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 DargonZine                                     Distributed:   9/2/2002
 Volume 15, Number 7                            Circulation:        659
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Talisman Nine 1              Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Yule 30, 1013
 Malice 4                     P. Atchley             Firil 10, 1018

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
 us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
 at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
 discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 15-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2002 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                            <ornoth@rcn.com>

     If you're reading this editorial, you've probably read a few of
them -- enough to realize that I've usually got something to pontificate
about. I take pride in the quality of DargonZine's editorials, so I
always try to share unique insights about the Internet, writing, and how
our writing project works.
     But after more than 120 editorials, it has become a lot more
difficult to come up with interesting new topics. Sometimes an issue
will be delayed while I stare blankly into an empty text editor window,
waiting for the ideas and the words to come.
     That's a feeling that many of our writers can sympathize with: the
tyranny of the blank page. Over the past month, the primary topic of
conversation on our writers' email list and our monthly interactive
chats has been writer's block and how to overcome it.
     Unlike my editorials, where the underlying problem is the need for
a constant supply of new ideas, many Dargon writers find themselves
inhibited by doubt over whether their story will be as good as they hope
it will be. Through their natural desire to write a great story, they've
allowed their internal critic to overpower the creative urge that led
them to writing in the first place.
     DargonZine can, of course, be a difficult place for the writer who
isn't secure in his or her craft. When an author's story is posted to
our internal writers' list, each draft is critiqued in exacting detail
by a dozen or more reviewers. Although we do our best to make our peer
reviews as painless as possible, it can still feel very threatening. Our
reviews force us out of our comfort zones, challenging each of us to
overcome our complacency and forcing us to write our best work. But at
the same time, that can intimidate writers and inhibit them from ever
starting a story in the first place.
     Of course, none of us want to discourage our contributors.
DargonZine's goal, after all, is to encourage amateur writers. One of
the ways an author can get past this fear is to silence their internal
critic. It's great to have that voice inside your head during the
editing phase of a work, but he has no business kibitzing while you're
writing your first draft! By separating the creative and the editorial
functions, you are telling yourself that it's okay to write garbage. You
can relax, because you know that you'll be polishing your story later,
which frees the other half of your mind to run with the enthusiasm of
the creative impulse.

     Interestingly, there's another Internet site that, like DargonZine,
encourages amateur writers to grow and learn through collaboration and
practicing the craft of writing. However, whereas we elect to emphasize
the quality of our prose and struggle with the resulting fear of not
measuring up, they focus exclusively on letting the muse run,
irrespective of the quality of the result.
     The site is "National Novel Writing Month", and the basic premise
is that you get thirty days -- the month of November -- to write a
50,000-word novella (that would fill three and a half DargonZine
issues). That's it. No restrictions, no expectations, no support, no
anything -- just go write it. The one thing they do encourage is for
participants to get together and share the experience, but that falls
far short of the kind of close (and often direct) collaboration that
DargonZine encourages.
     The differences between DargonZine and "NaNoWriMo", as they call
themselves, are many. NaNoWriMo's goal is to help people who have never
written a lengthy work, to show them that it's possible. In that sense,
NaNoWriMo is a temporary lifestyle change to show a novice writer what
is possible, whereas DargonZine's contributors view writing as an
inherent, ongoing part of their life.
     Another difference is that NaNoWriMo doesn't support aspiring
writers beyond their first rough draft; instead, they ride the crest of
a writer's enthusiasm and creative impulse. DargonZine, in contrast,
tries to show writers how to balance the spontaneity of writing with
careful planning and an eye toward the quality of the result. We also
take writers through critiquing and editing, which are essential skills
for any fiction writer. As one Dargon writer recently observed, "Quality
is in revision", and our extensive peer review process teaches that.
     Of course, one of the benefits of NaNoWriMo is the autonomy you
have; no one is going to limit what an author can write about. For some
people, including a friend of mine who has participated in NaNoWriMo,
that freedom is important, and precludes writing for DargonZine because
of our requirement of setting stories within our common milieu.
     In the end, our two projects appeal to different groups of people
who have different needs. NaNoWriMo serves the would-be novelist who
hasn't made writing a large enough part of her life to enable her to
realize that dream, and who can benefit from meeting others in the same
situation and having a concrete deadline. DargonZine serves authors who
are confident in their ability to get the words down, but who want to
improve the quality of their work and can benefit from meeting others in
their same situation.
     In both cases, our goal is to give aspiring writers direction,
confidence through practice, and a supportive community of peers. I'm
sure that NaNoWriMo's writers could learn a lot from us about quality
and the revision process. At the same time, I think they could teach
DargonZine's writers about how to set aside our internal critics and
just write. Perhaps something in their approach could help us nurture
our creative enthusiasm and set down our stories without the inhibiting
fear of them not being up to our expectations.

     I'm pleased to say that over the past two a half months, we've been
able to print a new issue every three weeks, bringing you four issues
since the end of June, and one issue every month since March. That's a
dramatic improvement over our erratic performance last winter. On the
other hand, we've printed so many stories that we've virtually tapped
out our pipeline of new works. Our writers are hurrying to fill the void
so that this winter won't be as quiet as last year's, when we only
printed two issues over six months!
     One of the writers whom you'll see a lot of this autumn is
perennial favorite Dafydd, who begins a new chapter in his lengthy
Talisman series. Talisman Nine 1 is actually the 30th installment in
this storyline that has been running for three and a half years. I think
I'm allowed to tell you that there's an end in sight, but I won't
divulge any more than that. For a little background on this series,
peruse the interview I conducted with Dafydd in DargonZine 12-6.
     Rounding out this issue is the conclusion of P. Atchley's excellent
"Malice" series. Writing an effective mystery and keeping all the
threads together is a difficult chore, and I hope you will join me in
congratulating the author on her work.
     As always, thanks for your continued interest, and enjoy!

========================================================================

                             Talisman Nine
                                 Part 1
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@Drexel.Edu>
                         Yule 30 - Yuli 2, 1013

