Murder in LaMut: Legends of the Riftwar: Book II Page 11

  ‘No.’ Durine didn’t hesitate. ‘I reckon that we leave with our money, when we leave.’

  ‘Or we could just cut our losses and get out of here,’ Pirojil said.

  ‘Are you serious about that, or are you just saying it to see if it’ll get a rise out of me?’

  Pirojil gave one of his rare smiles. ‘A little of both, perhaps. Leave?’

  ‘No.’ Durine shook his head. ‘I already said no–how many times do I have to say it? Kethol?’

  ‘I already told the Swordmaster that we’d stay.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Pirojil said, ‘but that was him asking. This is me. Leave or stay?’

  Kethol didn’t like the idea of leaving their pay behind, either. They had managed to accumulate a fair amount of cash, between what they had looted off dead men and what he had been able to win at gambling and snatch up during the tavern fights; not to mention the pouch that Baron Mondegreen had given him, but the Earl of LaMut paid well–and leaving that much gold and silver behind would mean that they would have to find a new employer soon. Besides, there was something about it that just felt wrong.

  It wasn’t about Morray, either–Kethol didn’t feel one way or another about the Baron–but there was the added complication of Lady Mondegreen. He had just about promised her husband that he’d watch out for her, and running out–well, that felt wrong, too.

  ‘Stay,’ Kethol said at last. He sighed. ‘And there’s that bonus, too.’

  Damn. Maybe this nobility thing was rubbing off on him.

  FIVE

  Storm

  The storm hit hard.

  It had started suddenly, shortly after what should have been dawn, with such a deafening crack of unseasonable thunder that it had shaken Durine out of the first decent night’s sleep he had had in longer than he cared to remember. While the lightning and the thunder had abated within the next hours, the storm had only grown in its intensity, and Durine had had to bury himself deep into his thickest cloak to make it from the barracks to the keep in the wan grey light, bracing himself against the wind until it felt as if he was almost at a forty-five degree angle.

  It felt absurdly warm inside the mud-room off the side entrance to the keep, which was ridiculous. Despite the small cast-iron coal brazier on its tripod, the water bucket there was so frozen that he was able to pick the whole bucket up by the dipper.

  He debated bringing his overboots inside–they would freeze solid out here–but decided that going with the crowd was the better part of valour, and left them hung on a hook on the wall over the brazier, hoping that they would at least be kept warm enough that he could put them on over his boots without breaking the frozen canvas. He hung his thick cloak next to them, and tucked his rabbit-fur-lined, bullhide gloves into his belt, and made his way into the foyer, past the shivering guard.

  He didn’t like leaving his cloak, and the gold hidden in it, but it would probably be safe–and it was definitely best not to seem to be too concerned about an inexpensive cloak, for fear of giving others ideas.

  It was less miserable inside than it had been outside, but not much.

  Outside, the wind howled like an injured beast that didn’t have the decency to go off and die quietly somewhere. It clawed frantically at the walls and windows of the keep, demanding entry. The only small pleasure he could find in the whole situation was the thought that any Tsurani or Bugs out in the forest would probably have frozen themselves stiff by now.

  All the castle’s shutters had long since been bolted closed. Even so, snow leaked in through every crack and joint that wasn’t completely sealed. If the fires in all the castle’s hearths–Pirojil had counted two dozen, although Durine was sure that he had missed some–hadn’t been kept fully blazing by legions of servants constantly replenishing them with wood, there was no doubt that the wind rushing down the chimneys would have extinguished every one.

  Even so, the bitter, snowy wind managed to sneak down the chimneys past the burning fires, leaving behind puddles of water on the floor in front of each hearth, and the carpets had been quickly rolled away so that they didn’t get soaked and rot away before spring.

  What time the castle’s servants had in between trying to seal with mud those cracks between the stones which had previously been invisible–particularly around the window frames–they spent in endlessly mopping up in front of the large fireplaces where the nobles congregated, all the while keeping a steady stream of pots of hot coffee, tea and broth coming.

  Durine didn’t quite understand that. He would have just kept himself close to the fire, avoiding doing anything that would cause him to have to move. After all, whatever heat you gained from drinking the warm liquid would be quickly lost in the frigid garderobes. The nobles, however, would probably be relieving themselves in thundermugs in their relatively warm quarters, rather than having to unbutton their noble flies–or worse, plonking their naked, shivering, noble buttocks down on a garderobe’s frozen seat, and finding that they had stuck to it, more likely than not.

  If Durine had had the choice, he wouldn’t have ever left his room.

  The nobles, on the other hand, were early risers, whether it was from custom, or because of the same thunder that had shaken Durine out of his bed, he couldn’t say.

  As he passed through the Great Hall, he noticed that Baron Verheyen had commandeered several chairs nearest the larger of the two fireplaces, the one set into the north wall, and busied himself in low murmurings over his steaming mug with the Swordmaster and two other nobles whose names Durine couldn’t recall. It was hard to remember them all, and probably not worth the bother. Experience had taught Durine that when you bumped up against one, you merely lowered your gaze, touched your fore-lock, muttered ‘m’lord’ and shuffled out of the way, unless of course you were killing him, but either way it didn’t much matter if you remembered his name or not.

