'We should have light, if it will not bother you,' he said. With a last look at me, he reached down and pulled open a pouch on his belt. A moment later, bright light spilled out of the pouch across the room. He lifted an object like a candle on a stand and placed it on a nearby shelf beside a brass paperweight. Clean white light streamed from the top of the short stick.
'Better,' said the civilar. He pulled off his gloves, tucking them into his belt. 'We have much to do and little time. I believe that the Yellow Mage's murderer may be about to flee the city, if he has not already done so. If you have any powers to aid our investigation, please tell me now, and let us begin our work.'
'Murderer?' I repeated. I was doubly stunned. 'His murderer?'
'Did I not say that no one heard any sound from this place?' The halfling was clearly irritated. 'Yet he lay, clearly shot by an explosive projectile weapon. A girl selling scent packets found his door ajar and looked in, summoning aid. Five washerwomen gossiped outside not two doors from here for half a day and heard no sound of struggle, no explosion, nothing at all. As silent as a tomb, one said of this place. Yet the Yellow Mage died not earlier than noon. No wizard leaves his house door open and unlocked, even on the hottest day on the safest street. Do you?'
I opened my mouth-and closed it. 'No, never,' I said. Inside, I was still thinking murderer.
The halfling officer nodded with slight satisfaction. His manner was oddly comforting even if he was as empa-thetic as a stone. I looked around at the shelves, the furniture, the fish on the wall. A murderer had been here. 'I received my training in the college of illusion,' I said automatically, like a golem. 'I worked for the watch ten years ago, then apprenticed myself and set up my own security-counseling business.' I thought, then said, 'To answer your earlier question, I believe I do have talents to lend you.'
'Good.' Civilar Ardrum knelt down to look at the Gond-gunne. He put his watchman's rod on the floor beside him, then pulled a small bundle from his pouch, unwrapped another magical light stick, and set it on a tabletop to his right. White light and doubled shadows filled the room. 'You said you were once a thief, Formathio. When you gave your lecture last year.'
'Yes.' I added nothing, continuing to scan Snorri's jumbled possessions for missing or out-of-place items. I greatly disliked talking about the mistakes of my youth and how I'd paid for them. 'The'knowledge has since helped me greatly in my business.'
'So I would imagine. What were you hiding for your friend?'
I stopped and turned to the civilar. He was still examining the Gondgunne, though he had not yet touched it. 'What?' I shot at him.
The halfling snorted impatiently as he looked up. 'Any secret you hold keeps us from finding the murderer. I would think you would want justice and vengeance done as quickly as possible, and so send your friend Greathog Snorrish on to a peaceful rest.'
Ardrum's remarks awoke a rage within me. Who was he, the little snot, to tell me that I… what?
'He told you his name?' My rage burned out in an instant, snuffed by yet another shock. 'He never told anyone-'
And a new truth dawned.
Civilar Ardrum's lips pressed into a flat line. He looked up at me without blinking. He'd said too much, and he knew it.
'He worked for you,' I breathed. 'He was a watch-wizard. A secret watch-wizard.' I understood now how Snorri always had ready gold for the best wines and foods, though he had so few spells and so little business from the order for retail spellcasting. But why had he never said anything to me about his work?
Ardrum looked down at the Gondgunne once more and was silent for a while. 'He was very valuable to us,' he said at last, without inflection. 'He kept an eye and ear on various persons and groups, and he reported to the watch what he saw and heard. He was reliable in the extreme, always eager to serve, with a tremendous memory. He reported directly to me.'
I felt I was losing my grip on the real world. I almost became dizzy. 'Snorri was an informer? Who was he spying on? What did-'
'Formathio, I believe I asked you a question,' Ardrum interrupted. 'You helped him hide something. I must know what it was and where it is now. Answer me, please.' The 'please' was shod in iron.
I stared down at the watch captain, then turned toward the line of stuffed fish on the wall. I raised a hand toward them without warning and intoned a handful of words quickly, gesturing as if brushing away a fly.