     "What did you call me?" The broad-shouldered, homespun-clad man
rose like a thunderhead from his seat. "Cummon, Nat, I dare you ta say
that again!" His voice rumbled across the crowded taproom, stilling all
other conversation.
     The object of the thunderhead's wrath stammered, "Hold, Borl, hold
now. I didn' call you nothing. Sit down, straight? Sit down and have
another." The man's reedy voice and weedy body seemed ill-suited to
weathering the storm brewing to his right, though he lifted his own
tankard of ale as an offering to the gods of tempest in the form of
Borl.
     "You said 'stink'!" roared Borl, reaching down past the sacrificial
ale to plant an acre of palm on the supplicant's chest and giving it a
shove. The crash as Nat tumbled off his stool punctuated the rest of
Borl's revelation. "I don't stink, Nat! Nothing wrong with it and I
did!"
     Bard Nakaz watched the squall break from across the taproom of the
Waning Moon Inn. He smiled to himself as he ate another forkful of the
excellent stew that was his dinner; he was usually the entertainment in
places like this, and it was a nice change to be the audience instead.
Nakaz watched the other two farmers in the group with Borl and Nat rush
around the table to help their fallen companion while Borl continued to
rant about the virtues of hard work and its natural consequences. Nat
regained his feet and all three took up the chants of placation, trying
to return Borl to his previous, quiet self.
     It was difficult to hear what the three farmers said to try to calm
the fourth, what with the storm of Borl rumbling so loudly.
Nevertheless, Nakaz heard one try again to offer Borl a drink. It was
unfortunate that the farmer chose to use those exact words. Borl, who'd
clearly had far too much ale already, misheard once again.
     With a roar the offended farmer lashed out with a closed fist, and
the unlucky companion was tossed as if by a fierce wind across the
nearest table. "Don't stink! Don't care!" were Borl's only comments
before his other fist lashed out at his other friends. They were
fortunate enough to dodge the first flurry of blows.
     Nakaz saw two men approaching the enraged farmer from behind. He
could tell by their confident stride and purposeful looks that they were
employed by the inn to keep the peace at times like this. Nakaz also
knew that if Borl caught sight of them, they would have a much harder
time getting the farmer under control. He knew that it was time to stop
being part of the audience.
     Nakaz stood quickly. He was a tall, handsome man with blond hair,
green eyes, and a large nose, but he didn't expect his appearance to
catch Borl's attention. His clothes were well tailored, and showed off
his physique to every advantage, but that wasn't going to divert the
enraged farmer either. Neither would his bardic credentials, blazoned
across his vest in the harp-and-star motif. So Nakaz employed the only
instrument he had to hand: in a voice trained to fill large halls and
carry across the conversation of crowds, he said, "Ho, Borl. Why don't
you bring your stink over here and see how far it gets you?"
     The stormy farmer stopped and stared. Before he could take any
other action, the enforcers stepped up on either side of him and twisted
his arms up behind his back. With practiced ease, they had Borl moving
toward the door before he could start to struggle. From the bewildered
look on the farmer's face, Nakaz was sure that Borl was still trying to
figure out who had taunted him from across the room, and why.
     Nakaz sat back down and returned to his meal, satisfied with the
resolution of the situation. He toyed briefly with the idea of writing a
song about Borl's imaginary stink, but decided that it was a better tale
to amuse his fellow bards with than something to be immortalized in
rhyme.
     Presently, a short man with a long beard and no hair came up and
said, "Pardon me, sir bard. I'm Drenist, the owner of the Waning Moon. I
would like to thank you for your help earlier. Since you're already
lodging for free, I wondered if you would accept this bottle of one of
our best lots of Starshine. It's distilled from local corn and our twist
is that we age it in ale casks. We all swear by its potency and taste. I
hear tell that there is even a shop in Magnus that carries it."
     Nakaz fell easily into his best courtly manner as he said, "Thank
you, Drenist, for your thoughtful gift. I am sure that your Starshine is
fit for the royal table. I was, of course, only doing my duty, but I
will accept this in the spirit that it is given." The bard was not fond
of the bite of distilled liquor, but he knew that he could find the
Starshine an appreciative home.
     As the owner bowed and left, Nakaz reflected on the evening so far
and decided that he was glad he had stopped at this particular inn on
this particular early-summer evening. Then again, his choices had been
limited to the inn and sleeping under the stars; the decision hadn't
been a difficult one.
     The Waning Moon Inn was one of those inns that were dotted around
the kingdom at convenient places to halt a journey where neither town
nor village were present. The inn was situated beside the Iridal Road
where it ran across the northern tip of Duchy Magnus, in the middle of
Baranur. The road was used by several major trade routes and it
connected several Royal Roads as well, so that the inn saw plenty of
custom. It had accumulated so many out-buildings -- stables,
blacksmiths, storage sheds, small shops selling trail needs -- that it
resembled a tiny hamlet all by itself. Nakaz knew that if the location
continued to be an important stop it might eventually become a proper
village.
     The inn's location guaranteed prosperity, and it was obvious that
Drenist put his profit back into his business. The taproom of the inn
was large, well lit, and very clean. The food was excellent, and the
range of ales behind the bar rivaled some taverns in Magnus itself. The
room Nakaz had been given was comfortable in size and appointment, and
when he had protested being given what seemed to be the best room in the
inn free of charge thanks to his profession, he had been assured that
all of the private rooms were of the same quality.
     Nakaz finished his meal without any other interruption. He left his
table to take his gift bottle to his room and to visit the privies out
back. When he returned, he saw that his table had been taken by a group
of newcomers. The room was even more crowded; there were very few empty
stools and no empty tables. Since he wasn't ready to retire to his room
just yet, he surveyed the possibilities and chose a table at which there
was only one customer. Nakaz decided that the young-looking man with
short, brown hair and a thin mustache wasn't too involved with his
tankard, and his expression was relaxed and friendly, not brooding or
self-absorbed, so the bard walked over to the table.
     Reaching his target, Nakaz said, "Your pardon, milord. Might I
share your table for a while?"
     The young man looked up and smiled before he could possibly have
registered the harp-and-stars. A moment later, he said, "Of course, sir
bard! Stay as long as you wish."
     Nakaz sat on the other side of the table and said, "Thank you. Let
me buy you a drink while we introduce ourselves." He gestured, and one
of the waiters swiftly delivered their order. "I am Nakaz, a bard as
you've already noted."
     "Pleased to meet you, Bard Nakaz. I am Lord Yeran Reshilk, at your
service."
     Nakaz lifted his cup, and said, "Well met, Lord Reshilk." He took a
sip to complete the toast and continued, "What brings you to the Waning
Moon this evening?"
     Yeran set his tankard down and wiped his mouth on his finely-made
sleeve. He turned his brown-gold eyes on Nakaz, and the bard thought he
could see a hint of pain in their depths as the lord said, "I'm
returning home after concluding some family business. You might even
say, concluding my family's inheritance."
     Nakaz didn't immediately reply, waiting for the young man to
continue on his own. When Yeran remained silent, Nakaz put on his best
"And ...?" expression. The young lord glanced at him, and laughed. "Oh,
I do apologize, sir bard. I should know better than to torture a servant
of the harp-and-stars so. Believe me, I am not reticent out of a desire
to tease a bard with a bare hint of a tale. Most of my peers are well
versed in my family's plight, and need no recitation of our woes, so I
have learned to keep them to myself.
     "But on this, probably my last visit to the Waning Moon, I'll tell
my tale once more. I doubt, though, that you'll get much of a song out
of it, friend Nakaz."
     Yeran took another pull of his drink, and set the vessel down with
a deep sigh. Squaring himself to the table, he rested both forearms on
its top and straightened his back. Staring into the depths of his
tankard, he began.
     "The Reshilk clan, for a clan we were once, is very old. There were
Reshilks here before there was even a Baranur. But the clan was never
large, and when our land became part of the kingdom, we didn't resist
the change. In fact, my ancestors allied with the invaders against their
neighbors, earning the reward of a barony under the newly-formed Duchy
of Arvalia."
     Yeran looked up, flicking his eyes toward Nakaz before letting his
gaze wander around the room. He continued, "Reshilk never really
prospered as a barony. Maybe we were cursed by our ancestors'
coat-turning; then again, perhaps we simply never had the head for
politics that our new neighbors did. However it was, we were never able
to expand our holdings. Again and again, marriage contracts were
arranged that ended up with Reshilk on the high side of the scales.
Money, land, resources -- we never seemed to end up with more of
anything no matter how hard the negotiation."
     The young lord's eyes returned to the bard as his hands gripped his
tankard and lifted it again. Though Yeran's tone of voice was light and
even, Nakaz saw that hint of pain behind his brown eyes again. The
vessel soon warded those eyes from his scrutiny, and Nakaz turned his
gaze to the table.
     Yeran set the cup down, hands still gripping it, and went on. "It
was inevitable, possibly even foreordained. My great-grandfather was the
last Baron Reshilk." Nakaz noticed that Yeran's knuckles were white
around the tankard. "Loryad couldn't pay the tithe any longer; he didn't
have the land to support it. He sold his title to Arval in return for
the lesser one of Lord, and instead of owing fealty directly to Arval,
he became a vassal of Baron Tendian."
     The young lord drank again. Nakaz signaled, and Yeran's drink was
quickly refilled. Now slumping somewhat over the edge of the table,
Yeran continued, "The trend continued, however. The lands that Loryad
governed were split in half when his daughter married into the family to
the south. My father had only one child, me, but he had a gambling habit
to take care of as well. His debts fell to me to settle when he fell
from his horse and broke his neck three years ago.
     "The revenge of those ancient clans was finished by those
creditors." Yeran's voice shook as he said, "I had no choice. I tried
everything else ... everything! But it wasn't enough."
     The young lord paused. He was bent over his tankard, his eyes
closed, his hands tight around its girth. Nakaz reached over and put a
hand on the young man's shoulder, and with that touch, all of the
tension went out of Yeran in an instant. The lord sighed deeply and
straightened, smiling somewhat grimly at the bard. He lifted his cup,
but set it down again before drinking. He seemed to gather himself, and
when he continued, his voice was steady again.
     "I've just come from selling my lands, friend Nakaz. I've exchanged
the last of my heritage for enough money to lay my father's debts to
rest for good. The land went to my uncle, with the permission of Norin
Arval, the duke, of course. So in a sense it is still in the family."
Yeran laughed ruefully, and said, "But not really. I'm the last Reshilk,
Nakaz. All I have left is my townhouse in Magnus, and a title I couldn't
pass on to my children should I ever have any. A pitiful end, don't you
think?"
     Nakaz was about to deny Yeran's self-deprecating claim when the
young lord said, "Oh, wait!" Yeran made a fist and showed it to the
bard. "I almost forgot, I do have a shred of heritage left. Look here,
Nakaz, this ring. It has been in my family from the earliest days. Our
legends say that it's even older than the Reshilks, and that it is some
kind of key. Frustratingly enough, they don't bother to say to what."
     Nakaz drew the hand closer and examined the heirloom. The ring was
silver, set with a strange looking grey-blue stone the like of which
Nakaz had never seen before. The band was wide, tapered wider for the
stone's mounting. That taper was decorated on one side with an odd
symbol that looked something like a star and something like a leaf. The
other side bore a stag crowned with an impressive set of antlers leaping
over a mountain cat.
     Releasing the fist, Nakaz said, "That's some heirloom, Yeran. Maybe
not as impressive as a barony, but I'll wager that Arval doesn't possess
anything nearly as old." The young lord grinned and nodded, looking at
his ring, but Nakaz felt the tickle of an elusive memory started by the
ring. There was something about the star-leaf, the cat-leaping stag, and
the strange stone that resonated deep in his memory. He tried to coax
that memory up, but nothing responded. It bothered him that he couldn't
remember; he was a bard, he was supposed to be able to remember! With a
sigh, he let it go; he knew that it would come to him in time.
     "And," said Yeran, drawing Nakaz' attention away from his reticent
memory, "there's also Tremid, my only remaining servant. His family has
served ours for six generations." The young lord shook his head
wonderingly as he said, "I've let him know that he's free to find a
better employer, but he refuses to leave my service. I guess that makes
him part of my heritage, too."
     Yeran lifted his head, looking over Nakaz' shoulder. He said,
"That's Tremid over there, where the hirelings and servants usually
group together. He's the one with the red hair and blue vest."
     Nakaz turned to look, spotting the loyal Tremid easily among the
more drably-dressed folks gathered in the corner farthest from the front
door. He was about to compliment Yeran on being able to inspire such
loyalty when he caught sight of the man sitting next to Tremid.
     The bard's memory needed no prodding to recall where he had seen
that face before. The man in question was tall, thin, and handsome. He
had light brown hair and wide brown eyes over a narrow chin and
cheekbones. Nakaz had last seen the man just about three years ago
during one of his own visits to the Bardic College. He recalled the
dinner well, as he had been in the company of his sometime-lover Shorel
at the time. The entrance of the eighth-stave bard named Kethseir had
caught his attention immediately, and he had paid a great deal of
attention to the very attractive man seated across the room from him,
much to Shorel's annoyance. The man had left early the next morning,
denying Nakaz the chance to meet and, hopefully, impress him. In the
intervening years Nakaz hadn't heard a word from or of Kethseir, which
wasn't unusual; there were too many bards for him to know and keep track
of every one.
     His recollection of Kethseir brought other memories with it,
starting with the death of Shorel. Two years had passed since the
trouble in Barony Frasilk that had resulted in his lover's death. The
matter had been settled to everyone's satisfaction, including Duke
Othuldane when Nakaz had communicated the situation to him. Nakaz had
continued with his circuit duties despite his loss, for which he had
been praised upon his return to the Bardic College. He hadn't felt
particularly praiseworthy, though. In truth, since having found the
strange stone sculpture that had belonged to Shorel, he hadn't been
bothered by his loss. It wasn't that he felt comforted by carrying
something of Shorel's with him; rather it was like he had gained
something vitally important to him, something that made him more whole
than he had been before.
     Along with that gain, however, had come the sense that he wasn't
yet complete. There was something more out there to be sought. He was
fortunate in that his profession allowed him to travel with greater
freedom than most; he was sure that he would have been riding the trails
of Baranur in search of that something whether he was a lord or a lowly
peasant.
     "Nakaz?" The bard blinked himself out of his reverie, and turned
back to Yeran, who continued, "Are you all right?"
     "Fine, yes fine. Sorry, I was distracted there for a moment." Nakaz
tried to gather his thoughts and return to his former frame of mind, but
he couldn't manage it right away. To cover for himself, he said, "I'm
glad to have made your acquaintance, Lord Yeran. I hope we will have
time to talk further before you leave tomorrow?"
     Yeran said, "The pleasure has been all mine, sir bard. And, I won't
be leaving for a few days; the creditors arrive on the second of Yuli
for their money. So if your duties don't take you away too soon, I'm
sure we will have time for more conversation."
     "Excellent. I look forward to it. Now, if you will excuse me?"
Nakaz rose, shook hands with Yeran, who had a firm handshake, and left
the table.
     The bard took a trip out back again, more for time to think than
from need. When he returned, Lord Yeran was no longer in the taproom.
Nakaz was glad; he had other things to concentrate on.
     The room was less crowded now, and the bard had no trouble finding
a table to sit at by himself. He looked over to the servants' corner,
and was pleased to find that Kethseir was still there, still in the
company of Tremid. They seemed to be talking animatedly, getting along
like fast friends.
     Nakaz studied the other bard, who presented something of a puzzle.
Kethseir was dressed in traveling clothes of a common cut, nothing as
elegant as he had been wearing that time at the college. His hair was
cut differently, and he had a thin mustache that made him look even more
alluring, but there was no visible sign of his bardic profession about
him: no stars and harps on his vest or belt, no instrument visible, no
pendant of rank around his neck, nothing. That wasn't completely
unusual; Nakaz had hidden his profession during the Frasilk situation.
     The other thing that was different about the man was his entire
demeanor. He found it difficult to imagine the proud, well-dressed man
of three years ago dressed so commonly and fitting in with the servants
around him as if he had been born to that life. The only conclusion that
Nakaz could draw was that Kethseir had a task that required him to go
about in disguise. Nakaz respected that, but he still wanted to meet the
handsome man if at all possible.
     There were many ways to accomplish that, of course. He could wait
until Kethseir was alone, or change his own clothes so he would blend in
better with the company Kethseir was keeping. Or he could use the silent
speech.
     For times when actual conversation was inconvenient or impossible,
bards had a means of communication that involved only the movements of
fingers. Based in part on the fingertalk that enabled the deaf to hear
and the dumb to talk, but different enough that it wasn't as casually
known outside of those educated at the College of Bards, it didn't
involve quite as much motion and symbolism as did fingertalk. It could
be executed with only one hand, and the movements were subtle enough
that an onlooker wouldn't see more than normal fidgeting. Partly because
he didn't want to disturb whatever Kethseir was involved in, and partly
because he wasn't highly motivated to get out of his seat, Nakaz decided
to use the silent speech.
     One obstacle was, of course, that Kethseir was on the other side of
the taproom. Obstacles were there to be overcome, and the silent speech
had methods for overcoming this one.
     Nakaz began trying to catch Kethseir's eye, but nothing he did
elicited a response from Kethseir beyond a glance in his direction. No
signal, from the most casual to the most dire, was responded to. Not a
hint of recognition passed when their eyes briefly met before Kethseir's
gaze continued its steady sweep of the room.
     Finally, Nakaz had to admit that either Kethseir had an overriding
reason to not respond to his signaling, or the man didn't understand the
silent speech. Nakaz found himself intrigued. Given the meaning of some
of the signals he had sent -- ones that meant disaster, sent in
desperation -- it seemed more like the second option than the first, and
he didn't see how that was possible. Unless Kethseir wasn't a bard ...
but that was impossible! Nakaz had seen the man in the Bardic College
itself, sitting down to eat with all of the other bards in residence at
the time. The man had even taken a turn at entertaining, though Nakaz
remembered his own evaluation of the man's talent as nowhere near eighth
stave. Could it be true? And if so, how and why had Kethseir been in the
college in the first place?
     Nakaz determined to track this mystery to its source. He had no
intention of letting Kethseir slip away in the early bells of the day.
He intended to follow the presumed-bard until he knew the answers to the
questions he was still formulating.

