Murder by Magic (33 page)

“Leave it for now,” the wizard snapped. “Fetch two chairs from my study and
then
get it out.”

“Yes, sir,” the servant muttered. It got to its feet, essayed an awkward bow, then tried to back out of the room, but bumped into a framework of wires and brass rods that jangled and wobbled.

“Watch where—oh, just get the chairs.”

“Yes, master,” the servant said, bowing quickly before turning to hurry out.

“As you can see,” the wizard said, “they aren’t perfect. Every so often one of them seems to lose its wits temporarily and begin bumping into things or dropping them. It’s very aggravating; there must be a flaw in the design, but I have no idea where it lies.”

The young duke nodded as he watched the homunculus vanish, then looked back at Rasec and found the wizard staring at him expectantly.

“Ah,” Croy said, gathering his wits. “Yes. Regarding any arrangements you might have had with my late father, uh . . .” He could think of no graceful way to complete the question, and after a moment’s hesitation asked simply, “Were there any?”

Rasec smiled. “Our arrangement was quite simple, as I believe I started to say once before. He left me alone, and I left him alone. In exchange for being permitted to remain here untroubled and untaxed, I agreed to provide magical services when necessary, with the very clear understanding that such necessities could not be frequent.”

“I see,” Croy said. “It sounds straightforward, and I hope we can continue in the same fashion.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

A movement caught Croy’s eye, and he glanced over the wizard’s shoulder to see the servant returning, hauling two chairs, one under each arm.

Rasec noticed Croy’s gaze and turned in time to see the servant drop one of the chairs. It clattered on the stone floor, and the servant looked up, stricken.

“Imbecile!” the wizard raged, raising a fist—a fist, Croy saw with astonishment, that was
glowing.

The servant cringed, then quickly set the undropped chair upright, positioned for the wizard’s use, and hurried to retrieve the other.

The glow faded from Rasec’s upraised hand.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with them tonight.” He looked down at the chair, then sighed. “And the stupid thing has given me the wrong chair; this is by far the better of the two, and therefore yours.” He pushed the chair across, and Croy accepted it.

“Thank you,” he said as he seated himself.

Then the servant placed the other chair, and the wizard settled into it. He rubbed at one of the carved wooden arms.

“It’s ruined the finish here, do you see?”

Croy nodded, and cast a look at the servant who had brought the chairs, who was once again on its knees, groping under the cabinet where the scepter had rolled.

“You have heard of the plague, Sir Wizard. Do you have any idea, then, what might have
caused
it?”

“Foul air, I would guess,” Rasec said. He turned at the sound of the servant’s approach.

The creature had finally managed to retrieve the scepter, somewhat the worse for wear; cobwebs had wrapped themselves around the shaft, and one of the ornamental protrusions on the head was visibly bent. The servant held it out for its master.

“I don’t want it,” Rasec snapped. “Put it somewhere!”

The creature blinked. “Where, master?”

“Somewhere even
you
can find it again!”

The servant looked down at the scepter, closing both hands on the heavy shaft; it looked at the wizard.

Then with horrifying suddenness it swung the scepter up in a swift arc and brought it slamming down on the wizard’s head.

Croy jumped from his chair with a wordless shout and caught Rasec as he slumped sideways.

The servant flung the scepter aside and ran; Croy, holding the wizard’s crumpled body, was unable to pursue. Instead, he shouted, “Stop! Help!”

The servant ignored him and vanished through the nearest doorway.

“Help!” Croy bellowed. “We need help here!” He looked around the room but saw only inanimate devices; then he looked down at Rasec.

What he saw did not look good; there was a visible dent in the old man’s skull and blood seeping from a hole made by one of the points on the scepter.

“Sir Wizard,” he said, “can you hear me?” He lifted the wizard’s shoulders, and the head flopped backward limply. Croy could not hear any breath, nor did the wizard’s chest show any sign of a beating heart.

Rasec did not respond to his question; even if the wizard still lived, he was obviously not conscious.

