Murder in Tarsis (18 page)

“You think he was bargaining with the lord?” Nistur asked.

Again the barked laugh. “I was one of the envoys, remember? Those Tarsian nobles were all but promising us their wives and daughters if we would betray our chief. Why, lord Rukh—” Now the hand clamped on his shoulder with real force, and this time Shatterspear seemed to consider his words.

“Well,” he continued, “never mind. Yalmuk was murdered by the lord, or by some other Tarsian, it matters not. The killing was a deliberate provocation, and there will be war. We will turn Tarsis to ashes and dust, and its presence will no longer blight our plains.”

“Too bad for you,” Ironwood said.

“What do you mean?” Shatterspear demanded.

“Tarsis is a gathering place for the caravan trade. If it is destroyed, the routes will change. There won’t be so many caravans passing through your territory.”

As the implications sifted through the fog of Shatterspear’s mind and his expression transformed into one of dismay, the investigators quietly took their leave. Outside the lavish tent, Nistur chided Ironwood.

“You should not have slipped that burr under his saddle. We do not want Kyaga to think we are here to stir up trouble.”

Ironwood grinned. “I couldn’t help it. That puffed-up buffoon needed to have his vanity punctured.”

“What do we do now?” Shellring asked, squinting at the angle of the sunlight. “Isn’t it about time to go back to the city?” Their prolonged stay in the camp was eating at her nerves.

“Not just yet,” Nistur said. “There is another person I wish to speak with.”

A tall man emerged from the tent behind them. He wore hide garments like the other warriors, but his were of the finest quality and embroidered with silken thread. His was the hand that had so frequently gone to Shatterspear’s shoulder.

“I am Laghan-of-the-Axe, first subchief of the Foul Spring tribe.” The man hitched his thumbs into a coral-studded belt that held the vicious weapon for which he was named.

“And we are most honored by your acquaintance,” Nistur said.

“My chief,” Laghan said, “is a wise and brave leader. Sometimes he drinks too much, and then he says things he would not even consider saying at better times. You would do well not to take too seriously what you just heard.” His right hand was no more than an inch from the haft of his weapon. Ironwood’s was an identical distance

from his own hilt. The two men were like tomcats with the fur standing up along their spines.

“Oh, by no means,” said Nistur soothingly. “We are persons of honor and would never take advantage of a man’s moment of weakness. We will not repeat a word of this to Kyaga, nor to the Lord of Tarsis. Our only concern is to find Yalmuk’s murderer.”

Laghan relaxed a little, and his hands fell away from his belt. “That is good. Keep to that course, and you will have no interference from us.”

“Who do you think killed Yalmuk?” Ironwood said.

Laghan looked them over for a while. “My thoughts are my own. Kyaga said you were free to ask, not that we had to answer. You two”—he looked from Nistur to Ironwood, ignoring Shellring—”do not have the look of Tarsians. My advice to you is this: forget about finding Yalmuk’s killer. If you want to get away from Tarsis fast, just come out through one of the wall breaches at night and pass through our part of the camp. No one will hinder you, I’ll see to it.”

“A generous offer,” Nistur said, “but we have our duty.”

Laghan shook his head. “You are not so foolish as that. There is no honor in serving dishonorable villains.” He turned and went back into the chieftain’s tent.

As they walked away, Nistur shook his own head, laughing quietly. “This camp is as bad as Tarsis, rife with mutual suspicions and rivalries and power plays.”

“There is a difference,” Ironwood told him. “These barbarians look you in the eye and speak their hatreds aloud for all to hear. They may be savages, but they are honest.”

“An honest man will kill you as dead as any rogue will,” Shellring said sourly. “Where are we going?”

“Why, to the shaman’s tent, where else?” Nistur informed her.

The tent of Shadespeaker abutted the great tent of Kyaga Strongbow. It was made of black hides, painted

with arcane designs, hung all over with small amulets of iron, bronze, wood, stone, and bone. Some of these were in animal form, others of abstract design. There were also the dried carcasses of birds, bats, and other small animals affixed to the tent, interspersed with dolls in human form, some pierced with nails and tiny daggers.

“I don’t like the looks of this place,” Shellring said.

“I suspect that to be the effect intended,” Nistur said.