     The amount of sunlight flooding into Nakaz' room the next morning
told the bard that he had overslept badly. The mistake was
understandable: shortly after he had retired to his room the evening
before, he had been visited by two willing and eager women. Both were
servers in the taproom whom Nakaz had noted during the course of the
evening, and they were sisters as well. Nakaz had been persuaded to
accept their invitation into his own room, and their activities therein
had lasted well into the late bells of the night.
     Excuse or no, his quarry, Kethseir, wouldn't even have had to rise
early to evade the bard's scrutiny. Nakaz cursed in frustration, and
flung himself from the bed. He threw on some clothes, paused long enough
to adjust his tunic and hair into an acceptable appearance, and then
dashed down the stairs into the taproom.
     He looked around at the sprinkling of fellow late-risers just
beginning their breakfasts, but didn't see his quarry. He headed for the
bar to ask an employee, but he realized that he didn't know how to
identify Kethseir; he had no idea what the man was calling himself here.
In desperation, he headed for the stables, hoping that one or another of
the ostlers or stable boys could describe those who had departed that
morning.
     Luck was with him though, for as he rounded the corner of the inn
on the way to the stable yard, he caught sight of Kethseir. The tall,
thin man was walking toward the stables with Yeran's servant, Tremid,
and four other people who were unknown to the bard. Even though none of
them looked ready to travel, Nakaz followed, remaining unseen.
     Inside the large barn, the bard watched as the others inspected a
group of horses in one particular area. A short while later, Kethseir
broke away to examine a docile, black horse with a jagged blaze on its
nose. Nakaz saw the man check the feed and water, nod approvingly, and
return to the group after giving the horse an affectionate rub between
the eyes.
     When the others had left, Nakaz found one of the stable boys and
asked, "Do you know who that horse belongs to?" He indicated the black
with the jagged blaze.
     "Ah, yeah, sir," the tow-headed child said. "That's Kresh's horse,
it is. He was just here, you musta missed 'im."
     "Thanks, lad," said Nakaz, handing him an oval quarter-Common for
his trouble. The bard returned to the taproom and ordered his own late
breakfast, trying to plan how he was going to introduce himself to
'Kresh'.

     By ninth bell, with the sun just a few finger-widths from the
horizon, Nakaz was again very frustrated. He had been trying all day to
catch Kresh alone, but he hadn't yet been successful. Either the man was
avoiding him or the bard was just completely unlucky. Kresh was always
with the group that had visited the stables or in the company of two
other men who looked rougher than the servants and hirelings that Kresh
had been sitting with the previous evening. Yet he seemed just as
friendly with the toughs as with the servants.
     Nakaz had run out of patience, but not out of options. It looked
like he wasn't going to get to corner Kresh here, so he needed to make
sure that he would be able to track the elusive man down once Kresh left
the inn. Nakaz entered the stables once again, and, after making sure
that no one was around to watch, he slipped into the stall with the
jagged-blazed black horse. Working quickly and expertly, the bard wedged
a piece of soft metal into one of the black's horseshoes. It wouldn't
hurt the horse at all; it was designed to alter the print the shoe would
make, adding a large star to one edge. It wouldn't be difficult to pick
such a hoofprint out even from the myriad that surrounded such a popular
inn.
     His fall-back plan in place, Nakaz was returning to the inn when he
heard voices coming from around the corner.
     "... place is three days away," said a somewhat dull voice, with a
droning undertone.
     "The appointment is on the fifth of Yuli," responded a second
voice, more musical and lilting, yet still very masculine; a very
interesting combination in Nakaz' estimation.
     "So ..." began a voice the bard recognized. The recognition was
confirmed when three people appeared around the corner: Kresh and his
two tough-looking companions. Both had dark hair, and neither topped
Kresh's shoulder. The shorter of the pair had an impressive beard:
thick, covering his entire face, it hung halfway to his belly. The other
had a narrow face that bore a scar across his left cheekbone and nose.
They fell silent at the sight of the bard, nodding politely as they
passed. Kresh still betrayed no flicker of recognition of Nakaz, even
passing this close.
     Wondering what appointment they had been discussing, as well as
which voice belonged to whom, Nakaz continued on his way back into the
inn.

