Bloodstone (13 page)

"I can vouch for that," Kane asserted, "though there seems an element of sorcery to Ossvalt's death. No one seen to enter or leave the room, no mark on the body, no sign of struggle--you would expect that even if he were smothered. The assassin might have had time to rearrange the bedding, but Ossvalt's face wasn't bluish--his features were even composed. You'd have sworn he died of natural causes, if I hadn't warned you of Dribeck's plot. And he wasn't poisoned, so far as we know, since he ate and drank along with everyone else that night."

"I've thought of that," Lutwion remarked, as the door opened to admit a servant with a tray. Nerves had tightened despite his careful knock. Guards stood watchful in the hallway beyond. "And while I'm not exactly fasting, what little I've eaten today has been tasted first by my cooks. Here's cold meat, bread and wine; if you're inclined. My own appetite isn't too keen tonight."

The servant was infected by the atmosphere of tension. His hand trembled nervously as he poured wine, and he clumsily brushed the decanter against a brimming goblet, as he bent to serve Kane. The cowled figure had noted the other's unsteadiness, however, and his left hand flashed from his pelisse to catch up the overbalanced goblet even as it toppled. Lutwion's eyebrows rose as he witnessed the stranger's startling reflexes. Mumbling apologies, the servant set down his tray and departed. Kane stared after him.

"Why don't you shed that cloak, pilgrim?" Lutwion asked. "My men are trustworthy, if you're concerned about secrecy."

"There is still the matter of an unknown assassin," Malchion explained. "I mean to use the priest here to spy further on Dribeck's plots, and if he's recognized now, his return to Selonari will be unpleasant. I'd rather no one knew his identity. Keeping him here tonight is a calculated risk, but he's closer to this plot than any of us, and I can't spare him. Meanwhile, I'm trying to preserve whatever secrecy I can, about him."

Lutwion looked thoughtfully at the face hidden in the shadow of the hood. "Well, any fool should know he isn't a priest, but so long as you avoid any more exposure than necessary, I doubt if anyone can tell for certain just who is hidden in that pelisse. A spy in Dribeck's midst will be invaluable in the war--and it looks like we'll need to crush Selonari soon, now that Dribeck has shown his, intent. A suggestion, though: I'd get rid of that ring. It's quite distinctive, even if prying eyes can't see your face clearly."

"Thanks. I admit your point is valid," Kane replied. "But the ring has proved to bring me luck in the past, and I'm inclined to take the slight chance of its drawing notice."

"Well, it's your neck. Ah! Something's stirred up the hounds! I want to check this!"

Ferocious baying met their ears as they raced to the ground level of the manor house. Men cursed and yelled, shouted challenges. Loud but brief, the alarm had diminished by the time Lutwion shouldered his way through the main door and demanded an account from the milling guardsmen.

A familiar laugh greeted them. "Lutwion, your security stinks!" grinned Teres, her teeth bright against a soot-smeared face. "I got all the way to your servants' quarters and just about had a window forced, before your pack caught my trail. You'll never make it to morning if you trust these men with your safety. The kennels look to be best guarded--pass the night there."

"I thought you wanted to keep an eye on Lian," Malchion reminded. There was pride in the smile he flashed toward his daughter.

"Lian is interesting only if you share his enthusiasm for Lian. I don't. Besides, he's no tool of Dribeck. I thought I'd come watch you men snare an assassin."

"Milord! She knocked two of our men out cold, and damn well split Osbun's scalp open!" protested one of Lutwion's captains sourly.

"An assassin would have split their skulls. Next time they'll man their posts more vigilantly," Teres purred.

"Yeah? Well, Osbun says he challenged you in the alley, and you identified yourself to him--then as soon as he let you approach, you slugged him with a bludgeon!"

"So next time he won't be lulled by a voice of authority. It's a dark night, and I might have been disguised," Teres continued imperturbably.

Lutwion ordered his men back to their posts, his mood stormy. "I appreciate your interest," he said unconvincingly. His frown was genuine. "Thanks to your concern, my men are riled up, my defenses are revealed, and we've made enough uproar to frighten any assassin back to Selonari. That is, if he hasn't used this confusion to slip by my guards!"