“Why don’t I just wait out here while you two go in and talk to him? You wanted me because I know the city, not this place.”

“You come with us,” Ironwood told her.

“Oh, yes,” Nistur agreed. “Your clever eyes and subtle ears might take notice of things that we miss.” He rapped at a doorpost, and a short-haired slave came out. The man looked them over with quick brown eyes.

“We have come to speak with Shadespeaker,” Nistur told him. “Be so good as to summon him. This is by the authority of Kyaga Strongbow himself.”

The man said nothing, but he held the doorflap aside and gestured for them to enter. They ducked below the wooden lintel and passed within. At further gestures from the slave, they seated themselves on leather cushions, and the slave disappeared into a rear compartment of the tent.

“A man of few words,” Ironwood commented.

“With good reason,” said Nistur. “He is tongueless.”

“He must be the slave that drunk said attends Kyaga and the shaman,” Shellring noted.

“Undoubtedly,” Nistur said. “It is not at all uncommon for sovereigns to have servants who cannot speak, and therefore cannot betray secrets.”

Shellring looked all around. “What a spooky place. I don’t like it here.” Amulets and dried animals were hung all over the tent. In one corner sat what appeared to be a mummified human, its withered features leering at them

with toothless mouth and eyes like dried dates. In a tiny hearth smoldered bundled herbs that sent up a foul-smelling smoke.

“Stunbog’s cabin is full of magical artifacts,” Nistur pointed out.

She shrugged. “That’s different. I know Stunbog is never going to cast spells on people or call up the dead. I think the dead ought to stay that way.” She looked with wary horror at the mummy. “And they shouldn’t be used to decorate your house, either.”

“Why,” Nistur said, “that could be a beloved ancestor. Think what interesting conversations they must have. I can see how such a persort might make an amusing companion when one has tired of the company of these barbarians, for their store of casual discourse is uncommonly limited.”

“Oh, be quiet!” she snapped. “You shouldn’t joke about such things!” Between the barbarian camp and the shaman’s uncanny tent, Shellring’s nerves were near the snapping point, so Nistur did not bait her further.

From the rear of the tent there came a shuffling, rattling noise, and through a curtained door came Shadespeaker. In the gloom of the hide tent, he was little more than a shapeless mass. Then he tossed a handful of something on the hearth, and the fire flared brightly although, strangely, it put out no heat. Now it was bright enough for them to discern the color of his green face paint, and to make out the brown eyes behind the bizarre strings of amulets. Before, in Kyaga’s tent, he had been obscured by the chief’s presence. Here, in his own lair, Shadespeaker was a formidable and frightening figure. He stood before them for a moment, then sank down on a cushion.

“What do you wish of Shadespeaker?”

“We have certain questions to ask you,” said Nistur, “concerning Yalmuk Bloodarrow.”

“Yalmuk is dead,” said the shaman. “Do you wish me to contact his shade, so that you may speak with him?” Even through his heavy accent, they could hear the amusement in his voice.

“Do not seek to toy with us,” Nistur warned him. “We have permission from Kyaga himself to question whom we wish, including you.”

“Do you think you know Kyaga Strongbow as I do?” said the shaman. “It was I who proclaimed the coming of the great conqueror. I went out on the icy plains, fasting for many days, seeking a vision. I cut myself and let my blood flow out onto the snow until I was more dead than alive. And when I was nearly dead the spirits of the Plains and the ghosts of my ancestors vouchsafed unto me that which I sought.”

He cast something onto the cold fire, and this time it flared a brilliant green. “I saw before me a mighty white stag, ten times the size of a true stag of flesh and bone. This was a spirit stag, and it was whiter than the snows of the plains. A golden griffon rose up before the stag, and the stag slew it, then leapt into the sky and ran among the stars.”

The green flames died down, and the shaman regarded them soberly. “All the tribes of the Plains of Dust, whatever their sort, are descended from the magical white stag. The griffon to us means the cities that surround the plains. I knew from this vision that a great chief would soon come to unite the tribes and destroy the cities.”

“Why do you wish to destroy them?” Nistur asked. “Surely you depend upon them for much you cannot produce for yourselves.”

“It is not fitting that free nomads should depend in any way upon the weak, degenerate people of the cities. Better that they should all perish, and we return to the ways of our ancestors. Where the cities now stand, soon there will be only grass, and our herds will graze there.”