     There were no time-bells rung at the Waning Moon Inn, but Nakaz
guessed that it was somewhere between the seventh and eighth bells of
night as he walked silently back to his room after a visit to the
privies out back. He hadn't bothered with a candle, so he was
essentially in the dark, with only the moonlight seeping under the doors
to show him the way.
     There was a slight increase in the light in the hallway from behind
him, which swiftly vanished with the click of a closing door. He heard a
soft voice say, "You shouldn't have done that." The voice was lilting,
and yet manly, and Nakaz recognized it instantly.
     The dull, droning voice said, "I got it, didn't I?"
     "Yes," said the first voice, which was growing fainter. "But he
said ..."
     Nakaz wondered what the two were talking about. They seemed to be
arguing, but there was no heat in their voices. He contemplated going
after them to learn more, but a yawn convinced him that there wasn't any
reason to suspect them of anything just because they had been seen in
the company of the mysterious Kresh.
     Nakaz returned to his room and swiftly fell asleep again. It seemed
as if no time at all passed before he was jostled awake by a hand on his
shoulder.
     He opened his eyes to find Tremid standing over him, looking
worried and guilty in equal measure. The servant said, "Come quick, sir
bard. It's Lord Yeran ... He's ... he's dead."
     Nakaz threw back the covers, slid into his trousers and followed
Tremid down the hall to Yeran's room. He absently noticed that it was
just as well-appointed as his own before hastening over to the bed that
the young lord lay on, covers thrown back to reveal his sleeping
clothes.
     That Yeran was dead was evident: there was a knife standing in his
motionless chest. There was surprisingly little blood, but Nakaz judged
that the knife had been expertly positioned to still the lord's heart
instantly. Death must have been swift and painless from the peaceful
expression on Yeran's face.
     Nakaz turned to Tremid, who cowered behind him. "When did this
happen?"
     "Beggin' your leave, sir, I don't know. I returned just now and
found him like this."
     Nakaz pounced on the admission. "And why weren't you in your lord's
room, Tremid?"
     The servant looked at the floor, wringing his hands constantly. "I
... I'm sorry, sir. I ... I was in Kresh's room, sir ..."
     "Why?" demanded Nakaz.
     "He done me a favor, it was, sir. We been talking a bit, him and
me, and I was wishin' once over some beer that I could spend a night
wit' a serving girl like my betters. After all, with the gentry like my
master, or the rich caravan-leads, or even such as yourself, sir, what
chance does a lowly servant have?
     "Well, Kresh says he doesn't think it fair either, and he arranges
it for me. Last night, he took me to his room and there was Mattie,
which I've been wanting to bed for months. He gave me a smile, and left,
and ..."
     "Yes, fine," said Nakaz. "You were tempted, and succumbed. Let's
move on. Is anything missing? What about the money Yeran was going to
pay his creditors?"
     Tremid looked shocked. He said, "I ... I didn' check, sir, just
went to fetch you, as you're a bard and all, and friendly with him too."
The servant darted over to the clothes cupboard and opened the wide
doors. He pushed aside two cloaks, and there was a stack of wooden
boxes. Tremid touched each locked hasp, and then shifted the top box
slightly. He stood up and said, "It's right here, sir. Not been touched,
from the looks of it."
     "Not a robbery", thought Nakaz as he turned back to the body on the
bed. Yeran's hands were folded on his stomach, but something about that
seemed wrong. The bard looked closer, and it became clear. The middle
finger of Yeran's left hand was bare save for a white band of flesh
where his heirloom ring had rested.
     Nakaz said, "Take me to Kresh's room, Tremid. Now."
     The room was smaller and more plain, and on the side of the inn
facing the stables, making it somewhat less desirable for the noise and
smell when the wind was right. But it was also completely bare of
anyone's possessions. "Was it like this last night?" he asked.
     Tremid looked around in wonder and said, "No, sir. No, it looked
like Kresh was staying here."
     "What about this morning?"
     The servant hesitated, and then said, "I don't remember. I wasn't
thinking about the room, just about the night, and getting back to my
station before Lord Yeran woke up. It ... it might have been like this."
     Nakaz thought for a moment, and decided on his course of action.
"Tremid, go get the owner and let him know that your master has been
murdered. I'm going after the culprits."
     The bard returned to his room and packed up his belongings swiftly.
He went directly to the stables and started to ready Riesta, his horse,
for travel. He noted in passing that the black with the jagged blaze was
gone.
     He asked the stable boy who came over to help him, "When did Kresh
leave?" He pointed to the black's empty stall, in case this lad didn't
know the name of the horse's owner.
     "Maybe a bell before dawn, sir. Him and his two friends, they came
in all quiet. We're never fooled, though; we can tell when someone comes
in trying to skip his fare. Orik went to the inn to check, but they'd
paid, so we let 'em do our work, and watched 'em go."
     "His friends, the one with the scar and the one with the beard?"
asked Nakaz.
     "Yep. Them."
     "You didn't see which way they went, did you?"
     The boy hesitated, and a sly look came into his eye. "Would I get a
better tip if I had?" he asked.
     Nakaz stared hard at the child, who blinked and looked at his feet.
"No sir, no ... It was still dark and all, and none of us watched them
past the gate."
     The bard mounted his horse and said, "Thank you for being honest."
He tossed the boy a Common, and urged Riesta on her way.
     Nakaz found that his insurance had paid off right away. He easily
picked out the starred-horseshoe print, and followed it away from the
Waning Moon Inn. The tracks led east along the Iridal Road, and the bard
followed. As he rode away, he heard a clamor start up behind him:
evidently, the news of Lord Yeran Reshilk's death was now common
knowledge. He had to fight his instincts to ride back; bards were
trained to bring order to chaotic situations by being the calm center in
the storm of disaster. He had been trained to ask questions and gather
information; he had been schooled on how to calm people and get them
thinking along the necessary paths. This time, though, Nakaz knew that
he was doing his best to help the situation by chasing the murderer, and
he turned to his task.
     The tracks of Kresh's marked horse continued to follow the Iridal
Road for about a bell before turning off to the north. Nakaz took the
small dirt road after them, his full attention on the ground and the
hoofprints. So it was that, almost half-a-bell later, he was startled by
a shout of "Halt!" from in front of him.
     He looked up and halted Riesta at the same time. Blocking the path
were two men on horseback. They looked even rougher than Kresh's
distinctive friends: their hair was ragged, they bore beards that were
scarcely more than a five-day unshaven face, and their clothes would not
have looked out of place on a Magnus ragpicker.
     The one on the left said, "Well met, stranger. Hand over your purse
and your saddlebags, and you'll leave with your life." He lifted a
small-sword into view, and though he held it expertly enough, it was so
shiny and new-looking that Nakaz knew it hadn't been in his possession
for very long.
     Nakaz didn't respond immediately. He wasn't completely sure, but he
thought that these men were too conveniently placed for them not to be
in the employ of Kresh. He didn't want to take the time to fight them,
but he also didn't want to leave their potential menace so close to the
Iridal Road. As he sorted his options, the silence of the road was
broken by the jingling of their horses' harness as they shook their
heads nervously and pawed the ground. Nakaz took a closer look at the
silent brigand, and saw how tightly he was gripping his reins, and how
wide his eyes were.
     Nakaz smiled as he shifted his seat slightly and leaned forward. He
tapped Riesta on the side of the neck three times as he whispered a
command in her ear. Then, with a final tap, Riesta jumped forward and
reared up, giving out a loud trumpet of challenge and churning the air
with her front feet.
     The bard was, of course, expecting the move, so he remained in
place on Riesta's back. Neither of the ruffians had expected it, and
what was more, neither of them were horsemen of any kind. Their horses
reacted to Riesta's challenge by bolting, and the brigands hit the
ground before Riesta's forefeet did.
     Nakaz rode on, leaving the brigands to whatever fate awaited them.
Without horses, they were no longer a menace on the open trail -- anyone
riding could flee them, and anyone walking was no longer at a
disadvantage to them -- and he didn't much care if they had been injured
by their falls. They surely deserved whatever they got after taking
Kresh's money to delay any pursuit.
     Nakaz rode as fast as he could while still keeping track of the
hoofprints. He had no real idea of where he was or where he was going;
he only hoped that he was riding faster than Kresh and his companions or
the chase was going to last all day.
     The sun had reached its apex when Nakaz heard voices coming from
ahead once again. This time, it wasn't more brigands, it sounded like
arguing. He slowed his pace, and approached the sound.
     He quickly noted that the voices were Kresh and his companions. The
first thing he made out was Kresh saying, "... need to do that!"
     "It was easier, Kay!" said the dull, droning voice.
     "I told him not to, Kay," said the lilting voice. "And my back was
turned when he did it, so I couldn't stop him!"
     "You've said that already, Ariks," said Kresh's voice, "and I
believe you. This is between Hiron and me, straight?"
     "Sure, Kay, sure," said the lilting voice.
     "Now, Hiron, you know I don't like messes, and killing Yeran made a
mess," said Kresh.
     Nakaz had reached the edge of a clearing, and he saw three men on
horses on the other side of it. He watched Kresh toss a small bag onto
the ground, and say, "There's your pay, Hiron. You did your job and got
me the ring, but I don't wish to travel with you any longer. Farewell."
     The man with the beard glowered at Kresh and dismounted, while
Kresh and the scarred one reined their horses around. Nakaz kicked
lightly at Riesta's flanks, and shouted, "Hold, Kresh!"
     The man on the black horse turned toward Nakaz, and he scowled
fiercely. Then, as suddenly as a summer cloudburst, he grinned. Reaching
over, he slapped the riderless horse on the rump, causing it to race out
of the clearing. Then he sat back up in his saddle and said, "Well, sir
bard, we meet again. I admire your tenacity in following me, but I have
no intention of waiting for you to cross this clearing before I flee.
But let me give you something else to think about: all I've done, to
your knowledge, is steal a ring, while that man on the ground there is
the one who murdered Lord Reshilk. So, who do you follow?
     "Good luck and fare well, sir bard." Kresh gave him a mocking bow,
and was galloping out of the clearing in an instant.
     Hiron stood still for just a moment too long. Nakaz had really been
given no choice, and he was swiftly beside the killer, binding Hiron's
hands behind his back. He looked toward the path that Kresh had taken
and wished he could be in two places at once. The trail would be too
cold by the time Hiron was turned over to the royal authorities, even
with the marked horseshoe. Kresh had given him the slip again. Nakaz
wondered if he would ever cross paths with the false bard again.