"Hell, in the same breath you bitch at me for scaring off your killer, then for letting him sneak past!" Teres scoffed. She nodded at Kane. "Well, here it is again--Father's personal spiritual guide. Sometime I'm going to see what you look like without that tent, Kane.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized without conviction. "And we're trying so hard to keep your identity a secret. Well, there's no one in earshot except Lutwion, and our good general won't abuse his knowledge."

Kane caught Teres's mocking blue eyes and wondered again at the destructive malice of her whims. "Which side are you on?" he murmured to her in low voice.

"An intriguing question coming from you, my pilgrim," she remarked with a bright smile.

"While we're about, might as well patrol the manor," Lutwion decided. "If we find our killer skulking about, Teres can show us how to deal with him properly."

Teres's appearance had somewhat lessened the tautness of nerve among those who waited through the night. Malchion argued that their precautions had thwarted Dribeck's assassin, since the original plot assumed that Ossvalt's death would appear natural, and Lutwion therefore would have suspected nothing. Which meant, as Teres pointed out, that now Lutwion dare not relax his vigilance. The general said little, being not surprisingly in a grim mood.

A night passed under threat of death seems interminable, and paradoxically, boredom wallows across the mind alongside fear's shrill and ceaseless chatter. But for the alert bearing, the darting glance into every shadow, distracted conversation often left unfinished, Lutwion might well be leading his guests on a leisurely tour of his manor. No furtive movements, no sinister figures met their inspection; guards had only negative responses to their queries.

Momentarily the general paused at the doorway of his bedchamber. "An obvious place for the assassin to wait; if our reconstruction of last night holds true," he told them. "Empty when we examined the room earlier this evening... but now? Well, I've stationed a guard within. The murderer will have to take second choice for a place to hide himself, if he tries to repeat his game."

But as they stepped into the chamber, no challenge greeted them. Teres laughed and pointed. A soldier in Lutwion's livery reclined upon the general's bed.

"Bright Ommem roast your liver, soldier!" Lutwion roared. "You never could have chosen a worse post to sleep on! I'll lash your back to raven meat with these hands!"

The guardsman slept soundly--nor would he ever waken.

"Dead! Dead like Ossvalt!" gasped Malchion, roughly shaking the prone form.

"Not long dead, either," Kane pronounced. "His flesh is warm and limber, but the- heart is still."

Guards poured in from the hallway at Lutwion's bellow. Bleakly he directed them to search the chambers thoroughly, then joined the examination of the slain guardsman. Their efforts yielded nothing. Kane inspected the windows thoughtfully. "Shutters are bolted securely. The killer didn't leave through here this time. The hall door then, obviously, but why kill the guard? Probably surprised the assassin, but why was there no outcry? Why wasn't he seen leaving?" His fingers drew back the shutter bolts.

"Leave them open, will you?" Teres requested over the hubub of conjecture. "The room has a sour stench of death--" Her features froze as recognition dawned.

"By Thoem! Just like the odor I sensed in Ossvalt's room last night!"

The others turned toward her, bewilderment on their faces. "Maybe so," Kane began. "Though how this hypothetical stench of death might fit in seems a tenuous link at best. I'm not sure myself that there's anything more here than what you can expect from a corpse in a closed chamber..."

Knuckles jammed against teeth, Teres studied the slain guard intently. Falling to her knees, she stared closely at the dead face. "No, there's something here! Why were both bodies found as if asleep? Ossvalt maybe was killed in his sleep... but the guard, too? There has to be a link-and bugger my ass if I don't think I see it now!"

Flashing out her dagger, Teres tore loose a strip of cloth from the black shirt she wore. She breathed heavily upon it several times, then with cautious movements began to rub the dampened patch across the pillows. Rising, she thrust it under a lamp and cried out, "I know how they died!"

Malchion looked over her shoulder quizzically. "So you've found some dandruff!"

"Not dandruff, dumbass!" Teres snorted. "See those pale tiny particles! They're grains of poison!" The others crowded about to share examination.

"See... they're tiny crystals! The Carsultyal wizards refine the powder from the roots or blossoms of some malign jungle flowers--they're masters of subtle poisons!"

"What do you know about it!" scoffed Lutwion, though his sweaty face was not drawn in ridicule.

"Vyrel, our moss-bearded physician, told me a good many bits of arcane lore to pass the time when I was bedridden in his care with my busted leg. He studied for a while in Carsultyal--long enough to acquire a few of their secrets and their vices. He used some milder preparations of this sort to dull my pain at first. Ommem! The dreams I had! And he used to inhale the fumes of his powders himself in an intricate sort of pipe--probably what killed him eventually--and that's how I remembered the odor. This must be one of the deadlier of the preparations that the wizards play with.