  Under other circumstances, though, it would have made sense to spend some time sizing up which of the barons might be worth taking service with, but since the three of them were going to be out of LaMut as soon as they could, why bother?

  Baron Erik Folson was easy to remember: with his hard eyes and chiselled chin. When he didn’t move–and he seemed to spend much of his time in a pose of some sort–he looked like a painting of a noble lord. He also apparently spent much of his time with his eyes on Lady Mondegreen’s cleavage, which was abundantly in evidence despite the cold. His hands also seemed to find their way easily to her arm or shoulder or the swell of her hip; which wasn’t really Durine’s concern, and since she kept smiling back at him and nodding as he talked, apparently she wasn’t concerned, either.

  Her eyes caught Durine’s for just a moment, and she gave him a quick flash of a smile and a nod before returning to her conversation with Baron Folson.

  Berrel Langahan, standing opposite Lady Mondegreen, was noteworthy for reasons quite the opposite of those which made Folson memorable. Langahan was short, fat and bald, his skin browned from years apparently spent mostly outside, looking more like a prosperous farmer than a nobleman. He had that solid toughness under the fat that proclaimed he had gained his girth from muscle-building labour coupled with heavy eating, rather than from sloth and indulgence. He wouldn’t have looked at all like a noble–and particularly not like a court baron–if it hadn’t been for the jewelled rings that bedecked his stubby fingers, and the slick, knee-length ermine-lined jacket that enabled him to stay away from the fire.

  How and why a court baron, a man who supposedly had spent almost his entire adult life in Prince Erland’s castle in Krondor, would look like some sort of outdoorsman was something that piqued Durine’s interest. But the assembled nobility ignored Durine as he passed, as though he was just another piece of the furniture, and rather than pausing to think how to ask that impertinent question without giving offence, he made his way through the Great Hall and down the hallway to the west wing.

  It was morning, after all, and time to relieve the house guard that had watched B
aron Morray’s door while he slept.

  When he got there, there was no guard on the door, and the door itself stood open.

  Damn.

  Durine plunged in, startling the young housegirl into dropping her armload of wood to the stone floor.

  ‘Where’s the Baron?’ he asked, gently. There was no point in scaring the poor girl any more than he already had. It was clear that the Baron was gone–his bed had been made, and the remnants of some meal stood on a tray by his bedside. ‘Is he at the strongroom already?’

  Durine wasn’t exactly clear on the details, but some of the account books apparently never left the strongroom in the keep’s basement, while the Baron, quite understandably, preferred to work on the others in the relative comfort of his small suite, rather than in the damp cold of the strongroom.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know as it’s any of your business what his lordship is doing,’ she said with a sniff.

  Well, so much for being nice. ‘Then come with me, and we’ll see if the Swordmaster thinks it’s any of my concern where the Baron is, and how grateful he’ll be to you for keeping the information from me.’ He stepped forward to take her by the arm, but stopped when her eyes widened.

  ‘The Swordmaster?’

  Durine nodded. ‘In case nobody’s told you, the Swordmaster himself has detailed Kethol, Pirojil and me to see to the Baron’s safety and well-being, and we report directly to him if there’s any problem.’

  Well, Steven Argent hadn’t actually said that, but that had been the implication of his decision to not only keep them on, but to not return them to Tom Garnett’s company. Durine wouldn’t have liked to have tried to pull rank on the Captain, but this serving girl was another matter.

  ‘I…I can’t see as how it would do any harm to tell you,’ she said, shooting a quick glance toward the door. ‘Although maybe I should ask Fath–I could ask the housecarl, first?’

  Durine had noticed the light swell of her belly under her blouse, but he had just attributed it to the regular meals in the keep. This apparently was Ereven’s daughter, the pregnant one, which began to explain how she felt free to look down on a soldier who wasn’t even wearing a LaMutian tabard, much less rank stripes.

  ‘If you wish–if he’s close by. Steven Argent is downstairs, in the Great Hall.’

  She reached over to the bell rope by the bed, and pulled it quickly three times, then twice, then six times, then once. Durine didn’t ask what the code was, but whatever it was, it was effective, because less than a minute later Ereven’s glum form came in through the door.

  ‘The Baron,’ Durine said, without preamble, ‘where is he?’

  ‘Baron Morray?’ Ereven’s brow furrowed. ‘He didn’t tell you? I thought you were supposed to be his special bodyguards, the three of you.’

  That’s what I thought, too, Durine thought. ‘Tell me what, if you please?’

  Ereven shrugged. ‘There was a messenger, just after dawn. There was some problem at the Baron’s residence–on Black Swan Road, I think it is?–and he decided to go out and look at it himself.’

  ‘Out in this?’

  Wonderful. If the Baron froze to death between here and Black Swan Road, Durine didn’t have any real question as to where the blame would fall.

  He spun on the ball of his foot and walked out of the room without a word.

  It was not starting off to be a very good day.

  Pirojil slipped and fell again, trying to hold his cloak shut with both hands, and twisting as he did so that he would fall on his right side–on his dagger, further bruising his right hip, rather than on his left side, on his sword, further bruising his left hip.

