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Authors: John Maddox Roberts
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waterfront and were returning to the Hall of Justice with a chain of arrested malefactors …”
The lord interpreted these official-sounding words with the ease of long experience. The guards had been drinking in one of the all-night taverns and were coming in with their required quota of arrests. These would have been drunks helpfully supplied by the tavern keepers. The night watch only arrested drunks and left the rampaging, warring street gangs strictly alone. All the constabulary was really good for was raising the alarm in case of fire in the night.
“. .. when they heard a great uproar coming from the plaza.”
“Which plaza?” asked the lord patiently. Weite was a typical constable, which meant he was a little slow even when sober.
“The plaza before the Hall of Justice, my lord. There was a crowd gathered around the statue of Abushmulum the Ninth.”
“What was a crowd doing in the plaza at that hour?”
“The Tavern of the Bottomless Barrel had just let out, my lord. It is located just behind the statue. The body lay at the statue’s feet.”
“Has it been moved?”
“No, my lord. One of the watch ran to the Hall of Justice and informed me of the matter and I posted a guard around the body, then came here immediately to inform your lordship.”
“You were in the Hall of Justice and did not notice the crowd outside?”
“They were on the far side of the plaza, my lord,” Weite said imperturbably, “and the walls are very thick.”
Not as thick as your skull, thought the Lord of Tarsis. “Constable Weite,” he said, “I am going to examine the scene myself. Be assured I can find my own way to the Hall of Justice. While I am doing this, I want you to send a runner to each gate of the city. The guardians of the gates are to be informed that they are under no circumstances to allow anyone to leave the city this night, and in the morning they are not to open the gates as usual. The gates shall not be opened until I expressly order it. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, my lord!”
“Then go and do my bidding.”
Chest inflated to its greatest extent, Constable Weite drew himself up to attention, saluted smartly, spun on his booted heel, and clumped out of the bedchamber.
The Lord of Tarsis, disturbed by the murder and the consequences it might bring, left soon after. As he walked through the gloomy streets, flanked by guards bearing torches and lanterns, he feared greatly that his precaution was far too late. He was less concerned that the murderer might escape than that word should reach the nomad camp that their ambassador had been murdered within the city.
He did not seriously fear war with the nomads, but he did not want war to come before he was ready for it.
He found a sizable crowd gathered shivering in the snowy plaza before the Hall of Justice. Like so much of the city, the plaza, once splendid, was now dingy and ill-maintained; the facades of the facing buildings stained with time and soot; the flagstones chipped, pitted, or missing entirely; the statues worn and vandalized. Typical of the latter was the statue of Abushmulum the Ninth, a king of the long-ago time when Tarsis had had kings, so long ago that nobody knew why he had rated a statue. Certainly nothing else was known about him.
A ring of city guards encircled the base of the statue, facing inward, their poleaxes held at port arms. Within the circle of guards stood a group of late drinkers, most of them looking sobered by the cold and the situation. Few of them had the look of native Tarsians. Most were plainly travelers from elsewhere.
“Have any of the witnesses left the scene?” the lord demanded of the ranking guardsman.
“Not since we arrived, my lord,” the man answered.
“Very good. Take them over to the Hall of Justice and lock them in the dungeon to await questioning.” Immediately, some of the huddled drinkers began to protest. “Any that give you trouble you may kill,” said the lord. The
The lord interpreted these official-sounding words with the ease of long experience. The guards had been drinking in one of the all-night taverns and were coming in with their required quota of arrests. These would have been drunks helpfully supplied by the tavern keepers. The night watch only arrested drunks and left the rampaging, warring street gangs strictly alone. All the constabulary was really good for was raising the alarm in case of fire in the night.
“. .. when they heard a great uproar coming from the plaza.”
“Which plaza?” asked the lord patiently. Weite was a typical constable, which meant he was a little slow even when sober.
“The plaza before the Hall of Justice, my lord. There was a crowd gathered around the statue of Abushmulum the Ninth.”
“What was a crowd doing in the plaza at that hour?”
“The Tavern of the Bottomless Barrel had just let out, my lord. It is located just behind the statue. The body lay at the statue’s feet.”
“Has it been moved?”
“No, my lord. One of the watch ran to the Hall of Justice and informed me of the matter and I posted a guard around the body, then came here immediately to inform your lordship.”
“You were in the Hall of Justice and did not notice the crowd outside?”
“They were on the far side of the plaza, my lord,” Weite said imperturbably, “and the walls are very thick.”
Not as thick as your skull, thought the Lord of Tarsis. “Constable Weite,” he said, “I am going to examine the scene myself. Be assured I can find my own way to the Hall of Justice. While I am doing this, I want you to send a runner to each gate of the city. The guardians of the gates are to be informed that they are under no circumstances to allow anyone to leave the city this night, and in the morning they are not to open the gates as usual. The gates shall not be opened until I expressly order it. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, my lord!”
“Then go and do my bidding.”
Chest inflated to its greatest extent, Constable Weite drew himself up to attention, saluted smartly, spun on his booted heel, and clumped out of the bedchamber.
The Lord of Tarsis, disturbed by the murder and the consequences it might bring, left soon after. As he walked through the gloomy streets, flanked by guards bearing torches and lanterns, he feared greatly that his precaution was far too late. He was less concerned that the murderer might escape than that word should reach the nomad camp that their ambassador had been murdered within the city.
He did not seriously fear war with the nomads, but he did not want war to come before he was ready for it.
He found a sizable crowd gathered shivering in the snowy plaza before the Hall of Justice. Like so much of the city, the plaza, once splendid, was now dingy and ill-maintained; the facades of the facing buildings stained with time and soot; the flagstones chipped, pitted, or missing entirely; the statues worn and vandalized. Typical of the latter was the statue of Abushmulum the Ninth, a king of the long-ago time when Tarsis had had kings, so long ago that nobody knew why he had rated a statue. Certainly nothing else was known about him.
A ring of city guards encircled the base of the statue, facing inward, their poleaxes held at port arms. Within the circle of guards stood a group of late drinkers, most of them looking sobered by the cold and the situation. Few of them had the look of native Tarsians. Most were plainly travelers from elsewhere.
“Have any of the witnesses left the scene?” the lord demanded of the ranking guardsman.
“Not since we arrived, my lord,” the man answered.
“Very good. Take them over to the Hall of Justice and lock them in the dungeon to await questioning.” Immediately, some of the huddled drinkers began to protest. “Any that give you trouble you may kill,” said the lord. The
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