Pryce Covington had seldom heard words any sweeter. And if the first brew he soon quaffed was any indication, Lallor was full of promise. It remained so for the second round, personally served by Azzo at a recessed table, where Pryce parried Berridge Lymwich’s questions with the always reliable “Please-Iet’s-not-talk-about-me- I’d-rather-hear-more-about-you” gambit.
He learned that the inquisitrix was pretty much what she appeared to be: fiercely loyal, dedicated, and ambitious, but with a streak of insecurity. Her slight inferiority complex manifested itself in expressions of sullen disapproval whenever Azzo’s beautiful blonde serving wench got too close. But then Lymwich suddenly changed the subject to inquiries about the books in his new dwelling.
“I told you,” she admonished with the careful enunciation of the slightly inebriated. “I notice everything. What is it with Geerling and you and all those books?”
Covington grew still. It was getting late, and apparently she couldn’t handle her drinks. One more, he was convinced, and her minking and words would become too mushy to be useful. If he was going to learn anything, it was time to draw her out. “I can’t speak for Geerling, but I’m fond of books because they don’t change.”
“What does that mean, Blade?”
Covington leaned back. What had she called him? He shook his head. He decided that it must have been the drink slurring her words. He shrugged casually and leaned forward again. “You know. People change, places change, but books don’t.”
“What are you talking about? Books get older… the pages yellow…”
“I’m not talking about age,” he said, surprised at how the words flowed from him. Maybe the deceptively powerful mead had gotten to him as well. “I’m talking about where it countsfor books and people. Inside. People who once told the truth can start to lie. Books don’t. If they start with the truth, they will always tell you the truth.”
Suddenly Berridge Lymwich leaned over the table, placing her face not more than two inches from his. To Pryce’s amazement, he could tell that she wasn’t intoxicated in the slightest It was she who had been testing him. “Oh, you and your flowery words,” she said evenly, her face a knowing mask. “Gamor Turkal and Geerling Ambersong may have impressed everyone else with the tales of your spectacular adventures, but I want you to know one thing. You’re going to have to prove yourself to me, Darlington Blade!”
CHAPTER THREE
Pryce Covington was afraid he might be sick, and it wasn’t the drink that made him feel that way. Mystran Inquisitrix Berridge Lymwich might as well have hit him in the solar plexus with a bar stool. Calling him by that name had the same effect.
Darlington Blade. Of course! Covington remembered the strange way the cloak clasp had directed his finger. Down, then around and up. D. Then down twice to the right. B. The initials of Darlington Blade. Or maybe Dumb Bunny. Or Dead Beat. With a sudden realization as clear and powerful as a glass house falling on him, he knew that no one in Lallor thought of him as Pryce Covington. They all thought he was the great Darlington Blade!
Darlington Blade. Even lowly messengers in far-off Merrickarta had heard of Blade. The legendary adventurer-wizard who studied with an exalted but eccentric mage, who was the primary mage in the realm’s most exclusive community, which was the vacation spot for many of the nation’s most prominent wizards and other important citizens.
So that was who Geerling Ambersong was! Darlington Blade’s master! Was he the other dead body? Not bloody likely. Geerling Ambersong was supposed to be well over seventy. Then again, Blade’s teacher was thought to have been over seventy for more than a decade. No, Covington had taken this unique cloakthe cloak that everyone in Lallor recognized as that of Darlington Blade! from a younger-looking corpse.
Pryce Covington drank the rest of his third tankard in one impressive pull. The brew seemed to seep through his body, calling out in a distant bittersweet song. Darlington Blade, dead in a tree’s shade… and Pryce wore his cloak. The possibilities were prodigious… and frightening.
“I hardly thought the great Darlington Blade would be so affected by a challenge from the likes of me,” Lymwich interrupted his thoughts. Covington kept thinking about his predicament while he put his wit to work on the inquisitrix.
“Not, really,” Pryce said distractedly. “Proving myself to you is of no concern to me. It is for you to decide whether I’ve proven myself or not. In the meantime, I will simply proceed about my business… hopefully with style.” He glanced down into the empty tankard. “Azzo, my good man! Another mead, if you don’t mind!”
Lymwich seemed satisfied with this retort. But she wasn’t about to join in the rest of the city’s hero worship. “Come now,” she said reasonably, still leaning forward. “Geerling Ambersong disappears, then you show up. What’s an inquisitrix to think?”
“Whatever she wants to, obviously,” Pryce said dryly as the comely blonde serving wench in the low-cut, lace-up dress put another foaming brew before him. He winked and she smiled back at him, then Lymwich’s scowl chased her away.
“Come, come, Blade,” she pressed. “You must know where Geerling Ambersong is… or what happened to him.”
“Of what possible concern is that to you?” Pryce wondered, looking to the mead for some way out of this particular series of queries.
“Don’t patronize me,” the inquisitrix retorted. “The Fall Festival is coming up, and Gamor brags about how hard Ambersong is training you. Then, after years of secrecy, you finally show up in the flesh just as the old man vanishes. You must acknowledge that the Mystran Inquisitorium should not turn a blind eye to these events.” Suddenly Lymwich seemed to change from a dedicated investigator to a crafty confederate. She leaned close and whispered, “So, come, you can tell me… what does the cunning old buzzard have planned?”
There was nothing Covington would like more than to tell her exactly what Geerling Ambersong had planned, but in order to do so, he’d first have to know it himself. But at least this latest twist in the conversation seemed to be leading out of Accusation Alley and up the more benign Curiosity Circle. Any road that didn’t stop in a dead end was all right with Pryce.
The answer came to him with the relief of a field mouse seeing an owl’s back. “I honestly can’t say,” he told Lymwich with complete sincerity, “but I assure you that when I find out, you’ll be one of the first to know.”
The inquisitrix leaned back, trying to hide her disappointment. News of Ambersong’s plans would have put her in good with her superiors, no doubt. ‘Your reputation aside, Darlington Blade,” she said gravely, “you are still a veritable stranger here in Lallor. And it is not wise for a stranger to forge a nonforthcoming relationship with the Mystran Inquisitorium.”
Covington would normally had left well enough alone, but there was something about Lymwich, something about this city, something about the mead, and something about the knowledge that, at least for now, he was Darlington Blade that gave him uncustomary courage. “Nor, I imagine,” he replied quietly, “is it wise for an ambitious inquisitrix to forge an untrusting relationship with a truthful disciple of Geerling Ambersong.”
Lymwich made a dismissive noise, pushed back from the table, and planted her feet on the floor. “If s time to report back to the MIC,” she said, buttoning her floor-length cape. She nodded curtly at Covington. “The Mystran Inquisitrix Castle, that is,” she translated. “We’ll… I’ll be watching.”
“I’ll be performing,” he promised, then turned away and took another drink from his tankard. When he looked back, Berridge Lymwich was gone. Well, he thought, taking another drink and ignoring the beads of sweat that appeared on his brow, that went well. He turned to see if Azzo Schreders was available for some subtle probing but saw only the comely form of the serving wench.
As soon as the inquisitrix left, the serving wench had reappeared, apparently awaiting this very chance. Like her employer, who was the very model of a tavernkeeper, she was the very image of a tavern-goer’s dream. Tall, with a thick mane of yellow hair. Shapely, with a wonderfully curved body contained in a flowing off-white dress, held amazingly close to her by a laced-up bodice of brown leather.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said with demure purpose, her voice carefully modulated in a husky, feminine tone.
