“Well, it sort of fits,” Pryce said defensively. “Gamor does some incredibly stupid thing that gets Blade killed, and rather than face the wrath of Geerling Ambersong, he hangs himself.”
“But how does that explain the mage’s disappearance?”
Pryce looked at him blankly for a few seconds, then continued. “All right, how about this? Geerling takes one look at the scene and realizes that Gamor has caused Darlington’s death and has killed himself. The mage is so devastated by the death of his student that he wanders away, overcome with grief. And remember, it was Ambersong himself who insisted that Gamor be treated with respect, so the mage would also feel remorse at his own complicity in the death of his favorite disciple. It would be enough to drive anyone over the edge.”
For a moment, Wotfirr stared with disbelief into Pryce’s hopeful face, and then his expression turned sour. ‘The Council of Elders and the inquisitrixes would never believe that Gamor Turkal could do such a thing.” The halfling shook his head sadly. “Handsome? Yes. Smooth-talking? Yes. But intelligent enough to kill Blade on purpose or stupid enough to kill Blade by accident…?” The halfling looked helplessly up at Pryce. “Besides, where’s your proof? Was there a suicide note? They’re not going to simply accept our word for it, you know.”
Pryce recognized the truth of the halfling’s words. “I could try to find Geerling Ambersong,” he mused. “He couldn’t have gone far…”
“But what if you’re wrong?” Gheevy pointed out. “What if you find him and that’s not what occurred? What happens to you then?”
Covington thought about it and didn’t like the conclusions he reached. As before, the odds were just too great. “Good point,” he said, sitting down disconsolately next to the halfling. He considered his situation for a short time, hardly enjoying the cool, clean night air. “There’re only four things I can do,” he concluded. “One, run and take my chances.”
“You wouldn’t stand a chance,” said Wotfirr ruefully.
‘True,” said Pryce. “There’re only three things I can do. One, find Geerling Ambersong and beg for mercy.”
“Not much hope of that,” said Wotfirr. “On either count, I’m afraid.”
“Also true. So there’re only two things I can do. One, stay and continue the impersonation, hoping nobody finds me out.”
“And Geerling Ambersong never returns,” Wotfirr reminded him.
“And Ambersong never returns.”
“Unlikely,” the halfling commented. “Besides, from what you told me, you nearly were caught twice in the tavern.”
“True again.” Covington sighed. “So there really is only one thing I can do.”
“And what is that?” Wotfirr asked curiously.
“Find some proof,” Pryce said flatly, leaning back against the tree’s tangled network of aboveground roots. Suddenly he froze in place as he spotted something close to the tree trunk. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?” Gheevy inquired, leaning back.
“Look here, Gheevy, in the space between these roots.” Pryce turned over on his hands and knees and gripped a loop of a root that rose from the loose dirt.
“What is it, Blade?” Wotfirr inquired, straining to see what had so interested Covington.
Pryce looked up at the night sky and then down again. “This afternoon’s storm probably washed away any other evidence we might have found, but these roots form what amounts to a tiny protected cave. And look here, in the mud.”
Wotfirr used his halfling sight to good effect, peering among the roots as closely as he could. “It’s a footprint of some kind.” Pryce’s mood lifted. “No,” Gheevy corrected himself, “a paw print of some kind.” Pryce’s mood sank.
“Wait a minute,” Covington said, inspired. ‘What kind of paw print?”
“II can’t quite make it out. I don’t recognize it.”
“Let me see,” Pryce insisted, maneuvering to get a better angle. He held onto the upturned roots like handlebars and stuck his head, upside down, between the roots.
“It’s a footprint and a paw print,” the halfling marveled in Pryce’s ear.
“By all the electrum in Maeru,” the bogus Blade said. “It’s a jackalwere print!”
“What is a jackalwere doing this far south?” Pryce wondered aloud as they made their way northeast from the city.
“How would I know?” Wotfirr complained. “I only said I’d never seen a footprint like that before. I didn’t say I knew anything about the blasted creature’s migratory habits!”
The halfling was worried, and not just because he was carrying Gamor Turkal’s body across his shoulders. The weight was no problemWotfirr was used to hauling heavy kegs of alebut they were moving farther and farther away from the safety of Lal-lor’s walls. “If we must search for this jackalwere lair, must we also carry around this” he paused and cringed at the term he couldn’t avoid using “this dead weight?”
“I told you,” Covington admonished him, carrying the other body on his own back. “We can’t take the chance of anyone else coming upon this living proof of my true identity!” He grimaced at his extremely poor choice of words. “Well,” he corrected himself, “not living proof, I suppose. Anyway, if we are to discover the truth of the matter, we can’t afford to wait until tomorrow to find the jackalwere. I’ve had some experience with those beasts. They’re constantly on the move, preying on unsuspecting travelers.”
“Oh, good,” Wotfirr moaned. “That certainly puts my mind at ease!”
“We’re not in any danger,” Pryce said. “We’re suspecting travelers. Like all ambush artists, jackalweres prefer finding unprepared victims rather than prepared adversaries.”
“Even so,” Wotfirr complained, “we must be mad to do this!”
“I’m sorry, Gheevy, but we have to find a place to hide these bodies, and we have to discover if this jackalwere knows anything about their deaths. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“But why”
“Shhhh,” Pryce suddenly instructed, slowing down as the road approached a forest of dead trees. The landscape around them was a series of small valleys interspersed among low hills. Trees were plentiful, but their bare, empty branches looked like the fingers of starving men clawing at the sky. There was no way a gang of marauding brigands could hide behind them, or in the coarse, briar-lined bushes that covered the hills. But the foliage would be perfect for smaller creatures.
The two heard a low moan coming from around a curve in the road just ahead of them. Pryce leaned over to whisper. “It sounds like a traveler in distress.”
Wotfirr peered into the murk. “I don’t see anyone,” he said, stepping forward.
Pryce hastily held him back with a single outstretched palm. Then he placed a forefinger to his lips. Silence did not reign long.
“I say,” came a clipped, civilized voice from the gloom ahead. “I say, is someone there? I seem to have fallen and twisted my ankle. Can you help me?”
Concerned, Gheevy hopped to Pryce’s side. “Let me see if I can help this fellow,” he said. “He sounds harmless enough, and he’s obviously in great pain.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Covington said quietly.
“But my family knows of certain healing ways,” the halfling retorted. “Let me put my burden down and supply some aid”
“The only thing you will supply is this evening’s repast,” Pryce snapped. “And that burden, as you call it, is probably the only thing keeping you from being set upon immediately.”
Gheevy opened his mouth to reply, but quickly shut it tight.
“I say,” the voice continued. “I’ve twisted or broken my ankle or some such. Dash the luck. Can anyone give me a hand?”
“What a shame,” Pryce called ahead. “Sadly, our hands are full at the moment.”
“Really?” came the smooth reply from the darkness. “How awfully inconvenient for us both. Well, let’s see if I can” there was some painful grunting and authentic-sounding moaning”manage to regain my feet…Ah, there we are.”
The two reluctant body snatchers heard an ominous shuffling coming toward them.
