Murder in Tarsis (11 page)

“I’ll have to inspect the city walls,” Ironwood said. “The nomads may not be numerous enough for a complete encirclement. If I spot a hole in their lines, we can be out through it after dark. They’ll have roving patrols out, but I’ll take my chances with them.”

“That’s good enough for you two,” Shellring said sullenly, “but I’ve never been away from the city in my life.”

“You may have little choice,” Ironwood said. “The nomads may destroy the place soon, and you’ll have no city. Why not throw in with us? It’ll be an interesting life, even if it’s a short one.”

“I’ve thought of traveling,” she said wistfully, “but cutpurses are unpopular everywhere.”

“My friends,” said Nistur, “it occurs to me that there is another course we may take.”

“What’s that?” Ironwood inquired.

“We may actually find out who killed the ambassador.”

Ironwood looked at him in astonishment. “But we’re not investigators! That’s just a story we made up.”

“How do we know?” Nistur pointed out. “We’ve never tried. We are all, if I may say so, brave, resourceful, adaptable persons, shrewd of mind and gracious of address. We may be just the stuff of which successful investigators are made!” Almost without his notice, eagerness and enthusiasm had crept into his voice.

“I don’t know …” Ironwood began hesitantly.

“Listen,” Shellring said, “we can’t just be scouting out a way to escape. Pretty soon everybody in Tarsis will know who we are. They’ll be watching every move we make, and some of them will be reporting back to the lord.

We have to look busy doing something, so it might as well be investigating the murder. Remember, we have a little more than four days. That should be time enough to work out our next move.”

“There,” said Nistur, “you see? Even this humble young lady sees the wisdom of my plan.”

“All right,” said Ironwood grudgingly. “Investigators we are. But where do we start?”

“Our partner looks pensive,” said Nistur. “What are your thoughts?”

“Well,” Shellring said, “I’m thinking about those poor fools who were in jail with us. They didn’t do anything to deserve being shut up there. I always earned my way into that place, but they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now they’ve been questioned, the lord will probably forget about them, and who knows when someone will think to turn them loose? Do you think we can do anything for them?”

“Excellent thought!” said Nistur. “What’s more natural than we should ourselves question these witnesses? To the jail, then. But first, a bath!”

*****

“My good man,” Nistur said to the head guard, “we have completed our interrogation of these prisoners and are satisfied that they know nothing of use. You may set them at liberty.”

The jailer looked at the three doubtfully. “No such order has come down from the palace.”

Nistur stroked his seal complacently. “As you know, we are special investigators in the matter of the murder of Ambassador Yalmuk. In this capacity, we have authority over

all phases and persons involved in this investigation. We have powers to arrest or free any suspects or witnesses we please. Free them. Unless, of course, you wish to disturb His Lordship at this crucial time in order to obtain clarification.”

“Well… I suppose it’s in order, as long as you take full responsibility.”

“The fullest,” Nistur confirmed. When the jailer was gone below, he turned to his friends. “The wonderful thing about having such a unique office is that we get to make up our powers as we require them.”

“Until someone seriously challenges us,” Ironwood said. “Then we’ve not got a leg to stand on.”

Outside the Hall of Justice, the ragged little band of prisoners thanked their benefactors.

“You may not be in much better condition now,” Ironwood cautioned. “Kyaga isn’t allowing anyone to leave the city.”

“Anything has to be better than that jail,” said a traveling merchant. “If the nomads storm in, we can at least hope to find an escape route.”

“Which statue is the one where you found the body?” Nistur asked.

“I’ll show you.” The merchant led them across the small plaza to the statue of Abushmulum the Ninth. As the former prisoners made their hasty exit, lest the authorities change their minds, the investigators studied the base of the statue. No one had yet bothered to wash down the base and the paving below. The stream of blood was still plain, as was the blackened puddle that spread across the flagstones.

“I wonder why whoever killed him heaved the corpse up there,” Ironwood mused.

“Boost me up,” Nistur said. “I want to examine this pedestal.”

Ironwood gave him a leg up, and Shellring followed with the agility of a monkey.

“What do you see?” Ironwood asked.