“Help!” Croy shouted again.

This time he received an answer. “What appears to be . . . ?” a voice began.

Croy turned to see the servant reentering the room through a different door—or so he thought at first, but then he realized that this was probably
not
the servant who had wielded the scepter, but one of the others.

The newcomer caught sight of the wizard and did not complete its question.

“Fetch my men,” Croy barked. “Bring them at once. Nampach took them to the rose garden.”

“At once, my lord. And I’ll send someone to tend to my master.”

“Bring my men first,” Croy barked. “I’ll do what I can for your master, but I fear it’s too late.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the servant was gone, and Croy was alone with the wizard.

He knelt and put an ear to the narrow chest, then felt a bony wrist; he could find neither heartbeat nor pulse, and the flesh already seemed to be cooling.

The wizard Rasec was dead.

An hour later Rasec had been laid out upon his bed, and Croy’s men had the five servants under guard in a bare stone storeroom. That was where Croy confronted them.

The soldiers had found the five scattered about the house and had brought them here. All five had vehemently denied killing the wizard and had not admitted to any knowledge of which of their fellows might have committed this heinous act.

It was up to Croy to decide what to do with them all.

The simplest thing would be to have them all put to death, on the grounds of conspiracy to commit murder—and as duke he certainly had the authority to do so—but these five were probably the only beings alive who knew anything about Rasec’s magic, who knew their way around the household, who knew whether Rasec had any family.

And more important, four of them might be innocent of wrongdoing, and while they were not human, still they surely deserved whatever justice he could arrange.

He could have freed them all, pardoned the killer, perhaps let it be known that the wizard had died of the plague, but that would leave a murderer alive and loose on his lands, and furthermore, Rasec deserved better. That meant that Croy needed to determine which of the five had killed their master.

Looking at the five of them seated on the storeroom floor, however, he could see no way at all to distinguish one from another.

“Fetch me ribbons, or strips of cloth,” he ordered one of his soldiers. “Tear them from draperies if you must. I need at least five different colors.”

The man saluted and hurried away, leaving Croy standing in the storeroom doorway, looking in at the homunculi. Their inhuman faces were hard to read, but none of them appeared any more agitated than the others.

“This is a serious matter,” Croy said. “Your master has been killed, do you understand that? I must question you to determine who is responsible. Lying to me in such a circumstance is grounds for execution.”

“We understand, my lord,” said one of them. The others nodded agreement.

That said, Croy tried to think what to ask, but the words did not want to come. He was distracted by footsteps and turned to see the soldier returning.

“I found the kitchen rag pile, Your Grace,” the man said, holding out several strips of cloth.

Croy selected five—red, white, green, blue, and brown—and tossed them to the homunculi. “Now,” he said, “each of you will wear one of these tied around your right arm at all times so that we can tell you apart.”

The servants sorted out the tags and secured them in place, as ordered, with varying degrees of reluctance.

“I wonder,” Croy said, “that your master never saw fit to label you. Could he tell you apart by sight?”

“No,” said the nearest, who now wore a green band around its arm.

“He knew our voices,” said the creature wearing the white band.

“I don’t think he
cared
which of us was which,” said the brown-wearing servant.

“He called one of you by name,” Croy said. “Nampach.”

“He had heard me speak just a few moments before,” said the one wearing white.

“You are Nampach?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Croy looked at the green-banded servant and asked, “Can
you
tell your companions apart by their voices?”

“Usually, my lord.”

“Close your eyes.”

The one in green obeyed.

“Now, tell me each name as you hear each voice.” Croy pointed to the brown-banded creature.

“What would you have me say, my lord?”

“That’s either Suturb or Nahris,” the green promptly announced.

“I’m Suturb.”

Croy pointed to the white.

“I take it I should not say my own name.” The voice was somehow a little richer than Suturb’s.

“Nampach.”

Croy nodded, and pointed again, choosing red this time.