========================================================================

                                 Malice
                                 Part 4
                             by P. Atchley
                        <dpartha@surfindia.com>
                             Firil 10, 1018

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-4

     Sergeant Cepero sighed and stretched at his desk. He was in his
office in the guardhouse, one that he shared with two other sergeants in
the Town Guard. It was a large room with three desks taking up much of
the room's middle. Two sides of the room had wooden shelves filled with
ledgers, and wooden boxes stacked haphazardly, while the room's only
window overlooked the front entrance to the building and let in the
dwindling sunlight.
     A knock on the door made him look up. It was Kaaye, who had been
helping him with the case. "Sir, I have some information for you."
     "Come in, Kaaye; have a seat." Cepero guessed that it had to do
with the murder he was looking into. The dead man, Burian, had been the
son of a merchant, a man named Einar; the man suspected of the killing
was Ludovic, the dead man's twin. because the body had been discovered
with a knife in it. The captain had suggested that Cepero handle the
investigation, and during the course of looking into the case, he had
found that the dead man had made many enemies.
     "You had asked me to find out about the knife." The dead man had
been killed with a bejeweled knife owned by Ludovic.
     Kaaye looked at him expectantly and, when he nodded, continued, "I
checked with the weapon-seller and the ironsmith on Traders Avenue but
they both said it looked like a custom order; one of them suggested I
check with the old swordsmith, Maarten. When I went there, Maarten said
that he had made the knife but the decorations on the knife were done
afterwards. He said that it looked like Nila's work --" she stopped when
he raised his eyebrows in question.
     "She's a silversmith, sir, and when I talked to her, she said that
she did them as a custom-order for Karanat." Karanat was manservant to
Ludovic, the dead man's twin.
     Cepero nodded again. "That's the same story the family told us.
Karanat gave the knife to Ludovic as a birthday present. Ludovic doesn't
deny it." Cepero drummed his fingers on the table and said, "Tell me,
have you talked to Ludovic at all?"
     "I was with you when we brought him into the guardhouse, Sergeant."
     "What is your impression? Do you think he did it?" Cepero was
curious to know if her opinion tallied with his. He himself did not
think that Ludovic was a murderer, but he could scarcely tell the
justiciar that he felt Ludovic was innocent because of the tone of his
denials!
     "I don't know, sir." She stopped speaking and looked at him, a
question in her eyes.
     "Tell me," he encouraged.
     "I've been asking around, sir, and Burian made a lot of enemies
before he got killed. Ludovic is a gambler, sir, but he pays his debts,
and he isn't a drunkard like Burian was. Plus, Ludovic swears he didn't
kill Burian, sir, and I don't know, I want to believe him." The twins,
Burian and Ludovic, had been competing to be named heir to their father,
and since Burian's murder made certain that Ludovic would be heir, he
was the best choice for murderer.
     Cepero nodded. "I agree. I have arranged for everyone to be here in
the guardhouse today for the second questioning, so let's get started,
shall we?"

     "Mistress Isla? Come in," Sergeant Cepero invited, "Have a seat."
He observed the woman before him closely. She was housekeeper and cook
to Einar, the gem-merchant, father of the dead man. Isla's eyes were
shadowed, and Cepero guessed that she was upset about Burian's death;
after all, she had practically raised Burian and Ludovic subsequent to
their mother's death when they were very small boys.
     Kaaye, who had escorted the woman in, remained in the office.
     "I'd like for you to tell me what happened on the day Burian died,"
Cepero said. He had been unable to get a clear picture of the suspects,
and had decided that the housekeeper's information would lighten the
murkiness surrounding the murder.
     "Well, it was just another day except for Burian getting killed,"
Isla said. Then, her voice rising agitatedly, she continued, "Sergeant,
Ludovic didn't do it. He couldn't kill his own brother. You have got to
let him go. You must understand --"
     Cepero interrupted, "Yes, I do. Now, Isla, Ludovic will be set free
if he is innocent. But in order for me to get the proof that he is
innocent, I need your help." He waited until Isla subsided and then
said, "You can help by thinking back to that day and answering my
questions. What were you doing that morning? Start with when you woke
up."
     "I woke up when the last bell of the night rang, just like any
other day," she paused and Cepero took the opportunity to ask another
question.
     "Isn't that a little early?"
     "Not really. I only have one maid to help, and it's a big house.
Donato and Karanat help; they take care of the entire upper floor, but
there's still the young master's rooms to clean, and the rest of the
house." Donato and Karanat were the manservants of the twins, Burian and
Ludovic.
     She sniffed and continued, "Then there's all the cooking to do. We
have a woman who comes and takes out the laundry to do at the river, but
--"
     Cepero interrupted again; while he believed in letting people talk
so that they would let the truth slip, he was not deeply interested in
the details of housekeeping activities. "By young master, you mean
Einar?"
     "Yes, sir. I cooked breakfast -- the young master likes to
breakfast early. We had several visitors that day, and they all came
through the back door. First there was the milkman, and then the girl
who does my shopping came by with the spices and meat."
     "Did they come into the house?"
     "No, they didn't; I just met them at the back door. There's a
little alcove there between the kitchen and the outside door, and they
usually stop in there. Let's see, who else visited that day?" Isla
stopped, a faraway look in her eyes. "There was this young man who
wanted to see Burian, but Donato had just come down to the kitchen to
get breakfast for Burian and he chased him away."
     "Hmm." Cepero frowned, thinking about it. "Did you know the young
man? Can you describe him for me?"
     "He was a pretty young man," Isla offered doubtfully.
     "What color hair? Eyes? How tall was he?" Cepero asked, knowing
that without his intervention, Isla could talk about the unknown youth
for a bell, yet fail to provide a single, useful detail about his
appearance.
     "Blue, I think," she hesitated and then continued, "Light brown
hair. I'd never seen him before."
     "How tall?"
     "I don't know. Shorter than Donato, maybe."
     "Who else came by?"
     "Well, about a bell after that, and I remember this because I came
back into the kitchen after serving the young master breakfast, and
there she was!" Isla looked at him triumphantly.
     "Who?"
     "Why, Raizel, of course, Donato's sister. She had come to visit
him; she came down after seeing him."
     "Was Karanat there?" Cepero knew from his conversations with the
others that Karanat had gone to visit his aunt Francesa and her son
Ruarc, but he believed in corroborating everyone's story. Sure enough,
Isla confirmed Karanat's absence.
     "Oh, he'd gone to visit his family. He went the previous night, you
know, after Ludovic went to the Serpent. He must have come back really
late that night, because he was in when I got up and he took early tea
up to Ludovic." Ludovic was something of a gambler, and frequently
played cards at the Inn of the Serpent which was the haunt of serious
card players.
     Cepero asked, "So what happened when you saw Raizel in the
kitchen?"
     "Nothing, really. She said she was in a hurry and ran away. I was
busy, so I didn't ask. I went away to clean the young master's rooms
after that. No one else came to the house that morning, I don't think,"
Isla said. "At lunch, young master Einar wanted to know where the boys
were. I told him to go up and look. He went up and found Burian dead.
That's all."
     "Thank you, Mistress Isla." He nodded to Kaaye, who escorted Isla
out.

