Murder in Tarsis (14 page)

“I confess that I stooped to the most unscrupulous tactics to secure rare and mighty techniques. I essayed spells that were far beyond my youthful skills, spells that should be attempted, if at all, only by wizards of much experience and great strength of character. Maturity is as

important in sorcery as in government or any other serious activity.”

“So I understand,” Nistur murmured sympathetically.

“In time, so arrogant, so full of myself did I become that other magicians came to despise me, mages older, wiser, and in some cases far more evil than I. For in my own feeble defense I must protest that I never thought to become a wizard of the Black Robes. My flaws were those of ambition and impetuosity.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Nistur said. “You were, after all, quite young.”

Stunbog laughed. “You have a rare gift of diplomacy, my friend. It disguises well what a dangerous man you are. But then, lions are the color of grass, and sharks are the color of their native waters. Even predators must have protective coloration.”

“You are perceptive. So your ambitions led you into folly?”

Stunbog’s smile went away, and his visage darkened. “Folly of the most dreadful sort. To impress my betters, whom in my vanity I perceived as rivals—great must have been their amusement at that particular bit of presumption—I sought to perform a spell that had not been attempted, even by magicians of the highest rank, in more than five hundred years. I cannot even repeat its name to you, for so potent is its power that certain preliminary rituals of protection must be performed before it can even be discussed, and then only among initiates of certain arcane mysteries.”

“It sounds like a daunting rite,” Nistur said.

“That is far too mild an expression. It was more than merely deadly, it was catastrophic, not only to the practitioner but to all who dwelled around him. My colleagues, who had by this time all become my enemies, cooperated to thwart each step of the ritual as I performed it,

mining every bit of its baleful influence against me. Had I been a great wizard, I would have detected their interference with ease and taken steps to protect myself. But then”—he shrugged his bowed shoulders with resignation—”had I been a great wizard, I never would have attempted anything so foolish.”

“Ah, but the impetuosities of youth are common to all of us. Why, I, myself—”

The healer held up a forestalling palm. “Do not overdo the commiseration, my friend. Even when sincerely meant, a simple assurance is usually sufficient.”

“Your pardon.” Nistur bowed slightly, fingers of one hand spread upon his breast.

“No offense taken, I assure you. To continue: I completed the spell in every detail, glorying in what I thought to be my tremendous power and expertise. I stood there in triumph, surrounded by my sigils, my magical artifacts, all the glowing and glamorous effects of my chosen art…” His words trailed off, his eyes distant as he looked back across the years toward what Nistur was certain must have been his last happy moment

“And then?” Nistur asked quietly.

“And then,” Stunbog continued, his face transformed into a mask of bitterness and regret, “I heard the sounds of horror and desolation from all around me. I was not elevated among spirits of vast power, as I had anticipated. Instead, I was in my wizardry lair as before, but my fires and candles were dimming, as if covered by some unseen candlesnuffer. The beams and stones overhead creaked with strain, and fine powder sifted over me, as if I were in an ill-constructed tunnel that was about to cave in. I knew then that I must have performed some part of the rite incorrectly, although I could not imagine what it might have been.

“Fearing the collapse of my lair, I stuffed my books and such instruments as I could salvage into a great bag and

carried it all out.” He gestured around the cabin. “Much of what you see here is what I contrived to salvage. I ran from the building, and even as I broke out into the light, I heard it shudder behind me. But the sight that greeted my eyes was so terrible I did not even turn around to see my home fall and become dust.

“As far as I could see, every building, every house and barn and shed, was disintegrating. The leaves withered and fell from the trees; the crops shriveled in the fields. The people were running from their crumbling dwellings, keening laments at this catastrophe. The cattle bawled in the fields, for the grass had withered, and the water holes were drying up.”

Stunbog took a deep breath and a deeper draught of his mulled wine; then he went on. “All day long I wandered through that blasted landscape. Everything made by human hands had crumbled to dust. Except for the folk themselves, every living thing was dead or dying. And when the people saw me, they knew. Before they had feared me, but no one was afraid of my magic. When they saw me, unharmed, still in my ritual garments and bearing the great bag of my belongings, they stoned me and drove me forth. Had they not been so shattered by what had befallen them, they would have torn me to shreds.