“I’m Suturb,” the indicated homunculus said.

“Is it Suturb again?” the green asked. “You sound more like Nahris.”

“It’s Nahris,” Nampach said.

“It is,” Nahris admitted. “I was just seeing if I could fool you.”

That left one who had not spoken, wearing a blue band; Croy pointed.

The blue-banded creature did not respond immediately, but Nahris prodded it with a thumb, and it said, “I can’t think of anything to say.”

“Thoob,” the green-wearer pronounced as it opened its eyes. “And my name is Yar, my lord.”

It occurred to Croy that perhaps he should be able to recognize the murderer’s voice himself; after all, he had heard the creature speak. Unfortunately, he could not be certain; while there were subtle differences, the voices were fairly similar, and he had not been listening carefully when the killer replied to the wizard’s commands.

He was fairly sure that it hadn’t been Nampach, since Nampach had been sent to escort his men to the rose garden.

“Which of you answered the door and admitted us?” he asked.

“I did, my lord,” Yar replied.

None of the others spoke up, but Croy asked Nampach, “Is that right?”

“I believe so, Your Grace.”

That left three. “And which of you was assisting your master in the great chamber?”

The homunculi glanced at one another, but none spoke.

“Your Grace, we may not be as clever as true men,” Nampach said after a moment’s awkward silence, “and I can scarcely comprehend the thinking of one who would strike our master, but I do not believe you will catch the killer
that
easily! We all know that the one who was serving in the great chamber is the murderer.”

“And do any of you know which it was? Nampach?”

“Alas, I do not, Your Grace.”

“Yar?”

“No, my lord.”

“Thoob?”

The blue-marked creature shook its head.

“Suturb?”

“I know only that I was not there.”

“Nahris?”

“I say what Suturb said, my lord.”

“One of you is lying.”

“One of us is,” Nahris agreed, “but I assure you, it is not me.”

Croy stared at the five of them for a moment, remembering puzzles he had heard as a boy about men who always lied but might, by clever questioning, be coerced into yielding useful information.

Unfortunately, these creatures were not so limited; they could speak lies or the truth as they pleased. And presumably, only one of them knew who was guilty, so the others had no information to yield.

He had narrowed it down to three, in any case. That was a start. He could not spot the killer by appearance, nor by voice; what did that leave?

Actions, of course—actions, so it was said, spoke louder than words. The killer had been clumsy, constantly dropping things—but Rasec had said that all of them had spells of clumsiness.

Was there some
pattern
to those spells, some way to determine which of them was afflicted today?

“Yar,” he said, “come with me.” He gestured to the soldiers. “You two, with us. The rest of you wait here.”

Leaving the remaining servants under guard, he led Yar and his two chosen men down the corridor and into the scullery. There he posted the two soldiers at the door, then turned and looked at the servant’s wary face.

“You need have no fear,” Croy said. “You and Nampach are not suspected, and even if we find it necessary to hang all three of the others, you two will be free to go your own way. In fact, it may be that we will find a comfortable place for you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Yar said, bowing—but its expression did not entirely relax.

“I sincerely hope that we will
not
find it necessary to hang two innocents, but the guilty party cannot be permitted to live; I hope you understand that.”

“I believe I do, my lord.”

“Good. Now, I noticed something about the killer’s behavior. Your late master said that there was a flaw in your construction and that sometimes you have spells in which you lose your wits and become quite clumsy. Are you familiar with this?”

“Of course, my lord; I have seen my companions drop fragile objects or trip over their own feet, on occasion.”

Croy nodded. “And when did
you
last experience such a spell?”

Yar hesitated. “My lord, I do not remember
ever
experiencing one.”

Croy frowned. “Speak honestly, now, or it will go ill with you.”

“My lord, I
am
speaking honestly! I do not say I have never experienced such a spell, merely that I do not
remember
one. I have seen them affect the others, and perhaps one result of the unhappy event is that one does not remember it.”

“Very well. But you have seen all the others afflicted?”