  Strong hands helped him to his feet, but not before what felt like half a ton of snow had managed to slide down the open front of his cloak and into his tunic. He had wrapped a thick scarf around his neck to try to keep it less cold–warm was impossible–but he hadn’t thought to sew the damn scarf to his tunic and wouldn’t have had the time to do so even if he had thought of it, and every time he had fallen, the snow had seen an opportunity to worm its way closer to his heart, and taken it.

  Snow was like that.

  The wind from the west had a personality, and the personality was a cruel one. It had taken the snow and turned every bump in the long road into town into a drift that was at least knee-high, and often came to his waist, and had wickedly packed the snow down with just enough force to make it impossible to wade through easily, but not quite enough to support even Kethol’s weight. Pushing straight through the drifts would have worn them out before they had made it halfway to Black Swan Road. Making their way up Black Swan Road was a matter of constantly trying to manoeuvre themselves around drifts, like three warships cruising through shoal waters, avoiding sandbars.

  The streets were, not surprisingly, almost empty; though occasionally huddled figures lunged from place to place, all of them bearing bundles, and none of them stopped to try to engage Pirojil, Kethol or Durine in conversation.

  Not that he really was up for much conversation at the moment. What was there to say? ‘Cold enough for you?’

  They pushed on, and then it was Durine’s turn to fall, and Kethol and Pirojil’s turn to help him up. You didn’t want to stretch out your arms to push yourself up; that just guaranteed that you’d load up your sleeves with the snow.

  It was good to have friends, even if they were dark, hulking shapes wrapped in their cloaks and scarves, their beards and eyebrows caked with frost and ice and snow.

  Kethol pounded the wooden placard at the gate of the next house with his fist, and shook his head when it cleared to reveal a coat of arms that none of them recognized. They probably should have tried to get hold of a local guide–although who would be fool enough to come out in this at anything short of the point of a sword?

  Just head up down the road into the city proper, then down High Street until you reach Black Swan Road, the idiot guard had said, and look for Baron Morray’s fox-and-circle crest on the wooden placard on the gate.

  He hadn’t said that all the crests on the placards on the eastern side of the street faced toward the west, and that snow had utterly caked each of them, and it was only a sense of fairness that persuaded Pirojil that the guard probably hadn’t thought of that any more than he had, although Pirojil did try to keep himself a little warm by vivid thoughts of rubbing the soldier’s face into every one of those snow-caked placards.

  Besides, they had known that the foot of Black Swan Road was opposite the Broken Tooth Tavern, and Kethol could be counted on to find any place he’d been to–especially any tavern–blindfolded.

  Which was close to what this was. The sun should be high in the sky by now, he thought, and it wasn’t doing its job. Only a wan, directionless grey light managed to push half-heartedly through the storm, occasionally brightened by a flash of lightning to the east, which was always accompanied by a much-delayed, distant rumble of thunder that sounded like a growling beast.

  The crest on the next placard was an unfamiliar three bezants–at least, Pirojil hoped that they were bezants–and the one after that was, thankfully, Morray’s rampant fox in its golden circle.

  It took all three of them to push the gate open against the mass of snow that had been dumped behind it, and they didn’t push it open any more than they had to. The gate had been left unbarred, which made sense, since the guard shack was empty, probably as usual. The walls of a noble’s town home were not intended to keep out invading armies, after all, but more to deter thieves and give some privacy from the outside world. This one didn’t even have a walkway around the inside of it, and Pirojil wondered if the snow concealed spikes or broken glass embedded along the top of the wall, or if the thieves of LaMut were just too polite to bother a noble’s possessions while he slept.

  Not that there were many thieves out today, he suspected. It would have been a poor day for burglary, for surely every noble or commoner who had any choice and a lick of sense would be in their home
s, trying to stay warm.

  The Baron’s compound was on the small side, by noble standards: just a single two-storey stone building, flanked on either side by a couple of two-storeyed wattle-and-daub outbuildings. The one beyond the main building was probably the servants’ quarters, because the one that they could see dimly through the driving snow had the large doors of a stable, and probably had once housed Morray’s personal guard–you could hardly have the earldom’s Wartime Bursar travelling about without his own retinue–before most of them had been drafted directly into the Earl’s service.

  The windows of the main building were tightly shuttered, and what cracks there would have been in the shutters were packed tightly with snow, but the occasional sparks from the chimneys showed that the building was occupied, although the wind and snow quickly snuffed them out, and dispersed any smoke before it had a chance to become visible.

  The wooden canopy over the door provided some shelter from the wind; the three of them mounted the steps to the house and crowded into it.

  Durine pounded on the thick oaken door. There was no knocker on it; presumably, guests were supposed to be welcomed at the gate, and announced somehow or other before they arrived at the arched doorway.

  There was no challenge, no ‘who goes there’; the door just suddenly swung inward, and Baron Morray stood there dressed only in a tunic and trousers, a sword in one hand, and a dagger in the other.

  ‘Who is it?’ His expression was almost as cold as the temperature outside.