The images offish faded away like blown fog. In place of each was an apparatus of wood and metal, most slightly shorter than my forearm from elbow to fingertips. They rested on hooks and struts on the wooden plaques that had once held dead carp, greenthroats, and crownfish.
It was Snorri's toy collection.
Though I had heard them called arquebuses, cavilers, or other things, Snorri called them gunnes or Gondgunnes. He acquired them from various specialty traders in his old country, Lantan. He thought the word 'gunne' was a recent corruption of the name of Gond, the Lantanna deity called Wondermaker or Wonderbringer by the faithful. Gond oversaw inventions, crafts, and new things, and the inventive Lantanna had recently discovered the fine art of enchanting smoke powder and making 'fiery arms' that spewed out small lead or iron bullets with outrageously loud reports. It was a magic that made my insides curdle, a weird and subtly frightening thing that simply fascinated Snorri.
Gunnesmithing was a holy thing in Lantan, Snorri had once told me. Thanks to novelty dealers and preaching Gondsmen doubling as religious merchants, gunnes were now showing up everywhere in civilized Faerun. At least, that's what was said by some of my other wizard friends, who made their opinions on this clear by the way they grimaced and spat on the ground when the topic came up.
'Ah,' Civilar Ardrum breathed, rising to his feet to stare at the gunne collection. 'Excellent. Clever of you. Three, four, five, six, seven-the old ones are here.' He swung about, saw Snorri's work desk in a far corner of the room, and stalked over to it at once. He reached down suddenly and drew his dagger, then used the steel tip to lift the scattered papers and scrolls stacked there. He flipped one stack aside and revealed yet another wooden plaque with mountings for another gunne-but no gunne on it.
I heard the civilar exhale from across the room. His face worked briefly as if he were angry. Then he used the dagger tip to carefully lift the plaque and turn it over.
Something was written on the back. I could see the shifting letters in the light, almost legible.
'Allow me,' I said, coming over. Almost by reflex, I pulled a little prism from my breast pocket and began the words of the first spell every wizard learns. As I finished, the shifting letters cleared and fell into place.
' 'Received from Gulner at the market,' ' I read, ' 'two doors west of the Singing Sword, the ninth of Kythorn, Year of-''
'He had it, then,' Ardrum interrupted. 'He sent a message this morning that he had made another purchase, but he had picked up the wrong package. He wanted to examine it and get the opinion of a friend'-Ardrum glanced at me-'before bringing it to the watch station tomorrow morning. He said the device was a new type. He was quite excited about it.' Then a new thought dawned, and Ardrum spun about to stare again at the gunne-the eighth one in the room-in the blood pool.
'He was spying on gunne traders? Are you saying that he was killed because he picked up the wrong trinket at a store?'
The tall halfling restrained himself from lunging across the room for the pistol. Instead, he said nothing for perhaps a minute, staring across the room as if hooked by my words. When he spoke, his tone had changed. 'These are not trinkets,' he said softly. 'They are not toys. These are weapons, Formathio, clever ones that are turning up all over. They are meant to kill things-beasts, monsters, people. Anyone can use them. They punch through armor like a bolt through rotted cloth. They can be raised, aimed, and fired in a heartbeat. One little ball spit from the mouth of a gunne can drop an ogre if it hits just right. Any dullard with a gunne, a pocket of fishing sinkers, and a pouch of smoke powder could cut down a brace of knights, a king, or an arch-wizard.' v
Civilar Ardrum slid his dagger home in its belt sheath. These gunnes are new and strange, and we of the watch neither understand them nor like them. Your friend understood them and liked them. He was worth a god's weight in gold. He knew who to contact to get samples, who was making them, who was buying them, and what they could do. There's quite a market in the strangest places for smoke powder, did you know that? Your friend heard rumors of other devices that worked like Lantanna gunnes but were more powerful or had worse effects. Someone was improving these gunnes, someone very smart who worked fast, perhaps with a hidden shop or guild.