     Sergeant Cepero watched Kaaye and Ludovic enter his office. With
brown hair and honey-colored eyes, Ludovic was of slender build and
medium height. His face had an ascetic look to begin with, due to the
straight nose and high cheekbones, and now the incarceration had etched
deep lines in his face, making him look gaunt. Not that the guard
ill-treated their prisoners, but Ludovic had been fretting about being
in jail, complaining incessantly to any of the guards who passed by his
cell.
     Cepero settled himself in his chair comfortably, putting his feet
up on his desk. "Have a seat." He nodded to Kaaye, who took a seat
behind Ludovic to one side. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened
from the time you entered the Inn of the Serpent that night."
     "How many times, Sergeant? How many times are you going to make me
tell you the same thing over and over again?" Ludovic asked angrily.
"I'm not stupid. If you think I'm going to change my story the tenth,
fifteenth, or twentieth time I tell it, you're wrong, because it's not a
story; it's the truth!"
     "So tell me the truth," Cepero invited.
     "Fine. I went to the Serpent to play cards that night. I'd received
word that someone new was going to be at the game, someone good, and I
wanted to play against her. By the time I realized Burian was there, the
third bell of the night had already tolled, because Deserae wasn't in
the common room -- she normally goes upstairs on the third bell." The
Inn of the Serpent was a place frequented by serious card players and
Deserae was the innkeeper's daughter who assisted her father, Ballard
Tamblebuck, in running the establishment.
     Ludovic paused to cough and then continued, "Burian was drunk, as
usual, and we had a fight. It was nothing special, just regular --"
     Cepero interrupted, "Nothing special? You and Burian threatened to
kill each other and you say it was just the usual?"
     "Sergeant, you've got to understand. Burian and I -- that's what we
did." The vehemence in Ludovic's voice rang true and Cepero also knew
that it was, because he had spoken to people who knew the twins and they
all said the same thing: the twins had fought verbally and physically
with little regard to time or place.
     "Did you mean it?" he asked, just to confirm.
     "No," Ludovic said emphatically. And then slowly, he said, "No, I
didn't."
     "You don't sound too sure."
     "I don't care that he's dead," Ludovic dismissed his twin's death,
"but I didn't do it. I did not do it." He emphasized the last sentence,
separating each word as he had done before.
     "Straight; go on. Tamblebuck?"
     "The innkeeper, Tamblebuck, threw us out. He wanted to know if
Donato and Karanat were there. He called them our shadows." For an
instant, Ludovic's voice trembled, but he composed himself. "Father
hired the two of them to be our manservants, companions, when we were
younger. Donato was Burian's and Karanat was mine. Anyway, Karanat
wasn't there -- he never went with me when I played cards. He
disapproves of my gambling." Ludovic gave a small smile. "Donato was
there. He offered to take us home, but I didn't need any help because I
wasn't drunk." The scorn in his voice was palpable. "And then I went
home."
     "What happened after that?"
     "I went to bed. The next day Father had sent word for us to lunch
with him; he wanted to celebrate the fact that I was getting married. I
didn't go and he came upstairs to fetch us. We went into Burian's room
and there he was, dead." There was no horror in his voice, and Cepero
recognized the lack for what it was: the numbness resulting from endless
repetitions of the explanation.
     "Where was Karanat?"
     "He had gone to visit his aunt."
     "When did he return?"
     "N-- yes -- I don't remember, straight? After Tamblebuck threw us
out, I came home and got drunk, so I don't remember when Karanat came
home."
     "Did you have breakfast that morning?" Cepero decided to take
another direction.
     "No, I was feeling too sick. I couldn't go down to eat. Just had a
cup of tea."
     "Hmmm. I guess Karanat brought you the tea," Cepero offered gently.
     "Yes, that's right, he did bring me tea. But I really had a
headache."
     "Such a headache that you don't remember killing your own brother?"
Cepero asked with sudden emphasis.
     "No!" Ludovic's response was immediate and heartfelt.
     Cepero changed the subject again. "Tell me about the knife." One of
Ludovic's knives had been found in the body.
     "It was a gift."
     "Who gave it to you? How many people knew it was yours?"
     "Karanat gave it to me during my last birthday celebrations.
Everyone knew it was mine."
     "Where did you keep it?"
     "In the dresser in my room. I wore it for formal occasions; it was
beautiful enough that it was a decoration, and yet functional enough
that I didn't need to carry any other weapon." Ludovic paused for a
moment and then mocked, "Well, Sergeant, it appears you believe me after
all."
     "It is your knife," Cepero pointed out gently. "Tell me, Ludovic,
did you kill him?"
     "Are you hard of hearing? Perhaps you should find a good healer or
a magician to look at your ears. Or perhaps you should get a
truth-hearer in. How many times do I have to tell you? I did not do it."
Ludovic was shouting by the time he finished.
     "Well, we'll see," Cepero offered. "Kaaye, have Pallas take him
back to his cell, please." Syshe Pallas was a new recruit to the guard.

     Kaaye stepped out of the office briefly to give instructions and
returned.
     "That was a strange smile on his face when he talked about
Karanat," Cepero mused. "I wonder if Karanat is the killer and Ludovic
knows."
     "That isn't it, Sergeant." Kaaye shook her head. "I have heard that
Ludovic doesn't bed women. People say that the two of them are
together."
     "Is that all?" Cepero snorted. "That isn't enough reason to kill."
     "Well sir, the father, Einar, threatened to disinherit Ludovic
because of that."
     Cepero murmured, "Hmmm. That's interesting. All of the evidence is
against Ludovic. It was his knife; they fought and threatened to kill
each other just the previous night at the inn, and their rooms are
across from one another in the house."
     "Yet you don't think he's guilty, do you, sir?"
     Cepero sighed and brought his feet down with a plop. "I don't know.
Maybe he is guilty. I just -- his denials ring true to me." He leaned
forward on the desk and shouted, "Pallas?" A brown-haired man entered
and Cepero asked, "Ah, Pallas, is Donato waiting?"
     "Yes sir, shall I send him in?"
     "Please do."
     They waited and Cepero drummed his fingers on the desk
rhythmically. Suddenly he paused. "Kaaye, I have an idea about that
young man Isla described. Remember the first time we spoke to Karanat
and he said Ruarc came to see him? Why don't you take Isla and see if
she recognizes him?"
     Kaaye nodded and left the office quickly, passing Donato in the
doorway. Manservant to the dead man, he was of medium height, with
red-blond hair. Hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed beard gave him the kind
of good looks that would catch any maiden's eyes.
     Cepero nodded to the newcomer. "Donato, please have a seat. Why
don't you tell me about Burian." The question was uttered like a
statement.
     "What do you want to know?"
     "Anything. Everything. What kind of a man was he?"
     "He spent his days drinking. Einar paid me to watch him so that he
didn't fall into a ditch when he was drunk," Donato said.
     Cepero stared at the other man, whose eyes were curiously blank. It
was as if the real man behind the hazel eyes was hiding. It frustrated
Cepero, who liked to size up people when he met them. "Is that all?"
     "What more is there to say about a man who preferred to remain
drunk rather than sober?"
     "You tell me," Cepero snapped. Donato's habit of answering a
question with another question annoyed him. He knew there was something
Donato was hiding and he wanted quite fiercely to find out what it was.
     "He drank a lot."
     "You said he spent his days drinking. What did he do with his
nights?" Cepero knew the answer to that one: wenching. But still, he
wanted to get a rise out of the expressionless man in front of him. And
he did. A strange expression, almost one of hauteur, crossed Donato's
face.
     "Burian fancied himself a ladies' man," he offered.
     "Tell me about your sister, Donato." Cepero was tired of the game,
and he came to the point brusquely. He was conscious of satisfaction as
rage crossed the other man's face.
     "Leave Raizel out of this!" Donato half-rose from his chair,
gripping the handles with white knuckles.
     "I talked to Ballard Tamblebuck, owner of the Inn of the Serpent.
He told me Raizel is ... ill."
     "Ill? Ill?" Donato took a deep breath, his anger coming off him in
waves. Cepero was a little surprised that Donato had lost his poise so
completely, but it appeared that his mention of the sister had touched a
sore point. Mentally he congratulated himself and awaited Donato's
outburst.
     "She's with child, and you know it, don't you? Damn that
Tamblebuck! He told you!"
     "Hold on, Donato," Cepero soothed, "I would've found out even if
Tamblebuck hadn't told me."
     "Well, it's true, Raizel is with child." Donato seemed to force out
the words.
     "The father --"
     "Isn't Burian! I know what you're trying to do, Sergeant, but I can
only say that you're wrong." Donato had recovered his calm, and he
stared back at Cepero silently.
     "Did you kill Burian?"
     "No! I did not kill him," Donato said.
     "Did she kill him?"
     "No, she did not." He paused deliberately between each word as if
mocking the guard.
     Cepero looked at him, debating whether to provoke him again, and
then decided against it. He nodded decisively and called for Pallas to
escort Donato out.