“In time I came to untouched lands. Still I did not understand. I sought out the local mages, pleading for some aid in undoing what I had done. They all laughed at me, even the kindliest of them. The punishment for folly is inevitable and irreversible, for a wizard. It must be borne. I protested that it was not just that my neighbors should suffer for my stupidity. The wizards were pitiless. Justice is for the dealings of ordinary folk, they told me. Justice is a man-made thing, an idea enforced by courts and rulers and judges. It has nothing to do with

wizardry, which has different rules. I, an aspiring wizard, should know this, surely.”

The old man shook his head. “How they delighted in pushing my humiliated face into the foul puddle of my idiotic arrogance. Well, if there was any justice in the business at all, that was it. In the end, when I came to understand the profundity of my guilt, I forswore all practice of wizardry. I donned the garments of a healer, and from that day to this, I have never touched magic, save for creating some very minor, beneficent potions that promote healing.”

Nistur was pleased to detect a slight note of pride in those last words. “I think you are too hard on yourself, my friend. And surely your many years of good works have earned you atonement. They should have brought you peace as well.”

Stunbog shook his head. “A single human lifetime is not enough”

“Where was this land of yours?”

“That, I will not reveal. When I left, I did more than change my calling. I gave up my homeland and even the name by which I was known.”

“Stunbog is not your birth name then?”

“No. In my childhood, Stunbog was an addled beggar who wandered the back lanes of my homeland, an object of derision, living on the charity of farmers and townsfolk. I thought it fitting that I should adopt his name.”

“And how does one such as yourself, devoted to humility and good works, come to have a devoted companion as misanthropic as that formidable barbarian woman? If the question is not too personal, that is.”

Stunbog sighed. “Hers is a sad story, and not a pretty one. Some years ago, while wandering in the cold waste, I came upon her on an ice field. She was half-frozen and terribly wounded, more than three-fourths dead. She had been attacked, very brutally raped, and left for dead.”

Nistur’s eyebrows rose. “By someone very large or else very numerous, I suppose.”

“You may be sure of that. All around were signs of a terrible battle in which more than one man had died. Preserving her life was a deed I would rate among my finest, were I to allow myself vanity. Healing her mind was more difficult. She tried to kill herself frequently during the first year. Except for me, for whom she shows an almost embarrassing devotion, she has little use for humanity. None at all for men, and only an intermittent ability to form friendships with other outcast women, like young Shellring.”

“Quite understandable, under the circumstances. But why for outcasts?”

“Because that is what she was. Myrsa’s mother was of the mountain folk. Her father was a barbarian of the ice. Their tribes would not countenance their union, so they fled to the wasteland to live alone and raise their daughter. In time they were hunted down and killed by one tribe or the other, I am not certain which. The girl escaped and lived for several years by using her hunting and other skills. She hired out as a freelance warrior from time to time, but she was never amenable to discipline. In time, she fell afoul of the bandits who nearly killed her. Luckily, I happened along soon afterward.”

“Lucky, indeed,” Nistur said. There was a knocking, clumping sound from below. Moments later, the barbarian woman appeared, and behind her was Shellring. The thief rushed to the little fireplace and warmed her hands.

“Were you able to learn anything?” Nistur asked.

“Nothing on the street.” Her hands warmed, Shellring dropped her cloak, turned around and began to warm her backside. “The temperature’s dropped out there. It’s freezing. No, I can’t get a word out of any of the beggars or thieves or night-stalkers. The gangs I avoided as

always. But I got one lead that may be worth following.”

“What might this be?” Nistur asked.

“I ran into old Granny Toadflower in the herb market. Actually, she came up to me. She said come by her place tomorrow. She knows something that can help us. I’ve no idea how she found out about us. She disappeared as soon as she issued her invitation.” The thief accepted a mug of warmed wine from Myrsa.