“About what you’d expect,” Shellring said. “There’s a lot of blood up here. Old Abushmulum looks like he’s been wading in it.”

“I find that very curious,” Nistur observed.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because there is so much blood up here, whereas below there is only the puddle, which clearly trickled down there from here.”

“You mean he wasn’t killed down here and thrown up there?” Ironwood demanded. “He was killed on the pedestal?”

“So it would appear.” With some difficulty, Nistur scrambled off the pedestal. Shellring sprang lightly and landed easily on her feet.

“But what was he doing up there?” Ironwood asked. “He must have climbed onto the pedestal with the murderer and got killed. It makes no sense.”

“Little of this will make sense until we have all the facts,” said Nistur.

“You talk as if you know all about this kind of business,” said Ironwood.

“I am learning, and so are you. Come along.” The ex-assassin poet began walking northward.

“Where are we going?” Shellring asked.

“Constable Weite said the body was taken to the palace mortuary. With luck, it may still be there.”

“I don’t see the point of looking at a dead barbarian,” she muttered, but followed along anyway.

The palace mortuary was located in a wing far from the great rooms of state and the living quarters of the Lord of Tarsis. It was a place where the bodies of prorninent persons were prepared for state funerals. At the entrance they explained their mission to the shaven-headed, lugubrious individual in charge.

“You are just in time,” he said solemnly. “The departed was just about to be taken to the nomad camp for their funeral rites. Come with me.”

They found Yalmuk Bloodarrow lying on a catafalque covered with costly silks. His clothing had been washed and his body bathed and anointed. His hands lay crossed on his chest, resting on the hilt of his curved sword. The fatal wound had been tastefully covered by a silken scarf, and even his features had been rearranged in a peaceful expression.

“Good job,” Ironwood commended. “He almost looks happy to be dead.”

“We always strive to do our best for our clients,” said the state undertaker.

Delicately, Nistur lifted the scarf away from the late ambassador’s neck. Both men examined the ghastly wound with interest. Shellring turned away, her face slightly pale.

“Surely you have seen your share of murder victims in your short life, have you not?” Nistur murmured.

“More than enough,” she said. “But I never get used to it. I’m a thief, not a killer.”

“This is an odd-looking wound,” Ironwood said. “But I can’t say just why.”

“I understand what you mean,” Nistur concurred. “There is no raggedness to the cut, but then a very keen blade will not leave ragged edges. Rather, it is usually plain where a cut begins and where it terminates. There will be some, some”—he waved a hand in search of a fitting word—”some disproportion to the wound: a wider incision where the cut begins, or a shallower cut where the blade was lifted away. Here we have a nearly circular cut that seems to be of equal depth all the way around.”

“I think you two enjoy this,” Shellring muttered.

“Exercise of the intellectual faculties is always

enjoyable,” Nistur said. Then, to the undertaker: “I must turn him so we can examine the back of his neck.”

“Must you?” the bald man said, shocked.

“I assure you it will not disturb him in the least.”

Scandalized, the man summoned a pair of attendants whose expressions were as glum as his own. Carefully, the two raised the corpse until it was in a near-sitting posture. Nistur and Ironwood leaned close to examine the nape of the neck.

“Aha!” said Nistur. “Observe, my friends. Here we have a continuation of the circular incision clear around the back of the neck and bone-deep, but do you notice a difference?”

Determined not to seem squeamish before her companions, Shellring squinted at the wound while trying to keep her lunch down. “Looks like two cuts,” she said. “One right above the other.”

“Exactly!” Nistur crowed.

“So what does it mean?” Ironwood asked. “I’ve never seen a wound like it.”

“I have,” Nistur said. “In my, as it were, former profession, I learned of the properties of a great many weapons. This wound was not made by a blade at all. It was made by a garrote consisting of two handles connected by a very strong, thin steel wire. The wire encircles the neck, and the handles are pulled in opposite directions to tighten the noose. The double cut is where the wires overlapped behind the neck.” At his gesture the attendants lowered the body and efficiently restored it to its lying-in-state condition.

“Come, my friends,” said Nistur. “We have much to do.”

