fish in one hand and a dried pear in the other and seemed to be having difficulty in deciding which to eat first.

  “No, the armor was tailored for him and him alone,” Stunbog asserted. “It fits him as closely as Myrsa’s barbarian hides. Sometimes a soldier will have another man’s suit recut for himself, but the fit can never be made perfect. The dragon skin was harvested no more than five years ago. I can tell this by the condition of the scales. This is consistent with the progression of the illness. Hence, the man who sleeps below is the one who slew the dragon, took its skin, and had it made into armor for himself.”

  “And yet he has not escaped the dragon’s
revenge,” Nistur said. “Surely, this is matter fit for a poem. Heroic verse is a specialty of mine, as it happens.”

  “Truly?” said Stunbog. “I would have thought you a man of a … shall we say, a more aggressive profession.”

  “Indeed? A casual perusal of your home,” Nistur gestured around him, taking in the arcane paraphernalia, “and listening to your most learned disquisition on the nature and quality of dragons, would lead me to think you are more than a mere healer of modest means and abilities.”

  Stunbog polished the smudged lenses of his spectacles. “I am but a student of magical lore, perhaps even a scholar of small repute. But I practice only the healing arts.”

  “I see,” Nistur replied. “You must be a man of rare strength of character.”

  “How might that be?” Stunbog asked innocently.

  “Why, sir, it is well known that very few are the persons who, having mastered the lore and spells of the wizardly arts, are not tempted to put them into practice. It is averred by many that by the study of these arts the student’s mind and soul are seized by a compulsion to traffic with arcane powers and essay thaumaturgical feats.”

  “I, too, have heard that rumor, but I place little trust in it. There is another tale I have heard, maintaining that no one who has devoted many years to the exercise of arms can thereafter restrain himself from using weapons in earnest, and even earn his living with them. Yet we know this to be a fable, do we not?”

  “Even so, learned healer,” Nistur agreed.

  While this exchange passed between them, Shellring’s eyes rolled back and forth from one to the other, like those of a spectator at a duel. She had lived by her wits all her life, and she knew when two men were taking one another’s measure, each seeking to learn about the other without revealing too much of himself.

  Their uneasy exchange was interrupted by a loud knocking from below. “What now?” Stunbog said.

  “Sleepless nights are a well-known hazard to the healer’s profession,” Nistur commiserated.