“Still angry at me about the false name?”
“Angry? No, not angry. Offended.”
“Come now, Asche! You know very well that the nature of our business discussions would have changed had you known I was Darlington Blade!”
“Not at all!”
“Now who’s fooling whom?” Pryce exclaimed. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have droppedor hiked, depending upon your moodthe price if you had known you were negotiating with the great Darlington Blade? That you wouldn’t have at least checked your sources and contacts to see what possible edge you could discover? If you even think of telling me that, then you’re not the businessman I respect or know.”
While he talked, Pryce could see that Hartov was trying to smother a growing smirk, but he managed to contain his acknowledgment of the truth long enough to say, “Respect?”
“Certainly!” Pryce said expansively, putting out his arms. “Everyone from the top of Mount Alue to the tip of Githim knows the name of Asche Hartov, purveyor of high-quality ore.” He put his arm around the mine owner’s shoulder and spoke directly and quietly into his ear. “In fact, when I saw you in Schreders’s tavern the other night, and again the night before that, I couldn’t help thinking, Now, what is Asche Hartov doing in Lallor? He doesn’t have a vacation home here. And who, in such an exclusive retreat, would be interested in buying ore even Teddington Fullmer wouldn’t touch?”
Hartov looked at Pryce’s smiling face in surprise, then with a trace of concern.
“Worried that I really am Darlington Blade?” Pryce wondered aloud. “Think I might be able to see right through that thin forehead of yours?” He removed his arm from Asche’s shoulder and stepped away. The retinue suddenly stopped, all eyes on the mine owner. The inquisitrixes and militiamen watched intently as Pryce pointed at Hartov.
“Speak now, Asche,” Covington demanded, “and speak the truth.”
“II thought Geerling Ambersong might be interested,” the mine owner sputtered, his eyes moving back and forth between Pryce and the inquisitrixes. “I heard he had plans for a skyship. And I knew he would appear for certain at this year’s Fall Festival to announce his choice for his successor as primary mage.” He stared at Pryce for a moment, then looked straight ahead. “II thought I might confer with him there.”
“Fascinating,” Pryce judged. “And where did you acquire this fountain of information?”
“What?”
“How did you know all this, Asche?”
“II told you, Cost… I mean, Darling… I mean, Blade! You know how it is. I heard a rumor…
Pryce smiled but kept him on the hook. “From whom?” “What?”
“Stop stalling for time and answer my questions. Whom did you hear the rumor from?” “From whom? II don’t” ‘You do!” Pryce bellowed. “Who?”
“Gamor!” Hartov yelled, then stumbled. Pryce caught his arm and steadied him. When he was erect again, he couldn’t meet Pryce’s eyes. “Gamor Turkal,” he said miserably.
“Ah, Gamor Turkal,” Covington repeated with a tight smile, turning to the others. “Gamor once: a coincidence. Gamor twice: a pattern. Gamor three times: a connection. Gamor four times: a conspiracy!” He turned to the tavern owner, the serving wench, and the mine owner. “Follow me, you three… now.”
Pryce marched up to where Berridge Lymwich and Matthaunin Witterstaet stood on either side of the cavern opening just behind Schreders’s restaurant. The opening in the wall had been widened to make room for the small army of security people who secured the location.
Pryce stood beside the gatekeeper as the three suspects emerged, blinking, into the tiny courtyard outside the restaurant’s back door. Each gave Covington a different look as he or she passed. Sheyrhen: recrimination and concern. Schreders: confusion and apology. Hartov: nervousness and distress. But before any of them could speak, several militiamen and Inquisitrixes resolutely chaperoned them into the establishment.
That left Covington alone in the courtyard with Matthaunin and Berridge. “Anything?” Pryce asked Witterstaet out the corner of his mouth.
Matthaunin shook his head. “Not an ion of magical ability among the three of them.”
“Enough guilt and fear to fill a wine cask, however,” Lymwich groused. “Any one of them could have killed Fullmer.”
“Let thee without guilt take the first sip,” Pryce commented, then turned back to Witterstaet. “Do you have any idea what that means?”
“Not a bit, Mister Blade.”
“I was afraid of that.” He looked to Lymwich, who was shaking her head in disbelief. “Are we ready for our voyage?” he asked her.
Much to his surprise, she gave him a snappy salute, then motioned toward the back door. “Yes, sir. Right this way, sir.”
He marveled that there was a sense of humor, or at least irony, beneath her iron foundation. The thought was pushed aside, however, by a growing sense of excitement. He looked at Matthaunin, who smiled and nodded sagely. “Oh, this will be a real treat, Mr. Blade,” the gatekeeper said. “It has been quite some time since these old eyes of mine have witnessed a voyage of the magnitude you have requested.”
“And been granted, apparently,” Pryce said. “Let’s go see the vessel that we’ll be using, shall we?” He walked quickly through the kitchen and into the bar, the gatekeeper trailing behind.
Normally when one entered Schreders At Your Service by the rear door, the glory that was Lallor would fill his eyes as he passed the bar and walked into the main room. There, Lallor Bay would be stretched out before him, beyond the crystal-clear windows that covered the front wall of the restaurant.
Pryce retrieved the book he had left behind the bar and then stepped into the central salon. But this time, he could see almost nothing of Lallor. Although the sun was almost a quarter of the way across the sky, the tables of Schreders were dark and empty. A shadow filled the room, and the bright autumn sunshine was blocked from view. Instead, through the windows, Pryce saw the rich brown beauty of the finest stevlyman wood.
Lymwich and Witterstaet went one way around the tables, and Pryce went the other. They met at the front door and went outside at the same time. The gatekeeper walked to the bow of the huge structure floating outside the restaurant, while Covington moved toward the passenger gangplank at the stern.
Between them, they took in the magnificence of the Great Mystran Skyship Verity.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The skyship was virtually the national symbol of Halruaa. With the exception of fiery Haerlu wine, it was what most people thought of whenever Halruaa was mentioned. Its three towering masts were set in a broad-beamed skyfaring vessel equally at home in the air, on the water, or on land.
Pryce moved through the crowd that was gathering to admire the polished plates along the hull that mimicked the appearance of a dragon turtle. He looked toward Lymwich with an expression that said “nice touch.” He looked back toward the hull when he saw she wasn’t paying the slightest attention to him. Instead, she was checking an inventory list with the leader of the crew, who knelt in the open door of the hold.
Pryce put his ear close to the thick, shining wood of the hull to listen for the hum of the central silver shaft of levitation and the two golden cylinders of control, one at each end of the ship. The power source had to be recharged once a year by council members. By the powerful sound of the huge ship as it hovered five feet off the ground and fifteen feet in front of Schreders’s door, it must have been recharged very recently.
The ship was luxurious, yet it still had old-fashioned rustic charm. Pryce felt such a sense of welcome that he could hardly wait to get on board. He continued to make his way through the milling crowd of admiring onlookers, Lallor dignitaries, skyship crew members, and security officers.
None gave Darlington Blade the Lallor hello. Instead, they smiled, nodded, and cast approving glances his way. Pryce felt certain that by the time the ship was ready to leave, everyone in Lallor would treat him the same way. Never had Pryce felt such acceptance. These people were not judging his performance. They were really