"The assassin slipped into the bedchamber, sprinkled the powder from a sealed flask over the pillows, then walked away. A sleeper wouldn't notice them, they're so few and so tiny... but some would be absorbed through his face on contact, killing silently."

"They're vanishing!" Lutwion exclaimed, pointing to the deadly particles.

"It seems they're volatile," Teres speculated. "They melt away in air--leave no trace after a few hours, other than the faint odor." As they watched, the crystals diminished to rapidly fading motes of moisture. "Guess the heat from the lamp speeds up the sublimation... like Vyrel's strange pipe."

The others nodded hypnotically, eyes glazed as they stared at the patch of dark cloth. Teres started to slump. "The windows! Damn it, throw open those windows!" yelled Kane, who had drifted apart from their cluster. "Drop that cloth, and come suck some clean air into your chests! The fumes are more potent than you realize!"

Like sleepwalkers they obeyed, shuffling with groggy movements to the windows as the guards swung open the shutters. Dully they leaned their heads into the misty night, mechanically breathing in deep lungfuls of the fresh air.

"Like being drunk, almost--very drunk," Teres murmured, her head slowly clearing.

"If you'd kept at it, you'd never wake for the hangover," Kane warned. "The mystery of the guard's death is cleared up, though. The assassin, who obviously visited this room before the guard took his post, sprinkled too much poison over the pillows--probably so there would still remain crystals when Lutwion at last decided to sleep. In the closed bedchamber the vapors accumulated, so that the hidden guardsman grew sleepy under the poisoned breath. The bed tempted his faltering senses, and he fell into the deathtrap set for Lutwion."

"So it wasn't sorcery," mused Lutwion, recovering alertness. "Unless the killer is a wraith. Either he totally eluded my guards, or I'm left with the unpleasant conclusion that one of my men is a traitor!"

Through the gaping windows coursed a call of alarm from the hidden depths of night. A hoarse shout of challenge muffled in the distance, with a rising tone of insistence. Angry summons for help, answered by converging clamor of excited cries, pounding boots. "Milords!" came an anonymous yell from below. "Milords! We've spotted him! Some bastard just tried to sneak past our lines! Headed away from the manor! He broke and ran when we sighted him--but we're hot after him! He'll not slip through our outlying perimeter!"

"Good work!" roared Lutwion, leaning perilously from the window. "It's our killer! Take him alive if you can, but fog or no fog, I want that devil run to earth! I'm coming out!"

He whirled to the others, eyes alight. "Well, I'll soon know who the traitor is, if he's one of my men! Thoem, what a dismal night to track a killer! Every man after him, now! That slinking murderer must be taken before he breaks past my net!"

Into the night they plunged. Lutwion vanished with several of his guards; his sharp voice cut through the darkness, directing his men in their search. Despite his orders, the military precision of his deployment, confusion was master.

Teres quickly separated from the others. Invisible in her black, close-fitting garments, her face smudged with soot, she merged with the night like a she-wolf on the hunt. A torch would only give away her position; the assassin needed no light, nor did she. Her sword rested easily in her grip; her heart raced dizzily in fierce thrill. Perhaps the drug still twisted her mind. A looming guardsman missed death by a hairbreadth, and she answered his curses with laughter.

With every ruthless trick, the night fought their efforts to penetrate its veil. No worse night could be designed for their deadly manhunt. Fog rolled in oily streamers and touched cheeks with palpable breath, cool as a corpse's caress. Lost cries, voices came muffled to dreamlike distance through the enveloping swirl. Dozens of armed men rushed madly about her, but none could be seen. Phantoms of fog they were, frantic spirits that darted into view for a heartbeat, then vanished. Misty jewels, their torches seemed glowing patches of spider-silk, casting illumination scarcely far enough to touch earth. The moon was swallowed entirely in the morass of clouds, roiling heavily across the skies. Sporadic flashes of lightning made wan flickers behind the cloudbank, silhouetting for an instant dim patterns grotesquely writhing against the heavens. Belated thunder rumbled ominously, distant but growing near, fitful as a sleeping hound's growl. Through this night the search dragged on, spreading outward now.