Outside the mortuary, Shellring breathed easier. “I don’t like that place! Where I live may not be a mansion, but at least most of the people there are alive!”

“Where do you live when you’re not at Stunbog’s or taking the lord’s hospitality in jail?” Ironwood asked her.

She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Here and there. Mostly, I stay in the Old City.”

“I thought it was abandoned,” Nistur said.

“The officials say it’s abandoned because there aren’t any households or businesses there. That means no taxes get collected there, which means, as far as they’re concerned, it doesn’t exist. But people live there who can’t find anyplace else. If you need a place to sleep, you can usually find a nook in some cellar to hole up where you’ll be pretty safe and not too cold.”

“What is the nature of the danger?” Nistur asked.

“The gangs, mostly. They hunt down thieves like me, looking for money hoards. If they catch you, they’ll torture you to make you reveal your stash. After that, it can get really rough. There are plenty of killers there, some of them insane.”

“Well,” said Nistur, “now you need have no such fears. You are an official.”

“It’s my life,” she said belligerently. “I don’t want to trade it for another.”

“Let’s keep our minds on our problem,” Ironwood said. “It was bad luck that the body was cleaned up, even his clothes washed.”

“He was none too pleasant a corpse as it was,” said Nistur, “but I take your meaning. Doubtless evidence was destroyed that might have pointed toward the killer.”

“So who do we talk to next?” Shellring asked.

“Certain high nobles had power games to play with the late ambassador, together with rivalries directed toward the lord. I think these are the strongest suspects, but I have a certain, small misgiving that makes me reluctant to question them at random.”

“What’s that?” Ironwood asked.

“I think one of them almost certainly hired me to kill you, and we know that this man is ill-disposed and

inclined to hire killings. Also, he is certain to feel cheated and resentful.”

“Hmm, that could be a problem,” Ironwood admitted.

“And yet I must locate him,” Nistur said.

“Why?” Shellring asked. “Do you think he might’ve murdered the ambassador?”

“I have no idea. But I must return his payment. I did not earn it.”

Ironwood pondered for a while. “In my travels,” he said at length, “I came across only one people who regularly employ the garotte. These are certain desert barbarians, outlaws for the most part, who use them to strangle unsuspecting victims. For this purpose, they usually employ bowstrings or knotted, hide thongs, but steel wire would answer the same purpose even better. I’ll warrant there are a good many such rogues in that army outside the walls.”

“That is a shrewd deduction,” Nistur commended. “You see, already you justify the lord’s trust in you.”

“But why haul the body all the way up to the pedestal?” Shellring asked.

“I have been pondering that very same question,” Nistur said. “And I think I have the answer. Come with me.

They followed him back to the little plaza before the Hall of Justice. Again Ironwood boosted him atop the pedestal. “Observe,” Nistur said. He took a silken scarf from his neck and, gripping a corner in each hand, twirled it into the semblance of a thin cord. “Here we have our killer’s weapon.” Now he squatted on his heels, the soles of his feet flat on the stone, his toes almost at the edge of the pedestal. His hands were now just below that edge, crossed at the wrists, the scarf forming an elongated U.

“As his victim passes below, the murderer drops the noose over his head, pulling it thus”—he uncrossed his

wrists—”tightening the loop. Then he merely straightens his legs.” Nistur stood to his full height, slowly, as if lifting a ponderous weight. “You see, the muscles of the thighs are the strongest in the body, far stronger than those of arms and back, which must be employed in garroting someone from behind, at ground level. Thus even a man of middling strength can both kill and lift a victim from the ground. The victim’s own weight does most of the work, forcing the cord or, as in this case, wire, into the neck. The murderer simply steps backward, lets the victim fall, and watches him die at leisure. It is an ideal way for one to overcome another who is physically much stronger, so we need not necessarily be seeking one more powerful than the burly Yalmuk.”

“Effective and efficient, if you can just lure your victim near enough,” Ironwood admitted.

“It is even better than that,” Nistur said.

“How so?” Ironwood inquired.

“It is far more dramatic than an ordinary killing. It leaves the viewer shaken and bewildered at the same time.” Nistur beamed down at them. “This tells us something else of vital interest: our killer has a sense of style.”