     "Sergeant, you were right," Kaaye said, her words tumbling over
each other in excitement. "The young man who went to visit Burian that
morning was Ruarc. I took Isla over to Ruarc's house, and she recognized
him right away." Kaaye had left while Cepero had been questioning Donato
and had just returned.
     "That's excellent," Cepero allowed a note of satisfaction to enter
his voice. "What do you want to wager that Ruarc simply waited and went
upstairs when no one was looking?"
     "But why, sir?" Kaaye asked.
     "I questioned Karanat's aunt to make sure he did go there. She told
me that her son Ruarc was trying to sell some ale to Burian, who cheated
Ruarc out of the ale as well as twenty Sovs. Ruarc is a thief, so I'm
not sure who cheated whom. And what money? What ale? No one else is
talking about it. As far as I'm concerned, I want to find out who had a
reason for killing Burian, and frankly, if I had to choose, I'd probably
say Ruarc cheated Burian rather than the other way around."
     Kaaye nodded. "You're right, sir. I was the one who caught him when
he was trying to cheat that old woman who sells flowers in the
marketplace."
     Cepero continued, "That morning, as far as I can tell, Burian had
at least two visitors; he could have had as many as four. First, Ruarc
went to the house, but Isla says that Donato chased him away. I think he
probably waited and met with Karanat who took him upstairs. Next, Raizel
went to see Burian. And Karanat could have gone to see Burian about this
alchemy matter. He seems pretty attached to that aunt of his. Ludovic
says he was drunk the previous night, so whether he could have even
moved the next morning is unknown."
     Kaaye shook her head. "No, sir. According to Ballard Tamblebuck,
Ludovic had only two drinks; it was Burian who was really drunk. I know
Ludovic says he was drunk, but he did have a visitor the next morning
and he did go into Burian's room. Listen to this: I found out that
Ludovic gives a lot of money to a woman named Iolanthe. She lives in
this little cottage that's way out, and she has so many animals."
     "Isn't she the one they say is a lucky healer?" Cepero asked. He
remembered when his horse had gotten the dog-fever, an ailment that
usually ended in the death of the horse, an ailment named thus because
it occurred when someone fed a horse dog guts. The horse had been cured,
and when he had asked the guardhouse's stable master how the horse had
survived, he had learned that Iolanthe had helped heal the animal. "What
about her?"
     Kaaye began, "Sir, she went to see Ludovic on the morning of the
murder, sir, and asked him for money. She said that he went downstairs
and then he went into his brother's room and got her the money."
     "So we have one more person who entered Burian's room that morning:
Ludovic, as well as Raizel, probably Ruarc, and Karanat," Cepero listed.
     Kaaye objected, "Why not Donato?"
     "Because he has more to lose with Burian's death."
     "How do you figure that, sir?"
     "Raizel, Burian's woman, is with child, according to Ballard
Tamblebuck of the Serpent. Raizel is Donato's sister. With Burian dead,
that child has no father, and I don't think that's what Donato would
have wanted." Cepero leaned back and stretched in his chair.
     A guard poked his head inside the door and said, "Sir, Karanat is
here for questioning."
     Cepero waved him in and when Karanat entered, invited, "Be seated.
I would like for you to tell me what happened that night."
     Ludovic's manservant, Karanat, was a stocky man whose brown hair
and brown eyes would have allowed him claim to at least ordinary looks,
had it not been for a nose with a sharp curve and a scar on one temple,
both of which made him look just a little dangerous. He began, "But I
have told you --"
     "Once more, please," Cepero said firmly.
     "Straight." Karanat sighed and paused, as if he were recollecting
his thoughts. "That night, Ludovic had gone to the Serpent to play
cards. I didn't go with him because I hated that he gambled; he would
never listen to me. I had gone to see my aunt -- she'd sent a message
that she needed my help. I didn't come back until they discovered the
body. I went up to see Ludovic and there he was, with Einar, in Burian's
room."
     Cepero sighed internally. He knew that much of what Karanat said
was true; but he also suspected that some of what Karanat said was not.
How to separate the two? He would start with what he knew for certain
from the housekeeper at Ludovic's home: that Karanat had returned to the
house much earlier.
     "Are you sure you didn't return to the house until then?" he asked.
     "Yes, I'm sure."
     "Are you sure you didn't see Ludovic until they discovered the
body? I will check with Ludovic," he pointed out.
     "Well, I -- I don't -- yes," Karanat said stiffly.
     "Lad, don't lie to me," Cepero said. "Let's try this again, and
this time, the truth, if you please."
     "Sir, I came back early and spent every mene with Ludovic."
     "Lying again. Look, tell me the truth. I know you came back early
and took breakfast up to Ludovic."
     Karanat said quickly, "Only tea. And he had such a headache.
Sergeant --"
     Cepero sighed. "Enough, Karanat. Come back when you're ready to
tell me the truth. Pallas?"
     "Sir?" The guard outside the door poked his head in.
     "Escort Karanat out. Karanat, go. Come back tomorrow."
     Silently Cepero watched them leave and turned to face Kaaye.
     "That was very interesting, sir," she said. "Did you know that
Karanat and Ludovic are --"
     "Yes, I know. That's actually the only reason I even suspected
Ludovic. He didn't want to marry that girl, and what better way to
ensure that his father names him heir than to get rid of the only other
person who could be heir?" Einar, Ludovic's father, had agreed to naming
Ludovic his heir on condition that Ludovic married a girl he had chosen.
     "Karanat lied, sir, I'm sure of it," Kaaye said. "I think he came
back earlier than he said he did. He must have seen Burian or Ludovic."
     Cepero frowned. "That's odd. He didn't come back in the morning --
the housekeeper there, a woman named Isla, let out that he got in late
the previous night."
     "Why did you let him go, sir? We should have detained him."
     "No, no," he shook his head. "Of all the people, I think that
Karanat is the one with the least reason to kill Burian. Even if he was
worried about his aunt, he would have approached Ludovic, given their
relationship. As it is, I don't think he even had a chance to tell
Ludovic about what happened. That's why I let him go. But you can have
him followed, if you like. Want to put someone on it?"
     Kaaye was halfway out of the door before he had even finished his
question and he smiled at her enthusiasm.

     "Raizel, come in. Please be seated." Cepero looked at the woman who
had gone to see Burian on the morning of his death. She was a beautiful
woman, with red, curly hair and bright blue eyes. There was a strong
resemblance between her and her brother Donato, who had worked as
manservant to the dead man.
     "What is this about?" Her voice trembled just a little and her face
was pale.
     "I need to ask you a few questions in the matter of Burian's
death," Cepero said. He had originally decided to take the slow route
with his questioning, but the very fact of her looking so wan and scared
gave him an idea. He decided to press her for the truth with a harsh
hand. "You knew him very well, didn't you?"
     "No, well, maybe. He came to drink at the Serpent often," she said.
"I didn't know him that well."
     "Don't lie to me, girl. You knew him so well that you're carrying
his child," Cepero said sternly. "Tell me the truth." As an
afterthought, in a loud and resounding voice, he threw in, "Now!"
     Raizel began to weep. "Straight, I am carrying his child. I just
--"
     "You went to see him, didn't you?"
     "No --"
     "On the morning of his death, you went to see him. And you killed
him, didn't you?"
     "No! I didn't --"
     "With the knife that you found there, didn't you? Tell me," Cepero
urged.
     "It wasn't me; he was already dead!"
     Cepero was silent, taken aback by that statement. It was obvious
that Raizel was telling the truth. "Tell me what happened."
     Raizel wiped her face with a fold of her skirt and said between
hiccups, "I went to see him that morning. I sneaked in through the
kitchen -- I didn't want to meet anyone else, especially Donato, you
know?" She looked at him enquiringly as if to make sure he understood,
and when he nodded, she continued, "When I went there, Burian was on the
ground with the knife sticking out of his chest, his leg all awkward.
Everything was scattered, broken, like someone had been fighting. I
swear, I was so scared that it was Donato. If it was he --" she began to
weep again.
     Cepero nodded to Kaaye, a guard who had been listening in, and she
patted Raizel on the shoulder. They both walked out of the office.
Cepero watched them go and sent for the next person on his list.
     It was Donato, Raizel's brother. He shared the same red hair with
his sister, although he wore his hair close-cropped. His eyes were
hazel, his beard neatly trimmed, and he was just as handsome as his
sister was beautiful. He had a curiously blank face, as if he found
changing facial expressions a chore. Cepero had questioned him before,
but he knew that his earlier conversations had not elicited the whole
truth. This time, the first question he asked was the crucial one.
"Donato, did you kill Burian?"
     Donato snapped, "No, I did not. How many times --?"
     "Well, if you didn't, who did? I know who did. I think it's
Raizel," Cepero said sharply.
     "No! It wasn't her, I swear. I did it," Donato said, a hint of a
quaver in his voice. For the first time, his eyes did not have the blank
expression that they usually had; the skin around his eyes creased and
there was fear.
     "Donato, I know that Raizel went to see Burian. I also know that
you know she went to see him. Why don't you tell me what you saw when
you went up?" Cepero had made a list of the people who had gone to visit
the dead man on his last morning alive, and Donato was one of them. If
he told the truth about what he had seen, perhaps the fog that
surrounded Burian's death would clear a little.
     Donato stared back at him for a moment, obviously weighing
alternatives in his mind.
     Cepero said, in an attempt to tilt the scales in his favor, "If you
tell me exactly what you saw, it will be easier for me to get to the
truth. And I don't think your sister could have done it."
     Donato responded eagerly, "No, I know she couldn't have. Straight,
I'll tell you what I saw. When I went up about a bell after breakfast,
to clean up the rooms and pick up the dishes, the room was torn up.
There had been a fight, and Burian was on the ground, dead, with
Ludovic's knife in him. I'd put the knife on the dresser the previous
night. Raizel's scarf was there. I thought she had killed him. So I
picked him up, put him on the couch, cleaned up, and took her scarf
away. I didn't kill him, and neither did Raizel. That's all. It's the
truth, I swear."
     "You didn't leave the knife there. You killed him, didn't you? Stop
lying, lad! Tell me the truth!" Cepero pounced.
     "I am telling you the truth. I didn't kill him. I wanted him alive,
because I wanted him to marry Raizel. I would have done anything for
that. I didn't kill him!"
     Cepero sighed and glared at Donato. The truth in the latter's
reasoning was apparent, and Cepero believed him. There wasn't much else
to say at this point. He wondered if Raizel had killed Burian, but her
denials had also rung true. At the rate this was going, he was going to
run out of suspects!
     Of the people who had entered Burian's rooms that morning, Donato
and Raizel appeared to be telling the truth, which left Ludovic and
Ruarc. He sighed again and said to Donato, "Straight. You can go."
     "But --"
     "Don't worry, Donato, I won't be arresting your sister," he
reassured, knowing that it was only worry for his sister that had made
this controlled man talk.
     Kaaye came back at that moment and Cepero said, "When Raizel saw
Burian, he was already dead, and Donato went to see him after she had
gone. Only Ruarc and Karanat are left, given that Ludovic didn't do it."
     "I went to his cell, sir, and asked him about Iolanthe," Kaaye
said.
     For a moment, Cepero was conscious of both surprise and irritation
that she had taken the initiative, and then he felt absurdly pleased
that his thoughts about Kaaye had been right: she was a promising young
guard who would be very successful. He made up his mind to encourage her
initiative. "Well, what did you find out?"
     "Sir, he says he only took some money from Burian's rooms, and that
Burian was asleep, snoring." Kaaye looked troubled.
     "What do you think?"
     "It looks bad, sir. I still don't think he did it, sir, but it
looks bad."
     "Mmm. How about tackling Karanat with Iolanthe's story?" Cepero
suggested.
     Kaaye smiled. "I'll have Pallas bring him in."
     When Karanat entered the office, Cepero offered him a seat and then
plunged directly into the questions. "Karanat, tell me the truth. When
you went back to the house that morning, you went to see Burian, didn't
you?"
     Karanat began to shake his head, and Cepero said sharply, "Tell the
truth or it will be the worse for you, do you understand? There's no one
else who had the need to kill Burian except you, because of Ruarc's
alchemy problem." Karanat's cousin Ruarc had worked on a bad business
deal with the dead man that had resulted in Ruarc losing, giving both
Ruarc and Karanat plenty of reasons to kill Burian.
     "It wasn't me, I swear," Karanat began. "I did go to see him after
taking up Ludovic's tea, that's true. We fought, and he -- Burian isn't
very good at fighting. He was half-drunk, I think, and he fell over a
fold in the carpet and broke his arm. He was lying there, crying in
pain, and I couldn't fight him any more. How could I hit someone like
that? I was so angry that I ran out of the house. I walked all the way
to the docks. When I came back and went upstairs, Ludovic and Einar were
in Burian's room and he was dead."
     "Is that the truth?"
     "I swear, it's the truth. I did not kill Burian."
     "Ludovic has confessed to entering Burian's rooms that morning,"
Cepero said.
     Karanat looked startled, then worried. "He didn't do it, I'm sure
he didn't. He couldn't have."
     Cepero pounced on that assertion. "Why couldn't he have?"
     "Because it's not in him to kill a man, Sergeant," Karanat said in
a long-suffering tone of voice.
     Cepero stared at him, but Karanat's gaze did not falter. Finally
Cepero said, "You can go." He was fairly certain that Karanat had told
him the truth, but whether he had left out anything was what Cepero
wished to find out.
     The moment Karanat left the office, Kaaye said, "Sir, why didn't
you ask him about Iolanthe?"
     He smiled. "Burian's arm had been broken before he died, straight?"
     Kaaye nodded, her eyes still puzzled.
     "Karanat broke Burian's arm and left him lying there. We know that
Iolanthe came early, because the housekeeper never saw her come. Ludovic
must have entered Burian's room before Karanat did, because Burian was
asleep in his bed when Ludovic went in." Cepero sat up straight.
"Karanat went in after Ludovic left, broke Burian's arm and left him
lying there. By the time Raizel went to see him, he was already dead.
The only person who went in to see him between Karanat and Raizel was
Ruarc. Let's go find Ruarc, Kaaye."