“What a melancholy thought,” Nistur said. “However, we are not here to be won over to the cause of Kyaga Strongbow. We are here to find out who killed his ambassador.”

“It does not matter,” said Shadespeaker. “The Tarsians killed him. When we have killed everyone in Tarsis, he will be avenged.”

“A thorough vengeance,” Nistur agreed, “but only if it was a townsman who did him in. We are not so convinced.”

“Then you are fools. All the chiefs here hate one another. Many had old feuds against Yalmuk and his people. But Kyaga put an end to their feuds.”

“It’s one thing to submit to a high chief,” Ironwood said. “It’s another to forget the enmity of generations. Perhaps someone here decided his devotion to a feud outweighed his loyalty to Kyaga.”

“Or,” Nistur said, “perhaps some ambitious, jealous person”—he looked the shaman up and down with open insinuation—”found that he could tolerate no rival for the esteem of the chief.”

Shadespeaker’s expression, obscured by amulets and paint, seemed to be amused. “And if so? Surely it would be easier for such a one to kill Yalmuk out here on the Plains. In the city, nomads are closely watched.” He grinned. “If you”—he pointed at Nistur—”wished to kill him”—his pointing finger swung toward Ironwood— “would you lure him out here to the nomad camp and commit the deed where you are a stranger and all eyes must be drawn to such a sight?” He laughed softly.

“No, my friend,” he went on. “You would accost him in some back street of the city, where you feel at home, where no one will spare a second glance for such as you.”

“I concede that you make a strong point,” Nistur admitted.

“And you—” The shaman addressed Ironwood. “You have a more important quest than finding the slayer of Yalmuk.”

“What do you mean?” Ironwood demanded.

The shaman leaned close, his eyes wide and so dark the irises could not be distinguished from the pupils. “I see the deathly illness in your face, and I see the trembling of your hands. Your friends cannot see these things with the eyes of the body, but I can see with the eyes of the spirit. The sting of the black dragon is slow, but it is sure.”

“There is nothing to be done about that, and it does not bear on our mission!” Nistur said sternly, his equanimity slipping for once.

“Are you so sure of that?” said the shaman. “Do you believe that the healers and wizards of your cities know all there is to know of the Arts? I myself have raised from near-death men and women your sorcerers would have given up for dead.”

“I thought you raised them after they were dead,” said Shellring, greatly amazed at herself for speaking up. He turned the piercing brown eyes on her, and immediately . she regretted her rashness.

“You are not one to speak of sacred things, thief!” he hissed.

“On the contrary,” Nistur said coolly. “She is a serving official of the Lord of Tarsis, empowered by him and, I remind you, by your own sovereign, to speak as she pleases to any subject of either ruler. Do not underestimate the gravity of our mission or overestimate your own importance, shaman.”

For long moments the tribal wizard was silent. “I am not accustomed to being spoken to thus. I punish terribly those who insult me.”

Ironwood leaned forward. “Your pride does not interest us. If we don’t find the killer, we die anyway. So save your threats.”

Shadespeaker seemed to smile behind his amulets. “There are worse things than mere death. But this talk is futile. What do you want of me?”

“We have heard,” began Nistur, “that you and Yalmuk Bloodarrow had, shall we say, a certain mutual aversion and—”

For once Ironwood interrupted his loquacious companion. “We are wasting time, and we have little left. Shadespeaker, did you kill Yalmuk?”

The shaman sneered. “Shadespeaker does not slay with weapons!”

“Did you hire or in any way command or coerce another to kill him?” Nistur asked.

“Never!”

“Wouldn’t you he about it if you did?” Shellring said.

Unexpectedly, the shaman laughed. “This is like watching a wolf chase its own tail! Enough of this! Look here.” He rose and crossed the tent to an intricately carved wooden chest. Returning, he set a folded leather packet before them. This he unwrapped, and as he did Shellring noted peculiar sigils painted or tattooed on the backs of his hands.

Open, the packet revealed a handful of yellowish crystals that might have been hardened tree sap, and a twisted, dried root that resembled a skeletal human hand. “Do you know what this is?” Shadespeaker demanded.

“I confess I do not,” Nistur answered. He looked at Ironwood, but the mercenary just shook his head.