“Granny Toadflower?” Stunbog said, astonished. . “What can that old creature have to impart?”

Shellring just shrugged.

“Who might this oddly named person be?” Nistur asked.

Stunbog’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s just say you are in for a treat.”

“Who is Granny Toadflower?” Ironwood asked, seeming more irritable than usual.

“Someone who thinks she has information we can use,” Nistur replied, as imperturbable as always.

The two of them stood on the shell-and-trash-littered harbor bottom outside the door of Stunbog’s hulk. There were patches of snow here and there but, Nistur noted, the snow in Tarsis never seemed to be deep enough to be truly attractive. Shellring joined them, wrapped in her thin, ragged cloak and shivering.

“Why don’t you steal yourself a decent cloak?” Ironwood asked her.

“If you get too warm and comfortable, you get slow,” she replied with bravado. Then, more subdued, she said, “Besides, if I had a good one, someone would just steal it from me.”

“There must be a certain art to your life,” Nistur observed. “You must acquire possessions sufficient to sustain life, yet these must not be of such quality as to make you tempting prey for thieves far more ruthless than yourself.”

“It’s always a problem,” she admitted as Stunbog and Myrsa emerged from the hulk. The barbarian woman wore her customary leather garments and a fur-trimmed hat, but she did not bother with a cloak, nor did she draw

on the embroidered gloves she carried beneath her belt. Apparently it took weather far more severe than this to make one raised in the icy wastes wear extra clothing. Myrsa’s only weapon was a broad-bladed knife that resembled a pointed cleaver.

“Are you two sure you wish to accompany us?” Nistur asked. “Allowing us accommodation is one thing. Going along with us in town is quite another. You could find yourselves sharing our enemies, who, I expect, will be numerous.”

“Some oddity of fate has thrown us together,” Stunbog said. “When the gods have designed thus, it is unwise to struggle against them. Besides, you are the most interesting people I have come across in some time. I am curious to see how you accomplish your task.”

“And you?” Ironwood asked Myrsa. “If you are fond of us, you hide it well.”

“I go with Stunbog,” she said expressionlessly.

“Then lead on, Shellring,” Nistur said.

They passed among the grounded ships and the clean-picked ribs of the craft that had been scavenged for firewood and construction materials. A flight of brick steps led up to what had been the old stone wharves and the waterfront, an area characterized by tumbledown taverns built of scavenged materials and grafted onto the surviving sections of the warehouses and chandleries that had once serviced the maritime trade.

Most of these helter-skelter structures backed against the harbor wall, a continuation of the defensive wall encircling the city. In the center of this wall was the old harbor gate, once the city’s most magnificent, now blocked up with stone since there was no. more harbor traffic. Its low postern remained, and the five companions passed through it with little notice from the somnolent guards. Clearly, no danger was expected from the harbor

side, for its terrain was exceedingly hostile to the tactics favored by the nomads, and it was assumed they would concentrate their attack, if any, on one of the gates that could be opened.

Shellring led them through a district of homes, shops, markets for food, spices, livestock, fabrics, perfumes, medicines, cutlery, and furniture, as well as other commercial estabhshments, skirted north of the great plaza before the palace, and into the Upper City. Here, instinctively, they walked with their hands on their weapons.

In the other districts of town, the inhabitants had looked them over with curiosity or indifference, but with neither alarm nor hostility. Here, they were examined from doorways, shuttered windows, and dark alleys by predatory eyes.

“I calculate we have passed five different bands of thugs,” Nistur said, “but none have offered us harm.”

“The Green Dragons and the Scorpions are the only ones that might bother us,” Shellring said.

“Why is that?” Ironwood asked her.

“We have three fighters here. The gangs want at least three to one odds in their favor before they attack. Those two are the only ones with nine or more members.”

Ironwood snorted contemptuously. “They’ll need more than three to one.”

“They don’t know that,” she replied. “Nistur doesn’t look like a trained fighter, and Myrsa isn’t wearing armor or a sword. They might think three to one’s enough.”