     Cepero stared at the woman in front of him. "Mistress, I want only
the truth, do you understand me?"
     "Sergeant, I am not a liar." She stared back at him proudly.
Francesa, Karanat's aunt and Ruarc's mother, was a buxom woman with
bright blue eyes and wheat-colored hair. Although she barely came to his
shoulder, she met his gaze unflinchingly even through his accusations.
     Cepero sighed. "Fine. Why did you send for Karanat?"
     "My son Ruarc had been in a fight and I needed ... help. I wanted
Karanat to talk to him, so I sent a message for him to visit."
     "Did he eat dinner here?" "Here" was a small house on Murson
Street. The living area led into the kitchen, which looked bright and
airy from where he stood. The staircase led upstairs to the bedrooms,
Cepero assumed.
     "Oh yes, I made his favorite stew." A small smile crossed her
features.
     "Did he sleep here, in the living room?"
     "Oh no, Ruarc was sleeping in the bed there. He slept in the
upstairs loft."
     "It must have been nice having him here after a long time," Cepero
said gently.
     "Well, I'm always glad to see Karanat -- he's such a good boy, you
know. Not like Ruarc. If ever there was a boy to break a mother's heart,
it's Ruarc. I don't know what I would've done without Karanat." Francesa
sniffed.
     Cepero swallowed a smile. The woman was excitable and went from
emotion to emotion like a scurrying rat. "It's nice for a mother to cook
meals for her sons. I'm sure you gave him breakfast."
     "Mmm," she nodded vigorously. "He likes porridge and I made it
special, for him."
     "Did he stay to lunch also?" Cepero asked allowing only a note of
mild interest to show in his voice but internally holding his breath for
the answer to this crucial question.
     "I wish he would, but he never does. Always rushing off to
Lu-ergh-hmm," she coughed, giving him a quick glance from beneath her
eyelids. "He left early, you know."
     Cepero looked back at her blandly, allowing no hint of the
amusement he felt at her stuttering to cross his face. "Where's Ruarc?"
he asked, changing the subject so that Francesa could recover herself.
"I thought his leg broken?"
     "Yes, indeedy, but Karanat made a crutch for him, you know, so he
can walk. He's just gone to the marketplace. He gets bored, you know."
     "How was his leg was broken?"
     Francesa sniffed. "I don't know what happened; I really don't. One
morning last sennight, I wake up and there he is, lying on the ground,
with a broken leg!"
     "Thank you mistress, for all your help," he said formally and
turned away. He wanted to go and find Ruarc, who was the only one of
Burian's last visitors that he needed to question.

     Sergeant Cepero walked towards the marketplace, accompanied by
Kaaye. As they approached, they saw two guards talking with a tall, bald
man. One of the guards hailed Cepero.
     "Sergeant, couldya come over here for a moment, please?" It was
Mayandi, one of the guards on patrol.
     "What is it, Mayandi?"
     "This be Ballard Tamblebuck, from the Serpent, you know, where the
carders play?"
     Cepero nodded to Ballard, whom he had met briefly during the course
of the investigation.
     "He says a little boy cut his purse, sir," Mayandi reported. "I
heard the boy yell, sir, and then he just laughed and ran off, sir."
     Cepero sighed. He had given up trying to cure Mayandi of the habit
of using "sir" after every three words, and it never failed to annoy him
every time he spoke to the man. He said, "Come, Tamblebuck, let's walk
this way. Mayandi, you go on."
     The two of them turned, followed by Kaaye, and began to walk
through the marketplace between the stalls. Cepero said, "Did you get
your purse back?"
     "It wasn't cut in the first place, Sergeant. I caught the boy just
as he was doing it."
     "Did you punish the boy?" Cepero wasn't sure that there was
anything for him to do in the matter, since the purse hadn't been cut,
and Ballard had apparently disciplined the boy and let him go.
     "Just enough to make sure he never does it again."
     Something in Tamblebuck's voice reached Cepero, and he stared at
the taller man. "Wait a moment, just what did you do to the boy?"
     Tamblebuck looked down and grinned. "You're sharp, Cepero. I gave
him a job as Deserae's helper in the kitchen."
     Cepero chuckled. "You better be careful the boy doesn't steal all
your spices and --"
     Kaaye interrupted, "Sergeant, look, there's Ruarc! He's running!"
She started to run towards the figure, which had been watching them from
across the street. Since the figure was on crutches while Kaaye was very
fit, she overtook him in moments.
     Cepero's game knee had precluded him running as fast as Kaaye, but
he reached the two of them in time to hear Ruarc's assertion.
     "-- hurt me, please. It's true, I did it. Don't hurt me any more,"
Ruarc quavered. "Don't, please don't. I killed Burian, it's true."
     The "any more" phrase caught Cepero's attention, and his forehead
creased in concentration as he wondered what Ruarc was saying. As he
watched, he realized that Ruarc was staring at something behind him. He
turned and saw the receding back of Ballard Tamblebuck.

     "He's in his cell, sir. I've sent word to the justiciar, and once
we get her response, we'll know what the schedule is like for the
trial," Kaaye said.
     "So why did Ruarc confess?" Cepero wondered. "It's true that Ruarc
is pusillanimous, but surely a sense of self-preservation would have
stopped him from confessing?"
     Kaaye laughed. "Oh, he didn't confess because he saw us, sir; he
confessed because he saw Ballard with you."
     "What does Tamblebuck have to do with anything?"
     "I think Ballard broke Ruarc's leg, sir. Ruarc kept muttering
something about not breaking his other leg, and something about not
asking Raizel for money," Kaaye explained. "You know, Ballard keeps an
eye on the girls who work there and Ruarc is scum, sir, pardon my
language. I think that Ruarc threatened to say that Raizel did it unless
she paid him. I expect she told Ballard and he gave Ruarc a drubbing."
     "How do you know all this?" Cepero asked. The blackmail had not
come out in questioning, which was not surprising, and frankly, if Ruarc
had complained against Ballard, Cepero would have had to arrest the
innkeeper, much though he disliked the idea.
     "I talked to Deserae, sir. Ballard's daughter?" she said in a
questioning tone when he looked blank.
     "Did she tell you all this?" Cepero asked.
     "No, sir. She told me that her father was angry because someone was
scaring Raizel. After Ruarc confessed, sir, I realized that it had to
have been about the murder. I'm sure the justiciar will give him the
stiffest sentence. Murder and blackmail -- such malice!"

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